Murder on the Horizon

by M. L. Rowland

  “Well, I—”

  “Way back when, when I lived in Detroit, I used to work in advertising . . .”

  “Back in the Stone Age?”

  “I worked with all kinds of people. It didn’t matter what their politics or religious beliefs were. What mattered was whether they were good at their jobs, if they were competent. Mostly what mattered was whether they were good people or not.”

  “Hold that thought,” Allen said. He picked up the tray of cereal and backed through the swinging door leading out to the dining hall. Reappearing seconds later, he walked over to the stove, picked up a ladle, and stirred a giant steaming pot of oatmeal.

  Shredding the lettuce again, Gracie picked up her thread of thought. “I’ve witnessed racial discrimination and hatred directed at others. Studied about religious persecution. Watched it on TV and movies. But, since living in Timber Creek, for the most part, except for the male chauvinist jerk wienies in the Sheriff’s Department, I’ve had the luxury of living my life as if that type of hatred doesn’t exist, certainly without it directed at me or affecting me personally.”

  “Until now?” Allen asked.

  “I’m not sure,” she answered. “People seem to fear and hate entire races, religions, or classes of people they’ve never even met, or know anything about.” She looked down at the lettuce lying limply in her hands and began shredding again and dropping the pieces into the bowl. “I don’t get that.”

  She sighed and looked up.

  Allen was standing on the opposite side of the butcher-block table watching her.

  “That’s all,” she said with a shrug. “I’ve just never thought about it before.” For some reason, she felt compelled to say, “Thanks.”

  “Glad I could be of help, gumdrop,” Allen said and winked.

  * * *

  WITH A JERK, Gracie awoke from a deep, dreamless sleep and stared up at a flat ceiling of pine wood. Where the hell am I? She turned her head and looked at a bare white wall. Three feet up from the floor was the hem of a heavy green and gold curtain. She looked back over her head at a beige metal desk.

  “Oh, yeah,” she said. “Now I remember.” She was in her office, lying on her sleeping bag.

  While helping Allen serve breakfast to the church group, Gracie had dropped a full container of newly washed forks with a splendid crash. A minute later, she dropped an entire jar of salsa, the glass smashing into a million pieces, diced tomato and green pepper splattering the prep table, stainless steel serving counter, and Allen’s bright white T-shirt, after which he had growled, “Get out of my kitchen. Go catch some z’s somewhere. Forward the damn phones down here.”

  Gracie had stumbled down the back hallway right past where Minnie lay on her bed in the back closet, Allen calling after her, “And don’t worry about Minnie.” As she pushed through the back screen door, she might have heard him grumble, “She’s safer here with me anyway.”

  Still groggy from a three-hour coma-like sleep and a pillow crease in her cheek the depth of the Grand Canyon, Gracie staggered to her feet and padded barefoot up the carpeted hallway to the kitchen.

  She filled a camp mug with cold coffee and stuck it in the microwave for a minute.

  Brushing her hair back from her face with a wrist, she leaned on the counter and looked out the window above the sink.

  A misty shroud hung over the tops of the trees.

  Not mist.

  Smoke.

  In an instant, Gracie was wide-awake.

  She ran to the front door, threw it open, stepped outside, and pulled in a deep breath.

  The smell of wood smoke filled her nostrils.

  Had the Shady Oak Fire raced up Santa Anita Canyon and entered the valley while she was sleeping? Or was it simply a shift in the wind, pushing the smoke up and over the mountain?

  She yanked her pager off her waistband and peered at the minuscule screen. No page.

  Back inside the Gatehouse, she jogged from room to room, closing and sealing every window by locking it. Her throat and lungs still hurt from the night before. She didn’t need to be breathing in any more smoke.

  She grabbed up the telephone in her office and punched in the three-digit extension for the kitchen.

  It had barely finished its first ring before Allen answered. “What the hell have you been doing?” he hissed. “I’ve been calling you every other minute. All I got was a busy signal.” It was the first time Gracie had heard the man sounding anything remotely akin to rattled.

  “I’ve been sleeping,” she answered. “I forwarded calls down to the kitchen. As you so ordered. When you called, you were basically calling yourself. That’s why you got a busy signal.”

  A pause. “Oh. Well, Mr. Jackson from the Baptist church has been here in the dining hall for the last hour, all in a fussbudgetyflibbertigibbetytizzy. He’s bordering on panic about the smoke, making noise about pulling the whole group out.”

  “Have you heard anything?” Gracie asked. “Is the smoke from down the hill or is the fire in the valley?”

  “That’s why I keep the radio tuned to the local station, insipid music as it plays. It’s a wind shift. Still no imminent danger to the valley.”

  “Okay, good” Gracie said, blowing out the breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. “Give Mr. Jackson a cup of coffee and a piece of cake and tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes to talk to him.” She started to hang up, stopped, and said, “Tell him to have everyone close every window in their rooms. Keep out the smoke. It might get worse before it gets better.”

  “Already done,” Allen said and disconnected.

  Gracie hung up the phone, leaned back in the chair, and blew out another long breath of relief. Just a bad wind day. Hopefully, she thought, this is as bad as it gets.

