Pay Dirt (Lost Falls Book 2)

by Chris Underwood

  “No,” I agreed. “Not really.”

  “What’s Plan B, then? When everything goes to shit?”

  I reached into my pocket one last time, took out my revolver, and snapped open the cylinder. I double-checked it was loaded with standard ammunition—these guys looked more vulnerable to lead than silver. I pushed the cylinder shut with a click.

  “If Early is in there,” I said, “I’m not leaving without him.”

  Lilian nodded slowly. “Well, then. Let’s get this party started, shall we?”

  With the sentry’s back to us, we slipped from the cover of the forest undergrowth and began to scramble down the bank toward the back of the museum. We took our time, using the scattered trees for cover, staying beneath the shadow of the forest canopy.

  My shoe slipped on a patch of fallen leaves and loose twigs. I caught myself before I fell, but a spray of dirt went tumbling down the hill. I cringed at the sudden sound.

  Roof Guy turned toward us. Lilian and I froze in place, partially obscured by a low bush and the trunk of a nearby tree. I suppressed the urge to shiver as I felt the sentry’s eyes slide past us.

  The sentry pushed himself out of his chair, unwrapping his rifle from the blanket. It was a mean-looking thing. Sure as hell not for hunting deer. He cradled it casually in his arms and walked to the rear edge of the roof, scanning the hill.

  Licking my lips, I adjusted my grip on my revolver. I didn’t breathe.

  Off to our left, I saw a flash of movement. Something small had just darted out from the tall grass about thirty feet away. It scurried out of sight for a moment, and then I caught sight of it again as it wriggled beneath the fence that guarded the left side of the museum. Tiny paws skittered on broken concrete.

  “Oh, fuck,” I muttered.

  “What?” Lilian hissed.

  I ignored her. As I watched, the little black rat scurried over to the exterior wall of the museum. It sniffed about for a second, then leapt onto an electrical conduit running up the side of the building. It began to climb.

  “No, no, no,” I said to myself. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

  I began to take a step, but Lilian’s arm darted out and grabbed my wrist. Up on the roof, the sentry’s gaze snapped back toward us.

  “What are you doing?” Lilian whispered furiously. “You’re going to get us shot.”

  Grinding my teeth, I slipped my hand into my pocket, trying to move as little as possible. The sentry’s eyes swept past us again and again. Even from here I could feel how cold and unfeeling his stare was.

  The rat reached the top of the wall and jumped up onto the roof. The angle of the roof blocked it from my view after that. But just before I lost sight of it, I noticed there was something tied onto its back, like a little rat backpack.

  I took my keys out of my pocket and pushed them toward Lilian. “When he isn’t looking, head back up the hill.”

  “What?”

  “Get to the van. Bring it back up the road. Get ready to pick me up.”

  “What are you talking about? I thought we were sneaking in together.”

  “I don’t think there’s going to be much sneaking anymore.”

  A cloud of red dust suddenly exploded around the sentry on the roof. The guy staggered back, his gun dropping from his hands. He clutched at his head and his eyes opened wide, wider than should’ve been possible. It was like watching his eyelids peel back. I felt like I could see into his soul.

  There was a moment’s pause as the red dust began to disperse in the breeze. The guy’s mouth was open in a silent scream. I spotted the rat scurrying back to the edge of the roof. It jumped back onto the electrical conduit and headed for the ground.

  “Go,” I said to Lilian. “Go, now!”

  She didn’t stop to question me. With a muttered curse, she turned and ran back up the hill.

  The sentry’s eyes were bulging now. He staggered back, waving his arms in front of him like he was fighting off a swarm of invisible mosquitoes.

  My throat tightened as I watched the man stumble backward. I knew instantly what was about to happen. A prophetic vision that I could do nothing to stop.

  I could only watch as the guard staggered back and toppled off the edge of the roof.

  The section of the roof he was standing on was only a single story high, but he seemed to fall a long time. By the look on his face, I don’t think he even realized he was falling.

