The Devil's Cradle

by Sylvia Nobel

  “Me neither. But we have no choice.” I revved the car and splashed across the creek, parking on the incline a few feet from the charred tree. I hated to leave our luggage in the car, but it would be impossible for us to carry it very far in such wretched conditions.

  More than a little irate about our predicament, I pondered why Dr. Orcutt would even suggest such a hazardous route as we trudged up the hill with only our purses in tow.

  Within minutes our clothing was soaked and it was no easy task negotiating the uneven ground, at times, ankle deep with mud. Sloshing through the muck, I marveled that I was actually cold, although it must have been at least seventy degrees. It was hard to believe that just a few hours ago we’d been baking in the desert heat.

  “I’m so sorry about all this,” Audrey whimpered as we struggled over the rise, slipping and sliding, holding on to each other to stay upright. “We should have stayed on the main road. If I hadn’t been sick and held us up...”

  “It’s not your fault,” I panted back. “I should have known better than to attempt a road like this in such a storm.”

  “I feel terrible about your car. It’s all dented and scratched. I promise I’ll pay for the damage.”

  “Let’s worry about that later.”

  The rain had slowed to a drizzle when we finally stumbled onto level ground. Each laboring for breath, we got our first look at Audrey’s inheritance—and it provoked complete silence.

  To our right, the carcass of an ancient pick-up truck, rusted beyond belief, rested on its side in front of several ramshackle structures that must have once passed as houses. Trash and discarded appliances littered weed-choked yards.

  An old railroad trestle, blackened by time and soot, spanned the deep, rocky gorge to our left and what remained of the tracks disappeared around an enormous pile of mine tailings.

  Morgan’s Folly, appearing deserted and cheerless in the deepening twilight, lay wedged between steep slopes where tumbledown houses clung at precarious angles above the roofs of dilapidated buildings. There wasn’t a light on anywhere and it gave the eerie impression that we’d stumbled onto a deserted western movie set.

  I’m not exactly sure what I’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. And apparently, neither was Audrey. Her stunned expression spoke volumes. “It looks like a ghost town. Are you positive this is the right place?”

  I shrugged. “That’s what the sign said.”

  “No,” she said with a definitive shake of her head. “You must be wrong. Don’t tell me I came three thousand miles for...for this?”

  “Well...”I began, attempting to put a positive spin on things, “it is sort of...quaint.”

  She turned horrified eyes on me. “Quaint? It’s a shit hole!”

  “Shit hole will do,” I concurred quietly, convinced that my story was about to go up in smoke, but not blaming her one bit for her outburst.

  As I watched her standing there, staring hollow-eyed at the dismal little town, I wondered if this was to be the end of our journey. Would she cut and run?

  “I know one thing for sure,” she said softly. “Whoever named this place certainly got it right. Morgan’s Folly. Folly means mistake, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I can’t believe it. This dump is my birthright? My father’s legacy to me? What a great joke!” Her shrill laugh was laced with bitterness.

  I waited patiently until her laughter trailed off and forced a bright note into my voice. “As long as we’re here why don’t we try getting directions to Dr. Orcutt’s house? And let’s not jump to conclusions. I have a feeling there may be more to this place than meets the eye or your mother wouldn’t have made arrangements for you to be contacted.”

  “Are you nuts? I’m not staying here. I’d rather go back home and keep working nights at the storage locker. Let’s go get the car and you can drive me back to Tucson right now.”

  “Audrey, it’s almost eight o’clock. I’m tired. I’m hungry. And I need to visit the little girl’s room very soon. Besides that, we’re stuck here until we can get someone to move that tree out of the way. So, come on.”

  There had to be someone around somewhere. After all, the sign had proclaimed that 200 people lived here. But where were they?

  We tramped the last few hundred yards until we connected with what could loosely be described as pavement. It was hard to tell because there were as many potholes as remaining chunks of concrete.

  The main street sidewalks were pathetic—pitted and crumbling. All was silent except for our soggy footsteps and the splatter of rainwater dripping from mangled gutters and flowing darkly down the sides of once proud brick buildings. On closer inspection, it was gratifying to see that some of the structures we’d viewed from a distance that appeared ready for the wrecking ball were still functional and housed a few small businesses.

