by Jackie Ivie
“How so?”
“I’m surprised they’d tell bystanders all this.”
“They didn’t. The goons asked. And cops talk to other cops, or guys who used to be cops...or whatever. We know because we eavesdropped. Or...I did. I don’t know what Sharon was doing.”
“I listened, too. And there’s like, probably a body out there somewhere! The desert is like, a big place, you know.”
Yes. It certainly was.
Desert landscape loomed larger with every passing second. The land around Dobb Lake was vast. Desolate. Lonely. What the heck? She was feeling something akin to sadness here? Well. There was only one thing to do. Return. Open that aperture. Explore. The moment she could. It wouldn’t be easy. But it wasn’t that difficult, either. It was about five miles to Dobbin Creek. She didn’t dare take a cab, or anything that might alert anyone. She’d have to get her ten-speed bicycle out of storage. Dress for a night trip. Pack a few things.
“You want to sneak back?” Susan asked.
Marielle jerked slightly. “What?”
“Well...I was thinking...if we told Dad that we were with you tonight—”
“No.” Marielle interrupted her.
“Oh. I think he would.”
“No,” Marielle repeated.
“Oh, come on. Dad is all kinds of interested in you. I can tell. I’m surprised he hasn’t asked you to marry him yet.”
“Really? That would be so like, cool! You’d be like our new step-mom!”
Both girls were smiling. Marielle looked down before either could read her expression. As if they knew how to do that. Or cared enough to learn. That’s when she made her next life decision. She was filling her backpack. Calling the employee line to get a few days off. She didn’t have vacation or sick pay, but it didn’t matter. As long as she didn’t have to be near the twins or their father, she was good to go. And with that, she started padding her story.
“Um. Ladies? Tonight is not a good night.”
“So....he has asked you? Is that what you’re saying?”
Marielle pondered Susan’s question. And her tone. The girl was fairly observant at times. She was going to need that skill. Marielle looked back up.
“I...really don’t feel well.”
“You don’t?”
“The scaffolding broke earlier. I fell.”
“You did?”
Both girls looked surprised. Which proved they weren’t devious. Just unobservant. And self-centered. And extremely spoiled. Sharon spoke first.
“Did you get like...hurt?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I mean. Nothing is broken. Oh. Look. We’re here.” The van pulled up to her complex gate. Not a second too soon, either. Marielle didn’t wait for someone to open her door. She jumped to the curb and dashed through the security gate, and that’s the last time she thought of either Sharon or Susan.
Or their father.
An hour and a half later she was pedaling, each move shedding the stress of what had become her everyday existence. She hadn’t thought through her actions. It felt like someone else was in charge. They’d taken over. And they had a mission. She could barely remember selecting and shoving items into a small backpack, dumping anything perishable into the multiplex trash-bin, unlocking and fetching her bike. She’d swapped her painter togs for spandex leggings, a moisture- wicking sports bra, and track shoes. Her hair was loose, held back by a sweatband on her forehead, and she wore a bandana atop that. It was perfect attire for exercise. She was getting quite a workout in what felt like a hotbox. But southern Nevada wasn’t known for cool temps. More than once, sweat stung her eyes before she wiped at it.
And for some reason, she barely noticed any of it.
The lights of Dobb Lake faded as she rounded the hill shielding Dobbin Creek. The old town wasn’t large. It had a wide main avenue, a couple of arterial streets containing bare spots here and there. Some were even outlined with fences. They’d once contained houses. Or tents. Dobbin Creek had been a boomtown during the mining days.
This was all that survived.
It looked eerie and ghostly. She should have been frightened. That was the farthest thing from her mind. If she considered it, the sensation filling her contained a hint of freedom, a breath of excitement, and a taste of thrill. The combination was intoxicating. Exhilarating. The sun was sinking, sending spectacular hues along with lengthy shadows onto the view. If she wasn’t still dealing with the weird muted sensation, she might have stopped for a moment and looked things over. Breathed deeply, and committed it to memory. So she could paint it later.