  He hit the ground back-first. The back of his head cracked sickeningly against the concrete.

  If he was still alive, he wasn’t moving.

  “Shit,” I whispered to myself.

  The rat had reached the ground. It hurried past the shoes of the fallen guard and raced toward the fence. I looked in the direction the creature was fleeing. Someone was emerging from the tree line to meet it.

  My hands tightened into fists. Moving in a low crouch, Isidora the witch darted toward the museum’s fence, her empty rat cage in one hand and a cloth pouch dangling from the other.

  In a few short days, this damn witch had become the bane of my life. She was going to ruin everything!

  The guard who’d fallen off the roof finally gave a loud groan of pain. One hand weakly reached up to touch his head. A thin layer of red dust still coated him.

  As Isidora reached the fence, the back door to the museum swung open on creaking hinges. Another man emerged from inside. This one was bigger than the one on the roof, a Viking type with shining blond hair and a beard to write songs about. Sunlight flashed from a silver pendant around his neck. As he stepped outside, he pushed back the lapel of his jacket. I caught a glimpse of a shoulder holster and a pistol inside.

  “Brother,” he said, “are you…?”

  He trailed off as he caught sight of the fallen guard’s shoes sticking out from around the corner of the museum. He ducked back, pressing himself against the wall and drawing his pistol. I didn’t think he’d seen Isidora yet, and I doubted she’d caught sight of him either. But as she leapt the low fence that ringed the museum, I knew it’d only be seconds until they ran into each other.

  The Viking stuck his other hand in his pocket and drew out what looked like a walkie-talkie. With his gun raised, he brought the walkie-talkie to his mouth.

  I was already moving. As I charged forward, I snatched a vial from my pocket and flung it at the man. Then I squeezed my eyes shut and ran blindly.

  The vial shattered against the wall beside the man. A flash of light exploded silently from the sunflare. Even here, during the day, it would be like staring into the sun. I could see it through my eyelids, a hundred tiny blood vessels suddenly etched into my vision. The Viking let out a cry, and I heard the clatter of the walkie-talkie hitting the ground.

  I opened my eyes into slits just in time to avoid slamming into the fence. I leapt over it and tugged my truncheon from my belt.

  The Viking turned toward the sound of my pounding footsteps, one hand across his eyes. He swung the gun toward me.

  I brought my truncheon crashing down on his wrist. There was a sickening crack as bones snapped. The gun fell from his hand.

  Before he could scream, I brought my elbow around and caught him in the side of the head. He was a big bastard, but so was I. He went down hard. He didn’t get back up.

  Isidora came rushing around the corner a moment later. Her rat was back in its cage, still wearing its little backpack. As the witch saw me standing there, her eyes widened. One hand went to the bandolier concealed beneath her coat.

  I raised my revolver and pulled back the hammer. Silently, I shook my head. Isidora scowled and let her hand fall.

  “I thought I smelled something in the woods,” she hissed. “What are you doing here?”

  “Searching for a friend of mine. What are you doing here?”

  “Getting answers.”

  “Getting yourself killed, more like.”

  A crackle came from the walkie-talkie that the Viking had dropped. A woman’s voice hissed through th
e static.

  “Report. What’s going on?”

  Isidora glanced down at the radio, then glared at me. “Out of my way, cunning man. I’ve got work to do.”

  “I won’t let you endanger my friend. You’ve already gone and fucked up my plans. But I can’t turn back now. So if we’re going in, we’re going in together.”

  Isidora scowled. The walkie-talkie crackled once more.

  “Brother! Report!”

  The Viking let out a low moan. Inside the museum I could hear talking and movement.

  “We’re out of time, witch,” I said, lowering my gun. “Go in, or go back.”

  Groaning, the Viking’s eyes fluttered open. He squinted up at us, blood trickling from his temple, his broken hand hanging uselessly. He opened his mouth to scream.

