The Gold Dragon Caper: A Damien Dickens Mystery (Damien Dickens Mysteries Book 4)

by Phyllis Entis

  Warrenburg walked over to see what Hershey had discovered. “Give me a hand,” I told him. “Let’s see what else is in this sack.” We dragged the bulky bag into the open and dumped its contents onto the tarmac. Warrenburg and I shuffled through the detritus of the DC-3’s cross-country flight, finding used tissues, crumpled papers, and a discarded vacuum-cleaner bag. And pay dirt: a boy-sized pair of ski boots, a balaclava, and the mate to the ski mitt Hershey had found. Hershey stuck his nose into each of the boots, inhaled deeply, and whined.

  “Hello, this is interesting.” Warrenburg stood, waving a large sheet of crumpled paper in his hand.

  “What have you got?”

  “A sectional aeronautical chart.”

  “Say what?”

  “A map used by VFR pilots to plot a flight path. It shows terrain elevations, navigation aids, air space restrictions, and so forth. And there’s a course marked on it.” He laid the map on the tarmac, used his hand to smooth out the worst of the creases, and pointed out the different elements as he identified them. “See here? There’s a line running from Minneapolis to an airstrip identified as CNY. Then another line from CNY to Blanding.”

  “But the flight plan Brady showed us didn’t say anything about a stop at this CNY place, did it?”

  “No, it didn’t. Smits filed a plan with the FAA for a direct flight from Minneapolis to Blanding, but made an unscheduled stop at CNY.” Warrenburg frowned his disapproval. “Very irregular.”

  “The stop might have been unscheduled, but it wasn’t unplanned.” I stood, flexing my knees to get the blood moving again in my legs. As I lifted each foot, it adhered briefly to the pavement, releasing with a sucking sound. I didn’t want to think about what was sticking to the soles of my shoes. “Let’s close up these other bags and put them back in the bin. I don’t want Brady to bite my head off when I ask for his help.” We made a quick job of securing the bags, and tossed them into the dumpster. I stuffed the trash from the DC-3 back into its bag, slung it over my shoulder, Santa-style, and toted it over to the main building. The FBI would be interested in its contents.

  Brady met us at the door. “Found anything?”

  Warrenburg showed him the map. “Can you look up the details on CNY for us?”

  “Don’t need to. I’ve flown into Canyonlands more than once. It’s south of Crescent Junction, not far from Arches National Park. An outfit based at the field operates helicopter sightseeing excursions into the park for the tourists. Not much there, otherwise.”

  “Any idea why Smits would have detoured to Canyonlands?” I asked.

  Brady shrugged. “Got me. Seems if that’s where his passenger wanted to go, he would have included the stop in his flight plan.”

  Warrenburg and I exchanged looks, and he nodded. “The plane should be refueled by now. I’ll check the weather and prepare a flight plan for Canyonlands.”

  I left Warrenburg to take care of business, and went to find a phone. Susan was still in her office, and I filled her in as succinctly as I could. “I think it’s a real lead. I trust Hershey’s nose, and I’m convinced Artie was on that plane. Warrenburg is flying me to Canyonlands. It’s a small airstrip, and we might catch a break. Someone there may have seen the boy.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “I’d like you to call Laporte and brief him on the situation. I’m leaving the DC-3’s trash bag with Jared Brady, the manager here in Blanding. Ask Laporte to arrange for an agent from the local FBI office to collect the evidence from him. Once you’ve taken care of that, I think you should plan to meet us in Las Vegas. If I find Artie in the Canyonlands area, I’ll have Warrenburg fly us there.”

  She hesitated. “And, if not…”

  “The DC-3 was headed for Vegas, according to the last flight plan the pilot filed. I’ll try to pick up the trail from there.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The 80-mile flight to Canyonlands Field was over almost as soon as it had begun. Warrenburg agreed to stay with the plane while I poked around with Hershey. The chances of his catching a whiff of Artie were pretty slim, but it was worth a shot.

