BED OF BONES
USA Today Bestselling Author
CHERYL
BRADSHAW
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any similarity to events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First edition September 2013
Copyright © 2013 by Cheryl Bradshaw
Cover Design Copyright 2013 © Reese Dante
Interior book design by Bob Houston eBook Formatting
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1492397261
ISBN-13: 978-1492397267
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form, or by any means whatsoever (electronic, mechanical, etc.) without the prior written permission and consent of the author.
DEDICATION
To Park City, Utah.
I must away.
Farewell.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
There were days I wondered if I’d ever see this book through to the end, but here I sit, satisfied and ready to begin again. To my husband, thank you for appreciating my passion. Living with a writer has its challenges. For all the times I’m lost inside myself contemplating the next chapter of my book, I really am listening to you! To great friends. Thank you for loving me unconditionally and lending your ear. To my family for reading what I write. I appreciate you all. Tiffany Stewart, thank you for taking me on. You’re my person. Let’s do this! Janet Green (thewordverve) the best editor around, there isn’t enough ways to thank you for all you’ve done and continue to do to make me better, my friend. To my proofers, Becky Fagnant and Amy Jirsa-Smith, I appreciate you both. Reese Dante, your covers continue to amaze. Bob Houston and Dafeenah Jameel, for excellence in formatting and for making everything beautiful. D.P. Lyle, M.D., for your forensic advice and expertise. And finally, “Saturday Smile” by Gin Wigmore is the theme song of this novel. It takes a lot of hands to steer this ship. I am truly blessed.
“At what point then is the approach of danger to be expected?
I answer, if it ever reach us, it must spring up amongst us.”
-Abraham Lincoln
CHAPTER 1
JUNE 1956
PARK CITY, UTAH
Willie wiped his dirt-stained hands across the sides of his jeans and cocked his head to the side, eyeballing his younger brother, who lagged behind. “Come on, Leonard! Why ya gotta be such a drag all the time? We’ll never get where we’re goin’ if we don’t hustle.”
“You’re walkin’ too fast,” Leonard sniffed. “Wait up!”
Willie didn’t turn around. He didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down. He lengthened his stride and kept on going. “Quit whining, ya big baby, or next time I’ll leave ya home.”
Leonard kicked a pebble with his shoe. It sailed across the open field, narrowly missing Willie’s head when it whizzed by. “Don’t call me that!”
“What—a baby?”
“Yeah. Don’t. I’m seven. Babies are…well…babies.”
“Well, that’s what ya are, aren’t ya?” When Leonard failed to respond, Willie glanced back, knowing exactly what he’d see when he did. Leonard’s face had turned as red as their dad’s BMW 507—not because he was embarrassed and not because of the heat. He was about to get angry. When that happened, Leonard’s forehead broke out in an overabundance of dots that made him look like he had the chicken pox. “Hey, I was just kiddin’ around, Leonard. Ya know that, right?”
“Mom said we weren’t allowed to go past the fence, and I can’t see it anymore. We’re gonna get in trouble, Willie. I just know it.”
“Nothing is goin’ to happen, all right? Mom and Dad won’t find out unless one of us tells ’em. This is our little secret. Okay?” Willie shoved a hand inside his pocket, removed a plastic comb, and slicked it through his sandy-brown hair. At thirteen years old, he was practically a man. At least he liked to think so. He’d matured a good deal faster than all of his friends. While their voices remained high-pitched and squeaky, his was deep, like his dad’s. He didn’t look much like him though; he looked like his idol, James Dean. A year before when James was killed in a fatal car accident, Willie paid tribute by ditching his Chinos and collared shirts for jeans and plain white tees. He’d even talked his mother into buying him a leather jacket at Christmas to complete the look. At school he was ridiculed by his male classmates. He didn’t care. None of them had a fifteen-year-old girlfriend. He did.
“How much longer?” Leonard mumbled. “I wanna go home.”
“We will, just as soon as I find what I’m lookin’ for.”
