Reagan's Ashes

by Jim Heskett

  Deep breath in. Exhale. The world enters, she takes what she needs, and lets the excess return.

  Her arms spread out wide as the sun lights the trees to the east and then passes over her, warming her from the outside in. The day is colored green and glorious.

  She looks down at her exposed flesh and imagines Spoon standing behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and gyrating back and forth, the slow dance he does with her sometimes in the kitchen of their tiny Austin apartment when she’s making dinner and a good slow song comes up in the rotation. She can almost feel his flesh against her flesh and it tickles her like cat whiskers against bare skin. She’s horny, for the first time in what seems like forever.

  Spoon. Have to get back to him.

  She puts her clothes back on, folds the emergency blanket, then stuffs it in her pocket. She sits and cradles the urn in her hands, gliding her fingers over its smooth surface. Where did Dad get this? South America? Africa? She can’t remember. She thought it morbid when he’d presented it to her for the first time, but now she sees the incomparable beauty of the design. The wood varnished to a deep brown, and the surface so smooth, like one continuous piece. Did he know there was a hidden compartment when he bought it? Did he have someone make it, or possibly build it into the urn himself?

  She carries the urn down to the edge of Lake Verna and opens the top. “I know you wanted to be in Nanita, but I hope you can see how much better this is. The beauty, the nature… it’s all here and it’s perfect and nothing will be able to separate you from that once I have joined you with the world. I don’t know if you were who they say you were, but I know you are my father and no one else helped me when I was sick. No one else bothered to take me camping, even though I didn’t want to go, the guidance you gave me then helped me get better, and now I can give that peace to you and the park and to Spoon and to anyone else who is ready to feel it.”

  She tilts the urn until a mist of pebbly ash spills from the opening. The powder coats the water, slowly rippling on top of gentle waves. Smells like a neglected fireplace. It mixes with the liquid and becomes darker, like charcoal, and she dips her hand into it, mixing Dad into the park.

  Her reflection in the water tracks and mirrors her movements back to her. A rush ascends through her feet, like an orgasm but not sexual, more like a warm meal on a cold day when the mass of energy worms its way from your mouth down your throat and into your stomach.

  She shudders. This isn’t the goodbye she wanted, but it is the one she has, and it is beautiful. Maybe even better than what she planned. Someday she will come back to Nanita and say goodbye properly, but she can’t imagine a more perfect moment. This is it.

  A twig snaps. She jerks back into awareness and covers herself, having forgotten she is no longer naked. She turns around and around, looking for the source of the sound, but there’s nothing to indicate anyone nearby.

  Dalton. She has almost forgotten about the cousin who threatened her life the day before. She tried to heal him on this journey, why did she fail? She needs to work harder. But not here. Not in the park. He obviously can’t see the intrinsic power of beauty and they must return to Denver. If she tries to heal him here, nothing good will come of it. He’s too sick with grief and she needs Spoon’s help. Together, they will set right the world.

  She has to get back to Spoon. While what she has done here is important, the critical tasks are back in the real world of cars and buildings and people and verbal communication.

  With no camp to pack up, she starts walking along the East Inlet trail toward the western edge of Rocky Mountain National Park, ready to experience more joy and beauty of the world.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  10:10 am

  Spoon had spent the first few minutes after returning to Anne’s house in shock. Not only was Jules from the AA meeting Reagan’s mother, she had also named that loud-mouthed, henchman-slapping bloke Tyson as Reagan’s uncle. She’d said these words so casually, like no big deal. Common knowledge.

  Spoon hadn’t realized he was in the middle of a grand family reunion. If Tyson was her uncle, why hadn’t Reagan ever mentioned him before?

  The parking lot convo had ended shortly after this revelation, and Spoon didn’t draw any more helpful information from Jules. She said she would ‘be in touch’ with Reagan after her backpacking trip.

  But now, at least, Spoon had some dots to connect, and a theory about why Anne had been so dismissive. She didn’t want it known that this Tyson thug who’d been harassing her was one of her relatives.

  Tyson was after the money that seemed to be missing from the will. Or maybe the money wasn’t an inheritance… he’d never actually said that’s where it was supposed to be. Anne was the one talking about the will.

  Tyson assumed the missing money was rightfully his. His and Mitch’s father, Frank Darby, had claimed that Reagan’s dad had socked it away somewhere in a safety deposit box, but Frank offered no information about where the money was or how it came to be hidden. Frank believed that Reagan knew something about it, or at least Mitchell intended for her to know. And if Tyson knew that–which he probably would since he’d visited Frank–then Tyson might hold her accountable.

  There were still pieces that didn’t fit. Was the money real? Where was the safety deposit box? How much did Tyson know? Why had Reagan’s mother made such a sudden and surprising appearance? Jules tied into the whole mess somehow.

  Spoon had spent the last three days thinking Anne was in trouble, but what if Tyson was actually after Reagan?

  The last question plagued him the most, and on Friday morning, he decided to do something about it. He had to keep Reagan safe. If only he could talk to her, he could tell her to get out of the park, to come home so they could leave. But her mobile was off, or dead. He was on his own.

