The Serpents Trail

by Sue Henry

  “Who is this, please?”

  “You don’t need to know that. But if you’re smart, you’ll get out of Salt Lake.”

  The voice was higher than normal and oddly muffled, as if this person—male, I thought—was talking with something in his mouth to disguise his voice.

  “Why? Who is this? What do you mean?”

  A pause, then, “You remember how close you came to the edge that day on the Monument? Next time you might not be so lucky. Get out of Salt Lake. Then get out of Grand Junction.”

  “What . . . ?” But before I could ask, or say, anything else, there was a click on the line as the connection was broken.

  Hot as it was in that parking lot, there were goose bumps on my arms that had nothing to do with the air-conditioning as I got into my rental car. Who was this person, and how did he know my phone number? Was the caller somewhere close? I looked around nervously and saw only two women talking together as they headed for their car. I had no idea what it meant, but it had been a definite threat—of something that could be very nasty and I hadn’t any kind of idea what that could be. I had been willing to accept that Ed had been the target in the incident on the Rim Rock Drive of the Monument—because he thought so. Now I had a very unpleasant feeling that, for whatever reason, someone had now turned the focus in my direction.

  The day before I had felt relief at being alone and distancing myself from complications—liberated to be on my own in a new place. As I drove back to the VIP Campground, I was not feeling the same satisfaction. Instead, I was aware that someone had killed Sarah and could have tried to kill me—with Ed along for the ride; that I was in the middle of an unfamiliar city where I knew no one and there was no one to turn to if I needed help.

  Whatever was going on had suddenly become less of a puzzle and taken a more deadly turn. I had some sense of safety when I was in the Winnebago, but am not stupid enough to think that a sixty-three-year-old woman with a shotgun is a total deterrent. I know that people my age are more vulnerable than those who are younger. We are not as strong as we once were, or as quick to respond. Far from falling off the perch—as my Daniel would have put it—I am aware that my age makes me more susceptible to accident or misadventure and I compensate to the best of my ability.

  I am not inclined to take unnecessary chances, but I will not let my life be ruled by fear—fear of what might happen or be out there. On the other hand, if I know of something specific that I should be afraid of, you won’t find me hesitant to yell for help if I need it—or to take off and leave it behind if that’s the best option.

  By the time I had reached my Winnebago, climbed in with Stretch, and locked the door behind me, I had made up my mind that leaving this potential threat behind was exactly what I was going to do. What could staying do for me? With a lot of effort I might be able to find Jamie, but I was more likely to come up empty and waste that effort with no positive result. What would finding her tell me? If it turned out anything like our first interview—very little or nothing at all.

  It was time to be gone.

  In less than an hour I had checked out, gassed up, found Highway 15, and was headed south. I decided I would drive until I grew tired. If that happened before Grand Junction, I would find an RV park, spend the night, and complete the journey the next morning.

  Stretch, good traveler that he is, was happy enough to watch the passing scenery from his basket. I slid a Singers & Songwriters CD into the player and shifted my mood with some of the good old stuff: “Brown Eyed Girl” by Van Morrison, Carole King’s “I Feel the Earth Move,” and Dave Loggins wandering through “Please Come to Boston.” I remembered how fine it had been, on our Alaskan deck, to slow-dance with my first husband, Joe, to Dan Fogelberg’s “Longer.”

  But under the memories and surface of my appreciation of the music was an awareness of everything around me that reminded me of my snake-watch on the Monument. There was also a thread of anger that it had seemed necessary to run. Oldie or not, I hate running.

  I watched other cars that passed me, and, in the rearview mirrors, those that followed. There was no sign of anyone I thought might be following me, but I hadn’t seen it when I was going the other direction, either, and I now believed that I had been followed from Colorado. How else could this person have known where to find me? And why was it so important to do so?

  It stuck in my mind that the caller had said not “the Colorado National Monument,” but “the Monument,” as the locals usually do.

  I tuned back in to “Sunshine Superman” and refused to speculate.

  By the time I had crossed Soldier Summit, gone by Helper without stopping for ice cream, passed Price, and reached Green River, I was tired enough to hunt up the KOA Kampground and park us for the night. I hooked up to water and electricity, then went inside and retrieved the shotgun from its hiding space, leaning it against the sofa while I fed Stretch and got something—I don’t remember what—for my dinner.

  That shotgun is a Remington 1100 LT-20 that holds and will fire three shells before it has to be reloaded—which should be enough in any circumstance I care to imagine needing it. I am not of National Rifle Association mentality, but not opposed to guns, either. The shotgun is protection and I view it as such. I would not hesitate to use it defensively if necessary, and wouldn’t have bought and learned to use it, otherwise. I had never before felt it necessary to take the shotgun out of its hiding place, but that night, having it within reach gave me confidence.

  Opening the ceiling vents, I locked the coach screen door, but, in what I felt was half bravado under the circumstances, left the door itself open, unwilling to shut out the soft blues of the twilight and the cool breeze that wandered in from the river a short mile away.

