From inside wafted a grave-like earthen smell, along with a pungent hint of rubbing alcohol. He could see a jumble of mining equipment and a wood crate. Stenciled on the side of the crate was the word: Explosives. The crate was partially open.
“Holy shit.”
He took a careful step inside and lifted the lid the rest of the way. Lance peered into the box. Inside lay seven long, burgundy paper cartridges.
“Good ol’ Uncle Ballard,” he said. A closer inspection of the paper cylinders showed nitroglycerin crystallization where it wept through the casings. They were so old a mere nudge could detonate the whole stack. “That’s not a good thing.”
He had a fleeting thought to tell Colleen the shed was dangerous and to keep Jeremy away. The thought came and went with the stabbing pain of loss.
On the rotting floor of the shed, next to the crate of dynamite, there was a blue plastic milk crate. Lance knelt and inspected the contents. What he assumed was an electric detonator was coiled in the spider-webbed box beside a pickaxe, rake, and shovel.
He remembered the mining documents and the dynamite receipts in the papers sent by Prescott. The sheriff said he’d talked with Uncle Ballard about unauthorized blasting. How long ago had that been? It must have been quite some time considering the condition of these sticks. And was he really mining, or was that just the line he’d fed the sheriff? He recalled the blasting permits Uncle Ballard had applied for from the Bureau of Land Reclamation. Perhaps he was planning on mining, or perhaps he’d been planning to use the dynamite on something else.
On that thing in the cave, maybe.
Or maybe that was an idea all his own.
As he looked over the dusty contents of the shed, he realized he’d burned through a lot of time this morning. He was supposed to be at Green Mountain Funeral Home in town and take care of the arrangements for Uncle Ballard and Jeremy.
Lance left the shed behind and headed up the path across the driveway toward the cabin. He quickly changed into dry clothes, then rifled around in the kitchen, found the keys, and didn’t bother to lock up as he hurried to the Pathfinder. He hopped in. Over by the cabin door he thought he saw Jeremy, watching him go. His first reaction was to shout that he was going into town.
You’re not making this any easier on yourself.
He resisted the sudden urge to slam his fists against the steering wheel.
So I guess I imagined the black oozing shit in the cave, too.
He shook his head. No, no, that was real, damn it. That was real.
11
Lance drove into town in silence. He had no desire to listen to the radio or to know what the hell was going on outside in the rest of the world. As far as he was concerned, his world had ended.
Lance’s visit to the funeral home was an exercise in emotional detachment. He had gone through the motions, giving instructions for Uncle Ballard’s cremation, and for preparing Jeremy’s body to be shipped home. He answered their questions in a dream-like state, not really feeling as though he was completely there. It was a blend of surreality and nightmare memory from Anne’s death, and now to be discussing their son’s interment…he still hadn’t accepted it as real. With everything that had been happening, he kept thinking at some point something would snap, something would come undone, a veil would be removed and he’d be standing in the thick of his normal life, kissing Colleen goodbye on his way to work.
A small, birdlike woman brought him tea while an elderly man asked the questions and finalized plans. They were kind and understanding. The place smelled like a blend of old women’s perfume, flowers, and an underlying hint of chemicals. It got into his throat and made the tea taste bad. When it was over and he stepped outside into the crisp mountain air, he took a few deep breaths before getting back into the Pathfinder.
The tea had soured his stomach. Hunger pangs gripped him—it felt like his stomach was eating itself.
Driving past the small downtown square and gas station, he pulled off the main road and followed a rutted gravel driveway into the parking lot of the Pub N’ Grub. A few motorcycles, a Jeep, and a Lincoln Continental were the only other vehicles around. A hot, quiet meal, and a cup of coffee were just what he needed.
He locked the car and went into the mountain bar. It was little more than an A-frame with a rectangular add-on. Inside the A-frame was the “Pub” part of the establishment. Neon beer signs hung in the windows, and just beyond the glass was a pool table. On the west side of the building in the newer add-on was the “Grub” end of things. Through those windows he could see natural wood tables with chrome napkin holders on top.
