Linda’s voice cut in. “I think you and your friends ought to leave, right now, before I call the police.” Her remark deflected the focus of Roy’s attention. Now it was directed at her. For a moment, no one spoke. Roy turned slowly to face her, pink-rimmed eyes peering into hers over a rictus smile.
He spoke over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving Linda’s face. “You want to go, Jace?” The oversize head swiveled back and forth in rhythm with the soft clicking. “How about you, Wild Bill, whadda ya say? Want to leave?”
“Why the fuck would I want to go, Roy? I love it here, watching Jace and the bird, the good-looking squack at the bar, and especially talking to badass Fred and Art here. This place is a home away from home.” The slack, humorless smile revealed a greenish gum line at the base of yellowing teeth.
“My boys like it here”—he paused a beat—“Ms. Reyes.” Watching as it dawned on her. “Why should they have to leave? Maybe Fatman and Robin big mouth ought to be the ones to take a hike. So there you have it, Linda. You don’t mind being called Linda, do you?” He shrugged. “Anyhow, what we have here is a problem of social interaction.”
A tight lump of dread knotted up in her stomach. How did they know her name, know who she was? An image of a motorcycle in her rearview mirror flashed through her mind, the gray-ponytailed rider following her down 395. She couldn’t remember when she had noticed him. Both men were grinning at her now in open amusement, enjoying her shock, her fear, as if to say, We’re here for you, honey. She felt a flush of rage. If only she could get to the shotgun without them getting to her.
Roy spoke to her quietly, in confidence. She had to strain to hear him above the steady moaning of the wind. “See, we wanted to have a little news conference with you about the dead guy in the canyon. Talk to you about it, ’cause we think he was family.”
“You know, I think the lady’s right, fella.” Fred had regrouped, taken courage from Linda’s defiance, the talk of police. “You ought to just move on. Move on down the road and leave us alone.”
“Is that right?” Roy paused to regard the four people at the bar, then nodded slowly. “Good idea, Fred, soon as we’re done.”
Art’s eyes traveled nervously from speaker to speaker. He seemed unable to comprehend what was going on. Fred glared at Roy, emboldened by what he took for capitulation. He sneered over at his partner. “These guys are hicks. Wanna-be badasses, but hicks nevertheless.” Then turning to Roy, he said, “You don’t even know who we are.” He sneered, his voice filled with contempt.
“Hey, there’s where you’re wrong, Fred.” Roy looked almost mournful. “I know just who you are.” His voice was soft and serious. “You’re an important man, a German philosopher. I’ve read some of your books.” As he spoke, he moved in close, invading Fred’s space. “You wrote one of my favorites, The Birth of Tragedy.” The last four words dropped with careful precision. Fred drew away, leaning backward against the bar, perplexed by the turn of events. Roy stepped closer yet, pale eyes locked on his face; then Roy’s right hand shot into Fred’s exposed solar plexus. Fred bent forward, eyes filled with shock. The first blow was followed quickly by a second to the kidneys, a never-fail shot. His eyes rolled up in agony. He dropped to the floor, small grunting sounds emitting from his mouth.
“Man, that must’ve hurt.” Roy dropped a roll of nickels on the bar. “He could be pissing blood for a week.” Fred continued making short gasping sounds. Roy bent down, frowning with concern. “What’s that you say? Can’t hear you too good.” He bent even closer, his face inches from the fallen man. “Speak right up. I can hear you real good now.” Ray bent down, listening to Fred’s strangled efforts to breathe, nodding his head in agreement with his stifled gasps. “Oh yeah, now you’re using the old noggin.” He stood up casually and regarded Art, who seemed inert, sitting with his mouth open, unable to stop staring at Roy. “He says you ought to get the fuck oughta here, fat boy, before Ms. Reyes here calls the cops on you for disturbing the peace. You ladies, too.” He looked over at Hickey and raised his hand to the side of his face, the little finger extended toward his mouth and the thumb pointing at his ear, the telephone sign. Again he bent over the prostrate Fred, speaking into his face. “Fred’s not your real name, is it? But don’t tell me, ’cause I already know. It’s Butt Wipe. I. M. Butt Wipe. I knew it as soon as I looked at your candy-ass bikes out front. Now we both know your real name, Butt Wipe,” he said, drawing it out. He spit casually in the fallen man’s face. “You sorry sack of shit.”
