Devil's Run

by Frank Hughes

Without hesitation, she walked briskly towards the elevator.

  Boyd turned back to me. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “You invited me up.”

  “Don’t fuck with me, I mean in Colorado.” He looked quickly at Ms. Ricasso, who was disappearing behind the closing doors of the elevator. “You’ve put me in a very embarrassing position. I told you to stay away.”

  “You’re repeating yourself, and no you didn’t. You said there was no connection. You were wrong. Besides, if you’re so goddamn worried about my being associated with you, why ask me up here?”

  He stepped closer. “It wasn’t my idea. My partners, they know about you.”

  “You mean the law firm?”

  “No,” he said, his tone exasperated. “My partners here. You’ve been talking to the police they said. Telling them my son was involved in the fire up here.”

  “I didn’t tell anyone I was working for you. The police seem to think I’m an insurance investigator.”

  “Well, Imperatrice doesn’t. I got a call from him this morning. He knows you’re working for me. I had to admit it. You must have told someone.”

  “I told no one,” I said, which wasn’t strictly true, but I doubted John Roma was blabbing to Imperatrice. “And there’s been a team of people on me since I left your office.”

  “Then Raviv must have leaked it.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Then how?”

  “My guess?” I nodded towards the elevator. “Your friend Ms. Ricasso has a side job keeping an eye on you.”

  “That’s not possible,” he said, but I could see he was thinking about it.

  “You’ve got to accept that whatever happened to your son has something to do with this place. And that maybe Cynthia Simmons death wasn’t just a random act of violence.”

  “What?” Boyd looked shocked and opened his mouth to speak, but his cell phone rang. He snatched it out of his pocket. “What? Oh, hello. Yes, he’s here.” He nodded. “Yes, I’ll see you then.”

  He put the phone away and looked at me, his expression going from anger to confusion and back again. Finally, he said, “Come with me.”

  27.

  Boyd pressed the single button on the elevator panel and waited impatiently, staring at the indicator lights above the door. There were only two: T and L. ‘L’ was currently glowing.

  “No stairs?” I said.

  “Emergency only,” he said, pointing towards a sliding metal fire door.

  The elevator announced its arrival with a little ‘ding’ and the doors slid open. Boyd and I stepped inside. There was an identical set of doors in the opposite wall of the car.

  It has been my experience that the shorter the ride, the slower the elevator. This was no exception. We rode in painful silence for what seemed like ten minutes, but was probably about thirty seconds. Boyd stood facing the other set of doors, so I did as well.

  We stepped out into a reception area worthy of a five star hotel. The decorator had jettisoned the ski lodge look for Grand Hotel majesty. A wall of windows three stories high looked out on a flagstone patio and the mountain peaks beyond. We walked across the marble floor to the concierge. He came around his marble desk to meet us. Thanks to the painfully sparse comb over, pencil thin mustache, and general attitude of haughty superiority, I knew he was French before he opened his mouth.

  “Msieu Boyd.” He sort of half nodded, half bowed, then turned to me. “And this must be Msieu Craig.”

  “Guilty as charged,” I said, before turning to Boyd and saying, “Regular UN you got going around here.”

  “Antoine, Mr. Craig will not be here long. Process him through security and send him to the bar.” He turned to me and said, “I’ll meet you there in forty-five minutes. I have things to attend to.”

  When he was out of sight, Renee turned to me and said, “Are you carrying any weapons?”

  “I’ve got a MasterCard I’ve done some damage with.”

  “Amusing.” He pointed at a door in the corner. “I’m afraid I must ask you to take a moment.”

  “No offense, Antoine,” I said, “but if this involves a cavity search, I’d prefer someone cuter.”

  “I assure you, Msieu Craig, no physical contact is involved.”

  “What fun is that?”

  The Alpine Room was a narrow, clubby cocktail lounge. Opposite the bar was one long set of windows that looked out on the eastern rim of the canyon and the other wing of the building. All the well-padded red leather chairs and bar stools were empty. There were no glasses or plates on the round tables. Even the bartender was missing.

