by David Wood
“Nobody does anything unless I say so,” Gold whispered. He’d been waiting for just such an opportunity. He looked back at the camera and spoke in a low voice. “When people think of hairy ape men, they think of Bigfoot roaming the rain- forests of the Pacific Northwest, or Jason Momoa.” That ought to get us some social media buzz when this comes out. “But the Mojave has legends of its own. It’s had different names over the years: Hairy Man, Sand Man, Yucca man. But there have been reports of these creatures since Native American times.” He glanced at Roddy, who nodded.
“In fact, you can find countless newspaper accounts going back to the 1800s.
And they paint frightening tales of terror. Let’s hope that’s not what we’re facing right now.”
On cue, Gold waved him to silence. They made a show of listening.
The sound came again. Closer this time. Gold turned to the camera and winked. Cool on the outside, but on the inside, he wasn’t quite sure what to think. Whatever was out there was no rabbit or coyote, as he’d assumed. It was large.
Gold scanned the twilight-shaded hill behind the boulder pile. It was nearly full dark now. The sound came again, but nothing appeared to move.
“It sounds large,” Roddy whispered to the camera.
Gold nodded. “And I can’t see it, which means it knows how to move around out here without being spotted.” His heart raced. What was out there?
And then a dark figure rose atop the boulder pile. Roddy let out a yelp and pointed.
For an instant, Gold was a true believer. And then his eyes adjusted, and he saw it was a woman with long, dark hair and red cowboy boots.
“That was risky,” Gold called up to her. “We’re armed and my partner here is a nervous Nelly.”
“Bigger risk to you,” the woman grunted as she clambered down the boulders, “seeing how I’m a police officer.” The woman slid down to the ground, paused to dust herself off, then flashed a badge.
“Janet Franzen.”
“Terry Gold.” He was pleased to see that, though a few decades his junior, Franzen reacted to the name.
“My mom has some of your records,” she said.
“Not all of them?” Terry made a sad face for the camera.
“No. She says you went too commercial.”
Roddy buried a laugh beneath a stage cough and turned away from the camera.
“May I ask what you gentlemen are doing out here?” Franzen asked.
“That depends. Are you asking in your official capacity, or as a fellow hiker out here enjoying this beautiful place we call America, the land of freedom?” He gave the camera a double thumbs-up.
“I’m asking in whatever capacity will get an honest answer.”
Gold nodded. “We’re filming a television show. A treasure hunt.”
“And you need weapons for that?” Franzen folded her arms and frowned at his rifle.
“Sister, you never know when you might be called upon to take up arms and defend this great nation of ours!” Franzen tilted her head a fraction. Gold could tell no amount of his shtick would charm here. “That was for the benefit of the camera. Seriously, the weapons are props. His isn’t even loaded.”
Roddy did a double take, then took out his phone, turned on the flashlight, and shone it down the barrel of his rifle. Franzen stared at him for a full three seconds before shaking her head and murmuring, “Darwin.”
“My weapons are loaded,” Gold continued, “but I’m properly trained and permitted.” The words were bitter on his tongue. He hated having to justify exercising his own rights.
“This is private property. Do you have permission of the owner to film here?”
“My representative took care of everything well in advance,” he said, inventing on the spot.
Franzen looked them over but appeared satisfied.
“If I can ask you, officer,” Gold said, once again looking at the camera. “Have you heard of the Lost Arch Gold Mine?”
Franzen flinched as if Gold had slapped her.
“Never heard of it.” She turned and stalked off into the night. “I advise you to steer clear of this area,” she called back to them. “We’ve had reports of armed drug dealers in the area.”
Gold waited until he could no longer hear her footsteps then turned to the camera.
“And that, brothers and sisters, is what we call a flimsy cover story.”
Chapter 13
It was going to be a scorcher. The morning sun beat down on the parched earth. Grizzly’s Jeep Wrangler bounded along the rough dirt road, sending a cloud of dust up in its wake. Up ahead, low mountains ringed a flat plateau where a lake had once stood. Nestled against a rocky hill stood their destination.
“I can’t believe Riv let you off your leash,” Bones said.
Grizzly smiled. “I pointed out to her that, when it comes to the adventure race show, there’s not really much for me to do outside of hosting. I asked which of her responsibilities she’d like me to take over since I had so much free time. It didn’t take her long to decide I should work on developing new projects.”
“You’re a devious man when you want to be,” Bones said.
Giant Rock was a massive, free-standing boulder located in a dry lakebed in the town of Landers, just north of Joshua Tree National Park. They parked nearby and hiked in. Bones marveled at the sight as he and Grizzly slowly approached. A lone figure stood in front of it, lending perspective. Bones shook his head. The thing had to be at least seven stories high. The exterior was muddy gray in color, weathered, and marred in spots by graffiti.
“This thing covers over six thousand square feet,” Grizzly said. “It’s either the largest free-standing boulder in North America or in the world, depending on who’s doing the measuring.”
“It’s impressive,” Bones agreed. A section of boulder had sheared away, but even this broken piece was a good twenty feet tall at its higher end.