“Not this home,” Leonard said, “our real one. I hate it here.”
Willie hated it too. Park City was the most boring place he’d ever visited in his life. Day after day they sat around with nothing to do, waiting for their dad to sign the paperwork over to a developer who had big plans for his grandfather’s land. They were only supposed to be here for a week. It had been more than two. He didn’t know why his dad kept going back and forth, negotiating every last detail with the realtor, and he didn’t care either. All he wanted was to get back to Chicago, to his own room, his friends, and most of all, blue-eyed, blond-haired Betty.
“It’s hot.” Leonard wiped the sweat from his brow and flicked it into the air.
“We’re almost there. Ya see it?”
“See what?”
“The hole.”
“What hole?”
Willie stopped. When Leonard caught up, Willie placed his hands on his brother’s head, directing him to a large, black, squarish spot on the ground several feet below.
“What is it?” Leonard asked.
“A mine shaft.”
“A what?”
“Men used to go down that hole, get stuff out of the ground, and sell it. Made lots of money too, from what Dad said.” Willie tested the soft dirt in front of him and then stepped forward, making his way to the bottom of the hill. “Ya best step where I step, okay? I don’t need ya breakin’ a leg out here. You dig?”
Leonard nodded.
“This place wasn’t always a ghost town,” Willie said.
Leonard swallowed—hard. “There are…ghosts here?”
Willie reached back, patting Leonard’s arm. “Not real ones, dipstick. A ghost town is a place people leave behind—the buildings are still here, but not the people. Not many of them, anyway.”
“Is that why most of the stores in town are closed?” Leonard asked.
“Now yer gettin’ it.”
“Why’d they all leave?”
“Hated it, probably. Same as us.”
“Why would they leave all that money?” Leonard asked.
“Maybe it ran out. Maybe they got everything they could out of the ground and there wasn’t any more left.”
“Is that why grandpa moved here—for money?”
Willie shrugged. “When gramps was alive, he was in charge of a whole crew of guys. Made loads of cash and bought land with it. That’s why we’re here.” Willie reached the opening of the mine and knelt down. “Outta sight! Leonard, check this out.”
“Is it safe? It doesn’t look safe.”
“’Course it is. It’s not like we’re going in. We’re just takin’ a peek. Nothin’ wrong with that.”
Leonard bent down next to Willie. “How far down do you think it goes?”
“I dunno. Why don’t ya hop on in and find out?”
Willie walked over to a rock a few feet away and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket. He flipped one into
his mouth, lit up, and took a nice, long drag.
Leonard sat on the rock next to him. “Dad know you have those?”
Willie twisted the sleeve on Leonard’s shirt and yanked him close. “No, and you’re not gonna tell him either.”
“I won’t—let go!”
The two sat in silence for the next two minutes, Willie taking occasional puffs on the cigarette and Leonard flipping a Slinky back and forth between his hands.
Willie finished the cigarette, stood, and flicked the butt out of his hands, smashing it into the scorching earth with his foot until he couldn’t see it any longer. “Come on. We’d better get back.”
Leonard hopped off the rock. The Slinky slipped out of his hand and tumbled into the mouth of the shaft, catching on a patch of sagebrush just inside. “My Slinky!”
“Leave it,” Willie said. “You can get another one.”
“I don’t want another one. I bought it with my own money. It took a whole month to save up for it.” Before Willie could interject a second time, Leonard had bolted forward until he was close enough to the Slinky to reach down and grab it.
“Leonard, no!” Willie yelled. “Don’t!”
The next few seconds moved like a Ferris wheel in slow motion. Leonard reached for the Slinky, but it broke free of the sagebrush, sinking into the blackness. He leaned over, gazed into the shaft. And then he made a big mistake. He tried to stand, but the pebbly rocks beneath his feet offered no traction. He slipped, plummeting feet first into the mine. A blood-curdling scream followed, echoing through the shaft.
In seconds Willie reached the opening. He squealed his brother’s name then listened, hoping to hear even the smallest indication that his brother was still alive, but he heard nothing. “Leonard, can ya hear me?”