  Isidora snatched a bone talisman from her bandolier, crushed it in her fist, and cast the dust and shards into the face of the Viking. The muscles of his face tensed all at once, the scream catching in his throat. Then his muscles relaxed and he went limp.

  “All right, cunning man,” the witch said to me. “Let’s do it your way.”

  17

  As quick as we could, Isidora and I dragged the unconscious bodies of Roof Guy and the Viking away from the doorway. Isidora jerked her head at the tarp-covered vehicle. I nodded my agreement.

  Isidora pulled up the tarp and one by one I rolled the two bodies underneath the vehicle. As the witch turned away, I grabbed the tarp again and lifted it higher, exposing the rear of the vehicle. It was a dirty old pick-up with some rust that needed seeing to.

  Early’s truck.

  Swallowing, I lowered the tarp and turned back to Isidora. I didn’t say anything to her. There was nothing to say.

  We didn’t have any more time to waste. There was nothing to be done for the blood splatters staining the broken concrete. I snatched up the fallen walkie-talkie, dialed down the volume, and stuffed it into my pocket. Isidora and I exchanged a glance.

  And then we slipped through the back door into the museum.

  The door opened into a small, dusty storage room crammed floor-to-ceiling with boxes and filing cabinets. Several of the cabinets had been left open. Yellowed documents in plastic sleeves were scattered about carelessly. Across from us, on the other side of the room, another door stood ajar. Through there I caught a glimpse of display cases and towering shelves. Floorboards creaked as footsteps approached.

  “We stay hidden as long as we can,” I whispered to Isidora as we crept into the storage room. “Try not to kill anyone this time, huh?”

  “No promises,” she said.

  With a hammering heart, I adjusted my grip on my revolver and peeked into the museum proper.

  There were no lights on, presumably to reinforce the notion that the place was closed. But there was enough sunlight filtering in through the small windows to faintly illuminate the place. Shelves and displays and old maps lined the walls. Several display stands were set up in the middle of the room, including some rusted pieces of century-old mining equipment. A large display cabinet stood a few feet from the door, containing what looked like a model of the hills and mountains surrounding Lost Falls. The model had been cut away to reveal tiny mine shafts running through the hills like the tunnels of a kid’s ant farm.

  Across from me and off to the left was the main entrance to the museum. In the dim light I could just make out the heavy deadbolt locking the door. Further to the left was another wide doorway, which seemed to continue to another wing of the small museum. Through that doorway I glimpsed shadows approaching.

  I gestured to Isidora and slipped through the door, moving as silently as I could. Isidora’s footsteps whispered against the floor behind me.

  I ducked behind the cutaway model of the valley just as three figures came through the doorway off to the left. Two women and a man. All of them looked like they meant business.

  Isidora crouched down behind another display case a few feet away from me as the figures approached.

  “Stay with the heathen,” the man said to one of the women. “Sister Gardner’s team will be here to pick him up shortly.”

  The woman nodded and ducked back through the doorway. The second woman pushed back the lapel of her coat, drawing out a sawed-off shotgun. She was a short but athletically built woman with dark hair that’d been cropped short. Her eyes swept toward the open back door we’d come through.

  While the woman scanned the dark with paranoid eyes, her male companion seemed entirely unconcerned. At first glance he seemed a soft-looking man, with a bald head and friendly features and a little too much weight around the midsection. But I’d spent enough time in this town to know that first impressions could be misleading.

  The man clasped his hands together behind his back. With a gesture to the shotgun-toting woman, he followed her toward the back door.

  The two of them passed within six feet of us. From behind her display case, Isidora stared at me and jerked her head toward the two while making a fist. I shook my head. We didn’t know how many more were around. Trying to fight them could easily end up with one of us dead. Besides, if Early was a hostage, they might decide to use that against us.

  “You should stay inside until I find out what’s happening,” the woman with the shotgun muttered to the bald man as she paused at the door. “There could be trouble.”

  “Nonsense,” the man said. “We’ll investigate together.” He held out a hand, gesturing to the door. With a grunt, the woman nudged open the door with her foot and entered the storage room.

