by D P Lyle
His foothold slipped, but he quickly jammed the toe of his boot back into the crevice.
He looked over his shoulder, toward his pursuers, just in time to see the muzzle flash. The bullet struck inches from his head. Ice shards stung his face and neck.
The ice creaked and groaned. A fissure, jagged, deep, erupted before his face. Another creak, a groan, a sharp crack, and, with a rush, he fell.
The ice, no longer his savior, was now his enemy. An enemy that would crush him in matter of seconds if he didn’t break free. With what strength remained in his arms and legs, he shoved himself away from the icy mass as both accelerated toward the water below.
Chapter 3
Must be 35 out Lloyd Varney thought as he sat behind the wheel of his pick-up truck. Rather cold for June but the past week had been one of those cloudy, drizzly spells that frequently visited these mountains, even in summer. An hour and a half earlier, he had parked on Fourth Avenue, inching up to its intersection with Main Street. From this vantage point, he possessed a clear view of the front of his store, a half block away and across the street.
He considered cranking up the windows to knock back some of the chill, but decided against it. He needed his ears as well as his eyes if he was going to catch the thief.
He took another bite of the ham he had layered inside a tall, fluffy biscuit. Crumbs tumbled across the front of his down vest and fell onto the wrinkled, grease-stained waxed paper on his lap. A lick and a jab collected the larger tidbits on his fingertip. He shoved them into his mouth and continued to chew.
God, he loved Louise’s biscuits.
That’s why he married her. Or so his standard tease went. To which, Louise would reply, “You married me because nobody else would have you.” Their banter always brought chuckles from anyone who knew them.
He took another bite, tearing the ham with his teeth, showering more biscuit crumbs onto his lap.
Louise would fuss at him tomorrow for taking the biscuits and ham rather than the apples and oranges she kept in the wooden bowl on the kitchen counter, easily seen, easily reached. She would poke a finger at the roll that lapped over his belt and call him “Doughboy.” Yet secretly, he knew she loved that he relished her cooking.
He washed down the last of the biscuit with a slug of the coffee he had poured from his thermos. The hot liquid, bolstered by a shot of Jack Daniel's from the pint bottle he had slipped into his pocket before leaving home, warmed his belly. Louise would fuss about that, too. Not, the coffee, the whiskey. But, if he had to sit here on a cold vinyl seat half the night, he deserved a little nip. Or two.
Hunching forward in the seat, he cradled the coffee cup with both hands, his breath momentarily fogging the windshield.
Lloyd owned and operated Varney’s General Merchandise in the heart of downtown Gold Creek, Colorado. He had done so since he opened the doors 42 years earlier, three months before he and Louise were married. He had been 22, Louise 18.
He was proud of what they had created together. Their store sat wedged between Mama Rose’s Bistro and the Gold Creek Bank and was the second tallest building in town, not counting the steeple of the hundred-year-old church, a block behind him, on Church Street. The three-story Begley Hotel was taller by four feet.
Varney’s possessed two levels. The upper floor housed a storage area and a makeshift, free-to-the-public mining museum. Hard hats, lanterns, pick-axes, and the like filled shelves and glass cases. Each piece had seen service in one or more of the thousands of mines that wormed into the surrounding San Juan Mountains and had been donated by miners forced to find other work when the last of the mines closed a decade earlier. Each dark, damp shaft an ode to the government’s interference in the gold and silver trade.
Lloyd and Louise had carefully cataloged every piece on the off chance the mines, still rich in gold, silver, and uranium, might reopen. In which case, each item would be returned to its original owner for the asking.
The business occupied the first floor. Tools, clothes, camping gear, canned goods, tourist trinkets, and hundreds of other items filled shelves, racks, and tables. Two large picture windows faced Main Street.
In 42 years, he had had a few minor thefts. Kids pocketing candy or soda or cigarettes. Maybe a tee shirt or a cap. He always scolded the ones he caught, but could never bring himself to tell their parents. After all, he too had done such things as a boy.
