Shadow of the Raven

by David Sundstrand

  “He knows everyone in the valley, or almost everyone, at least all the Paiute and Shoshone, and all the guys who lose too much at the Paiute Palace, drink too much and land in the drunk tank, and especially those who leave their women unattended.” He looked abashed. “Jimmy’s sort of a ladies’ man.”

  He stood up to light the kerosene lamp hanging over the table. “Scuse me for a minute. I’m going to cut the generator.”

  The stars had begun to emerge in the evening sky. The Sierras stood in jagged relief against the waning of the light. Across the valley, the Inyos melted into a deep blue haze. It seemed strange to Frank that amid all this beauty there were creatures who destroyed things for the sake of destruction itself. He understood the nature of violence, even the blood lust of rage. He raised his face to the night sky, to the cold clarity of light and the absence of things human. “I would rather be a worm in a wild apple than a son of man.” It was a line from a poem he had read in college, by Robinson Jeffers, a poet who loved nature and loathed mankind, a true misanthrope. Jeffers’s loathing of humanity was rooted in disgust. Sometimes Frank was dangerously close to embracing it himself.

  “Hey, what’s keeping you? Communing with your foxy girlfriend?” Jan called out.

  He wished she would let it go. “Just stargazing,” he replied, walking back to the table.

  “This has been nice, Frank. You’re a cook and a host par excellence.” Jan put her hand on Frank’s, almost covering it. “The situation with this Eddie person must be difficult for you.”

  Frank nodded. “Yeah, it’s the sort of thing that keeps me separated. But then again, I work for the BLM.” He looked up at them both, his eyes deep in shadow. “And you know they pay me to take care of the land. For me, that’s what’s called ‘a fit.’” He turned toward Linda. “But that’s not all of it. I’m sort of worried, too.”

  “What about?”

  “You, me, anyone who’s caught alone at the right time by the wrong people, but mostly for you, maybe your dad.”

  “My dad? What’s my dad got to do with anything?” Linda’s hand moved unconsciously to her throat.

  “If the rifle is a three hundred Magnum, then our Mr. Winner here is probably a murderer.”

  Frank held up his hand as Linda started to speak. “You’re right. Your dad’s not in any danger from this person. But if this is the man who left his accomplice to die up in the Panamints, then there’s real danger. There’s some very bad people looking for him. The dead man, Donnie Miller, had two brothers. I’m pretty sure they were the guys who came by your dad’s place, the ones who had the fight.”

  “Why would dad be in danger?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think they could be pretty close to genuine evil.” He remembered the look of perplexed fear on Mitch’s face when he’d told about the burning of the dog and the hinted at snuff films. “I think these guys are without—” He searched for the right word. Soul was as close as he could come, but he had long ago abandoned the teachings he’d picked up from sporadic visits to church—“I think these people are empty inside. You could be in danger because they know your name, and you’re a link to their dead brother. You wrote the story. So I guess I want you to be very careful.”

  “I think we have to go home,” Jan said, rising to her feet. “Work tomorrow.” She turned, taking Frank’s hand in hers. “Thanks again.” And then more softly, she said, “You be careful, as well, Frank Flynn. What you say applies to you, and more so. Well, back to Ridgecrest. Town life has its advantages, Frank, but this place is really something.”

  Linda reached her arms around him, more than a hug good-bye. She kissed him softly on the cheek. “Jan’s right, you know, about being careful. Call me and let me know what your friend says.” A second kiss good-bye, on the lips, lingering long enough to set Frank’s heart racing.

  Then Jan and Linda disappeared into the dark.

  The air was perfumed with the dry scent of sage. The nocturnal sounds of the desert surrounded the caboose. Frank climbed into the cupola and watched the lights from Jan’s car as it moved down the slope to the valley floor and turned onto Highway 395.

  14

  “Now lemme see if I’ve got this right. You and the Reyes woman were up in Surprise Canyon to look at bighorns?” Meecham paused, waiting for Frank to nod or grunt, give some sort of affirmative sign.

  Frank didn’t. It was all there in the report on Meecham’s desk.

