Shadow of the Raven

by David Sundstrand

  “Leeeeeroy. Whoeee.” The man guffawed. The raucous laughter fueled Roy’s revulsion. The stench of cheap whiskey issued from the driver’s mouth in gusts of bad breath. “LeeeRoy, that’s okay. Knew a Leroy in the army. He was from Florida, dumber than dog shit. Couldn’t find bright objects on the ground, but he was okay.” The final phrase, he mumbled to himself. Then he boomed, “Well, my name’s Randall Clark, but most folks call me Randy. And they’re right, too.” He broke into a falsetto cackle at his own joke. “I always hated being called Randall, but Randy’s okay.” He reached around, fumbling for Roy’s hand.

  Roy took the outstretched hand firmly in his own. “Well, listen up, Randy, because I really want to thank you for all this consideration, you know. And here’s a little something to show my appreciation.” Roy jerked on Clark’s hand, pulling him to one side, and at the same time, he drove the point of his left elbow into Clark’s Adam’s apple. Clark attempted to speak, but it turned into a strangled gasping for air. He clutched at his neck, trying desperately to breathe. Roy turned his attention to stopping the Travelall, stepping on the brake with his left foot and turning the ignition key with his left hand. The sudden quiet that followed the silencing of the engine was broken only by the strangling sounds of Clark’s agonized effort to breathe.

  “Man, that’s disgusting.” Roy shook his head. “Can’t listen to that shit and drive. Sounds like a toilet flushing. Guess you’re gonna hafta walk.” He opened the passenger door and dragged the hapless Clark out of the truck, the man’s head bouncing on the door frame. “Bad manners, man. You brought all this shit on yourself.” He looked down at the prostrate Clark and felt better. “Gotta be going.” He got back into the truck and started the engine. Leaning over to shut the passenger door, he raised his voice in a cheery farewell. “You take care now, hear.”

  He reached the Panamint Valley Road and swung north toward the junction with 190. He figured the Indian had about a two- or three-hour head start on him. Doubtful if he’d call in the cops, but you never knew. He had to get another vehicle. If the Indian didn’t go to the police, someone would discover old Randy’s body come morning, and the truck would be hot. The rest stop near Lone Pine on 395 seemed like the best bet.

  Roy thought about Hickey and Jace, both gone. Truth to be told, he didn’t much care about Hickey. He’d begun to be a liability anyway, always doped up or chasing squack. Knock! Knock! Who’s there? Hickey. Hickey who? There it was in a nutshell, Hickey who? Nobody home most of the time. Jace had always been a liability and a trial. But he was blood, and Roy had been looking out for him, for Jace and Donnie, as far back as he could remember, and man, it hadn’t been easy. Between the two of them, they could fuck up a wet dream. It was a funny feeling, both of them gone, and he felt suddenly exhilarated, freer than he ever had. Hell, he didn’t have to worry about one of them doing some dumb fucking thing that would bring the law down on them. If it hadn’t been for him, they both would have been in the joint anyhow. Roy was through running with guys who couldn’t tie their shoelaces. He’d take care of this business and then put his skills to use around the retirement communities—love those duffers. But right now, he had to make it back to the trailer, get his stuff—especially his bike and the rest of the money. He had a couple thousand stashed, and he could make that stretch for a long time.

  Maybe it was time to go back to the valley, San Bernardino or Pomona, hide out among nine million people and let things cool off. Time was on his side. After a while, people’d get careless, forget about old Roy and the Sidewinders—well, shit, Sidewinder, just one snake in his pants now. His silent laugh breathed into the night.

  The rest stop was divided into two areas, one for cars and the other for trucks, trailers, and motor homes. Roy pulled the Travelall into the section for trucks and trailers. A motor home would do just fine. Cops never looked at motor homes. They were full of families or old people with money. Rich old farts drove motor homes with stickers that said cute things like I’M DRIVING MY KID’S INHERITANCE. They belonged to the Good Sam Club, dedicated to helping one another out. It made him want to puke.