But, over the past six weeks, someone had broken in three times and taken expensive items. Camping gear, down jackets, boots, tools, and food items. Always on a Saturday night when the thefts would not likely be discovered until Sunday afternoon. Typically he opened for business at 8 a.m., but on Sundays not until after church.
Changing the locks hadn’t helped. The thief managed to pick his way in anyway. The alarm system he had ordered from Denver wouldn’t be delivered for another two weeks.
So, here he sat, freezing his butt off, waiting for a thief that might or might not show. He rubbed his sleepy eyes with the heels of his hands and stifled a yawn.
His old nickel-plated Smith and Wesson snub-nosed .38, which he hadn’t fired in over 20 years, was wedged against his right thigh. He knew he wouldn’t need to use it. Just waving it around would get the thief’s attention. He had considered not loading it, but had anyway. Just in case.
Of course, Police Chief Forrest Wade knew about the thefts and had promised “to keep an eye on things,” but Lloyd didn’t believe that. Wade was nice enough, just not overly enthusiastic about law enforcement, which was fine since Gold Creek rarely needed any laws enforced. By this time of night, Wade would have already knocked back a couple of bourbons and be sound asleep in his city-paid apartment above the police station two blocks up the street.
Besides, Varney’s General Merchandise wasn’t successful because Lloyd waited for someone else to work the counter, stock the shelves, or sweep the sidewalk out front. Except for Louise that is. And if his store needed protecting, then he was the one to do it.
Louise wouldn’t join him on this adventure, however. “You’re not a cop, you old fool,” she told him as he buttoned his flannel shirt and tugged on his down vest. “You’ve been watching too much TV. Let Wade take care of this. That’s what he gets paid for.” She let him go anyway, but only if he promised to call at midnight and be home by 2 a.m., regardless.
She didn’t know about the gun.
He refilled his cup from the thermos. After adding a shot of Jack Daniel's, he blew across the steaming brew and took a careful sip.
He glanced at the dash clock. Ten till midnight. Time to stroll over to the pay phone at the Shell station and check in with Louise. He placed the cup on the truck’s dash, but as he reached for the door handle he saw something. A shadow, moving in the alley that ran between his store and the bank. He froze, his gaze locked on the dark gap. One minute, two minutes. Nothing.
Was it his imagination? The bourbon? He’d only had one shot and as cold as it was felt absolutely no effect from it. Better check it out, he thought, rather than sit here and have someone rob him right under his nose.
The truck’s dome light startled him when he pushed open the door. He jumped out and eased it closed, the latch catching with a soft click. In the night air, it sounded to him like a whip cracking. He ducked behind the truck and peeked over the hood.
Fearful the thief might have seen the light or heard the door snapping shut, he dropped to one knee and waited, but saw no further signs of an intruder. Standing, he reached through the open window, grabbed his gun, stuffed it in his vest pocket, and hurried across the street.
Staying close to the buildings, he moved quietly along the sidewalk, past Mama Rose’s, and peered through the corner of one of the large front windows of his store. The ornate copper street lamps, which lined Main Street, cast only a meager glow through the glass. He looked beyond the checkout counter in front and into the darker recesses of his store.
He saw no one. Nothing appeared out of place. The store seem
ed to be asleep, which was what he should be doing instead of playing private eye. He was tired and cold and his plan to catch the thief seemed lamer by the minute.
As he stepped back and began to turn toward his truck, the soft ping of metal against metal stopped him. Then, a dark shadow caught his eye. He ducked behind the window frame.
All his doubts evaporated.
Someone was inside, in the back corner, beyond the racks of parkas and rain gear, beyond the display tables stacked with sweaters and work shirts. After 42 years, Lloyd knew every square inch of his business. The thief stood near the back wall where an array of shovels, axes, and walking sticks hung from a peg-board display. Again, he heard a soft metallic ping as the thief lifted something from its perch.