Lance stepped through a glass door into the restaurant. He was hit with a blast of warm air, scented by old cigarettes, stale beer, coffee, and bacon. The entry of the place was boxed in on one side by the cash register, and on the other side by the back of a booth. Racks for newspapers rested next to a sand-can ashtray. Decorations on the walls ranged from rusty farm equipment, barbed wire, and railroad spikes, to St. Pauli’s Girl beer posters and an Asteroids pinball machine.
A waitress at the countertop by the kitchen called out to him: “Have a seat wherever you like.”
Wooden tables filled the floor space between two long rows of booths. Lance sat in a booth near one of the windows. It gave him a view through the trees toward Main Street.
The waitress at the counter was chomping gum and talking a mile a minute to an old biker with thick jowls and a beard. His head was shaved bald, and he wore mirrored sunglasses, even inside. No doubt, he probably wished there was more than just food on the menu; the waitress looked about twenty-one and the pink tank top and short jean shorts she wore barely contained her considerable assets.
An older waitress put a menu on the table in front of Lance and set a frosted glass of water beside it. She wore tight jeans and a baby doll T-shirt that said Pikes Peak International Hill Climb under a mountain peak and racing flag. Gray hair peeked through her roots, and despite her make-up and mostly smooth complexion, wrinkles had begun to form at the corners of her eyes. Lance was sad to admit that he could see her former beauty—maybe in a bygone time she’d been a cheerleader, a debutante, a beauty queen. “Be back in a minute to take your order,” she said, then she was gone, barely interested in the smile Lance mustered.
He swallowed tears. Tried not to think about Colleen, or Jeremy, or dear God any of it. Any more and he’d go insane. Whatever happened, he didn’t want that. He had to keep his wits about him and make reasoned choices. He had to come up with some kind of a plan.
Lance just glanced at the menu. Even though he was starving, nothing sounded good. He’d just start with the coffee. He absently flipped through an old music machine that looked like a miniature jukebox mounted to the wall at the end of his table. It had an index card marked Out of Order taped to it.
His waitress returned. “Got that order for me?” She smiled. There were lipstick traces around the edges of her mouth; the rest had worn off.
“Coffee. Black.”
“Best pie in the world. Wanna slice?” She didn’t sound too convincing. “Goes great with coffee.”
“No, thanks. Just the coffee for now.” He looked past her toward the chattering waitress at the counter.
“She’s a pretty thing, huh?”
Lance blinked and felt as dirty as the biker looked. “Uh? What? Oh, the girl behind the counter. She’s a little young for me.”
“They’re all young.” There was bitterness in her voice. “That one, name’s Tawny, works as a stripper on the weekends down in the Springs. She’s got a kid lives at his grandma’s house. During the week she works here. She’s good for business. Before her, our only hook was the pie.”
Lance gave her a meaningful look. “Oh, I find that hard to believe.”
She smiled then. “You must be a man of more refined tastes. Let me get you that coffee.”
Lance turned his attention back to the music machine, flipping through the selections again. He read th
e titles. Mostly golden oldies and classic rock.
His waitress returned with a steaming cup, a thin crack on one side.
“Just let me know if you need anything else.”
He nodded thanks and raised the cup to his lips. He breathed in the blessed scent of the coffee before he took a sip, listening to the prattling of the waitress across the room.
“So, did you hear about what happened up at Mercy Falls?” Tawny said, in her best gossipy voice.
Lance watched the two from the corner of his eye, his attention piqued.
The biker leaned in, feigning interest to get a better shot at the cleavage being jiggled at eye-level. “Naw, what happened?”
“Well, you know where the Falls are?”
“I know the road. Never been back on the land. They used to tell ghost stories about the Falls or some crap.”