Silence.
“Please Leonard, please! Say something! Anything! Let me know yer there.”
Silence.
Tears streamed down Willie’s cheeks, making his face feel sticky. He stood, still, unsure of what to do next. Should he stay—try to figure out how to get down the hole? He had no idea how deep it was. A few feet? A few hundred feet? A thousand? Did he leave his brother all alone and go for help? What if Leonard spoke and no one was there to hear him? He knew if he stayed, Leonard could die, if he wasn’t dead already. A wave of guilt rushed over him.
Oh please, let him still be alive—please!
Five minutes ago, he’d have given anything to stop Leonard from asking any more questions, but now he’d give his own life just to hear his brother’s tiny, angelic voice again.
Don’t just stand here doing nothing, Willie. Think! What would Dad do?
He bent down and cupped his hands around both sides of his mouth. “Leonard, if ya can hear me, I’m goin’ to get Mom and Dad. I’ll be right back. I promise. I’m so…I’m so sorry. Ya hear me? I’m sorry…”
Willie sprinted toward his grandfather’s house, his limbs experiencing an increasing burning sensation with every step. His entire body could burst into flames for all he cared—he’d risk anything to save his brother’s life.
PRESENT DAY, 11:30 PM
Melody Sinclair hoisted a leg over the seat in front of her, slouched down, and scanned the room, eyeballing the men and women shuffling through the aisles of the old theater. Although each was unique in his or her own way, all of them displayed one distinct commonality: they were bundled up like they’d trekked through a blizzard to get here. January in Park City, Utah, had this effect on people. With outside temperatures dipping into the twenties and thirties, the majority of tourists in town for the annual Sundance Film Festival made haste. There was no escaping Old Man Winter. Not here.
Exuberant moviegoers took their seats, slowly shedding one layer of clothing after the other. Idle chatter began soon after, spreading through the air like the murmuring ripple of juicy gossip. Melody curled her long, blond hair around her index finger and savored every delicious second. This was her moment. Her fifteen minutes. Her time to shine.
It had been nearly a decade since Melody had submitted her first film for consideration at the festival. The film, a haunting recreation of the real-life horror that took place in the Hanley House back in the seventies, was sure to be a hit. At least in Melody’s mind. The panel of esteemed judges saw it another way. Haunting at Hanley House was rejected and shelved, and per the festival rules, without significant changes, the film could never be resubmitted again. The rejection felt like an oversized, red stamp of disapproval. It meant the film wasn’t good enough. It meant she wasn’t good enough.
Distraught, Melody had almost decided to take her career in another direction. But that had all changed one night when she was approached by a dark, wavy-haired man at a movie after-party. His opening words to her had been, “I don’t believe I’ve ever met a woman with eyes such a unique shade of green.” At first she’d dismissed him, thinking it was nothing more than a cheap pickup line. But then her eyes met his bold, unwavering gaze.
He can’t be serious. Can he?
The man’s natural air of confidence commanded the room, even though his eyes locked on hers. “I’m Giovanni.” She opened her mouth to speak, but he stopped her. “And you are Melody Sinclair.”
She glanced down at his extended hand, noticing the shiny, oval-shaped ring on his pinkie finger. A semester in college studying Roman history taught her that signet rings worn on the pinkie finger had once symbolized power and authority. Whoever this man was, he definitely fit the bill.
“How did you know my name?” she asked.
“I know the names of all my guests, especially those who know my brother.”
She waved the fluted glass of champagne in front of her, unaware that the single flick of her hand had caused the overpriced liquid to spill over. “Carlo is your brother? And this is…your house?”
An hour later the two sat side by side on a sofa in a private room. The conversation turned to the movie they’d seen that night, and Melody confessed she’d tried making her own film that year, a film she now referred to as an “epic failure.”
“The great question is not whether you have failed, but whether you are content with failure,” he’d encouraged her.
She giggled, running the tips of her fingers over her lips. “Did you come up with that yourself?”