  “So you’re watching the sheep drink at the spring, and then bang, the big ram topples over.” Meecham softened his tone. “Sorry about the ram, Frank. I know he was an old pal.” He sighed. “Christ, I’m sick of the sight of slaughtered animals.”

  “Yeah, I’d been watching him awhile.” Frank pulled at the tip of his nose, as if to shield the lower part of his face from scrutiny. “In a way, I’m sorrier about the younger one. At least the old guy had a history. The other one was just getting started.”

  Meecham leaned forward to catch Frank’s words, his face shadowed with concern. “Well, maybe Fish and Game will get them next time. Maybe they’ll get careless.”

  Frank remained silent. Meecham had all the information Frank felt bound to give. He knew what had happened, and he knew that Linda’s story was going to appear in Saturday’s Courier. There was no reason for Meecham to know that he had seen Linda’s photographs. As soon as the story appeared, Frank would call Fish and Game and identify Eddie Laguna. That gave him just short of forty-eight hours to locate Eddie and talk to him before Fish and Game had him under lock and key. He needed to catch Jimmy Tecopa at the Paiute Palace before he disappeared with one of his many lady friends.

  “So that’s about it, Dave.” At least Frank hoped that was about it. Meecham seemed satisfied that no shadow had been cast on the BLM. In fact, Frank’s presence at the scene, followed by a call from his truck on Linda’s cell phone, had initiated a manhunt. A helicopter and a plane had been sent out. The perpetrators had been pursued, but to no avail. It was too late, as they were long gone. Nevertheless, the authorities had been interviewed by the local television anchorman Tom Cocheran. Cocheran’s square head moved in ponderous cadence to the rumbling baritone of his voice, a voice that seemed to lend significance to the process of self-identification. “Hello out there. I’m Tom Cocheran, and this is KNV News, where local news is first.” As long as the teleprompter kept the words flowing from Tom’s mouth, his interviews were as predictable as sunshine in the Mojave. The who, what, when, and where inevitably followed by a “How do you personally feel about that?” The unctuous sincerity of the questioner suggested a degree of personal intimacy as inappropriate as the question.

  Frank had escaped more than one interview with “Tommy Cockroach,” the voice from space. But the chief ranger for the BLM, Dave Meecham, had another fifteen minutes of fame—actually, more like fifteen seconds. He’d looked good in his crisp khaki uniform, and, much more important to Meecham, the BLM had looked good, too, Ranger Francisco Flynn doing his duty even on his day off. So he now hoped Meecham wasn’t in a mood to probe.

  As Frank rose from the folding chair in front of Meecham’s battered desk, Meecham’s voice interrupted his progress. “Frank, I want you to let this alone now. I’m not sure exactly why you and the Reyes woman …”

  Frank gave his superior a bland look. “Linda Reyes or Ms. Reyes seems less demeaning, Chief. I don’t think of myself as the Flynn man, or you as the Meecham man.” He grinned a bit. “Although Meecham man has a sort of ring to it.”

  Meecham leaned back in his chair, studying his fellow officer. Frank knew Meecham considered him an equal. They had hired on at about the same time. Both of them had college degrees, Frank’s in American studies, Meecham’s in police science. But Frank knew he was a puzzlement to his colleagues. He lacked ambition, at least as far as moving up the chain of command was concerned. Meecham and the other rangers thought of him as a bit peculiar—not exactly a loner, but not an easy fit, either. “Guess I march to the beat of
a different tom-tom,” Frank had told him once. He regarded his boss patiently, his face impassive.

  “Okay, Frank. Ms. Reyes. No offense meant.”

  “None taken, Dave,” Frank replied, relieved that the moment had passed.

  “But back to the point—this poaching business. You know as well as I do that it’s up to Fish and Game.”

  “And the way Donnie Miller died?”

  Meecham sighed. “Frank, the Miller kid died from dumbness. I’m with the Sheriff’s Department on this.”

  “What happened to his boots?”

  “Who the hell knows what happened to his boots. Maybe he took them off when his mind started to go. People dying of dehydration do strange things. In any event, it’s not our case. And don’t start up about the butt prints.”

  Frank sat back in his chair. “For the record, Dave: Donnie Miller, our dead man, has two brothers. These guys are definitely unpleasant people. They showed up at the Joshua Tree Athletic Club, looking for their missing brother. The new owner, Jack Collins, says they’re motorcycle-gang types, and that they were definitely menacing.”