Where the section had fallen away, it exposed smooth, white granite streaked with desert varnish. “I hate to see the way it’s been mistreated, though,” he said, looking at the many names carved or spray painted on the surface.
“I’m sure the local natives feel the same way,” Grizzly said. “This site is sacred to them.” He glanced up. “That must be the guy we’re meeting. The biographer.”
Up ahead, the person who had been standing beside Giant Rock turned and waved. Bones did a double-take when he saw the man’s face.
“No freaking way,” he said. “Nigel Gambles.”
Nigel Gambles was a slim man with short hair and an easy smile. An Englishman by birth, he now resided in Florida. An author and an expert in the field of cryptozoology, he and Bones had met on a previous occasion, while Bones was searching for the Florida Skunk Ape.
“Bones Bonebrake! I always hoped our paths would cross again, but I expected it would happen closer to home.”
They shook hands, then Bones introduced Grizzly.
“I was pleased, and more than a bit flattered to receive your call,” Gambles said.
“We appreciate your time,” Grizzly said. “How is it that you two already know one another?”
“We met through Joanna Slater. You might know her; she is also a television presenter in your field,” Gambles explained.
Grizzly’s face went blank. “We know one another.”
“So, you’re the guy who’s writing a biography of Kirk Striker,” Bones said to
Gambles, steering the conversation away from the subject of Slater, for whom
Grizzly could never quite manage to conceal his envy.
“That’s correct. I’ve written non-fiction, but never a biography. And Striker is a fascinating subject. I’ve been living in Salton for over a year. I purchased one of Rockwell’s lots. If you can ignore the foul-smelling air, it makes for a nice little second home. I’ve also uncovered plenty of mysteries and legends for future projects. The Mojave is a fascinating and mysterious place.”
“You’ve certainly c
hosen an unusual place for us to meet,” Bones said as they began a circuit of the giant stone.
“I chose this place not only because it’s interesting, but because you wanted to try and understand Striker’s eccentricities. And I believe that begins with his fa- ther.” Gambles paused, looked out at the parched horizon. “Kirk Striker was born Jacob Critzer.”
“Sounds German,” Bones said.
“He was the son of Frank Critzer, a German immigrant. A man who came to be known as the Cave Man of Giant Rock.”
“You have my full attention,” Bones said. Knowing Gambles’ fascination with the odd and unexplained, he had no doubt this story was going to be right up his alley. Grizzly was also listening with rapt attention.
“Frank Critzer was by all accounts a brilliant but highly eccentric man. A restless type who moved around a lot, he came to this area in the 1930s and was immediately drawn to a place the Native Americans called Great Stone.” Gambles inclined his head toward Giant Rock. “I don’t know when, exactly, he and his family parted ways, but it’s certain that by the time he arrived here, his son, the man we know as Kirk Striker, was no longer in his life. Critzer literally made a home here in a cave he tunneled out underneath the rock.”
“Really?” Bones asked. “Can we see it?”
“Afraid not. It was eventually filled in. Photographs have survived, though. It was a simple, one-room apartment with carpet and standard furnishings. But it wasn’t the cave home that made Critzer notorious.”
“What was it, then?” Grizzly asked.
“First of all, he was a German, which didn’t win him any popularity contests.
He was also a short-wave radio enthusiast, even constructed a tall antenna in the rocks. That, plus sighting of strange crafts in the skies around Giant Rock, sparked rumors that he was a Nazi agent.
“He was a cantankerous fellow, always armed, chased away anyone who came too close to his home.”
“That’s rich, considering he was squatting on someone else’s sacred site,” Bones said.
Gambles and Grizzly nodded in unison.
On the far side of the rock stood a trio of boulders. On their own, any of the three would have impressed, but their appearance was almost apologetic standing in the shadow of giant rock. Gambles wandered toward the smallest stone, his eyes cloudy.
“This place has an odd effect on people. It draws them like a magnet. The Hopi tell tales of journeys made to this place to worship. Shamans returned here again and again to draw spiritual power on behalf of their people. Some even say this stone is the beating heart of Mother Earth. New Age spiritualists claim this is a site of powerful magnetic vortices. It’s also a UFO hotspot. I think Critzer was sucked in just like so many people before him. Over time, he became more reclusive and paranoid. In addition to the UFO sightings, he claimed to be developing advanced
technologies and synthetic materials, which he claimed the government wanted to steal from him. He said he was frequently shadowed by men in black.”
“Sounds like Striker,” Bones observed.
Gambles nodded. “In Critzer’s case, it became a self-fulfilling prophecy. He was suspected of stealing large quantities of gasoline and dynamite from railroad depots and mines in the area. Locals also blamed him for several disappearances in the area, though nothing was ever proven. Finally, he came to the attention of the FBI. It culminated in July 1942 when Critzer died during a rain on his home. Depending on which version you believe, Critzer either blew himself up or was inadvertently killed when a tear gas grenade was dropped through a ventilation shaft and ignited an open case of dynamite.”
Bones contemplated the story in silence for a few moments. Either version was plausible.
“So, Critzer’s story has ended. Where does Striker’s begin?”