He shook his head. “It’s a Chinese proverb. You made one movie. It was unsuccessful. Make another. And keep making them until you achieve what you set out to accomplish in life.”
Months after their brief encounter, a winter vacation led her to Park City, Utah, a thriving community that had once been an abandoned ghost town. Having been abandoned herself as a child, she felt right at home. And when one of the old-timers started chatting about the town’s colorful history one evening at a local bar, she soon discovered Park City was much more than she realized. It wasn’t just home to what had once been known as one of the world’s richest silver mines—it was a town with a deadly past.
One year later Melody submitted a new film. Bed of Bones was accepted as one of eight “Park City at Midnight” films to be screened at the festival. And now here she was, mere moments away from watching her precious baby premiere in front of a sold-out crowd.
“I heard this film is based on a true story,” a man who sat one row in front of her said to the ginger-haired woman next to him.
The woman let out an obnoxious noise that sounded more like a shrill cackle than anything else. She faced the man, the look on her face indicating she viewed him as a babbling imbecile. “Oh, I doubt it, Stuart. I’ve never heard of this kind of thing happening here. Not in Utah. You know how film makers are these days. They take one fact from history and weave ninety minutes of pure fiction around it to sell tickets. Nope. Never happened. I’m sure of it.”
“It was over fifty years ago, Gladys,” he responded. “You weren’t alive then. How would you know?”
Gladys crossed her arms in front of her, plopped them down on her oversized belly, and hissed loud eno
ugh to make the elderly couple a few seats over glance in her direction. She jabbed Stuart with her elbow. “I wasn’t around when Jack the Ripper hacked up all those half-naked ladies of the night either, but I know about him.”
Stuart sighed, tipping his chin toward the ceiling, wondering why he’d bothered speaking in the first place.
A man resembling Tom Selleck back in his Magnum, P.I. days appeared on stage, his presence generating a titillating reaction from the females in the room. A wave of excitement ripped through the air until the women in the audience leaned a little closer to the edge of their seats. Then one by one, they all reclined back, realizing it was a false alarm. Whoever this man was, he wasn’t Thomas Sullivan Magnum IV. The man flattened a hand over his forehead like he was saluting and eyeballed the crowd.
Melody glanced at the man sitting next to her. “That’s my cue. Thanks for being here for me today, Giovanni.”
Giovanni smiled and placed a hand on her leg, his pinkie ring noticeably absent. “Anything for a friend.”
Melody exited the theater through the back-door, taking the hidden corridor on the side that led to the stage. The passageway was narrow and dark. Melody swished a hand from side to side in front of her, attempting to maneuver her way through the darkness. A faint noise vibrated in the distance. It sounded like a tin can being kicked on a concrete floor. “Hello, is someone there?”
The noise stopped.
Melody kept moving.
Then she heard something different.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Melody stopped.
“Hello? Is someone there?”
A firm hand reached through the darkness, gripped her right arm, and squeezed. She gasped, jerking her hand back. She had an overwhelming urge to run. But where? And why? Who was this person, and why had he tried to place a stronghold on her arm?
A deep, male voice penetrated the pitch black passageway. “Right this way, Miss Sinclair.” A flashlight clicked on, leading her out of the veil of darkness toward the stage. When she reached the safety of the stairs, the man released her. She turned, wanting to ask him about the strange noise she’d just heard, but it was too late—he’d faded back into the darkness. The Tom Selleck look-alike caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye and said, “And now I’m pleased to present the director and screenwriter of Bed of Bones, Melody Sinclair.” Although rattled, she knew the show must go on. He nodded, passed her the mike, and backed away. The audience applauded. She stepped forward, making sure not to walk too fast. She’d never forgive herself if she tripped now. The piercing glow from the strobe light overhead zeroed in on her place on the stage, where she stood, nervous inside. In seconds, the clapping ceased, and the room quieted to a low hum.
Bed of Bones (A Sloane Monroe Novel, Book Five) Page 1