  He chose a spot under a light and raised the hood. The flashlight he found in the glove compartment made it easy for him to take off the air filter. He set it up on the curb, where it was sure to be noticed, a man with a car problem, an irresistible invitation to the Good Sams of this world, God bless ’em. He took apart the flashlight and bent back the contact so it didn’t work, then draped himself under the hood. Now all he needed to do was wait for one of the good old Sams—Sam, Sam the traveling man. And it was a short wait. There were two motor homes already there, one a cheap C class, the bed over the cab of the truck, the other one a big diesel pusher. Its owner, returning from the rest room, stopped just short of where Roy leaned over the truck’s fender.

  “What’s the problem?” The speaker wore chinos, dress shirt, and a navy windbreaker. Kind of natty, Roy thought, trim and fit. Sort of broke the mold, not all that dufferlike, guy still had some juice.

  Roy extracted himself from under the hood. “Not sure. Doesn’t seem to be getting gas.”

  The man stood on the sidewalk, away from the truck, looking thoughtful. Roy could see that he wanted to help, but he was hesitant. The truck was thick with dust, and Roy realized he hadn’t washed up since early that morning.

  “Hell of a time for it to quit on me.” He shook his head in disgust. “I’ve got a claim over in the Panamints, trying to get to a friend’s wedding in L.A. tomorrow. Should’ve allowed more time. Supposed to meet him tonight and get cleaned up.” Roy smiled. “Can’t go to a wedding looking like a desert rat.”

  The man stepped off the curb. “What do you mine for?”

  Roy grinned. “Gold.” He held up his hand. “It’s not the mother lode, but it’s a living. And my boss don’t drive me too hard.”

  “No kidding. Didn’t know there was still gold around here.”

  Good old gold. Lights people’s eyes right up. “Oh yeah, lots of it. You driving north or south?”

  “North. Heading up to Reno.”

  “Well then, you went through Randsburg, one of the biggest gold-mining operations in the state.” Roy thumped the flashlight into the palm of his hand and shook it. “Damn flashlight went out on me.”

  “Let’s take it over to my rig.” The man gestured toward the large, sleek motor home, one of the expensive ones built on a bus chassis. Things were looking up, looking like cash money.

  “I’ve got a flashlight I can let you have if we can’t fix yours. Tell you what. I’ll pull the motor home in next to your truck. That way, I can run a light with an extension cord. Take a look and see if we can figure it out.”

  “Hey, that’d be great.”

  Roy watched the man trot back to the motor home and disappear through a side door. The huge vehicle lumbered back into the drive-around, and then the driver expertly slid it alongside the truck. The side door opened again and the man waved Roy over. “Come on in.”

  Roy stepped into the posh surroundings of a small living room—thick blue carpeting, matching overstuffed couch and chairs, and a large-screen TV. Definitely big bucks. A small blond woman at least twenty years younger than her companion turned away from the television to look at them. Her features were sharp and her eyes probing. She regarded Roy with obvious distaste.

  “This is my wife, Cynthia, and I’m Ken Robertson.” He held out his hand.

  Roy smiled and took the outthrust hand, just like shaking with old Randy. “Pleased to meet you both. I’m Roy Miller, and I sure do appreciate your help.”

  29

  Frank huddled in the shelter of the old-fashioned phone booth, one of the three amenities in Olancha, the other two being a gas station and a restaurant. With the door shut against the wind, he could make himself heard. Dave Meecham seemed unable to grasp the facts as Frank had presented them.

  “You sure they’re dead, Frank? Both of them?”

  “As sure as I can be.�
�

  “What about the other guy, the redheaded one?”

  “Jason. Yes, I think he was killed by the fall. Roy Miller was there. When he saw Jason, he came after me. If Jason had been alive, I think he would’ve stayed to help him.” A blast of wind rocked the phone booth, blowing dust and grit under the door. Frank stood there, bathed in the purplish glare of the station’s pole light. “He’s still up there. I disabled his truck.”

  “Disabled his truck? That’s a bad place to be stranded, Frank.”

  “I left a jug of water, but that’s not the point. The point is that he’s a killer. He was out to kill me. He kills people.”

