Double Blind

by D P Lyle

  “Hey,” Burt yelled.

  Billy stopped, a startled look on his face. He took a step back toward the trees.

  “Don’t move,” Burt shouted as he pulled his rifle from its scabbard and levered a shell into the chamber.

  Billy turned and ran toward the thick spruces.

  Burt raised the rifle to his shoulder, calmly followed Billy’s retreat, and squeezed the trigger. The roar echoed off the rocks; Billy staggered, fell, scrambled to his feet and disappeared into the trees.

  Burt spurred Allegro up the slope, the others right behind him. As they approached the mine, the form became a horse, dead, lying on its side. They continued past, toward where Billy had run.

  “I think I nicked him,” Burt said.

  “You sure did,” Eloy said, pointing to the rocks where several drops of blood were visible. “And there.” Blood painted the branches of an elderberry bush.

  The men fanned out and eased into the forest. They circled the area, explored rocky crevices, scanned the trees above them but found no sign of Billy. After twenty minutes they regrouped.

  “That son-of-a-bitch can hide anywhere up here,” Burt said. “Let’s go back and check out the mine. Maybe that’s where he was holed up.”

  He whipped Allegro around and returned to the Old Watkin’s Mine.

  “Jesus,” Burt said as he jumped from his horse and stood beside the carcass. Two large chunks of flesh had been cut from its shoulder and flank.

  “Looks like that calf,” Eloy said, stating the obvious. His head swiveled around, nervously scanning in every direction.

  Wade peered into the mine. “Walt? You in there?” he shouted. The darkness seemed to devour his voice. He ducked beneath a cracked and splintered cross beam, which had once supported the entrance, but now seemed to grip the rocks as if fearful of its own collapse.

  Burt removed a flashlight from his saddlebag and followed Wade into the mine. Inside the temperature dropped at least twenty degrees. He panned the light across the walls and ceiling. Moisture dampened every surface and water dripping from cracks above them. Ahead, the shaft divided. They followed the right fork, the larger of the two. Soon it too split.

  “Which way you think?” Wade asked.

  “I don’t have a clue,” Burt said. He swept the circle of light first down one shaft and then the other.

  As the light stabbed into the left shaft, Wade grabbed his arm. “What’s that?”

  Burt directed the light into the darkness, down along the floor. Several small pools of water were visible. They appeared as dark and black as an oil slick. Except one. A larger pool, near the wall, reflected a hint of maroon back toward them. A few feet beyond lay the body of Walt Packer.

  Carlos and Eloy carried Walt’s corpse out into the light, laid him on the rocks, and backed away as if standing too close would cause them a similar harm. Carlos crossed himself while muttering a brief prayer in Spanish.

  Burt looked down at the body and released a long slow breath. A gray face, a mouth locked in a grimace, and two dead eyes stared back. The scalp covering the back of his head displayed a jagged wound as if struck by some heavy object.

  Burt said, “Any more doubts about who’s behind all this?”

  Wade shook his head. “None.”

  Wade puffed on a fresh cigarette and watched while Eloy and Carlos rolled Walt’s body into another blanket and strapped it across Eloy’s horse. He then turned toward the carcass of the horse and shook his head. “Don’t make sense.”

  “What doesn’t?” Burt asked.

  “This.” He nodded toward the dead animal. “Why would he do that?

  “I don’t know. We can ask him after we find him.”

  Wade exhaled heavily. “Won’t be easy.”

  “Maybe,” Burt said. “Maybe not. Let’s get Walt and Ted out of here and I’ll call Murph. His dogs will find him.”

  Chapter 32

  Sam had awakened early and slipped on a pair of black Lycra shorts, sports bra, a gray Everlast tee shirt, and her New Balance running shoes. Careful not to awaken Alyss and Shelby, she headed out the front door and across the rolling terrain, eastward, deeper into the valley. She had run easily for the first mile, then kicked up the pace for the next two, before slowing again.

  The sun still nestled behind the deep purple mountains and brightly gilded their edges. Its glow bled into the eastern sky, giving it a warm golden hue. The slightest hint of evergreen laced the air.