  I walked to the window Cory had pointed out from the cable car. Directly below me, the cables reached out into Diablo Canyon towards the first tower. Above, the sun was beginning to fight with a thickening overcast. The horizon was a wall of clouds. There was snow in our future.

  I went over and sat down on a stool near the end of the bar. There was no one there to take my order. I noticed a stack of Canfield campaign brochures and browsed through one to pass the time. It was mostly ad man speak, highlighting Canfield’s squeaky clean background. Youngest son of a politically connected Mormon family, quarterback at BYU, multi-term congressman and now a senator. There was a small blurb about wife Cory, her status as an independent businesswoman, and involvement in various charities.

  “Hey, how ya doin’?” said a cheerful, masculine voice, accompanied by the sound of clinking glass.

  He came through the door behind the bar holding three bottles in each of his dangerous looking fists. Deeply tanned and built like a wrestler, his bald head was peeling from a bad sunburn. Being a licensed detective, I knew from the white shirt, bow tie, and black vest that he was the bartender

  “Hello, yourself.”

  “Sorry to keep you waiting.” He set the bottles down and walked over to me. He wiped his right hand on a bar towel before offering it to me. “I’m Tim.”

  “Nick,” I said, watching with some apprehension as the massive hand engulfed mine. He was gentle, though, and I got all my fingers back.

  “What can I get you?”

  “Got any Smithwicks back there?”

  “We got everything. You just come up from the valley?”

  “Yup.”

  “Then I recommend a short one. Alcohol can be a little strange until you’re used to the altitude.”

  “I bow to your superior knowledge.”

  He produced a pilsner glass from below the bar, rotating it deftly with a flick of his wrist. He went towards the center of the bar. I followed along from my side and perched on another stool.

  “Just get here?” he said, reaching into the forest of beer taps.

  “Yeah.”

  “You must be the guest of Mr. Boyd I was told to expect.”

  “The very one.”

  He finished pouring my beer and placed it on the bar in front of me, somehow conjuring a coaster at the last possible second.

  “Mr. Boyd says everything is on him.”

  “In that case, have one yourself.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  A bottle of Jameson’s appeared in one hand, while a shot glass magically grew in the other.

  “What,” I said, “no protests of being on duty or not allowed to drink with the customers?”

  “I won’t tell if you won’t,” he said, tossing back the shot. He smacked his lips and smiled. “Many thanks.”

  “I live to serve.”

  He waved at the bar. “Me too.”

  Tim busied himself putting the bottles away while I sipped on my beer. He had the sort of vaguely battered looks you associate with boxers. The bridge of his sunburned nose ran up to his brow with almost no slope.

  He caught me watching him. “I got a booger or something?”

  “Nah, I just enjoy watching professionals at work.”

  He grinned. “Don’t expect no Tom Cruise bottle flipping.”

  “I’m grateful.”

  “S
o, where you in from?” he said, busying himself by slicing limes with a paring knife.

  “New York City.”

  “Ah. Fun town.”

  “How about you? Let me guess. Philly.”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Lompoc, California,” he said, coming down hard on the “pock” sound. “Born and raised.” His eyes narrowed at something he saw on my face. “Something wrong with that?”

  “Nothing at all. Heard they got a prison up there.”

  “That they do. My dad was a guard.”

  “I have to tell you, I’m hearing a little Philadelphia.”

  “Dad was from South Philly, never lost the accent. I guess I picked some up.”

  I took a sip of my beer. Tim produced a bowl of nuts and placed it in front of me.

  “Now that we’re friends,” I said, “may I offer you two words of advice?”

  “Sure, what are they?”

  “Sun and screen.”

  “Oh, this,” he said, pointing at his head.

  “Yeah, you might want to be careful in this thin air.”

  “Oh, I didn’t get this here. Just got back from Jamaica. Vacation.”

  “Talk about two extremes.”

  “Yeah, I don’t like anything in the middle.”