  “Listen, Frank, I want you to meet me at the office at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. In the meantime, go home.” Meecham paused. Frank thought he knew what was coming. “And Frank, consider yourself suspended with pay until we clear all this up.” He hurried on, not giving Frank a chance to respond. “I’ll get a hold of Bob Dewey over at the Sheriff’s Department.” Frank winced. Lieutenant Dewey considered the law-enforcement part of the BLM a joke, and he let it show.

  “They’ll wait for daylight before heading out,” Meecham said.

  “How will they know where to go?”

  “I’ll send Sierra and Wilson along to help out. They know the area. They’ll be fine.”

  “Dave …”

  “No, Frank, there’s no way you’re going. The Inyo Sheriff’s Department thinks you’re a loose cannon and maybe a guy with a grudge against poachers.” Meecham dropped his voice. “Sometimes you step over the line, Frank. Since you and Deputy Harris picked up Donald Miller’s body—he’s the other brother, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Since that little expedition, Harris has been having a field day making fun of BLM detective work. Sorry, Frank, but over there, you’re Inspector Butt Print, and we’re the other assholes.”

  “Well they can stuff it, Dave.” Anger flooded through him in a hot flush. “Fat-ass squad-car cop couldn’t wipe himself in the dark. Harris can put it where the sun doesn’t shine—that is, if he can find it.” The words gushed out, washing the flash of rage away in a torrent of invective.

  “Got that off your chest now?”

  “Yeah, okay. You’re right. I’m hollering at the wrong guy.” He sighed into the phone. “It’s been a long day.”

  “Yeah, I can imagine.” The concern in Meecham’s voice was genuine. “Now listen to me carefully, Frank. I’m talking to you as your friend, not your boss. Harris and some of the others think you’re a bit strange, overhyped on protecting the sheep, overhyped about killers wandering the desert. What I’m saying is, they could start looking at you, looking at you for taking out these guys because you think they’re bad guys.”

  “Come on, Dave.” He felt a sinking in his stomach. He’d been here before. He didn’t quite fit, and there was always a price to be paid for not fitting. A wave of exhaustion passed over him. He felt boneweary and discouraged. What did it take? Did someone need a picture of the Millers setting something on fire, beating someone to death?

  “Frank, I know it’s bullshit, but I want to be sure there’s no way we can be seen as covering up, so Sierra and Wilson go.” Frank heard Meecham’s voice coming from the phone, sounding like it was a million miles away. “And Frank”—Meecham gave a short chuckle—“this time, Sierra and Wilson are on the corpse detail. Think about it.”

  Frank thought about it. Sierra was uncommonly squeamish, didn’t like to look at dead animals, much less touch them. Just the sight of blood made him queasy. And Wilson hated physical labor. He was more than just lazy, never rinsed out his cup, couldn’t be bothered to pick up trash. Mainly, he liked chatting up the tourists. Mr. Charm. The corners of Frank’s mouth turned down in a thin smile. “Thanks, Dave.” Meecham was okay. “Oh, another thing. I was supposed to give a walk and talk—”

  “I took it, Frank. They were hanging around the lawn waiting for you to show up. So I gave you a half hour, and then we went down to the kilns.”

  “I owe you one.”

  “You owe me more than one, amigo. By the way, you turning prima donna on me? Got your own little fan club, huh? That Rockford woman, the one from the college, she starts in bitching ’cause you’re not leading the talk. Wants to know where you are. Oh, and you’d better get in touch with that Reyes—uh, that Linda Reyes—she sounded worried, like she might start a search party of her own.”

  “You talked to Linda?”

  “I called her this afternoon, looking for you. She asked a lot of questions about where you might be. Smart lady. But I could hear the worry.”

  “My next phone call. And thanks again, Dave.”

  “Por nada. And don’t go off getting into anything. Tomorrow morning, we’ll sort this out.”

  “Miller’s van is at the mouth of the canyon. There was bedding in the van, and I left a half-full gallon jug of water, so Miller should be nearby. And Dave, tell Sierra and Wilson to be very careful. Roy Miller kills people.”

  Linda didn’t pick up his cell phone at the caboose. He figured she must have gone directly home or gone home after checking his place. Meecham said he’d called her that afternoon, trying to find out why the hell he hadn’t shown up for his walk and talk. He dialed the number of the Joshua Tree Athletic Club, and she picked up on the first ring, her voice tense and hurried.