She wasn’t doing that, either.
The dirt road was at a slight downhill grade the last half mile. She pedaled it, anyway. And then she was there. In the front of the Number Eight Saloon. She propped her bike against the wreckage of the scaffolding before reconsidering. She couldn’t disappear for a bit if she left markers. She ran it along to the back.
The Number Eight Saloon was backed by another building. If she remembered right, it had been a hotel. And despite what she’d told the girls earlier, rumor had it underground tunnels connected most of the structures together. The space between the buildings wasn’t large. And there was a lot of stuff back here. Old planks. A large spool that might have held wire at some point. The remains of a barrel. A lot of dirt. Marielle shoved her bike into the midst of a mass of weeds nobody had tended in decades. Wow. Nobody had cared much about the backs of these buildings. Back here, the plank walls weren’t even fitted. The evening was airless. Not a breath of wind stirred a speck of dust. Marielle peered into the saloon through the cracks. The last bit of daylight percolated through the windows, lighting the inside of the saloon. She caught a breath. It should have been creepy. It was instead, incredibly beautiful.
The space looked forlorn. Lonely. Sad. The only thing in that span was the length of bar with a huge square of wood behind it that might have held a mirror at some point. Or a bawdy painting. Even if the bar wasn’t affixed to the floor, hiding access to the tunnel system, it would have been difficult to move. It looked to be marble topped. The rest was a lot of wood. Heavily carved. They’d even fashioned the corners into spiral pillars that held the boot rail she’d grabbed earlier. The plank she’d been on was shoved against the wall. It looked like it belonged. All told, this would make a fantastic painting.
The sun set. Shadows that had been threatening took over, enveloping the entire area. Darkening. Obscuring. The moisture on her skin chilled in place, sending shivers in its wake. Whispers that resembled words rushed past her ear. The sound of creaking footsteps started emanating from just about everywhere. She heard more than one long sigh that ended with a groan. All of it raised hairs at the back of her neck. She’d forgotten this was a ghost town.
And then she told herself to cease the stupidity. There was no such thing as a ghost. The sounds were merely insects stirring. The sound of old buildings settling as the wood rapidly cooled from another day of desert heat.
But she really shouldn’t be here. This was crazy.
She shuffled through her backpack for her headlamp. Strapped it around her forehead. Turned it on. It wasn’t the best, and it needed fresh batteries, but it would do.
The saloon looked pretty scary as she slid through the opened side of the door, and stood against the wall for a moment to get her bearings. And wonder anew at her sanity. What was she doing here? Was she seriously considering leaving her job? Again? She kept making bad life choices. That’s why she reaped bad results. That’s what the counselor had told her. It must be true. But she’d never have guessed her new choice would be a mysterious hole in the floor of a ghost town saloon.
This was beyond idiotic.
She’d left a poverty-level job at an art gallery in Phoenix for this chance. Mister Stimson had come by during a show. He’d been accompanied by his fourth or fifth wife at the time, surrounded by other billionaires. Marielle had thought she’d reached the big time with his employment offe
r. She’d thought he was interested in her artistic talents.
Okay.
Maybe it was beyond idiotic. She should leave. Go back to her apartment. She could come back tomorrow. In daylight. When she came to paint. Marielle actually tried to turn back, but something stopped her. Something that contained an absurd sense of alertness. Enticement. Temptation.
And that got her feet moving.
The boot rail was in good working condition, although she had to press on several spots before she got the right one. It didn’t even squeak as the metal moved. She was around the bar and watching as the space opened, assembling into steps that disappeared into blackness beyond her headlamp range. She pondered that ladder-like access for a bit as dust particles sifted through her light.
Uh oh.