  The dog seemed to understand why we were there without me telling him. He lowered his head, sniffing here and there as we walked, his nose almost scraping the ground. I let him follow his instincts, not expecting anything to come of the effort. He gave a little whine every now and then, each time looking up at me with a quizzical expression before continuing his search. After a while, his movements became more purposeful. Soon, he was pulling on the leash. I bent down and unclipped it from his collar. Nose still to the ground, Hershey broke into a run. I picked up my pace, following as best I could over patches of snow and ice. The dog came to a halt outside the Two-Bit Rental Car office, pawing and whining at the door. I clipped the leash onto Hershey’s collar, and we went inside.

  “Help you, Mister?” The man behind the counter looked at me through eyes that were sunk into a well-used face. His nose was long and pointed, his lips thin, his chin hidden under a bushy winter beard. His Two-Bit badge told me his name was Brigham.

  “Maybe,” I said. “I’m looking for a man and a boy. The boy’s name is Artie. He’s 12 years old, round face, hazel eyes, sandy hair that tends to fall into his eyes. He was last seen wearing ski clothes: a red jacket and close-fitting black ski pants. He’s about 4’8” tall.” I held my hand partway up my chest, palm down, to indicate Artie’s approximate height.

  Brigham wrinkled his brow and looked at me with suspicion. “What’s this about, Mister?”

  “My name is Damien Dickens. I’m a private investigator from New Jersey. The boy disappeared on Sunday, and his family has asked me to help find him.”

  “What makes you think they were here?”

  I pointed to Hershey, who was sitting at my side. “He does.”

  “When d’you think they might’ve passed through?”

  “Early Monday morning.”

  He scratched his beard. “Can’t say as I remember a man and a boy, but I didn’t get here until ten-ish on Monday.”

  “Can you check your records? See whether anyone rented a car before you arrived?”

  “S’pose so. Lemme take a look.” He opened a folder containing a stack of pink forms, moistened his index finger with his tongue, and turned over the flimsy rental car records one by one. “Here’s one. Man came in around seven o’clock Monday morning. Paid cash for a one-week rental.”

  “Is that usual? Don’t most people use a credit card?”

  “Yeah, we prefer a card, but this customer paid cash. He put down a hefty damage deposit, so the guy on duty went along with it.”

  “Mind if I see the form?”

  He hesitated, then handed the flimsy sheet of paper across the counter to me. I squinted at the faint blue ink on the hand-printed carbonless copy. The customer’s name was too faint to decipher, but the number and expiration date copied from the Nevada driver’s license was legible. I wrote down the information on a piece of paper and shoved it into my pocket. As I did so, my hand encountered the aviation map Warrenburg had found in the DC-3’s trash bag. I placed it on the countertop and smoothed it flat.

  “What’s that you got, Mister?” Brigham leaned over the counter to peer at the map.

  I ignored his question as my eyes searched for a clue to where the kidnapper might have gone. I scrutinized the map sector by sector, following each marked road to its destination. I could hear a clock ticking inside my head. I needed to go after them, to find Artie before it was too late. Before he was beyond rescue. I willed myself to slow down, and my patience was rewarded. Showing the map to Brigham, I pointed to a name encircled with a faint pencil mark. “What’s this place?” I asked.

  He peered at the map. “Cisco? That’s a ghost town.”

  “You pulling my leg?”

  “Wouldn’t do that to you, Mister. Not with you being a ‘private eye’ and all.”

  There was sarcasm in his voice, and I didn’t like it one bit.
I reached across the counter, grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him toward me until I could smell the chewing tobacco on his breath. “Listen up, Mister,” I spat out. “If I don’t find that boy in time, there might be nothing left of him to find. Now, answer me straight. How do I get to Cisco, and what will I find when I get there?”

  I released his shirt with a gentle shove, and he took a moment to smooth out the creases I had made. “As I told you already, Cisco is a ghost town. It was established in the 1880s as a way-station for the railroad. In 1924, oil and gas was discovered nearby, and the town boomed. When the oil field dried up, so did Cisco. Nobody has lived there for years, and the railroad doesn’t stop anymore, although it still runs through the town. Occasionally, a tour group of whitewater rafters pays a visit to ‘an authentic ghost town’ on the way to Westwater Canyon. But that’s about it. At the moment, Cisco is a for-real ghost town.”