  “It’s me, Frank.” He sounded oddly mechanical.

  “Oh my God, are you okay? Where the hell have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”

  More worry than anger, that’s good, he thought. “It’s a long story, but I’m okay.” He could hear her muffled voice telling someone, “It’s him. He’s okay.” Then he heard her breathing through the phone, waiting for him to go on, tell her what had happened. Habits of a good reporter—regaining control, ready to listen.

  “I spent the day with Roy Miller, sort of by accident—he, uh, thought I was Eddie Laguna. So we went up in the canyon to wait for Dr. Sorensen, the poacher—only he didn’t show up.”

  “Jesus Frank, what the hell happened?”

  “I had to kill somebody.” He felt his voice stick in his throat. “Left him at the bottom of a mine shaft. Not even sure he was dead.”

  He could hear voices in the background. He waited, listening to the wind and the faraway sounds in the Joshua Tree Athletic Club.

  “Come to the club. I’m taking care of the bar, Frank. Dad and his friends are getting ready to—never mind that stuff. We’ll talk and grill some steaks. Tonight’s grill your own. There’re some filets left and mushrooms and onions. Jan’s been here since six o’clock, and Jimmy Tecopa. They’ve been waiting here in case you called. You better get here before everyone gets drunk.”

  He swallowed against the wave of emotion that choked off his voice.

  “Frank, are you there? Can you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, are you going to be able to come? Say yes, Frank.”

  “Yes,” he said. He could manage that much.

  Frank pulled his beloved truck up near Linda’s cabin, hoping people wouldn’t hear his arrival. He hated being at the center of things, and he knew they were all waiting for him to show up and tell his story. He stepped out and carefully pushed the door closed to avoid the telltale thump.

  “Hiya there, Flynnman.” Linda stood silhouetted in the light coming from the side door to the club’s kitchen.

  “How’d you know I was here?” He looked past her and checked around the building for well-meaning friends lurking in the shadows.

  “I was watching through the kitchen window. Sort of figured you’d go for a soft landing.” She started across the gravel, closing the distance between them.

  “God, it’s good to hear your voice.” He took her into his arms. “And smell your hair.” They stood holding each other in silence.

  Then she said, “You could’ve heard my voice sooner if you’d carry your cell phone.” She pushed back from him. “How does Dave Meecham d
eal with that?”

  “It’s a long story.” He grinned. “The thing is, I’m here now. And …” He held up his hand. “I’ve got a couple of cans and some string, so we can always be in contact.”

  “Not funny, Frank. I tried to call you—a bunch of times.” She dropped her voice. “Mitch and Shawna were burned to death in their trailer. It was no accident. It was them.”

  “What? When did this happen?”

  “They think it was sometime yesterday.” Her voice was muted.

  He shook his head slowly. “God, what a shame.” His face creased in a thoughtful frown. “I can’t figure out what makes him tick.” He spoke softly. “Something’s missing inside.” He looked up. “But two of them are gone, and they should have Roy Miller soon. I fixed his van so it wouldn’t run.”

  “Oh Frank, I’ve been so worried. It could’ve been you.” She paused, her voice hardening. “Damn it, carry your phone, okay!”

  He pulled her to him again. “I will. You’re right. I wasn’t thinking about other folks.” He rocked her gently. “Being alone all the time, you forget about others.” He tipped up her face. “I won’t forget.” He kissed her softly. “You can count on it.” A slow grin spread across his face. “Besides, I know better than to come between a reporter and her story. Hell hath no fury like a reporter scooped.”

  She punched him none too gently in his abdomen. “That’s the truth, Flynnman. Don’t ever forget it.”

  “Hey, there you are—and there’s Frank.” Jack turned and shouted back through the open door. “Just hang on a moment. They’re both out here.”

  “Looks like we gotta go to the party,” she said, loudly enough to be heard.

  “Yup.” He leaned down. “But for now, I’m telling them that things worked out. Everything’s okay. That’s it.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll run some interference.” She dropped her voice. “Besides, tonight I want you to myself.” She squeezed his arm.