  I wasn’t sure which way to go when the unexpected squeak of a door opening nearby made us stop in our tracks and stare at the heavy-set man stepping from the Muleskinner Saloon as if he were an apparition.

  He looked equally surprised and gawked at us for a few seconds before doffing a battered ball cap and mumbling, “Evening,” as he held the door open for us. We returned the greeting and then watched him amble away into the gray mist.

  “Thank goodness,” Audrey sighed, her face reflecting relief at the comforting murmur of voices from within. “I was beginning to think we were the only people here.”

  I hesitated. It was not my normal habit to frequent bars in strange towns, but it appeared to be the only business open. I led the way inside.

  There probably weren’t more than two dozen patrons scattered about the lofty room. Four men wearing checked shirts, blue jeans and boots straddled bar stools while the remainder huddled around groupings of tables. The harsh light beaming from several kerosene lamps, intermingled with flickering candlelight, gave the place an atmosphere of bygone days.

  It seemed oddly quiet for a bar, but was predictably stuffy with the stale odor of beer and tobacco smoke. My sudden sneeze brought the low rumble of conversation to an abrupt halt and every head swiveled in our direction.

  I’m sure we must have presented a curious picture standing there, our matted hair dripping water onto the scarred wooden floor, our mud-caked clothing molded wetly against our bodies. Audrey flushed and self-consciously crossed her arms.

  “You ladies been out for a little stroll in the rain?” one raunchy-looking guy at the bar finally inquired, his beady eyes fixed appreciatively on my wet T-shirt. I cringed inwardly, positive my nipples were poking out a mile through the thin material.

  “Not intentionally,” I said, wishing he’d look somewhere else. He didn’t.

  “You gals lost then?” boomed a voice from an open doorway behind the long mahogany bar.

  “Well, yes...and no,” I answered slowly, transfixed by the man’s striking appearance. Tall and barrel-chested, he wore his snow-white hair shoulder length and his ruddy face was accented by an equally white handlebar mustache. I decided that if it was his goal in life to emulate an 1890’s gunfighter, he’d done an admirable job.

  “Ha!” snorted another patron, smacking his hand on the bar. “You saying you two actually come here on purpose? Or’d you get blowed in by the storm like one of them pelicans from the Gulf?”

  That elicited loud guffaws from his barstool-buddies and a few people at the surrounding tables. It was heartening to know that our unexpected arrival had apparently added a little spice to what must have been an otherwise dull evening.

  “I guess you could say a little of both,” I said sweetly, mustering a wry smile. “We are here to see someone, but got stranded on the road.”

  The imposing man I assumed was the owner set the pitcher of beer he was holding onto the bar and stared questioningly at our muddy shoes. “What road?”

  I thumbed over my shoulder. “Back there. A tree fell over and blocked the way in.”

  He shook his head in amazement and cam
e around the end of the bar, walking toward us with a distinct limp. “Are you telling me you gals came in over the Boneyard?”

  “What?”

  “Boneyard Pass,” he repeated, jerking his head in the direction we’d just come from. “So...you been out four-wheeling or something?”

  “No. I’m driving a Volvo.”

  The man astride the first barstool, who was still having a visual love affair with my T-shirt, tipped back his low-slung western hat and blew out a long whistle. “Sonuvabitch. You ladies was real brave to tackle that road in a storm.”

  “Or real stupid,” came the sarcastic comment from one of the tables in the far corner. “What’s the matter? Can’t you read?”

  That brought another round of snickering and I turned to stare into the semi-darkness at my inquisitor. His angular face was barely visible in the dim candlelight. “Probably better than you,” I snapped back, then turned to the group. “Somebody want to tell me what the joke is?” “Didn’t you see the sign?” the bartender interjected. “That road’s been closed for two months.”

  Shocked into silence, my mind flashed back to the sign we’d seen laying face down in the dirt as we raced by. I had blamed it on the wind, but now I was having second thoughts.