Linda ducked down and came up with the shotgun, pointing it at Hickey, who had risen from the table and was approaching the bar.
“Whoa there, lady.” He thrust his arms forward, hands palms out.
“You better sit back down,” Linda said. He stopped but made no move to sit. For now, that would have to do. Roy’s body reappeared above the bar. She swung the shotgun over, pointing it at him. He regarded her with deliberate calm, sizing things up. Then she noticed the gun wasn’t cocked; the side hammers were resting in the forward position. She pulled the heavy shotgun tightly to her shoulder and quickly reached over with her left hand and pulled back both hammers. The muzzle dropped dangerously forward. She jerked the gun back, pointing it at Roy. Her eyes shot over to the standing Hickey and back again to Roy. She stepped back as far as she could, grateful for the fact the bar separated them. They were too close.
“Don’t use the old shotgun all that much, do ya?” Roy grinned. “Feels kinda unfamiliar. I know what that’s like, things feeling unfamiliar.” Hickey had eased a step closer. Her eyes darted back and forth between Hickey and Roy. She had to do something. One or both were going to come over the bar.
“No point in getting upset.” Roy put up his hands. “See, hands up. Now what? Seems to me you got a problem here. Two barrels, three guys. And you not even knowing how to use that big ol’ shoulder cannon. Probably knock you on your cute little ass.”
Hickey chuckled at Roy’s joke.
She gritted her teeth. “That’s probably true, but you won’t see it, ’cause the first one’s for you.” She trained the gun on Roy, her resolve steadying her hands.
“I don’t know, sweet cheeks. I’m not sure you could hit shit.”
“Let’s find out.” She swung the shotgun between Roy and Hickey and pulled the trigger. The noise was stunning. Barbara screamed. Each person remained riveted in position by the blast, except for Linda, who had been driven into the backbar by the recoil, knocking bottles from the shelves. The shock of the sound had given her time to regain her balance, and she leveled the gun back at Roy.
“Now there’s only one left, and it’s all yours, mister.” The adrenaline rush had deadened any pain she might have felt. She was truly angry, angry as she had never been. Who were these people to come uninvited into her life, bringing violence and terror? “You want some of that?” She gestured with the shotgun at the ragged four-inch hole in the woodwork of the far wall. “’Cause, mister, I don’t like you very much.”
Roy stepped slowly away from the bar. He gestured to the door with his head. The one called Hickey called over to Jace. “Come on, Jace, we’re going now.” Jace’s bright little eyes flashed back and a forth in apparent confusion.
Roy nodded in Jace’s direction. “Go on out with Hickey. It’s time to go, Jace.” Jace stepped away from his chair and followed Hickey out the door in a simian shuffle. At the door, he turned back, smiling hugely. “I’ll be bock.” It was pure Schwarzenegger. Then he disappeared into the wind. The first fat drops of rain racketed on the tin, each pop and crack distinct in the charged air.
Roy backed toward the door, Linda tracking him with the shotgun.
He smiled. “Know where you work, know where you live. So you take care, Ms. Reyes. Bad things happen to good people. It’s a puzzle, isn’t it?” His last words were almost drowned out by the roar of the rain on the roof.
18
The first fat drops of rain kicked little puffs of dust from the powdere
d dirt that covered the Jawbone Canyon track. It splattered on the grimy windshield, transforming the dirt into rivulets of mud. Soon the entire road would be a sump. Frank stepped on the gas, driving faster than was his custom, faster than was safe. He needed to hit the pavement before he became mired in muck. He could barely see through the muddy windshield. The wipers were still vintage 1953, strictly vacuum, not very efficient at optimum condition, and they weren’t at optimum, the blades hardened and rough from baking in the sun. If he could just make the pavement, he’d be all right. If not, he’d be stuck in the mud up to the running boards. Sand ramps would be next to useless. The truck careened to the left, and Frank steered into the skid, gently bringing it back on line, only to have to repeat the process on the right.