  Her route took her across Billy’s land and near his ranch house. She stopped where the trail crossed the dirt drive that rose from Gold Creek Road and wound up the gentle slope toward the modest weather worn, gray wooden structure. Its single stone chimney emitted no smoke and no lights were on as far as she could tell. Billy’s red pick-up sat in front.

  She jogged up the drive. Three sagging wooden steps led to a wide covered porch. A rocker and two pairs of scuffed and tattered boots sat near the front door.

  Nailed to the wall, a hand painted sign said: “If I Don’t Answer, I Ain’t Here.”

  She rapped on the door. No answer.

  She peeked through the front window into a dark and quiet interior. No sign of Billy. She jumped off the porch and circled to the rear of the house where a neat stack of firewood huddled near the rear door. Still no Billy.

  She guessed her chat with him would have to wait. Not that she knew what she wanted to talk about anyway. Maybe she needed to reassure herself of Billy’s innocence. Put her remaining uncertainty to rest. Every time her mind tossed around the evidence, a knot wound up in her stomach. It didn’t look good. Then she would picture Billy, go over their conversations, listen to her gut feelings, and would dismiss the evidence as totally circumstantial.

  Maybe it was simply that she liked Billy. Wanted to know him better. Wanted to help him. One thing was certain, she wasn’t going to be Wade’s spy.

  She knelt, retied a loose shoelace, and then resumed her run. The trail looped across Billy’s land to a three-stranded barbed wire fence that demarcated Burt Eagan’s property. White metal signs with “No Trespassing” stenciled in red hung from the upper strand at regular intervals. As the trail turned down the slope toward Gold Creek Road, she slowed to a walk.

  The sun, having completed its climb up the eastern slopes, peeked into the valley, its sudden brightness causing her to shield her eyes. From this vantage point, she could see that Casa Grande dominated the valley. The expansive mansion, perched high on the northeastern slopes, looked over the ranch. Beneath it, in the deepest part of the valley, she could just make out the roof to Burt’s lab. She looked to the west, toward town, and then back to Casa Grande. Burt did own most of the valley and had created a private enclave by positioning his home and lab far from town.

  She flashed on something her father had once told her: “Money can only buy you two things, Freedom and privacy. Freedom from want, freedom to do what you want, and the privacy to keep other people from complaining about it.” Of course, he never had much money and spent most of his life working for someone who did.

  She kicked her pace back up to a jog and followed the trail, which veered down the slope and paralleled the fence until it reached Gold Creek Road. She turned west, toward home, hugging the left edge of the asphalt.

  Jogging easily, she watched as a hawk cut through the air above her, its dark silhouette sharp against the brightening sky. Though it was surely hunting, it did so with little urgency, seeming to prefer a lazy ride on the mountain currents.

  Soon, Alyss’ B and B came into view and she picked up her pace. Before turning up the gravel drive, she heard a vehicle approaching from behind. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Burt’s Range Rover coming down the road toward her. The headlights flashed. She stopped and waited.

  Burt drove; Wade sat in the passenger’s seat. The truck eased off the road and came to a stop near her.

  “Good Morning,” she said. “How’re you doing today?”

  “Not well,” Burt
said. “Two of my guys were murdered. Their bodies are in the back.” He jerked his head toward the rear of the vehicle.

  “What?” Sam said, unsure she had understood what he said.

  “Ted Smyth and Walt Packer. Looks like Billy killed them.”

  Sam stepped toward the back of the SUV and looked into the rear cargo area, cupping her hands around her eyes to block the reflection of the sky and the mountains. Two bodies, rolled in blankets, lay side by side. She returned to the driver’s window, and looked at Burt. “How do you know it was Billy?”

  Wade leaned forward to look past Burt at Sam. “We saw him near where we found the bodies. Burt winged him.”

  “Winged?”

  “Yeah,” Burt said. “Not enough to stop him though.”

  Sam couldn’t believe what she heard. Two bodies. Billy shot. “Where is he?”

  “We lost him,” Wade said.

  “And last night he torched my stables,” Burt said.

  “I don’t believe it,” Sam said.

  Wade shrugged. “Left his boot prints all over the place.”