  Audrey, who’d been quiet the whole time, spoke up. “We didn’t see any sign and we’re not stupid. Come on, Kendall, let’s go.” Her lips were pinched in a straight line and those magnificent brows of hers had plunged into an angry V.

  “Well, now, hold your horses there,” the white-haired man said gruffly, firing a glare of warning around the room. “I’m sure nobody here means any offense. Ain’t that right?”

  Sheepish nods and a chorus of muffled apologies seemed to validate the group’s respect for him. Turning his attention back to us, he bestowed a smile on Audrey that would have melted an iceberg. “Just to show you how friendly we can be how about I offer you gals a drink? On the house, of course.”

  His gracious words apparently mollified Audrey somewhat. “A cup of hot coffee or tea would be nice,” she said warily. “And maybe you could tell us where we could get something to eat?”

  “If you mean supper, I’m afraid not. The Huddle Cafe is the only eatin’ place open ‘round here nowadays and they’re closed on Mondays. But, I’ll tell you what. If you’ll give me a few minutes I’d be happy to see what I can rustle up.”

  We were hardly in a position to refuse and gladly accepted his offer of coffee. Audrey wanted sugar, I ordered mine with a shot of Jack Daniel’s.

  Our generous benefactor introduced himself as Whitey Flanigan, owner and operator of the Muleskinner Saloon. Of course, I thought wryly, Whitey would have to be his name. What else?

  Audrey’s name was on the tip of my tongue when I remembered Dr. Orcutt’s warning that she should refrain from talking to anyone before him, so I shot her a quick wink and introduced her only as Angela. She read the message in my eyes and gave him a tight-lipped smile.

  When I told him who I was, his eyes lit with pleasure. “O’Dell, huh? A fine Irish name if ever there was one. Almost as fine as Flanigan.”

  Having established an immediate kinship, I was given a candle to find my way down a long, dark hallway to the ladies room and had to laugh at myself as I tried to repair the damage to my make-up and wind-blown hair in the wavering light.

  So, the kerosene lamps weren’t for effect after all. The power was out. I don’t know why it hadn’t dawned on me sooner. Because it was now dark, I hoped we’d be able to persuade someone to give us a ride back to my car for the luggage and then to the doctor’s house. Besides food, a hot bath and change of clothing were foremost in my mind.

  Audrey was next and after we’d each made ourselves as presentable as possible, Whitey served us a combination plate consisting of beer nuts, potato chips and popcorn. Audrey looked slightly nonplussed, but I was so hungry, I didn’t care. Things were looking considerably brighter following the second cup of the abundantly laced coffee.

  “How was everything?” Whitey inquired, clearing away the empty plates.

  I exhaled a contented sigh. “Delicious. Thank you so much.”

  “Always my pleasure to help out two lovely ladies,” he said giving us a courtly nod, and again, I couldn’t help but visualize him posing in a faded brown sepia print. “So, you said you’re here to visit someone...” He let the sentence hang, so Audrey filled in the blank with, “Oh, yes. We’re supposed to see a Dr. Miles Orcutt. I wonder if you could give us directions?”

  Her innocent question generated a collective gasp followed by a profound silence so complete you could have dropped a feather and heard it.

  Whitey picked up our centerpiece and held the candle close to Audrey’s face. “Well, I’ll be go to hell,” he breathed. “You must be the Morgan girl. By gum, you’re the spittin’ image of the ol’ devil himself.”

  Everyone was standing now, staring at Audrey, their faces reflecting a mixture of curiosity and disbelief. But one particular couple caught my eye.

  The thin-faced man I’d squared off with earlier, and a blonde woman with a height advantage of perhaps five inches, emerged from the gloom and purposefully pushed their way towards our table. The woman lurched to a halt and thrust her face into the candlelight. Audrey’s instinctive recoil was understandable. Besides a blast of boozy breath, the wavering shadows highlighted the blonde’s overly made-up features and emphasized her eyes, which had narrowed into thin slits of glittering malice.