Tawny giggled. “Well, this ain’t no bullshit. I heard that some woman and her kid both fell in and drowned just a couple days apart from each other.”
“Shit. That’s awful.”
“Yeah, and it gets worse! The woman was pregnant!”
“Christ. What the hell were they doing near the falls in the first place?” The biker scraped his plate getting the last bits of piecrust onto his fork.
“Oh, the old guy that owned the place bit it. He left the property to someone in his family. They were checking out the property when it happened.”
How the hell did they know all of that? Lance’s heart raced. Perry, he realized. The media would’ve been calling for details on the search and rescue deployments.
“You know that place gives me the creeps,” Tawny was still going on.
“You’ve been there?”
Tawny set the fresh coffee carafe on the counter and put her hand on a slim hip. “Just once. Place has been kept locked since the former owner bought it. But I’ve heard enough about it to know that place is bad news.”
“How so?”
She refilled the guy’s cup. “Well, people’ve gone missing and ended up dead in the pool under the falls. Lots of people. From way back, too. My grandma has stories that’ll give you goosebumps.”
The biker laughed. “Don’t all grandmas?”
Tawny leaned in a little closer, her voice lowered to almost a whisper. “She said that place is cursed. That something evil lives there.”
The man laughed louder. “Evil, huh? Well, I don’t know about that. Maybe it’s just not very safe. Sounds like the former owner had the right idea keeping the place locked up.”
“You know what?” she asked. “Some people even say that there’s been some fishy stuff going on there.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like people going missing that other people wanted gone.”
“Hmm. Now, that sounds more like my line of business. Probably a good place to make something look like an accident.” The biker chuckled, poured sugar into his cup, and beat against the ceramic with his stirring spoon.
“Uh-huh. Weird things. Like a year or so ago, kid by the name of Rick, I knew him as Ricky, anyway, bad kid. Knocked his girlfriend up and everything.” Tawny stopped and popped her gum before continuing. “Son of that fancy pants city councilman—the real estate guy? Anyway, kid was always in trouble. Got arrested last anyone knows, and he went missing.”
“Did they find him in the Falls?”
Tawny leaned back, and shook her head. “Naw. They never found him at all. I’m guessing that’s where he ended up.”
“Sounds half-baked to me. Where’d you hear that?”
“Just rumors. The story was Ricky broke out of jail with some help. But, nothing was ever proven and it all sort of went away.”
“You figure he got his ass whupped by the cops and they dumped him in the waterfalls?” The biker smirked.
“Well, yeah,” Tawny said.
“Hmm.”
“The sheriff’s got a history with those falls.” Tawny turned around and refilled the coffee in the machine, her voice trailed off. The man at the counter waited for her to finish her task, admiring her ass and legs. She turned back around, still talking. “When the sheriff was a kid, his brother drowned out there.”
“What do you mean? You think the sheriff has something to do with all that?”
Tawny’s eyes shot open wide and she threw a look around the mostly deserted diner. She knit her brows and narrowed her eyes. “Ssh! Someone will hear you! News travels fast ‘round here, you know!”
The biker laughed. “Something sure’s got you spooked. Relax, there’s no one in here but a couple of guys passing through.” He looked over his shoulder, had momentary eye contact with Lance, and then turned his gaze back to Tawny.
Tawny sighed. “Well, you never know about something like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like the sheriff. Like those Falls. And all those people who died in accidents there—all those cases have been investigated by the sheriff.”
The biker laughed again. “Of course they have. He’s the damn sheriff. He’s probably on the scene every time. How long’s he been sheriff anyway?”
“Forever.”
“See, that’s what I mean. Someone’s filling your head with crack logic. Look, you’ve got a dangerous waterfall and an area where folks are out camping, hiking, and what-not—people do stupid things and wind up sleeping with the fishes. Nothing suspicious about that. Sounds like the town needs to do a better job of securing the place to me.”