  When he woke, Anne was gone, so he took a quick wake-up shower and decided to use the neighbor’s Lexus to drive north through Denver to the lawnmower shop in Broomfield. Answers should be coming soon.

  No blue Chevy ute waited outside to follow him today, so he didn’t bother with the careful driving. He did have to refill the gas tank at the servo, which made him painfully aware that he was now unemployed and needed to be cautious about money. There had still been no word from the job prospect about rescheduling the New Orleans interview. That seemed like a lost cause.

  As he approached Tyson’s shop, he parked behind the Slinky Grape across the street and walked in a meandering arc behind his destination. His knee throbbed with every click of the crutches.

  The little shop had front, side, and back doors. The side and back doors both opened to fenced-in areas. The side looked like some kind of lawnmower storage area/graveyard, and the back door’s chain-link fence area was much smaller. Like a porch, almost. The side door seemed to be the best bet.

  There were two cars out front: the blue Chevy Tahoe and an aging red Corvette. Tyson and a customer? Tyson and one of his associates?

  Spoon rounded the shop and checked out the side fence, secured with a weighty padlock. Made sense, since hundreds or thousands of dollars of lawnmowers were sitting inside. The fence was three meters tall, and with his bad leg, no way Spoon was going to scale that thing. The rattling of the fence might be enough to draw attention.

  The gate on the back fence wore no padlock to protect it. As he lifted the latch holding the gate in place, the metal creaked as it swung open, and his throat tightened until he couldn’t swallow. He was doing this. He was breaking into a place of business. Not exactly what his AA sponsor would call living a program of rigorous honesty.

  Exceptions had to be made. His future wife might be in danger and the only person who could give him answers was probably inside this shop right now.

  He inched toward the back door, hand shaking as he reached out to touch it. The door had no knob, instead opened with a handle like one on a tea cup. Not locked, which was a shocker. He immediately released his grip on it. What if the door squeaked when
he opened it? Would someone come at him with a shotgun? Americans loved their firearms, especially shopkeepers. And the shop looked no bigger than the living room of his apartment; maybe 150 square meters total. They’d be on him in a flash.

  He stared at the door, licked his lips, unsure what to do.

  Every second standing here was another second they might accidentally find him. Time to take the risk.

  He placed both hands on the handle and pulled as slowly as humanly possible. It opened with no squeak. He stopped when the crack was big enough to stick his head through and he peered inside.

  Then he understood why they’d left the back gate and door unlocked. Something obstructed the door. Some kind of metal shelving littered from top to bottom with objects that looked like motors, engine parts, tubing, valves, and gaskets. All of these objects projected mustiness, and the overwhelming odor of dust and grease almost made him gag.

  Between two engines, he glimpsed the interior. Rows and rows of similar shelving cut through the tiny shop, arranged like a maze.

  “No, no, no,” came Tyson’s booming voice.

  Spoon almost released his grip on the door, but steadied himself.

  “What? What did I do?” This new voice sounded nasal, like someone with a cold.

  “We need to keep the Hondas and the Briggs & Strattons separated. You keep them on the same shelf and customers can’t tell them apart,” Tyson said.

  “So we’re putting stuff by brand?”

  “Look, I know where everything is. Honda over there, Briggs & Stratton over there, Kohler in the back. You move shit around, I won’t know what’s what. And if you break anything, it’s coming out of your check. Inventory’s tight this quarter, so don’t you mess it up.”

  “Sorry, boss. I’ll be careful.”

  Spoon’s arm started to ache. The door was heavy and attached to some kind of spring that wanted to pull it closed.

  He waited through two more minutes of lawnmower inventory discussion until they finally got around to something interesting.

  “How are we with the other thing?” Tyson said.

  “I’m trying to follow up on what your dad told us, but he don’t know the bank or anything, so there ain’t much to do. I was thinking we should go and hire us a private investigator. Those guys can look at financial records and all that stuff. Find out when and where he rented a safe deposit box.”

  “Ok, genius,” Tyson said, “how exactly does that work? What do you think he’s going to do when he finds out there’s almost a quarter-mil in cash in there? Do you think he’s not going to tell the police about that? And then they come by the shop and start sniffing around what we do here?”

  “Are you saying he’ll tell the cops?”

  “We can’t take that chance, dumbass. Use your head.”

  “I thought once you hired them, they had… what do you call it? Immunity or whatever. Like how your lawyer can’t say shit.”

  Tyson let out a long sigh. “Dalton will be back later today. We’ll see what he got.”

  Goose bumps broke out over Spoon’s flesh. Where was Dalton and what was he going to get? Then it occurred to him that if Tyson was Reagan’s uncle, he must be Dalton and Charlie’s father.

  He leaned closer to the door, but the shuffling feet were going away from him. Tyson and his associate continued to talk, but their voices became muffled.

  The front door opened. They were going outside.

  Spoon panicked. If they were talking about Dalton, they could also be talking about Reagan. And if they were going to the front of the shop, he couldn’t stroll around to the entrance to get a better listen. These people had been following him, so they weren’t exactly his mates.

  Spoon limped backward and let the door close. His eyes darted around the back porch, searching for a solution.