  The bald man paused at the doorway, glancing back into the room. It was only then that I noticed the milky whiteness of his eyes. I didn’t think he was blind, not entirely, but he had a couple of cataracts that were in urgent need of treatment.

  I held my breath, remaining still as his gaze passed over me. This guy was…wrong. I could feel it.

  After what seemed like an hour, the bald man turned back to the door and followed shotgun lady out through the storage room. Isidora and I remained crouched where we were for a few seconds, waiting for the footsteps to recede. Then, silently, we crept out of cover. I moved to the door, peeking to make sure the two strangers were out of sight.

  “We should’ve taken them out while we had the chance,” Isidora hissed.

  “Just shut up for two seconds, huh?” I quietly closed the door. There was no deadbolt on this door, but there was a push-button lock on the handle. I locked it.

  “That’s not going to keep them out,” the witch said.

  “It’ll give us a few seconds. So will this.” I took a glass bead talisman out of my bag and wrapped it carefully around the door handle. It would give whoever grabbed the handle next a nasty surprise. I turned back to Isidora. “Come on.”

  We crossed the room, winding through the cluttered shelves. A large set of stairs reached up from the center of the room to the balcony that wrapped around the second floor. Even more displays were crammed in up there.

  Now that I was older and a little bit less of an asshole, I could see the work and passion that Stuckey had put in here. The displays covered decades of Lost Falls’ mining history, every piece fitting together with the one next to it. If you spent enough time in here, you’d probably end up an expert on the topic. The guy must’ve spent most of his life putting it all together.

  Too bad most of his visitors were snotty little brats like me, forced to attend for some school trip.

  Well, at least someone had finally taken a real interest in the place. I wondered if that was some consolation for Stuckey, wherever he was now.

  I pressed myself against the wall and peered through the open doorway into the leftmost wing of the museum. It was even darker in there. The windows had been covered up with newspaper, allowing only a trickle of yellow-tinted light into the room.

  This section of the museum had changed since I was last here. Before, Stuckey’s collection of strange artifacts had taken up a single wall. It had been from tha
t display that Holden had swiped the homunculus talisman he was so taken with.

  Now, the strange collection consumed the entire room. Unidentified bones and leering woodcarvings and yellowed paper covered in bizarre script littered the walls and filled display cases.

  But Stuckey’s guests had made their own alterations to the place as well. Several cabinets had been flung open, and in a couple of cases I saw shattered glass where someone had decided to smash open the display cases rather than search for keys. There were blank spaces on the shelves where artifacts had been removed.

  A table and a few cabinets had been shoved aside to make room in the far corner. There, a couple of sleeping bags had been unfurled. A man was curled up in one of them.

  He looked in a bad way. He was partially illuminated by a strip of sunlight coming through an opening in the paper-covered window. The light shone from the sweat that coated his forehead and plastered his hair to his scalp. He lay shivering, eyes closed, cracked lips moving as he mumbled feverishly. Whatever bug he’d picked up looked nasty. The woman I’d seen in the doorway earlier knelt at the sick man’s side, trying to dribble water from a plastic bottle into his mouth. The guy choked, coughed, and went back to mumbling.

  In the corner of the room, concealed by shadow and old artifacts, a shape stirred. On my first glance at the room I’d taken it for some part of the display, a mannequin representing some old miner from years past. Now that it moved, though, I could see it for what it was. A slender-framed man sitting in a rickety old chair, a cloth bag over his head. By the way he moved, I assumed his arms and legs were tied to the chair, but I couldn’t make out the ropes in the darkness.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” came a muffled voice from inside the bag.

  Suddenly, a weight I didn’t realize I’d been carrying lifted from my shoulders. I knew that voice. I’d recognize it anywhere.

  The old man was alive.

  The woman spun away from the sick man, fixing Early’s bound form with a glare. She had a hooked nose that served as the centerpiece of a face that could break mirrors. One arm drifted to her side, where I could see a pistol holstered.