  “Who’d they menace?”

  “It wasn’t specific, Dave. Bad language, hostile presence.”

  “‘Hostile presence.’ Jesus, Frank, that’s half of the bar patrons in Kern County.”

  “They got into a fight.”

  “Yeah, who’d they fight with?”

  “Some deer hunters. Okay, forget it.” He caught Meecham’s eyes. “But don’t forget it, either. I think these guys are more than head-busting bikers. The Sheriff’s Department trusts you. Tell ’em we’re uneasy about these guys. Far as I know, they haven’t even talked to the owner of the club.”

  “That dump.” Meecham shook his head. “Frank, you’re uneasy. I can’t tell them we’re uneasy, because I’m not uneasy. Same old stuff, drunks punching one another. Besides, Collins’s place is in San Bernardino County.” He held up his hand. “But you being uneasy tends to make me uneasy, so I’m alerted.” A small wry smile creased his square face. “Now we’re all uneasy, for all the good it’ll do. It’s a cinch that the Sheriff’s Department is satisfied that no further investigation into the death of Donald Miller is warranted. But I’m listening, okay? Good enough?”

  “Yeah, it’ll have to be.” Meecham had extended himself. It needed acknowledging. “And I appreciate the hearing.” Frank got to his feet.

  “One more thing, Frank.”

  It was like being a kid again, trying to get out of the house without some sort of admonition: Put on your coat. Drive carefully. Remember your gloves. He breathed deeply to relieve the tension.

  “This one is definitely our business, Frank. Some screwball or screwballs have decided that they’re unhappy with the multiple-use policy.”

  Frank grinned. “You mean someone besides me?”

  Meecham frowned. “This could cause trouble for us, and people could get hurt. These guys are after the all-terrain RVers. They must have spread hundreds of those four-way spike things that always have a point up.”

  “Caltrops.”

  “Right, caltrops. Anyhow they’re all over the off-road area in Jawbone Canyon. There were maybe twenty, twenty-five flats. ATVs stranded up and down the canyon. The Auto Club garages didn’t have enough trucks or people to respond. Some of the RVers were stuck there through the weekend.”

  Frank tried to remain expressionless. The notion of ATVs with flat tires was far from unappealing, but he could see it wasn’t the time to be a smart-ass. He just wished he’d been there to see it.

  Meecham leaned forward, his face full of frustration. “They were madder than hell, Frank. Mad at us. They wanted to know who was protecting their rights?”

  “Yeah, I know, Dave. And they’re right. Someone could’ve been hurt. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  Meecham looked at something over Frank’s right shoulder. “This is related to the other stuff, those dumb signs you seem to find so funny, the ones about Ghost Raven watching them, and the Jackalope Preserve. Jeez, what crap. Jackalope Preserve, for Christ’s sake. Probably have reporters out here from L.A. asking about jackalope sightings. Wondering how long we’ve been protecting jackalope.”

  Frank smiled at his boss. “Maybe we should start a captive breeding program. I know a couple of guys who claim to have talked with them after smoking the funny stuff.” Meecham’s face closed, not friendly. Frank couldn’t seem to help himself. His mouth moved against his will. “You hafta appreciate the message. ‘Ghost Raven eats the eyes of those who destroy the land—especially kids who ride off the trails.’” In the crude handmade poster, Ghost Raven looked more like a horror-cartoon vulture than a raven. Frank gave a short laugh. “Kept those mini road warriors on the trails for at least a week.”

  Meecham didn’t return the grin. “They’re doing damage. Vandalizing private property. I don’t find it funny. What they are is a pain in the ass, maybe a dangerous pain in the ass. What if a kid broke his neck falling off his ATV?” Meecham glared down a pointed index finger. “Don’t say it, Frank. It’s our job to put a stop to it. It’s up to us to make the desert safe for everyone, not just the people we think are okay.”

