Forbidden Entry

by Sylvia Nobel

  “I know him.”

  “He’s on my list of people to interview, but I understand he moves around a lot.”

  A cagey smile hovered around the corners of his mouth. “He’s not an easy guy to find. You might try reaching him at the McCracken Ranch first, but if he’s not there, he could be at his cabin or out working one of his mining claims.”

  In my haste to follow the story, it didn’t dawn on me until that particular moment that I didn’t have the slightest idea what Harvel Brickhouse looked like. Just how did I intend to find him as I tromped through the brush hunting for him? “Could you give me a brief description of him, so I know who I’m looking for?”

  “You can’t miss him. Just look for a big, brawny guy about six foot six with mutton chops wearing a shaggy old hat. That’s Harvel. But, even if you do locate him, he may not talk to you. He’s a pretty unsociable guy.” He paused, apparently weighing my reaction. When I showed no signs of abandoning my goal, he concluded, “Okay, I’ll indicate how to get to his cabin and the mining claims accessible by four-wheel-drive vehicles.” He made several more notations on the map, handed it to me and then cautioned, “Ah…there are some…peculiar and disreputable individuals living around that area, so I’d be real careful if you insist on going alone.”

  As if to defy his words another dump truck driven by a young Hispanic guy roared by, followed by a pickup and four young guys on quads. I smiled. “Looks like I’ll have plenty of company.” My attempt at humor fell flat, so I inquired, “I gather you’re referring to some of the inhabitants of Raven Creek?”

  “I am.”

  “I’ve already been warned, but thank you for your concern. By the way, do you have a card? I’d like to ask you a few questions at some point.”

  He pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “About what?”

  “Your involvement in the discovery of the bodies.”

  He removed a card from his shirt pocket and handed it to me. “My cell number’s there if you change your mind about going today. Good luck.” He waved a quick goodbye and drove away. Noting the time on my cell phone, I turned and hotfooted it to my Jeep. Crap! The delay had cost me over an hour. I started the engine and as I rumbled over the cattle guard, it was amusing to see Linda Tressick in full pursuit of a clucking brown chicken while Darcy clutched another one tightly to her breast as she held a cell phone pressed to her ear.

  Raring to continue my quest, I bounced along the washboard road and in less than ten minutes passed through Cleator, another of the numerous out-of-the-way communities that had flourished in the hinterlands of Arizona, fed by the discovery of gold, silver and copper, only to become ghost towns when the mines finally played out. I often wondered why some people chose to stay on when there appeared to be no reason for the town’s continued existence. Hardly more than a wide spot in the road, the main focal point of the tiny cluster of ramshackle tin-roofed houses and rusted trailers was the James P. Cleator General Store and Bar. There were two pickups, a dirt-encrusted Jeep and several quads parked outside. Other than a few people drinking on the open patio and a couple of mangy-looking dogs running around, there were few signs of life. There was, however, a plethora of crudely drawn and worded signs protesting the possibility of a freeway and a few more condemning the sand and gravel company that left little doubt as to how the residents felt. POLLUTERS GO TO HELL! SAVE OUR DESERTS and FREEWAYS SUCK!

  The last building in the town that looked like it might have once been a garage was covered with graffiti, witchcraft symbols and swastikas. I’d visited an abundance of these small out-of-the-way communities in Arizona these past nine months while on assignment and found that all manner of eccentricities were free to flourish. That was one of the wonderful things about living in a free country. As long as people operated within the boundaries of the law, they were free to be as weird or stupid as they pleased. But, I’d also discovered that a fair amount of illegal activities operating out of sight thrived as well.