  “Just what does a mixologist do on vacation?”

  “I don’t know from mixologists. I’m a bartender. And I like to have some fun. Little fishing, little SCUBA, lots of ladies.”

  “Sounds very relaxing.”

  “Yup. I like to go to the bars, too. Watch how they do things. Always be learning, that’s what my mother taught me.”

  “What did you learn this time?”

  “A lot more than I wanted to know, I’ll tell ya.”

  “I’m intrigued.”

  He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “This place I’m staying in Jamaica, see, had two sides. One was a regular resort, the other was.” He trailed off.

  “Clothing optional?”

  He snapped his fingers and stood up straight. “Exactly.”

  “And you thought you’d see how the other half lived.”

  “Exactly.” He held up both hands, palms towards me to stop my thoughts from going down any undesirable paths. “Understand now, I’m not into this whole nudist thing, but,” he gestured vaguely towards his waist, “I got nothing to be ashamed of and I’m open to new experiences.”

  “I fully understand.”

  “So, anyway, I head over to this beach, everything free and easy, which was a nice feeling, I gotta admit. Anyway, I get to the beach, and let me tell you, I get the shock of my life.”

  “The Swedish Bikini Team, sans bikinis.”

  “Not even close. Just the opposite. Now, I admit I’m no Adonis, but I was pretty much the belle of the ball.”

  “Really? That bad?”

  “That’s funny. Anyway, I couldn’t believe some of these people took their clothes off in public.”

  “Not like the movies, was it?”

  “No fucking way, pardon my French. It was disgusting. Cellulite, giant pimples, eczema – I seen corpses with better skin. And, Jesus, fat like you wouldn’t believe.” He pushed the memory away with both hands, grimacing theatrically. “It was like a frigging leper colony. So, naturally, I head over to the bar they got there.”

  “Professional curiosity.”

  “Exactly. Plus, I needed a drink. So, anyway, everyone is naked, even the bartender.”

  “What was he using for a swizzle stick?”

  “That’s funny. Anyway, I got a beer and I’m swapping stories with him for a while. Then this guy walks up, black as the ace of spades and seven feet tall, I swear, wearing nothing but one of those straw hats. Whaddya call ‘em?”

  “Panama?”

  “Exactly. Panama hat. Nice cloth band.” He spread his hands. “And let me tell you, like I said, I got nothing to be ashamed of in that department, but this dude, he made me look like my five year old nephew.”

  “So the stories are true?”

  “Exactly. I’ve ridden horses with less than he’s got. Anyway, he orders a piña colada. When the bartender brings the drink, he introduces me to the guy. Turns out he’s the mayor of the local town. The fucking mayor and he’s walking around naked. You believe it?”

  “I don’t know. Was he a Kennedy?”

  “That’s funny. Anyway, he introduces me and the mayor sticks out his hand to shake mine and I say ‘Sorry, no way.’ And the mayor, he looks very put out and says to me ‘why not?’ and, remember, the guy is stark naked. So I tell him ‘I don’t know where that hand has been’. He starts gettin’ really upset. Then I point at his Johnson and say, ‘I will shake your wife’s hand, though’.”

  I burst out laughing, just as Boyd appeared in the entrance. Tim immediately sprang into action.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Boyd. What can I get you?”

  “Jack Daniels, thank you, Tim.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Boyd made a beeline to me and jerked his head towards the tables. “Over here.”

  I took my beer and followed him over to a table near the windows. We sat staring at each other until Tim brought his drink.

  “Anything else?”

  “No thank you, Tim. Not at this time.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Boyd leaned in towards me. “Kohl is coming. He wants to talk to you.”

  “I spoke with Herr Kohl just this morning.”

  “That was before he knew you were working for me. He has questions.”

  As if on cue, Kohl walked into the bar and came over to the table. Boyd stood up as he approached, which surprised me. I automatically followed suit.