  Sam’s head spun. This was too much. It made no sense. She looked Wade in the eye. “Why?”

  “That’s the million dollar question, I guess,” Wade said.

  “Hop in,” Burt said. “We’re taking the bodies to the hospital morgue. I’ll explain everything on the way.”

  Sam slipped into the back seat, eying the bodies behind her.

  During the five-minute drive to the hospital, Burt told her everything that had happened over the past 12 hours. The horse returning alone. The fire. The finding of the bodies and his wounding Billy. Returning to Casa Grande and loading the bodies into the Range Rover. She heard the words, understood them, but could make no sense of what Burt said. It was simply too bizarre to comprehend.

  *

  Burt parked near the emergency room ramp and they walked inside. Two nurses and a pair of orderlies rolled stretchers out to the Range Rover, loaded the bodies, and wheeled them inside. Doctor Beth Hartsman, who was seeing one of her patients in the ER, made the official death pronouncements.

  “We’ll get them down to the morgue,” Beth said. She looked at Wade. “I assume they’ll be shipped off to Abe Summers for posting?”

  “Yep,” Wade said. “I’ll call and give him a heads up.”

  Sam, Wade, and Burt walked outside. She looked at Burt. “I can’t believe Billy did this?”

  “Believe it,” Burt said. “He tried to run when we found him. That’s why I had to shoot him.”

  “Running doesn’t make him guilty. I’d do the same if someone pointed a gun at me.”

  “What’s it going to take for you to see the truth?” Burt asked.

  Billy’s words about the different types of truths in Gold Creek echoed in her head. “Which truth is that?”

  “The one that says Billy’s a violent person. That he’s capable of crushing someone’s skull with a single blow. That he’s now hiding out in these hills to escape paying for his crimes. What will it take for you to see all that?”

  “I’d have to hear it from Billy.”

  Burt shook his head, rolled his eyes. “You’re the stubbornest woman I’ve ever met.”

  “I hear that a lot.” Sam turned to Wade. “Now what?”

  “We’re going to go and try to find Billy,” Wade said.

  “And if you do. What then?”

  “Depends on him, I guess,” Wade said. “Arrest him unless he puts up a fight.”

  “You think you can find him up there?” Sam said. She shielded the sun from her eyes with one hand as she looked east toward the mountains.

  Wade’s gaze paralleled hers. “Won’t be easy. But, Burt nicked him earlier and that should slow him down a bit. And Hollis is calling Jake Murphy. Murph’s got some tracking dogs.”

  “I see.”

  Burt and Wade climbed back into the Range Rover. “Want us to drop you back by Alyss’?” Burt asked.

  Sam jumped into the back seat. “I’d rather go with you. Maybe I can help.”

  Wade cast a glance at Burt and then said, “Sure. I guess we can use all the help we can get. And for whatever reason, Billy seems to listen to you. When we do find him, maybe you can talk some sense into him.” He turned in his seat to face her. “But, I’m in charge. Clear?”

  “Of course. I’m just part of the posse.”

  Burt looked at her in the rear view mirror. “You might want to change clothes.”

  *

  Sam jumped out of the Range Rover and ran inside the Aspen Creek Inn. Alyss was in the kitchen preparing breakfast. Sam left Burt to explain things to Alyss while she took a quick shower and put on jeans, a black long-sleeved pullover, and boots. She snapped her gun to her belt, nesting it against the small of her back, and pulled on her jacket.

  When she returned to the kitchen, Burt and Wade were finishing cups of coffee. She grabbed two pieces of toast and a bottle of orange juice on the way out, promising to call Alyss as soon as she knew something.

  By the time they arrived at Casa Grande, Hollis, Eloy, Carlos, and Jake Murphy with two bloodhounds tugging at their leashes were waiting. Eloy’s eyes widened when he saw Sam. One eye pointed into space but the other one, the business one Sam guessed, coursed over her. She felt them more than saw them, keeping her eyes away from him, not wanting to give him even the slightest encouragement. But out of the corner of her eye, she saw his stance, the tilt of his head, his entire body language undressing her.

  Get a life, Eloy.