  When it was almost dark, I shut and locked all the doors, made sure all the windows were securely fastened, and all the blinds closed tight. With the air conditioner running on low it was bearable—just. I detest sealed spaces, as I have mentioned, but that night I needed security more than fresh air. I tried to read, but found myself repeating pages I had just completed. I jumped at every sound and listened attentively until I could identify it as ordinary. There were a lot of ordinary crickets, ordinary crunching of gravel as a rig or two drove in to park for the night or under the feet of people going back and forth to the showers or laundry, and the ordinary periodic hum of a vehicle passing on the nearby highway.

  When I gave up and decided to try to sleep, I laid the shotgun beside me on the bed, just in case. I intended to make an early start the next morning, expecting I would be wakeful and up before daylight, if not more often during the night.

  The reclining figure on a grassy space at the rear of a large Class A motor home next door to the Winnebago waited in the dark a long time after the lights had been turned out in both rigs. Silent and watchful, face turned to take pleasure in the slow progress of stars across the sky, it rested, serenely patient, until there had been no detectable movement or sound from inside either for the better part of an hour.

  Then, with care to remain in the shadows, it rose and, one step at a time, moved stealthily across to the side of the Winnebago. Bracing a cautious hand on the side of the motor home, the figure rested and listened, hearing nothing from within.

  Two more guarded steps brought it to the coach door, but the last step sent a single pebble skittering against another with a small click. The figure froze, all attention focused on the slight movement inside just before the fretful barking of a small-sounding dog began from behind the door.

  The Winnebago moved again, with the weight of a person in motion, though no lights came on. As the motion continued to the forward part of the coach and the dog hushed its yapping, the figure reached out and lightly tried the handle of the screen door, which it found locked.

  “Look,” a voice called out from inside. “Whoever you are, you should know that I have a loaded shotgun aimed in your direction and will not hesitate to use it if you don’t get the hell away from my d
oor. I also have a cell phone and am calling nine-one-one.”

  Taking something from a pocket, the figure reached out again to slip it between the screen and its handle. Trying for as much quiet as possible on the gravel surface, it walked quickly away, climbed into a car left nearby, and drove off into the dark without turning on the headlights.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  WITHOUT TURNING ON A LIGHT, I SWUNG MY FEET OUT of bed and took the shotgun as I stood up and crept barefoot into a position close to the coach door, but far enough away to level the barrel at it as I thumbed off the safety.

  Not intending to stay more than one night, I hadn’t bothered to use stabilizers. Without them you can hardly go from one end of a motor home to the other without it moving slightly, so Stretch was aware of my presence and stopped barking. In the ensuing silence, I heard something gently rattle the handle of the screen door I had locked earlier.

  I waited, listening—with the distinct impression someone outside was waiting and listening as well.

  “Look,” I said loudly and with more confidence than I felt. “Whoever you are, you should know that I have a loaded shotgun aimed in your direction and will not hesitate to use it if you don’t get the hell away from my door. I also have a cell phone and am calling nine-one-one.”

  There was no answer but a soft, crackly, zippery sound as something brushed against the screen outside the door, then the cautious crunch of someone attempting the impossible—to go silently away on gravel.

  I listened without moving as the footsteps faded. A car door closed, its engine started, and, as I heard it start to move, stepped to a window, pulled open the blind a crack, and caught a glimpse of a shadow vehicle without lights disappearing behind another motor home.

  Stretch whined at my feet.

  With hands that shook a little, I put the safety back on and carefully laid the shotgun on the dinette table. Then I dropped onto the sofa and lifted him into my lap for a cuddle—more for me than for him.

  “Thanks for the warning, lovie,” I told him. “You have the heart of a lion.”

  I gave us both a little warm milk before heading back to bed, leaving the shotgun on the table, for some reason feeling certain there would be no more disturbance that night.

  There was not. I slept soundly until I woke at six to the grumble of a large Class A diesel rig pulling out of the space next door. Putting the coffee on to brew, I put the shotgun away in its hiding place and felt better without it in view. The sun had come up and I could already feel a hint of the heat to come, so I collected my kit and clean clothes, intending to take a quick shower in the campground facility.

  I unlocked and opened the coach door, and was reaching for the handle of the screen when the sight of a foreign object stopped me. A crumpled sheet of paper had been slipped between the handle and the screen wire. I recalled that crackly, zippery sound I had heard just before my night visitor walked away from my door. Laying down the things I was carrying, I unlocked the screen, and retrieved the paper.

  It was very simple and specific in threat: a rough circle had been drawn with a felt-tipped pen. Inside it was a line that curved down for a mouth and two Xs for eyes. The meaning was clear—it was supposed to represent a dead person. Underneath, written in block letters, were the words STOP DIGGING INTO SARAH’S AFFAIRS. GO AWAY BEFORE YOU GET HURT—OR WORSE.

  I stood staring down at it in shock, the apprehension I had felt the day before, back—with a vengeance.

  So much for a shower.

  There was no way I was going to leave Stretch, or the Winnebago, so I splashed water at myself and dressed in a hurry. In ten minutes I had unhooked and stowed my water and electricity lines, cleared the galley and was ready to go. Then a sense of reason settled in and I sat down at the table to drink my first cup of coffee with a piece of toast and jam and think the situation over while allowing Stretch to finish his breakfast.