  “What do you mean by ‘at the moment’?”

  “Well,” he drawled, relishing his role as a spinner of yarns, “rumor has it a Las Vegas big-shot has bought up the town. He wants to build a resort. A theme park, like, but with a casino and all.”

  “How do I get there?” I asked, trying to contain my impatience.

  “Two ways.” As he spoke, he used his finger to trace the possible routes on the map. “Easiest and shortest is to take US-191 north to the I-70. Go east on the Interstate and get off at Exit 204. That’ll take you to Pump House Road, the main street. There’s not much left of the town, just a few small, ramshackle buildings.”

  “You said there were two ways to get there.”

  “That’s right. But I wouldn’t recommend the alternative route this time of year. The road cuts through Arches National Park. It hugs the side of a cliff much of the way, with a lot of switchbacks. Not a good road if you’re in a hurry, ‘specially in the winter.”

  “How far is it from here to Cisco?”

  “Via the Interstate? ‘Bout forty, forty-five miles.”

  “Do you have a car I can rent?”

  He shook his head. “Not a closed car. Just an old ATV I use for back-country travel.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  He looked dubious, but took a fresh car rental form from a stack on the counter and handed it to me with a ball-point pen and an admonition to press firmly. I filled in my name, address, and driver’s license number, and shoved the form back across the counter to him.

  “Want insurance?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “I’m covered on my policy.”

  “Credit card?”

  I handed over my card, hoping as I did so that it hadn’t hit its limit. He ran it through a mechanical device to transfer the information onto a multi-sheet form, and slid both the credit card slip and the rental form across the counter for me to sign. After double-checking my signature, he separated the copies of the rental form, handing the original to me along with my credit card and the ATV’s key. “Car’s out back,” he told me. “I keep the tank full, just in case.”

  After thanking Brigham for his help, I walked back to the plane to brief Warrenburg. “I’m going to check out this ghost town,” I said. “It sounds like the kind of place where someone might hole up.”

  “Want me to come along?”

  I thought about that, then shook my head. “Thanks, but I think it would be best for you to stay with the plane. Call Susan Sutherland and give her an update. Tell her I’m sure Artie and his kidnapper passed through here, and I’m going after them.”

  “What if you need help?”

  I jotted down the plate number of the ATV. “This is what I’m driving. Give me 24 hours. If I’m not back by this time tomorrow, call the police.” Handing another piece of paper to him, I added, “This is the plate number of the car our suspect rented, and the driver’s license number he entered on the car rental form. It’s a Nevada license. Give the information to Susan and tell her to pass it along to Captain Laporte.”

  “Do you think your suspect is stupid enough to use his own driver’s license?”

  “Anything’s possible. Remember, the kidnapping didn’t go according to script, and the perp lost his partner. He’s had to improvise. This guy might not have been expecting to need a fake ID.”

  “Good luck, Mr. Dickens, and good hunting.” He offered his hand, his grip firm and reassuring. I hoped mine was equally so. “I’ll take care of things at this end.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  An all-terrain vehicle wouldn’t have been my first choice. The ride was rough, and the wind chill at 70mph on the Interstate left my face numb and my body shivering. The light was growing dim as I rolled into the western end of Cisco, the scattered tumbledown shacks and rusted vehicles looming ghostlike in the dusk. My pulse quickened as I spotted a car parked at the side of the road a couple hundred yards ahead. I cut my engine and coasted to a stop about twenty feet behind it.

  The car, its make and model a match for the one the suspect had rented, was parked in front of a ramshackle cabin built from rough-hewn wood beams, and set back about a hundred feet or so from the road. The window facing in my direction was covered with a sheet of opaque, green plastic, held in place with wide strips of tape. The roof was tilted at a crazy angle, one side steeper than the other, half the shingles missing. A thin wisp of smoke curled up from a stovepipe, which protruded at a rude angle from the rear wall of the cabin. There was barely enough ambient light for me to read the plate number on the vehicle. LJQ 537. It was a match to the number on the car rental form. I had found my quarry.