  Approximately four miles beyond Cleator I passed the entrance to the Circle M Ranch. A small sign read: McCracken. Private Property. No Trespassing. I toyed with the idea of stopping at the ranch first, but decided to press on. Finding the spot where Jenessa died was my priority. The range fence seemed to go on forever and I studied with interest the rough, boulder-strewn terrain where Elizabeth had lived before marrying John Hinkle. What must life have been like growing up out here in such isolation? High on the mesquite-and juniper-covered hillsides to the north, I spied a few grazing cattle. Now that I understood how tough ranching was, I had nothing but admiration for the hardy souls who chose this rigorous way of life, for those who sacrificed to keep these secluded private ranches operating and worked long, hard hours to maintain the vanishing rural western lifestyle. I drove on, cognizant of the deteriorating road conditions. Rocking back and forth, I bounced over the tops of exposed boulders, dipping in and out of deep ruts. Even so, I was making good progress, but then less than a mile later, I ended up behind a truck hauling four modular toilets. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud at the original name—GRAB YOUR SEAT PORT-A-POTS—but lamented that the slow-moving vehicle presented yet another impediment to my tight schedule on a road too curved and narrow to safely pass. Fortunately, I didn’t have to follow it for long when the driver turned right beneath a sign reading RAVEN CREEK SAND & GRAVEL CO., Authorized Personnel Only. The clever slogan below read: WE’LL ROCK YOUR WORLD!

  My Jeep rattled over a series of extremely deep indentations that literally had my teeth clattering together. Oh man. Darcy was right about the deplorable road conditions. But then, almost immediately after passing the entrance, the graded surface smoothed out, proving that it was most likely the heavily-loaded gravel trucks causing the damage. Within several more miles, I noted a subtle change in the foliage as the elevation increased. The mesquite and chaparral gave way to scrub oak, larger junipers and, ahead on the higher slopes, a sprinkling of skinny ponderosa pines appeared along with a few patches of snow. I pulled to the side of the road, intending to download the maps, only to realize there was no cell service. Grudgingly, I had to admit that Burton Carr had been right and felt a twinge of gratitude as I studied the paper map he’d insisted that I take.

  The high-pitched drone of an approaching vehicle split the air, disturbing the peace and solitude broken only by the occasional whisper of the wind through the nearby junipers. An athletically-built young guy, cap on backwards, his face hidden behind a bandana and sunglasses, buzzed by, slowing only briefly to glance in my direction before accelerating up the hill towards Crown King. The idea of tooling around on a quad sounded like fun, but the ear-grating noise was definitely annoying.

  Less than a mile later, I turned right and passed a yellow sign warning UNMAINTAINED ROAD. I headed northwest, winding my way higher up the switchbacks as sunlight and clouds fought for supremacy. I knew from the quick research I’d done that all of the peaks in this magnificent mountain range were over 7000 feet high. Good Lord! Unmaintained was definitely an understatement. The recent rains and snowmelt had washed enormous rocks down the embankments and created deep grooves and teeth-jarring potholes, some of which were still muddy pools. The rugged terrain made for a challenging drive and it was stomach-swooping scary to maneuver along the narrow ribbon of road with not a guardrail in sight. In some places, significant portions of the road had washed away into the deep ravine. One wrong move could send the vehicle plunging down the steep, rocky slope into the creek below.

  Shoulders taut, my eyes straining with concentration, I pushed on and on, climbing continuously as the pines thickened. Shouldn’t I be there by now? I couldn’t possibly be lost, could I? What if I needed to turn around? What would happen if I met another car on one of the blind corners? Hands clenched tightly on the steering wheel, I executed a series of sharp hairpin turns and then unexpectedly, the road leveled off. I was relieved when the mountainous topography sof
tened onto a flat, narrow shelf where the first signs of civilization since I’d left Cleator began to appear in the form of oxidized fuel drums and vehicle carcasses, piles of trash, old appliances plus a scattering of crumbling, abandoned dwellings.

  To my left, set back from the road behind a chain link fence, stood a ramshackle white house along with several pickups and off-road vehicles. A crudely-carved sign above the garage door caught my attention, so I slowed to read it. If you are found here at night, you will be found here in the morning. Whoa! Ominous, yet tinged with black humor. A second one read: If you think there is life after death, trespass and find out. Okay. No doubt this person meant business. All at once the back of my neck prickled. It wasn’t hard to envision someone inside with a shotgun trained on me. Not a happy thought. I moved on quickly. The small patches of snow gradually turned into deep drifts piled up against the boulders. I estimated the elevation probably exceeded 6000 feet by now. The road eased around several gentle turns and then flowed smoothly into a peaceful valley dotted with alligator juniper, scrub oaks and a smattering of spruce and ponderosa pines. There were also groves of leafless deciduous trees. Was this the location of the old apple orchard Marshall had mentioned? There was obviously an abundant water table because the trees were much larger and the vegetation greener and far more abundant compared to the sparse desert landscape below.