Tawny frowned, her full lip protruding in a girlish pout. “You think I’m stupid.”
The man laughed. “With a body like that, you don’t need to be a genius. Nice story, anyway.”
Now she looked a little mad. “Aw, shit, well, it’s scary to me. What do you know? You only come through here every couple weeks. If you had to live here, it’d be a lot scarier to you!”
“If I lived here, you wouldn’t have so much time to hang around bars listening to drunks tell horror stories.” The biker laughed. “Why don’t you give me one more piece of that lemon pie, sweetie.”
Tawny gave him a barked laugh of rejection and sashayed off to get the pie. Lance watched the older waitress wiping off a nearby table. A car rolled up in the parking lot outside the window. There was a clank of metal fork against plate as the biker ate his last slice of pie.
Soon, Lance’s waitress looked at him, met his eyes and came over.
“Everything okay?” She had a nice smile. Her eyes were so dark brown they looked black.
“Some more coffee please, and, may I ask you a question?”
She shrugged.
“Are you from here?”
She glanced at his hand, at his wedding band, as she hesitantly answered. “I am.” Her smile faltered.
Lance raised one eyebrow at her. He nodded toward the biker who just got his second piece of pie. “Do you believe any of that story? About the Falls?”
The waitress looked at him for a second, and then recognition lit her eyes. The Falls was a small town. The Pub N’ Grub had its regulars, and he sure as hell wasn’t one of them. She focused anew on his features as though discovering a new layer of dimension to who he was. “Ballard Evans…was Ballard Evans your uncle?”
When Lance nodded yes, the woman’s hand went to her mouth instinctively and she caught her breath. The waitress’s reached out and grasped his hand. “Your wife…I’m so sorry.”
Lance’s eyes filled with tears, but he managed to stay focused. “Do you believe any of that story Tawny told? That there’s something evil about the Falls, or the land?”
His waitress seemed hit by an invisible wall that froze her beside his table. Then, her eyes welled with tears. She said: “My sister and I were hiking around up there on Halloween with some friends. I was still in junior high, but my sister was in high school. She brought some alcohol and pot as a favor to us youngun’s—” she paused to laugh and wipe her eyes “—but anyway we were up there, and my sister fell in. She fell in, and we searche
d for her, but we were scared. They ran but I waited behind…I saw…”
Lance waited while she trailed off. Her eyes were distant, her mind following the series of events on that tragic night years ago. She looked at Lance, a locked-on imploring gaze. “She died. She was pregnant, too. Just six weeks.” Her hand squeezed his. She looked at him, recovering, pulling herself together. “Whatever is there…it’s evil.”
“And the sheriff? Tawny seemed to think he has something to do with all the tragedies that have happened at the falls.”
She let his hand go. His flesh seemed to go cold in the absence of her touch. “Hush now.” She looked around just like Tawny had done, as if fearful of who might be within earshot of their conversation. “That’s just a dim-witted girl’s over-active imagination.”
“So you don’t think—?”
“Girl’s been watching too many repeats of CSI.” She patted his hand again. “I’m sorry for your loss. I really am.”
Lance nodded.
“Can I still get you some fresh coffee?”
“That would be fine, thanks. And I think I’ll take some of that pie, after all.”
She refreshed his cup and brought the pie. As promised, it was divine. After a while, he left a twenty-dollar bill to pay for the coffee, pie, and tip.
On his way out, Lance picked up the local newspaper and flipped two quarters into a metal cup beside the stack of papers. He scanned the headlines as he made his way to his vehicle. The electronic beep beep of the remote unlocking device on his key ring gave him a momentary pause. He felt for the handle and opened the door.
On the front page were several stories. All of them had something to do with Colleen and Jeremy’s deaths at the falls—theirs and the deaths of all the other missing people over the years. Lance crumbled the paper into a ball, ink smudging on his flesh, his fingertips coming away black. “Perry!”
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