  Then he saw it. A jumbled stack of plastic crates up against the fence. They looked sturdy enough, and if he could make a pyramid of a few, he could access the roof.

  He went to work stacking a row of three crates, with two on top of that and one to complete the pyramid. The height placed him within a meter of the roof. He set his crutches on the ground and hopped onto the first row, using the fence to steady himself. The crates seemed sturdy enough.

  Onto the second row, then the top container. He was close enough to the storm drain jutting from the edge of the roof that he could touch it. He planted each hand above the storm drain, grasping rubbery shingles. With the blinding sun above, the shingles nearly burned his hand, but he resisted the impulse to yelp and let go.

  He pulled with all his might until his head was above the storm drain, then pushed against the shingles. He held his breath so he didn’t grunt with all the exertion. Once he had reached the extent of his arms, his waist was even with the rooftop. He kicked his good leg up and his foot landed in the storm drain. One last push with his hands vaulted his body on top of the roof. Too much noise.

  The roof angled upwards to a peak, and he crawled toward it, one side at a time like a soldier crawling through muck under barbed wire. When he reached the top, he peered forward and again heard the voices. He started to crawl down the other side, careful about the swishing noises his trousers were making against the rooftop. Smoke wafted into the air from the front of the shop.

  He stopped when their heads popped into view. They were both smoking cigarettes, Tyson pointing a finger at the other man’s chest. The nasally-voiced man had plastic hearing aids encircling both his ears.

  “That’s not your goddamned problem,” Tyson said. “You let me worry about retribution for what my brother stole. You focus on finding the money.”

  “I know, boss, I’m just saying,” the other man said.

  Spoon inched forward to get a better look at the two men. His brain raced to catalog all this new information.

  “When she gets back, I’m going to talk to her. Your job is to follow her if talking to her doesn’t help. For all we know, the money isn’t in a bank somewhere, Mitch stashed it out there on the trail. Dalton and Charlie could be coming back with a big suitcase and then this whole thing will be over. If it’s not, then we got to worry.”

  Spoon stopped himself from gasping. Were Dalton and Charlie in the park with Reagan?

  “I need to know how far you want me to take this, boss. I need to know where the line is at. This could go a lot of ways.”

  Spoon lowered himself and inched forward again, and his belt buckle scraped a shingle. The scrack was like thunder.

  Tyson and his associate both snapped their heads upward, right at Spoon. Looks of confusion quickly bled into anger.

  Spoon tried to scramble backwards, but there was nowhere to go. They’d seen him. The breadth of Tyson’s scowl sent a shiver down Spoon’s backside.

  “You,” Tyson said. “Why do I always seem to find you hovering above me like a goddamned cloud?”

  “That’s the guy staying at Anne’s house,” the nasally bloke said.

  “I know who it is, genius. Liam Witherspoon. Why don’t you come down off my roof, Liam? You and me need to have a talk.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  11:00 am

  With each step along the rocky path, another jolt from the ground shocks Reagan’s foot and spreads to her calf and to her thighs. Muscles have been drained the last four days, in ways she hasn’t anticipated. Saturday morning bike rides with Spoon in Austin are measly outings compared to hiking thirty miles at 10,000 feet.

  Escape from Dalton and Charlie has taken her from the Tonahutu loop to the East Inlet trail, which is a parallel route a mile to the south. Separating the two trails are a series of mountain peaks. East Inlet also leads to a parking lot on the west side of the park, but a different lot than the one where she parked Dad’s car. That’s a worry for later this afternoon, when she’s done with the trail.

  As the sun rises above the mountains and she’s hiked enough to work up a sweat, she stops shivering. She crosses wooden bridges over streams next to pulsing
waterfalls. The trail sometimes curves around boulders as big as houses.

  The trail becomes a jumble of mud and tree roots and little rocks, and often her feet land at odd angles, creating slashes of fear that she’s broken her ankle. But she presses on.

  A laminated sign nailed to a tree:

  Trail condition warning. Due to a recent fire various travel hazards exist in the next several miles. Use caution and good judgment when crossing the affected area.

  Potential hazards include:

  Falling trees

  Slope instability & mud slides

  Collapsing trail tread

  Difficulty following designated trails due to fire damage

  Damage to bridges

  Possible re-ignition of fire.

  While she’s studying the text, voices drift from up ahead, around a bend in the trail. Multiple people are talking. Several options occur to her at once. She can ask them if they have a camera. She can ask them if they understand about loving everyone equally. They won’t. No one understands love. It’s her job to teach them.

  Darker options also come to mind. These people might not be friendly. They might be some of the unenlightened people who are sick and need healing. What if she is unable to heal them? She hasn’t been meditating and studying healing for a long time. What if she doesn’t remember how to do it? What if these people ahead are Dalton and Charlie? Dalton wants to hurt her. Dalton wants to take the key and the note and find the money and shame Dad’s name by not letting her use the money to open the educational center.

  The center needs a name. What should she call it? Approaching Awareness? No, that’s cheesy. Something like that, but profound.

  She shakes her head free of the mess. Need to focus. The voices are getting louder. There are too many possibilities and not enough time. Hide. It’s the only option.