  Perhaps I should have made the 911 call I had threatened in the middle of the night. But aside from the fact that someone had tried to open my door, what could I have told the police when they arrived to find a tourist—a senior citizen, nonresident, granny with a dog? I’d have made sure, of course, that they would not have seen the shotgun. I have found that some law enforcement officers are inclined to assume that senior women are either senile or timid—often both. What they would think of a senior like myself traveling alone in a motor home was anyone’s guess. But I would probably have had to try to explain at least some of the background I suspected for this incident, which would have sounded not only incredible, but confusing enough to sustain their suspicions that I was round the twist—thank you Daniel. Better, I decided, to go on to Colorado, where the police—and Ed, and Don Westover—at least knew part of what had already transpired and would be inclined to take me seriously.

  Getting up to rinse and stow my coffee cup and Stretch’s dish, I felt more positive about my course of action.

  First of all, I had to fill the tank with gas or I’d never make Grand Junction. And though I felt like taking the advice I had been given and heading down the road to just about anywhere else, I knew I was going back to Grand Junction. Once there, I decided that my first goal should be a call to Officer Bellamy—or Detective Soames, if necessary. The kind of threat I had just found in my screen door was beyond handling alone. It was time to share everything—what I had held back the last time I saw them and what I had learned in Salt Lake. Though I was sure it all fit together somehow, I had few answers to the question of how.

  The more I considered the threat and my lack of answers, the more disgruntled I became. Why was this menace directed at me? What have you pulled me into by keeping secrets, Sarah?

  In preparation for leaving I had opened all the blinds, so the sun was now shining directly into the interior of the Winnebago and heating it up along with my ill temper. Pouring another cup of coffee into a travel mug, I took it forward to the holder I could reach from the driver’s seat. Reminded of the heat I would be driving into on my way east, I retrieved a tricky little item I picked up somewhere on a past trip, a battery-operated fan with a spray bottle attached that can be filled with ice water. When you pump the spray handle with the fan running the result is a fine mist that you can direct at yourself, dampening and cooling whatever you’re wearing along with your face. This is, of course, best used after removing your sunglasses or you’re suddenly blind to the road ahead. It fit neatly into a holder next to the mug that held my coffee and I was ready to hit the road.

  Gas tank full, we were shortly on the broad expanse of Highway 70, with less than a hundred miles to travel before we reached Grand Junction. Once again, as I passed the turnoff to Moab I was tempted to take it and lose myself in the fantasy lands of southern Utah, leaving behind the sinister coils of menace I had evidently roused, like the snake on the Monument, with my curiosity and persistence. Concern that I might be followed there as well—and my own stubborn refusal to allow myself to be intimidated—negated the consideration of that option. I bypassed the exit for Highway 191 and continued east into the glare of the morning sun.

  As I backed the Winnebago in next to Sarah’s house at just after ten o’clock, Doris Chapman came flying across her yard to meet me.

  “Thank God you’re back!” she called, eyes wide with relief and excitement as she began to spill out details as fast as she could speak. “Someone was in Sarah’s house again last night. I called the police, but they didn’t find anyone when they got here. They went through the whole place though—every bit—from top to bottom. Somebody must have a key because they didn’t break in—but they were already gone before the police got here. I think that . . .”

  “Whoa, Doris,” I told her as I climbed down from the driver’s seat with Stretch under one arm for a run in the yard. Putting him down, I took off my sunglasses and turned to walk around and hook up the water and electricity. “Slow down. Let me take care of the hookups and come inside before you tell me.”

  N
ecessaries taken care of, I switched the power back to AC and got us both a glass of iced tea from the refrigerator.

  “Now, sit down and start again—slowly—okay?”

  She sat, gingerly, on the edge of the sofa, glass in hand, and took a breath and a sip of tea before speaking.

  “I woke up just after midnight and got up to get a drink of water. From the window I saw that there were lights in Sarah’s kitchen and in the basement. I thought it was you for a minute, but then I remembered you weren’t there. If you’d been there I couldn’t have seen the kitchen window, because your motor home would have been in the way, you know? So I watched for a minute or two and saw someone moving in the basement.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “I couldn’t tell who.” She took another sip of tea and sighed in apology for criticism. “Those windows haven’t been washed in years.”

  What basement windows in old houses are? I thought, but didn’t say, just nodded encouragement. “And?”

  “And—so I called the police.”

  “How long did it take them to get here?”

  “Not long. But the lights went out downstairs before that and someone went out through the backyard to the alley and a car drove away. They left the kitchen light on though.”

  “What kind of a car? Could you see it?”

  “No, I just saw the lights come on through the lilac bushes back there—then the glow of the lights as it went away down the alley to Seventh.”

  “Was it a man or a woman?”

  “I don’t know. It was too dark to tell, but he was carrying something.”

  Perhaps this time it had been a thief. “What kind of something?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. About this big.” She held her hands, one still holding the glass, about eighteen inches apart. “A box, maybe?”