“Striker was desperate to distance himself from Critzer, due to his reputation and his German ancestry. He changed his name, moved to Hollywood, and pounded out a living writing pulp adventure novels. He admitted to drawing inspiration from tales his father told him as a young boy. He moved at the fringes of Hollywood circles, trying desperately to make it as a screenwriter. All the while he lived in fear.”
“Afraid his father’s reputation would catch up with him?” Bones asked.
“Not only that, but he learned that some form of madness ran in the male side of his family. He never interacted with his father, but he kept tabs on him from a distance. And the more bizarre Critzer became, the more convinced Striker became that he would suffer the same fate.”
“And then his dad goes and blows himself up,” Bones said.
“I think that was the nudge that really pushed Striker over the edge. To his
peers, he seemed his normal self. He was churning out novels and screenplays, rubbing elbows with the rich and famous. But he was leading a double life. He began making treks out into the desert, first here, and then other places, wherever the spirits guided him.”
“Was he searching for the Arch Gold Mine?” Bones asked.
“It’s possible, but according to my research, his interests were broader than that. He was interested in pre-Columbian contact, legends related to Spanish explorers, Native American tales of mystery and treasure. The sorts of things he would write about in his screenplays or his adventure novels.”
“Is it possible that’s all it was?” Grizzly asked. “Just research?”
“Maybe. In any case he stopped writing almost immediately after he’d finally achieved his dream of having one of his screenplays produced for the big screen.
In 1949 he dropped everything and moved out to his so-called UFO Ranch. Which you now own.”
“Do you think that move was somehow connected to his father?” Bones asked.
“Maybe Critzer had found clues to a treasure. He was a miner, after all. That might have been what the stolen dynamite was for.”
“It’s not impossible,” Gambles said. “But although I believe Striker’s reason for leaving Hollywood was linked to his father, I don’t think it had anything to do with treasure hunting.”
“Why do you think he moved here?” Grizzly asked.
No one else was about, but still Gambles paused, looked around, then lowered his voice.
“I believe Kirk Striker was the Black Dahlia killer.”
Chapter 14
The following morning, Maddock and Spenser paid a visit to the parents of the missing girl. Spenser was still friendly, but her previous warmth was absent. She focused on navigating and had little else to say.
Hank and Nancy Keane lived in a modest house that was part of Rockwell’s new development. The exterior was brightly painted. The inside was a different story. The curtains were drawn, the living room lit by a pair of table lamps with low wattage bulbs that emitted a sickly yellow light. There was no need to come up with a way of broaching the subject of their missing daughter. Framed photos of Megan Keane hung from every wall and stood on virtually every level surface. A bookcase in the corner of the room held trophies, mementos, a graduation portrait, and a stuffed unicorn. Maddock’s heart leapt at the sight of the toy. Spenser saw it too and shrugged. “A lot of girls like unicorns,” she said quietly as the Keanes headed to the kitchen for coffee and cookies.
They spent a few minutes in polite conversation, first explaining in broad strokes the premise of Grizzly’s investigative show, and then sharing a bit about themselves.
Hank was a retired police officer and a veteran himself, of the Marine Corps variety. He and Maddock light-heartedly agreed to avoid any Navy versus Marine discussions. Nancy was a retired psychotherapist. Her face was drawn, her brown hair streaked with silver. She sat wringing her hands as they spoke.
“We don’t talk about Megan very often,” she said as Maddock brought the conversation around to their intended topic. “It’s too painful.”
“But we hope that a television show might help turn up some new clues. Maybe jog someone’s memory,” Hank said.
“What was Megan l
ike?” Spenser asked.
“She had an inquisitive mind,” Hank said. “She loved puzzles, mysteries, anything that required logic and reasoning.”
“We expected her to go into law enforcement as a detective,” Nancy said. “I discouraged her because I thought it was too dangerous.” She let out a tiny sob.
“What career did she choose?” Maddock asked.
“Journalism. She earned her degree from San Diego State and was working as a freelancer, mostly writing about places of local interest.”
Maddock perked up at that. “Do you know what she was working on before she went missing?”
“The police examined her laptop. They didn’t find anything they thought was pertinent, but we’ll be happy to give you printouts of what she was working on.”
“That would be very helpful,” Maddock said.
“Do you know if she had any interest in the Arch Gold Mine?” Spenser asked.
Hank and Nancy looked at one another then shook their heads.
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Hank said.
At Maddock’s request they described Megan’s movements on the last day they’d seen her. She’d left early, saying she was going to do some research for a new article. They didn’t worry about her until night fell and they hadn’t heard from her and were unable to reach her. They notified the police and waited. “And we’re still waiting,” Nancy said. “We’ve done what we can, of course. Followed up on the places she was researching for her articles, talked with her friends, made public pleas. Nothing.”
“They did find her vehicle, right?” Maddock asked.
“Yes. Out in the desert. No tracks, no clues, no evidence left behind,” Hank said.
“Could she have been investigating something out in the desert?” Maddock asked.
“Not as far as we know. Of course, I don’t believe she parked the car there. The steering wheel, ignition, and door handles had been wiped clean of fingerprints. Hell, even the handle that adjusts the seat had been cleaned.”