  As if to confirm Burton Carr’s theory that the mountain created its own climate, I stared in awe as billowy clouds cascaded down the rocky cliffs, finally blotting out the sunlight. Well, well. He’d been right about that too and had merely been thinking of my welfare. I cringed inwardly remembering my flippant behavior. I wasn’t doing a very good job of living up to my promise to Tally just weeks ago that I would make a sincere effort to be more tactful with people.

  The road climbed gently again for a while before I finally arrived at the junction where I stopped, powered the windows down and just sat relishing the moist, chilly mountain air, totally captivated by the surreal sight of misty tendrils of fog enveloping the secluded valley. Here and there I could see the shadowy tops of pine trees. Who would believe it? Fog twice within a few days and reminiscent of the long, dark, frigid winters I’d left behind in Pennsylvania. On the other hand, the winter season in Arizona was always a welcome event, savored by natives, newcomers and tourists alike. And that thought made me wonder what Tally and my family were up to—probably all clustered around the rim of the Grand Canyon by now marveling at the mother of all chasms. I tapped his number on my phone to no avail, but did capture a few photos to send along later as soon as I had cell service again. Might as well share images of this hidden jewel.

  I studied the map, double-checking Burton Carr’s clearly marked directions again. The left fork led to the closed Forest Service road, which angled up to the very top of the peak and then down the northeast side culminating near Mayer. The right fork would take me to Raven Creek. I’d no sooner completed that thought when a strange sound caught my attention. Wheep. Wheep. Wheep! I look up in time to see two giant, black birds appear out of the mist. Their expansive wings whipping the air, they landed on a lopsided wooden fence nearby where they proceeded to hop up and down clucking like chickens before settling down to observe me with baleful, ebony eyes. Was this the Raven Creek welcoming committee? The place was most certainly aptly named. And then, as quickly as they’d arrived, they flew away. Odd.

  Poised to turn left, I paused when I heard the unmistakable whine of a vehicle approaching and started violently when a quad rider suddenly roared up beside me. I couldn’t be certain, but I was pretty sure it was the same guy I’d seen earlier on the main road. He no longer wore sunglasses, but still had the red and white-checked bandana pulled over the lower half of his face. He looked at me intently for several seconds, his dark eyes unreadable before he revved the engine and turned left. He sped up the hill, turning to cast one last furtive glance at me before disappearing into the mist. Weird.

  Slightly uneasy, I sat there mired in indecision. No one had ever accused me of being faint-hearted, and in fact, Tally laughingly teased that when on assignment, I was unstoppable, fearless and sometimes wrong-headed. But given that he, Marshall and now Burton Carr had warned me about the possibility of questionable people skulking about, was it really a good idea to venture alone through the darkening landscape to the abandoned road? As much as I wanted to, common sense prevailed. It could wait until tomorrow. In fact, that might actually be better. Burton Carr could accompany me to the precise location and I would have plenty of time to conduct my interview with him. I swung the Jeep to the right instead. Might as well check out Raven Creek.

  I drove slowly along an incredibly furrowed, muddy road thinking that this was quite an initiation for my pristine Jeep, now all mud-splattered. As I bumped and splashed along, I was able to make out only indistinct shapes of various structures and vehicles materializing every so often through the fog bank. One place I passed must have had ten or twelve classic cars parked in the yard. Raven Creek looked nothing like I had envisioned. There seemed to be an unnatural silence, no twitter of birds, no sounds of civilization; definitely eerie. There was also no shortage of KEEP OUT, PRIVATE ROAD, STAY OUT and NO TRESPASSING signs posted, reinforcing the message that strangers were not welcome. And there were additional warnings analogous to the first set of cautionary signs I’d seen driving in. IF I DON’T KNOW YOU, DON’T COME HERE. IF YOU MESS WITH ME YOU MESS WITH THE WHOLE TOWN. ARMED AND DANGEROUS! BEWARE OF NASTY-FACED DOG. I couldn’t help smiling at the last one.