The intruder appeared large. Very large. At least six-two, he would guess. And thick. Definitely not kids. In fact, the only person he knew who was that size was Billy Bear Wingo. But, that made no sense. Why would Billy steal from him? Billy was practically family and could have anything he needed anytime he wanted. Besides, this person’s movements didn’t look like Billy. His shoulders appeared more rounded, more slumped. But then, he couldn’t see him all that well.
Maybe he should call Chief Wade. He glanced to his left, toward the pay phone at the Shell station. Or he could simply walk the block and a half to Wade’s apartment. But, by the time Wade rolled out of bed and got down here, the thief might be gone.
Besides, if it was Billy, better not to drag Wade into it. Wade and Billy didn’t get along as it was.
Lloyd slipped into the dark narrow passage between his store and Mama Rose’s. The pungent aromas of decaying onions and garlic and grease from the cluster of trashcans that sat behind the restaurant greeted him as he peered around the corner into the alley that ran behind the businesses. Seeing no one, he circled behind his store and crept along the far wall to the side door, the entry the thief had used each time.
Chapter 4
Deputy Samantha Cody guided her Jeep through the twists and turns of Colorado’s Highway 550, the famous San Juan Skyway. In the darkness, she could see none of the incredible scenery that made this route so popular with tourists. To her, the two-lane blacktop highway seemed to be a serpentine version of old Route 66, which marked the southern edge of her hometown, a California high desert speck on the map called Mercer’s Corner.
Each road was famous, even though interstate highway now replaced most of Route 66. To Sam, both were dangerous stretches of asphalt that Mother Nature had chewed into submission. The murderous heat of summer and the torrential rains of winter continually assaulted the portion of Route 66 that she patrolled on a regular basis, while, for the San Juan Skyway, the rains of summer and the bitter cold and heavy snows of winter did the damage. Pock marked, cracked, and tortuous, 550 proved to be an even more fatiguing drive.
In the halo of the Jeep’s headlights, she could barely see the road’s tattered edge as it wound its way upward between a wall of mountain rock to her right and a 500-foot shear drop to her left. Every sudden hairpin turn and rock outcropping that jumped at her from the darkness gave her a start. More than once, she envisioned a plunge over the edge and into a black void. It was all she could do to concentrate on the centerline that continually slid beneath the left fender. A line so faded that she could not determine if it had originally been yellow or white. It seemed more an apparition than a reality.
She yawned and rubbed one eye with the back of her hand.
Last night’s boxing match in Las Vegas had worn her out. And sitting behind the wheel of her Jeep for the past 12 hours had added its own brand of stiffness to her muscles. Her shoulders, arms, back, and legs ached, a deep burning ache. Flu-like, only worse.
Her face was tender and even in the weak dashboard lights the bruise that had blossomed beneath her left eye was clearly visible. She could still feel the blow. A cobra like overhand right landed by Marta Sanchez in the third round. Damn that woman could hit. She had seen it coming, but couldn’t deflect or slip it quickly enough. Her knees had buckled and she nearly dropped to the canvas.
Her first two professional fights had been easy, both first round KOs. But last night, before an unruly crowd at Caesar’s Palace, the scheduled four rounder nearly went the distance and she could have suffered her first loss. The fight was too close to call.
And last night, for the first time, she questioned the wisdom of choosing boxing as an avocational pursuit.
She and Marta had waged a war of jabs and hooks and body shots and pain, with neither gaining the upper hand. Then late in the fourth round, Sam caught the stocky, rock hard Marta with a clean left-right-left combination and staggered her. Mustering what little strength she still possessed, Sam attacked furiously and finally put Marta down and out with a wide left hook.
Though she ached all over, her swollen and bruised knuckles were the worst. It became increasingly difficult to grip the steering wheel. She alternated hands, allowing one to rest in her lap, while the other throbbed through each turn. She fidgeted and shifted in her seat more and more with each passing mile, seeking a position that would ease the knots in her back and shoulders.
The road slipped away from the shear cliff and flattened as it snaked across a forested mesa. Ahead, Sam could faintly make out snow-capped peaks that seemed to hang above the trees in the black sky.