  It was getting colder, and the ATV offered no protection from the elements. I would have to make a move soon if I wanted to be able to move at all. Intent upon making as little noise as possible, I climbed out of the car without opening the door. Hershey followed my example and, at a signal from me, remained at my side, the tip of his nose even with my leg. We crept up to the shack, and I crouched low near the window, trying to decipher the muffled sounds escaping through small tears in the plastic sheeting. I could hear a baritone voice, though I couldn’t quite catch the words. There was silence, then my heart leapt. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but I recognized Artie’s voice. The baritone voice responded dismissively, and there was no further dialogue.

  I had to find a way inside without endangering Artie. Motioning to Hershey to follow me, I eased around to the front door and pointed at a spot next to it. “Wait here,” I whispered. “Watch the door.” I returned to the window and put my eye to a hole in the plastic sheet. Artie was seated near a potbelly stove. He was tied by the ankles to the front legs of the chair, and his upper body was secured to the chair back with several turns of thick rope. The chair was drawn up to a table, a bowl and spoon resting on the surface in front of the boy. Artie’s hands were free. His arms were crossed in front of his chest, and his face was contorted in an angry pout. The pout of a child who is refusing to eat.

  From my vantage point, I couldn’t see the boy’s captor, so I decided to investigate the rest of the structure. The back wall was windowless. The only item of note was a nearby, partially collapsed, closet-size structure with a crescent moon carved into the door. An outhouse. I started to formulate a plan as I continued my reconnaissance of the shack. The window on the east side was covered with a bed sheet, which was held in place with duct tape. I found a small rip in the sheet and peered through. Artie’s captor was at the stove now, adding a log to the fire. His back was to me as he bent over to poke the log into place. As he stood, I could tell he was tall and slender, with light hair, broad shoulders and a narrow waist. He half-turned in my direction, but I couldn’t make out his face in the guttering light cast by the fire in the stove. I left the window and checked the front of the house. Hershey was sitting by the door, his eyes gleaming in the semi-darkness, his posture alert.

  I returned to the west side of the house and listened at the window as I considered my options. My best shot at rescuing Artie unharmed would be to surprise the perp outside the
shack. I figured either he or the boy would need to use the outhouse eventually. Making myself as comfortable as possible, I kept my eye to the hole in the window covering.

  It was dark now. The moon hadn’t yet risen, and the sky was covered with a mantle of stars. I had been in place for an hour. I was tired, cold, and my knees were starting to cramp, but my patience was about to be rewarded. Artie was squirming against his bonds, and I had a pretty good idea what that meant. He said something, his voice plaintive. There was a warning grunt from his captor, and the boy settled down for a few minutes before shouting in a voice that penetrated the night, “I gotta PEE!”

  This was my chance. I already had scoped out the front door, and knew it was hinged on the left and opened to the inside. I was counting on the kidnapper opening the door with his right hand as he kept a grip on Artie with his left. I crept to the front of the shack and pressed my body against the wall near the door, Hershey by my side. Nothing happened for several minutes, and I was starting to worry that I had miscalculated, when I heard the squeal of metal on metal as the latch slid back. The knob turned, and the door creaked open. I lunged for Artie, wrested him from the kidnapper’s grasp, and flung him back inside the cabin. As though he had read my mind, Hershey leapt at Artie’s captor with a fierce growl, grabbing the sleeve of his open ski jacket, flinging him to the ground.

  The man rolled over, shedding his jacket and leaping to his feet in one easy motion. He ran for his car before I could grab him. I had chosen to leave my gun holstered - I couldn’t risk any gunplay around Artie - but I drew it now, and shot off a couple of warning rounds in the kidnapper’s direction. He reached his car, flung open the door and dove inside. The car’s dome light came on briefly and, in that instant, our eyes met. He started the engine, accelerating in reverse until his rear bumper slammed into the front of the ATV, shifted into drive and, tires squealing on the pavement, sped away into the night. Acting on instinct, I emptied my gun at his disappearing tail lights. I could have stopped him. I’d had a clear head shot when his dome light was on, but I hadn’t taken it. I didn’t have it in me to shoot Millie’s brother.