He took off his sunglasses and leaned out the window. The rain immediately plastered his hair to his forehead. He squinted against the rush of water and air. He could just make out the pipeline ahead, maybe no more than a quarter of a mile away. He grimly held on to the wheel, guiding the careening truck through the mud. Stopping meant staying. He wasn’t stopping. He plowed on, the truck’s progress becoming more labored every minute. He felt a thud as the truck steadied. He’d made it onto the asphalt. He still couldn’t see much, but the windshield wipers were mercifully more efficient now that he could back off on the gas. He pulled the truck to a stop under the trees at the pumping station and switched off the ignition.
The rain roared off the pipeline and danced off the road, splattering up almost a foot. A short wall of water covered the pavement. On the desert surface, it was different. The rain disappeared, soaking through the porous layer into the ground. If enough rain fell, it would puddle and run off, but the uneroded surface of the desert soaked up the water like a sponge.
Frank stepped out of his truck into the shelter of the trees. Despite the morning’s heat, the air was surprisingly cool. He had the urge to build a campfire, heat some coffee, maybe lace it with a bit of Jameson. He thought of Linda. Rain in the trees, rain on the roof, romantic musings. The wind paused. Now there was only the sound of the rain, and already it was lessening. Take your drink and be quick about it. You may not get another for some time.
In the distance, lightning flashed on the horizon. He counted to twenty and gave up. Then he heard a faint rumbling. It must be over toward Red Mountain, he thought. The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Great puffs of cloud parted and shafts of sunlight struck the floor of the canyon. Wisps of vapor rose up from the water-drenched surface, which was still warm from the sun. The smell of creosote bush filled the air, tangy, pungent, and clean.
A patch of sunlight opened on the opposite hillside, changing shape as it moved across the canyon floor. A shadow slipped momentarily across the sunlit hillside, and then another. He looked up. Vultures. They were circling high up toward the mouth of the canyon, cutting the shaft of light in their westward arc. Probably something alive had ventured onto the highway where it had become dead. He experienced a moment of foreboding and unease. He glanced up at the hoarse call of a raven and found it perched on the canyon wall. They were his favorite desert companions, curious, intelligent, and resourceful. They often followed his path, wheedling for food, which he rarely gave them. But they followed along anyhow, observing him as he observed them. It called again. Its mate wheeled above, the wedge-shaped tail correcting the path of flight. It twisted its head to look down at Frank. His unease turned to unspoken dread.
He returned quickly to his truck and brought it to life. He needed to find Linda. Mitch and Shawna could wait. The sound of the engine cut him off from the sounds of the desert. He wanted to get away from there, go to the Joshua Tree Athletic Club and confront Collins about those signs and the caltrops.
It was less than an hour from Jawbone Canyon to Red Mountain, but it seemed to be taking forever. His truck pulled up the steep grades and clattered down the hills at a steady sixty miles an hour. It was pointless to push it. What’s more, he told himself, his misgivings were irrational, based on seeing vultures and communing with a raven. Big deal. But he couldn’t erase the sense of dread. He tried to think about it analytically. Maybe it had to do with what he’d said to Dave Meecham, his insistence that the wandering Miller brothers were to be taken seriously, even if they hadn’t been heard from. People like that didn’t just go away. That was probably it. He had convinced himself, heard his own argument and believed it. If that was the case, the misgivings were real enough. Just the timing seemed peculiar. Why now, in such a rush? Because he had been pushing it under, wanting it to go away, wanting the Millers to go away. He had a poacher to catch. He had a woman to court. He didn’t have time for uglies like the Millers and their grimy buddy. Now he had his pickup doing sixtyeight down the grade. The clatter of the tappets brought him back to the road. Soon he’d be passing through Johannesburg and then he’d be in Red Mountain.
His chest constricted as he rounded the curve and came upon the scattered ramshackle buildings that comprised what was left of Red Mountain. The blue and red lights flashing from an ambulance and two San Bernardino Sheriff’s Department cars parked at crazy angles in front of the Joshua Tree Athletic Club winked spasmodically in the midafternoon light. It felt as if he were watching a movie that he was in. He could see himself pull into the dirt parking lot. He remembered not to block the exit, and then he got out of the truck and watched himself walk toward the ambulance. A couple of paramedics struggled through the swinging doors of the saloon with a gurney. He couldn’t see who was on it. He hurried forward.