Alyss had said Gold Creek was a little over 20 miles south of Montrose. It seemed to her that she had passed through the flat, featureless town long ago. The dashboard clock indicated it had only been a half hour. Finally, her headlights caught the road sign:
GOLD CREEK 2 MILES
She slowed. Alyss had also said the road to Gold Creek was about a half mile past the sign and that the marker indicating the turn-off had long since disappeared and had not been replaced.
Of course, she should have arrived hours ago. She had intended to leave Las Vegas early, but by the time she and Nathan struggled out of bed, ate breakfast, packed, and checked out of Caesar’s Palace, it was noon. She called Alyss to tell her she would be late, and then saw her trainer Jimmy Ryker off on his way back to Mercer’s Corner. After dropping Nathan at the airport so he could fly to New York to cover an alien abduction, or a three-headed baby, or whatever story he was chasing for his tabloid, “Straight Story,” she climbed on I-15 and headed east.
She spotted the turn and wheeled on to the two-lane blacktop that led to Gold Creek. An audible sigh of relief escaped.
It would be good to see Alyss. How long had it been? Three years? Seemed longer. They talked on the phone occasionally and even though Mercer’s Corner was only a couple of hours from Alyss’ former home in LA, they never seemed to find the time to get together. That’s what happens when making a living gets in the way of living. The 9 to 5, or in the case of a cop the 24/7 eats up your life, saps your energy, dulls your senses. Add to that the Richard Earl Garrett case, her blossoming boxing career, and the gorgeous Nathan Klimek and a trip to LA moved down her list of priorities. Now, that Alyss had moved three states away, Sam finally decided to visit.
The narrow, two-lane road wound downward through a deep notch in the mountains. As she rounded a curve, the steep slopes seemed to melt away and a narrow valley opened before her. The soft lights of the town came into view. The road descended into the mouth of the valley and became Main Street, which carried her into the heart of downtown Gold Creek. A sign of dark wood with yellow block lettering peeked from beneath a large spruce tree and announced: “Welcome to Gold Creek, Population 821, Elevation 6243 Feet.”
The town appeared to be about six blocks long with well-preserved buildings, standing shoulder to shoulder along each side of the wide street. It was exactly as Alyss had described. Quaint, rustic, clean.
Ornate, oxidized copper lamps lined the sidewalks and cast more mood than light from their perches on black wrought iron poles. Though electric, their soft golden glow created the illusion that they might be gas lamps. No traffic signals disturbed the sereni
ty. To Sam, the scene looked like a hundred year old sepia print. She half expected to see a horse drawn carriage come down the street.
But, the town slept. That peaceful slumber reserved for small isolated communities, which like sated cats curled up early and dozed unmolested.
Chapter 5
Lloyd eased up to the door, which stood slightly ajar, and carefully pushed it open. Its ancient hinges released a soft groan. He froze. The shuffling of feet and the scraping of metal hangers on racks came at him from the far back corner of the store where the darkness thickened.
He stepped through the door, his heart hammering an incessant rhythm. The odor of Mama Rose’s trashcans followed him from the alleyway, except now, inside, it was even stronger. And it took on a different character. Mustier, more unpleasant.
Sweat erupted on his forehead and he wiped moisture from his hand on his pant leg. He grasped the .38, but as he attempted to pull it from his pocket, the hammer caught on the edge. He yanked but it wouldn’t come free. Fear gripped him as he envisioned the intruder, leaping from the shadows to attack him. Heat swelled in his chest. Again, he tugged on the weapon and mercifully it slipped free.
His breath came in heavy gasps as he waved the .38 toward the dense shadows.
“Who’s there?” he said, his voice cracking. Attempting to sound more forceful, more in control, he repeated, “Who’s there?”
Again he heard shuffling footsteps and saw the top of the intruder’s head, moving toward the front of the store, staying low behind a table piled with woolen sweaters and corduroy pants.
“Billy?” Lloyd said. “Is that you?”
The man stopped, dropped from sight behind a rack of jackets.
“Billy?”
No response. No movement.
“Who are you?”
The intruder remained silent.