  “Mr. Craig,” said Kohl, clasping his hands behind his back, “I did not expect to see you so soon.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  He gave me a chiding look. “You should have told me you worked for my friend Mr. Boyd.”

  “Do I?”

  He smiled. “As I said before, you are indeed a credit to your profession. In any case, I would not have disturbed your breakfast this morning.”

  “Next time.”

  “Yes, indeed. Now, if I may, I have heard from several sources that you are interested in the fire we had here. And you have a fantastic theory about it. Something about,” he began, then looked at Boyd.

  “Eco terrorists,” said Boyd.

  “Ah, yes. The ecology terrorists.” He looked at me. “Is this not so?”

  I looked at Boyd. He was glaring at me.

  “Yes,” I said to Kohl. “That’s about it.”

  “And that Mr. Boyd’s son was somehow involved.”

  “That’s what I’ve been given to understand.”

  He shook his head. “This is fantastisch, and nothing more than a story. But, I understand that as an investigator you must pursue the clues you have been given. If you would be good enough to accompany me, you may ask any questions you like.”

  “Where would we be going?”

  “Why, to the scene of the fire of course.”

  28.

  Kohl led me to a service elevator and we descended to a heated basement that was part garage, part workshop and storage facility. A four track Sno-Cat sat waiting. Günter stood at attention near the open door, Kohl’s overcoat draped over his left arm, the ushanka in his right hand. He helped Kohl on with the coat and hat before assisting him up into the cab. When Kohl was seated in one of the rear passenger seats, Günter beckoned to me. I climbed in and sat next to Kohl. Günter took the seat next to the driver.

  The Cat lurched forward towards the door at the far end, passing two other parked Cats, a fire truck, two Jeeps and a pickup truck. When we were thirty feet away the metal door at the far end rose to reveal a snow covered ramp that sloped up towards daylight. We came out onto a swath of open land just below the building and headed for the trees.

  I’d never been in a Sno-Cat before and was surprised to see the controls differed little from those of a s
tandard pickup truck. Frankly, it looked like just anyone could hop in and take off, although I assumed that being a tracked vehicle it was a little trickier to drive. The cabin was well stocked with first aid and emergency equipment. A pair of walkie-talkies sat in a charger and a CB radio was bolted to the overhead. On the right side bulkhead was an orange contraption that looked like a giant ray gun, with a wide mouth barrel over a compressed gas cylinder.

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “That is a hand held avalanche control device,” said Kohl.

  “Really?”

  He tapped a padlocked metal case under the gun. “It uses compressed air to deliver small charges of explosive precisely.”

  “So, it’s like a T-shirt gun.”

  He looked away. “I do not know what that is.”

  The rest of the trip was in silence. We travelled down a narrow trail not much wider than the Cat itself until we reached a meadow.

  Ah,” said Kohl, “here we are.”

  At one end of the clearing the trees were scarred and blackened. The snow in front of them had settled differently, so that a ghostly semi-circle marked the scene of the fire. The Sno-Cat stopped before reaching the edge.

  “This is where the fire was,” said Kohl.

  “And what was here?”

  “Mostly lumber and construction supplies.”

  “May I get out?”

  “Most certainly.”

  I popped the door and climbed down onto the snow. Günter followed me and helped Kohl down.

  I looked back up the mountain. “This is quite a distance. Why not store it on the lawn up there?”

  “So much lumber and other flammables. The danger of fire, as you see. It was better not to place it so near the building.”

  “Could have put it in Utah, too. That might have been more convenient.”

  “I think you would agree, Mr. Craig, that based on recent history the decision not to place it close to the building was a good one.”

  I walked closer for a better look and saw the flames had advanced thirty yards or so into the forest before being brought under control. The trees nearest the clearing were blackened trunks, mostly stripped of branches and bark. Moving into the forest a short distance, I noticed a few stunted arms still protruded from the opposite side of many trees. I was no expert, but it looked like multiple explosions had occurred here, originating within the clear area. The one thing I did not see was any evidence of the exploding trees Chief Masterson had suggested.