“Stand back, please.” A young San Bernardino deputy sheriff blocked Frank’s way.
“I’m with Bureau of Land Management.”
The deputy eyed Frank’s uniform. “Okay,” he said dismissively.
“Look, I know the owner and his family. I’d like to know what’s going on.” Frank struggled to remain calm.
“There’s been an altercation, sir. Right now, we have an injured person who needs attention, so please step back.”
Frank craned around the deputy, trying to see the gurney before it disappeared into the emergency vehicle. One of the paramedics stepped back for a moment, and he could see that it was a man on the gurney, not Linda, thank God. He breathed a sigh of temporary relief. He hoped it wasn’t Jack Collins, or one of his cranky cronies, and not just for Linda’s sake. He liked the Joshua Tree Athletic Club and the unyielding way these stubborn old men refused to bend to the times. As his da would have said, “They flew the flag.”
The emergency vehicle pulled out onto the blacktop and headed down Highway 395 to the hospital in Adelanto, a long ride. The young deputy crunched his way across the dirt and gravel to a California Highway Patrol cruiser that had pulled off the road to find out what was going on. Cop chitchat. For some of his law-enforcement brothers, he wasn’t a real cop. But he was used to it, interagency pride, all that stuff. The LAPD thought the Sheriff’s Department guys were hicks. The Sheriff’s Department personnel looked down on small-town local police. There was a pecking order, and now and then he was at the bottom. He took advantage of the deputy’s absence and slipped through the doors into the bar.
Linda sat at one of the tables, her back to him. Opposite her was a deputy taking notes. He wore a weary expression under a graying buzz cut. Linda sat upright, her back and shoulders rigid. Frank wanted to go to her, but he waited, knowing not to interrupt and thus piss off the deputy.
Another deputy, a heavyset Hispanic, was talking to two women seated at the bar. His shirt was sweat-stained under the arms and down the back. Rivulets of perspiration ran down the sides of his face. The women seemed cool, sort of excited at being questioned by the police, an adventure. They were taking turns talking, nodding to each other. Every so often, the deputy would ask a question, and then he’d write something down in a spiral notebook. The women were wearing expensive leather outfits. One wore her dark hair in a stylish wedge. The other had thick brown hair wound in a French braid. A big heavy man in a t
ight black T-shirt sat slumped at a table, staring into space. He looked disoriented. Obviously, something bad had happened to him. Frank waited. He could just make out the conversation between Linda and the older deputy.
“So none of them had weapons?” The deputy’s tone was neutral.
“Not that I could see, no,” Linda said in a taut voice.
“Then what made you go for the gun?”
“I told you. They hurt that man, and I knew I’d be next.”
The deputy wrote in his notebook. It seemed like he was writing for a long time. Linda watched him. Then he looked up quickly from his notebook, catching Linda’s expression. “What made you think you were in danger?”
“He knew my name. He said he wanted to have a news conference. They came to see me.”
“Now why is that?”
“I told you. I’m a reporter for the InyoKern Courier. I wrote a story about a man found dead in the Panamints. Apparently, two of these men were his brothers.” Frank could hear the edge of anger in her voice.
“It doesn’t seem unusual for someone to want to know more about the circumstances of a relative’s death. I mean, isn’t wanting to talk to you about it natural?”
Linda shook her head in frustration. “These men are dangerous. Look what they did to that man—for nothing. It was vicious. One of them hit him with a roll of nickels, then spit in his face.”
The deputy nodded his head. His voice was matter-of-fact. “Okay, there was a fight. Let’s call it an assault.” He paused for a moment and then changed tack. “Ms. Reyes, you work in a bar. You’re familiar with the term barroom brawl, right? What I’m suggesting is that these types of people hang out in bars and hurt one another when they drink too much.”
“Not in this bar. Dad doesn’t allow it.”
The deputy raised his eyebrows. “Um-hm.”
Shadow of the Raven Page 18