  “I don’t know what you and Doc Orcutt think you’re up to, but don’t think for one lousy minute you’re gonna get away with this, girlie,” she slurred, punctuating each word with unsteady stabs of her finger. “An’ another thing. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll go an’ crawl back into the grave where you belong.”

  Audrey swallowed fearfully. “What do you mean?”

  The woman blinked and opened her mouth to answer, but before she could, the man stepped in front of her. The expression on his face was nothing short of deadly. “Young woman, let me be blunt. If you intend to play this game, you’d better have yourself a carload of proof and one hell of a good lawyer because we all know damn well that Rita and Audrey Morgan have been dead for fifteen years.”

  Chapter 5

  In response to the man’s bombastic remark, an expectant buzz rippled through the small gathering while Audrey sat frozen in open-mouthed astonishment as the couple finished their tirade and stomped away.

  Scarlet lips curled in fury, the woman turned to hurl a final insult over her shoulder before flouncing after the man. At least she attempted to flounce. Apparently she was above the legal limit for walking and couldn’t quite manage it. Instead, she stumbled into a chair, knocked it to the floor and would have fallen had her companion not swung around and grabbed her waist.

  The drama heightened further when the lights chose that exact moment to flicker on. Everyone blinked like barn owls and the room suddenly rang with the rowdy words of a country western song blaring from an ancient jukebox.

  Having lost the comparative anonymity of darkness, the slender man looked a lot less formidable; however, he drew himself up to his full height in an effort to maintain some measure of decorum while he fought to keep the woman upright. After gaining control of the lurching female, he cast a final, defiant glare at Audrey before he half-dragged, half-carried his companion, out the door.

  In the electrifying silence that prevailed in the wake of their dramatic exit, the full impact of the pair’s remarks hit home and my stomach tingled with anticipation. This story might prove to be even better than I’d imagined.

  But a quick glimpse at Audrey’s face tempered my elation. Her eyes looked glassy and unfocused, so I figured shock coupled with information overload and jet lag were taking their toll. I stood and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder while making eye contact again with Whitey Flanigan who looked truly imposing in the overhead light. “Such a charming couple,” I remarked dryly. “What on earth was th
at all about?

  “The gentleman,” he answered, turning to Audrey with a sheepish grin, “is your cousin, Haston Pickrell.”

  She rose unsteadily to her feet. “My cousin? Who was that awful woman with him?”

  He chuckled. “Ah, yes. That lovely lady is the inimitable Jesse. His wife.”

  All semblance of color left her face. “What...what did they mean about my mother and me being dead?”

  “That’s what everyone thought.”

  One of the cowboys chimed in, “We all seen it in the paper. Back when we had one. Anyways, the article said you and your ma died in a car wreck in, oh, I dunno, somewheres like Oklahoma or Ohio.”

  I frowned at the group. “If you thought Audrey was dead, why did you act like you were expecting her?”

  Whitey shrugged. “Jesse’s been real busy spreading rumors all over town. She been telling everyone that Doc Orcutt cooked up a scheme with some hired imposter who was gonna show up and try to steal what rightfully belongs to them.”

  Audrey looked like she’d been slapped. “Why would she say such a thing?”

  “Well now, little lady, you’ve got to realize that up until this very moment your cousin Haston was the heir apparent. You dropping in out of the blue so to speak has pretty much upset the whole damn apple cart.” Whitey puffed out his chest and glanced around to make sure his captive audience was listening attentively.

  “You’d best watch out for Jesse,” called out one heavy-set man from atop his barstool. “Her Royal Highness is likely to hate your guts for dethroning her.” His wheezy guffaw ignited loud laughter among the gathering.

  “Dethroning her?” Audrey asked in a strained voice. Whitey took center stage again. “Yep. You should have seen the two of them. Why, your old dad hadn’t been gone two minutes and they were busy hauling their stuff up to the big house. Jesse’s nose is all out of joint because now she’s gonna have to move out. But that ain’t the whole of it,” he continued almost without taking a breath. “Most likely they’re scared shitless...oops, I mean half to death that you’re gonna act like your pa and try to stop the mine from re-opening.”