A fine film of dust covered everything. She was going to leave footprints. She probably left a clear trail, starting at the front steps. Marielle turned her head, aiming the light at her path. Nothing looked disturbed at all. The floor started trembling slightly, while the soft sigh of moving gears whispered through the area. The steps closed. Marielle turned back to them and a few seconds later it was just another chunk of floor, covered with a film of dust that matched the surroundings. The conceptual artist part of her wondered at the perfection. The technical part checked on the why. She squatted and touched a fingertip to the dirt, scraping a nail along a hard surface. Nothing moved. Somebody had painted the surface to always look undisturbed?
She really should alert the authorities. Contact someone. Do anything other than go back around the bar, push the boot rail, and this time descend the steps.
Anything.
CHAPTER FOUR
The phone in his chest pocket vibrated again. The low rumble caused more than one person to look in his direction. Bram pulled the slim phone out with one hand and put his cards atop the table with the other. Face down.
“I am going to have to take this call,” he informed them.
“Not with an open game,” one of them remarked.
“You know the rules,” the dealer informed him.
Bram sent a glance toward the pile of ten thousand dollar chips in the center of the table, moved it back to his cards. He had a royal flush. The phone rang again. His palm shook with it. He sighed, snagged his hat off the empty chair beside him with his free hand and spun it before settling it atop his head.
“Very well, gentlemen. Ma’am.” He nodded to the others, tapped his hat brim, and then smiled. “I fold.”
He pushed the chair away from the oversized mahogany table and rose in one fluid, soundless motion. The chair wouldn’t have made sound anyway. It was atop expensive carpet. He was in one of the high stakes rooms, facing five opponents: four men, one woman.
A woman.
Playing poker.
That took some getting used to.
Well. The gender of the players might have changed. The game hadn’t. Bram was really good at noticing player quirks. The woman licked her ruby-red lips if she was concerned about the hand. One gentleman tugged an earlobe. Another fidgeted on his seat, making slight rustling noises. The final fellow had a true poker face, but didn’t keep the same control over his fingers. He’d tighten them on his cards occasionally.
The players facing him were dressed expensively. Fancy suits. Ties. The lady was in full evening attire, in a shade of red that almost matched her lips. Bram looked out-of-place in dark denims and one of his custom-tailored western shirts. He wore a belt fashioned of embossed leather with a large buckle. Bolero tie. He’d brought one of his fancy hats. He also sported a gun belt on his hips, although it was empty at the moment. He’d had a Colt. They’d made him check it. The weapon had set off all kinds of alarms when he’d first arrived.
That had been before he proved his financial ability, greased some palms, and gained access to this room...along with three large, beefy-looking, security types that probably still hovered at the elevator foyer. He’d guess they’d be spending the time checking and re-checking their reflections in the long window overlooking the city.
Dobb Lake had certainly altered since Bram had last come over the hill. This place wasn’t a town anymore. It could claim the moniker of city. The view from that long window in the elevator foyer backed it up. He checked it out as they’d waited for entrance. The city had all kinds of streets, traffic, and lights. All of it easily delineating the size of Dobb Lake.
It was late. He didn’t know how late. Past nightfall. Before dawn. There wasn’t a window in the playing room. Actually, no casino ever had windows in their gaming areas. It would be bad for business. It might distract. Bring people to their senses. Bring an addict out of a ‘fix’. That included the gamblers in this high stakes room.
Everyone had started with at least two hundred grand. Bram’s total was considerably higher now. The bag hanging at his hip bulged with winnings. No one looked uncomfortable about it, although they had exhibited annoyance more than once. That’s what made the game so enticing. Besides, everyone looked like they could afford to lose. That’s why they were here. This room was exclusively for the very well-heeled. They’d been brought up an elevator by two extremely good-looking gentlemen in tuxedos. Drinks were provided. Expensive cigars were available. All of it catered by gorgeous ladies in revealing attire.
Bram waited for the door to open for his exit. A distinct buzzing sound accompanied the unlocking. He clicked the connect button on his cell as one of the tuxedoed gentlemen opened the door for him. He wondered if anyone would check his cards before taking them. A loud whistle behind him gave the answer. He shrugged and stepped into the foyer.