  Burt introduced Sam to Murph. He was small and wiry, with a thick mustache that drooped below his chin. A cigar stub, more chewed than smoked, protruded from the corner of his mouth. “Pleased to meet you,” he said as he pumped her hand. “This here’s Lady and Tramp.” He nodded toward the dogs.

  Not knowing which was which, Sam just returned his nod and smiled. “Beautiful animals.”

  “They can track a flea across the Mojave,” Murph said, chest pushed out, chin thrust forward in a manner that ended any arguments Sam might want to make.

  “Let’s get going,” Burt said.

  Chapter 33

  “Red-headed twins?” a shocked Liam MacCorkell had said. Not shocked that his wife Jane had had twins. That they had expected. But, red hair? He groaned, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  The doctor smiled and shrugged.

  Liam looked at his wife, knowing she was thinking the same thing as he. The redheaded gene could only have come from his great, great grandmother, Abiageal MacCorkell--a feisty, wiry, combative Irish woman who had fled the starvation of the potato famine for Ellis Island and America. The couple had said a silent prayer that the twins had not inherited any other of her characteristics.

  Their prayers went unanswered.

  As the boys grew, Abiageal’s personality emerged. Not bad boys, they were inquisitive, mischievous, and not overly respectful of authority. Coupled with “the twin thing,” as they called it, the boys bedeviled their parents, their teachers, and their coaches. Whether dissecting frogs on the back porch or waiting for wasps to hatch from a nest in a mayonnaise jar or disrupting class by releasing live bats they had caught in one of the abandoned mines they were forbidden to enter, the boys never understood what the fuss was about.

  They continually bent, expanded, and distorted the rules.

  Like today.

  Two weeks shy of their 14th birthday, they ventured farther from home than ever. For years they had heard stories about Burton Eagan’s secret lab. How he created bugs for germ warfare. How he mixed up batches of witch’s brew that possessed magical powers. How he created monsters that would eat you if you crossed their path.

  Today, they would see for themselves. None of the other guys would come with them. Too scared was Jonathon and Jeremy’s assessment.

  Their father at work, their mother off to shop in Ouray, and most of their chores done, they pumped their bikes along the tree lined path that bordered Silver Creek, a serpentin
e finger that originated deep in the valley and paralleled Gold Creek Road, before flowing into Gold Creek itself near their home. The trail had been popular with hikers until Burt Eagan bought up the valley. Now, it ended abruptly at a three-strand barbed-wire fence. Hanging from the top wire, a sign with red lettering announced “Private Property--No Trespassing.”

  Neither the sign nor the fence deterred the boys. Not today. Not after they had bragged to the other guys what they had planned.

  *

  Jeremy tugged the middle strand upward while pushing the bottom one down with one foot. “Come on, weenie, hurry up.” The twisted wire dug into his hand.

  “You’re the weenie,” Jonathon said. “Pull harder. I need more room.”

  Jonathon finally maneuvered both bikes through the fence. They scrambled through, remounted, and pedaled on.

  Oscar, their yellow Labrador retriever, followed, apparently relishing the adventure. He noisily splashed in the stream, rooted beneath shrubs, occasionally falling behind only to rocket past them, ears flapping, tongue swaging.

  Hidden by the thick growth of aspen and spruce trees that flanked the creek and sheltered the path, they crossed a mile and a half of Eagan’s property, toward where the lab was rumored to be. Their fear and excitement grew with each rotation of their bike tires.

  The tricky part? They had to pass within a quarter-mile of Eagan’s mansion. Sitting high on the slope, the rambling house loomed over them and seemed to watch their every move. They were certain that at any minute someone would burst out the door and descend upon them. Speed was their only ally. They pedaled furiously, staying close to and beneath the aspens, until they slipped safely past the house.

  Finally, Jeremy braked to a stop and looked anxiously back over his shoulder. He swung off his bike. “It should only be a little farther. Let’s hide our bikes and go on foot. That way if someone shows up we can hide and they won’t know we’re here.”

  They laid their matching Schwinns in the tall grass that grew near the creek, pointing toward home in case they had to make a quick getaway. That was Jeremy’s idea.