  Frank did his best to look abashed. “Yeah, I know you’re right. It’s just that I remember places like Jawbone Canyon before it became a playground for the ATVs.” It was times like this he appreciated not being a chief, just an Indian, in more ways than one. “I’ll look into it, boss.” But not right away, he thought. Got to talk to Jimmy Tecopa first. Find Eddie Laguna. Have another talk with Mitch Cooper. When he had enough to interest the Sheriff’s Department, he’d leave it alone, but for now, he couldn’t turn his back on it.

  The Paiute Palace had the biggest, brightest, gaudiest electric sign in Bishop, probably the whole length of Highway 395, not counting the stretch through Reno. You wouldn’t be able to see it in Las Vegas, swallowed up in a sea of light, but here along the highway, it signaled nightlife. The garish lights had an allure, perfuming the darkness with false promise. There was no denying it; he found himself fascinated by the sight of people staring intently at the electronic slots, the intensity of the blackjack players, the staccato bursts of laughter from the winners and the heartfelt curses of the losers. It was as if here in the casino the gods of chance were more manageable, the face of uncertainty made manifest. In the casino, you knew the odds were stacked, but there were rules to the capriciousness. The dangerous unpredictability of life itself had no rules. The Paiute Palace offered a sort of haven, a place where the smashups had limits. It was a place where hope met despair.

  But the Paiute Palace was okay. Indian-run. Jobs. No booze. It was amazing. Gamblers cared more about gambling than drinking. For him, there was no contest. He’d take a cold beer and conversation over the slots every time. But then again, he knew the odds couldn’t be beat inside the casino; maybe they were even tougher out in the desert, but in the desert there was beauty.

  “Hiya, Frank.” Susan Funmaker’s shy smile peered out from rounded folds of fat. “How ya been?” She cast her eyes down, the long black lashes brushing her round cheeks.

  “Fine, Susan. It’s good to see you. How’s the family?” He leaned against the countertop separating the customers from the cashier’s cage.

  “Good, Frank. Everyone’s good.”

  Frank knew that Susan was the main source of income for her family. Susan’s older brother had gone to Los Angeles. Her younger brother had been killed in an automobile accident on 395, along with her father. Both had been drinking. Her mother was an invalid, limbs swollen from dropsy, bad heart, diabetes, but she had been a wonderful second mother to Frank, full of fun, and a great cook. When he and Susan had been in school, Susan’s mother had told Paiute stories to Frank, some of the old legends and some true stories about people who had lived in the Owens Valley, stories still in people’s memories. She had been the principal source of his cultural heritage, at least his Paiute cultural heritage.

 
Susan had persisted in school. Math came easily to her. Her dark eyes gleamed with intelligence. She had helped the others with their homework. Mostly, they copied hers. It was okay, though. She had always been fat, but being smart made up for it. Frank was pretty sure she still had a crush on him. She had gone to Arroyo Seco Community College for two years and learned bookkeeping and accounting. Now she had a good job in the casino, head cashier. Frank was always glad to see Susan.

  “I’ll bet you’re looking for Jimmy, right?”

  “Yeah, is he around, Susan? We haven’t talked for a while.”

  “He said the same thing.” She smiled. “He said you’ve been licking your wounds.”

  “That sounds like him. I’m okay, Susan. Not to worry.” A bit of brightness went out of her expression. “But we’ll get together soon and have a good talk, and you can laugh at my misadventures. You women are hard to figure out.” He gave what he thought was a rueful grin.

  “Jimmy’s talking to someone out in the parking lot.” Susan looked embarrassed. “He’ll be back pretty soon.” She glanced over toward the side entrance to the parking lot. “Here he comes now.” She seemed relieved not to have to explain about Jimmy’s amours.

  As Jimmy came across the casino floor, he exchanged greetings with the folks perched in front of the slots, flirted with the elderly ladies, and joshed with the men clustered around the blackjack table. People were always glad to see Jimmy, share a few words. He looked up and waved at Frank, flashing a big smile that exposed his perfect white teeth, the kind of teeth actors pay thousands of dollars for.

  “Here’s brother Frank come out of the caboose to spread gloom among the natives.” Mischief animated the small man’s face. “Must need white woman and strong drink.” Frank squirmed. Jimmy hadn’t bothered to lower his voice, and Frank felt as if he were the center of unwanted attention. In truth, only a couple of people at the slots looked up, but there was Susan.