  I passed a long row of mailboxes, marveling at the fact that mail would even be delivered in this out-of-the-way hamlet, and traveled another fifty yards or so before an odd sensation crept over me. I reduced speed and finally stopped. Something hovered at the edge of my memory. There was something familiar about the place, yet I was positive I’d never been there before. What was I trying to remember? Perplexed, I sat there in the fog, taxing my brain before it suddenly hit me. Holy cow! I shoved the Jeep into reverse. When I pulled even with the mailboxes, I picked up my phone and tabbed to the photo of Jenessa and Nathan posing with the black cat. Bingo! This was the identical spot.

  CHAPTER

  19

  Now that I knew for certain they had been here prior to their deaths, what did this knowledge really tell me? For sure, I needed to know when, why and who had taken the photo. Considering that the road I’d just conquered was made-to-order for adventurous off-road enthusiasts like Nathan probably answered the why. Marcelene should be able to tell me approximately when. But who had taken the photo and how a cat figured into the scenario of two people out exploring mountainous back roads baffled me. I stepped out and tromped through the mud, gingerly sidestepping pools of water as I approached the mailboxes. I counted sixteen of them—some so rusted, faded, flaking and caked with dirt there were few numbers or names visible. But considering that people supposedly came here to get lost, I had a feeling that was just the way the residents wanted it.

  I moved along the row, able to make out a few of the names, some looking as if they’d been written with a Magic Marker. All at once, one of those unexplainable sensations like I was being watched shimmied down my spine. Spooksville, Marshall had called it, and I decided my fanciful state was due to the ghostly fog surrounding me.

  Just to be cautious however, I glanced behind me. Nothing. I looked carefully in each direction and it was only when I turned back that I drew in a surprised breath. Three Pygmy goats stood behind the chain link fence, staring at me curiously with their strange slotted eyes. And then, in silent procession, two horses, a donkey, a cow, two sheep and a potbellied pig appeared out of the mist. All ambled to the fence and viewed me with interest. Finally one of the goats bleated a soft greeting. “Well, hello, gang,” I said, petting each of them through the barrier. I had quite a fan club going, but pulled back as a stunning, rainbow-colored rooster strutted by, eyeing me with arrogant sus
picion as if to assert his proprietary authority.

  At that moment, a light breeze touched my cheeks and the fleecy clouds, still pouring down the mountainside like waterfalls of frothing milk, began to disperse. Within minutes I could make out the shadowy framework of a barn and two sheds. No, wait. The sloped roof of one identified it as a chicken coop. Then a faded blue mobile home slowly materialized. I looked along the fence line, noting that this property bore no warning signs. I checked out the name on the mailbox nearest to the driveway. D D Dorcett. Unreal. It couldn’t be anyone other than the same feisty woman I’d seen earlier today near Cleator.

  As the cloud layer thinned, sounds that had been muted became more distinct. I could hear chickens clucking, ducks quacking and as I walked along the fence line towards the driveway, the friendly little herd followed along beside me. A sudden cacophony of loud barking stopped me in my tracks. On the opposite side of the wide driveway I counted six dogs of different breeds, all yapping away simultaneously, tails wagging, a pleasant contrast to the vicious-looking ones that had rushed me in Bumble Bee. What a menagerie. It appeared that Darcy was not only a caregiver of people, but animals as well. My initial impression of her mellowed considerably. The barking apparently alerted every other dog in the area, and the sound of their answering yelps echoed from the towering walls of granite in much the same manner as an amphitheater. No doubt everyone in town now knew there was a stranger in their midst. I stopped to allow each dog to sniff my hand and when their curiosity was satisfied they lost interest and wandered off inside the enclosure.

  I could now see the chicken coop and feathered residents clearly as fragments of blue sky appeared above the wreaths of swiftly thinning cloud cover. It wasn’t until I had reached the dilapidated porch that I noticed the faded sign. Safe Haven Animal Sanctuary. Interesting. And out here in the middle of nowhere? I searched my memory, unable to recall if I’d seen the name of this particular rescue group among the piles of brochures in Jenessa’s room, or if there had been a donation receipt. I made a note in my phone to check it out.