He’d been right. The three security guys were there waiting for him. One spun from contemplation of his reflection in the glass. He didn’t note that Bram’s was missing. Bram looked at each in turn. Focused. Watched their eyes glaze over. He snickered slightly once everyone was mesmerized and then lifted the phone to his ear.
“Hello.”
“Ah. There you are, Bramwell. I was beginning to wonder.”
It was Akron, the leader of the Vampire Assassin League. Bram hadn’t been expecting that. He subconsciously stood straighter. Cleared his throat. Answered at a slightly lower timbre. “Sir?”
“How are things?”
“Passable.”
“Anything strange happening in your neck of the woods?”
“No.”
“Ah. I do so enjoy conversing with a cowboy. They’re so...chatty and forthcoming with information.”
“I just left a winning poker hand.”
“You’re gambling?”
“Yep.”
“That’s interesting. Private club?”
“Casino. High stakes room.”
“You’re in a casino?”
“Yeah.”
“Hmm. I bet that caused a stir.”
“Some.”
“I thought you hated crowds. Light. Parties. I might as well just put it in an all-encompassing term. I thought you detested anything enjoyable...since it might break through your self-imposed afterlife of penance-like behavior.”
Bram waited a few moments before replying. “You saying something with those words?”
“Just making conversation. Was it a big pot?”
“A million. Maybe more. Maybe less.”
Akron whistled. The receiver shrilled with it. Bram pulled the cell away from his ear for a moment.
“Well. Allow me to make it up to you, then.”
“You have a job?”
“I do. And it’s right in your vicinity.”
“I don’t have a vicinity. Not anymore.”
“Well. That does explain the casino visit. Burning your bridges, are you?”
“Just enjoying some last hours.”
“Last hours? Hmm. Cryptic. I take that to mean you are relocating?”
“You want to tell me about the job, Sir?”
“We are nearly out of time, Bramwell. Grab another cell.”
Bram snapped
the cell phone shut. Slid it behind a bit of wall molding where it might never get discovered. Snagged another one from the case in his pocket. Hit the connect button as it vibrated. Akron was on the line an instant later.
“Jobs can wait, Bram. Associates do not. I need your answer. I’m assuming your words mean you are relocating. That is why you’d shed anonymity, visit a casino, and probably reap more than one interested look. Am I correct?”
“Yes.”
“But you like Dobbin Creek. Spent decades on renovations.”
“Yeah. Well...things change.”
“I take it we are referring to Dobb Lake?”
“Have you seen it recently, Sir? The place is bursting at the seams.”
“Well. That is what humans do, Bramwell. They procreate. Spread. Build all kinds of structures to accommodate their lifestyles. And their vices. I am not complaining. Far from it. Cities make it an easy matter to find sustenance. ”
“And a lot harder to stay hidden.”
“You need to learn to hide in plain sight, Bramwell. Blend in. Wear something that doesn’t make it look like you just left a western frontier territory sometime in circa 1880. But I digress. You can’t leave Dobbin Creek just yet.”
“There was a trespass last night. Murder.”
“You were discovered?”
“No. But I got the message. It’s a matter of time.”
“Lizbeth? Access the Abyss Link. Look up police inquiries in Dobb Lake, Nevada.”
A female voice spoke up. “Not the ghost town, Dobbin Creek?”
“Always start with the most obvious, Lizbeth and build from there. And use a point of least access. Insertion into data is traceable. I’d guess Dobbin Creek doesn’t have many searches. Any search on that location might get flagged. However Dobb Lake City incorporated the old ghost town earlier this century. Therefore, they should have an incident report. Police systems are notoriously easy to search, something about the Freedom of Information Act. I don’t know if you’ve met Lizbeth, Bramwell?”
“No.”
“She’s my new tech assistant. She’ll be at the desk while Nigel is on his honeymoon.”