  * * *

  GRACIE SNAPPED ON the light in the kitchen of her cabin, opened the refrigerator, and examined its meager contents. “Shopping list,” she said to herself. “Buy everything.” She lifted the last can of Coors Light from the shelf and let the door swing closed. She was popping the can open when a knock on the front door made her jump.

  Minnie barked and hopped up from her little bed next to the door.

  Gracie set the beer down on the counter and waited.

  Another knock.

  Minnie barked again.

  “Shhh, Minnie,” she whispered as she grabbed up one of her trekking poles leaning in the corner.

  The dog sat down and stared intently at the bottom of the door.

  Gracie leaned over and glanced out the side window. Then, replacing the trekking pole and blocking Minnie’s way with her leg, she pulled the door open a dozen inches and slid outside.

  Baxter stood on the deck, a picture of pain and dejection. Arms hung limply at his sides, a book Gracie had loaned him in each hand. Shoulders hunched. Tears glistened on his cheeks. “’Cacia’s house is gone,” he said, voice wavering.

  “I know,” Gracie said.

  “It . . . it burned down.”

  “I know.”

  “What . . . what happened?”

  “You don’t know what happened?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  Gracie studied the boy’s face, hating the suspicion, the anger. Hating that she didn’t really believe him.

  “Is ’Cacia okay?” he asked.

  “Yes. Well, at least physically she is. Her gran’s not doing well. She was hurt. Smoke inhalation. They took her away in an ambulance. Probably flew her in a helicopter to the hospital down the hill.”

  “Do you know where ’Cacia is?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I feel really bad,” Baxter said, bottom lip quivering.

  “So do I.”

  “I liked their little house. It was nice and clean inside. You could see things.” He looked down at his feet, the
n back up at Gracie. “Can I come inside, Gracie?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she answered slowly. “In fact, I think it’s best if you don’t come here anymore.”

  Baxter looked as utterly stricken as if she had slapped him across the face. “But . . . why?”

  “I don’t like the idea of children with guns. I especially don’t like the idea of children . . . or anyone for that matter . . . pointing guns at me.”

  Fresh tears filled his eyes and slid unheeded down his face. “I’m sorry, Gracie,” he said with a sob. He hugged the books to his chest. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to do it. I hate doing it. But they make me.”

  Gracie’s steely will was crumbling. “Who makes you, Bax?”

  “My dad. My grandpop. My uncle Win.” He hung his head. “I’m so sorry, Gracie. Don’t . . . make me go away. Please don’t make me go away.” He hiccoughed in a breath. “You’re my only friend.”

  “What about your gran?”

  “She’s okay, but she . . . hugs me too much. And worries all the time. She’s always crying. She’s not like you.”

  Gracie looked at him several more seconds, then said in a quiet voice, “Okay, Bax.” She crouched down and put her arms around him. “You can stay. I’m still your friend.” He clung to her like a limpet, sobbing as if he was carrying the world’s cares and sorrows on his thin shoulders, which, Gracie realized, in many ways he was.

  CHAPTER

  19

  GRACIE and Baxter sat in chairs on the west-facing deck of the cabin. While the tang of smoke still clung to the air, a late-afternoon shift in the wind had blown the smoke from the Shady Oak Fire directly south, clearing the valley of most of the haze, revealing the mountains and a cloudless sky.

  In companionable silence, they watched the sun drop to the horizon, a brilliant ball of orange fire against a pink sky.

  “It looks so red because of the residual smoke in the air,” Gracie said.

  The sun shrank to half an orb, a dot of flame, then winked out.

  “That was cool, Gracie,” Baxter said. “We can’t see the sun set from—”

  Beep! Beep! Beep!

  “Uh-oh,” Gracie said, sliding her pager off the waistband of her sweatpants.

  “What’s that?” Baxter asked.

  “Search and Rescue pager.” Gracie read the minuscule screen.

  “What does it say?”

  “The Sheriff’s Department has issued a non-mandatory evacuation.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means they’re advising people to leave the valley because of the Shady Oak Fire.”

  “It’s coming up here?” Gracie could hear the fear in his voice.

  “No. This is a just-in-case. It means people should leave if they want to. And everyone else should get ready to evacuate. Pack up their stuff and be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. They’ve put Search and Rescue on standby. That means we get ready in case the evacuation order becomes mandatory. We help with that. Try to get things organized a little bit so there’s not mass chaos as people are leaving.” She clipped the pager back onto the waistband of her pants. “I have to go to a meeting first thing in the morning about it.”

  “I heard my dad and Uncle Win talking . . .” Baxter said.

  “That seems to happen a lot.”

  “I like to know what’s going on. They never pay attention to me.”

  “Useful sometimes.”

  “We’re not leaving.”

  “What?”

  “If there’s a fire. We’re not going to leave.”

  “That’s your . . . or your parents’ prerogative,” Gracie said, while at the same time thinking, That’s stupid. Asinine. Irresponsible. Adults could make those decisions for themselves, but not evacuating children needlessly put innocent lives at risk, not to mention the lives of rescuers.

  “Grandpop Martin says there’s no fire. It’s a government ’spiracy to get us to leave the property so they can take it over. He says anyone sets foot on our land, anyone tries to make us leave, they’re going to shoot ’em. I know there’s really a fire, but we’ll be safe. If the fire comes, we’ll go to the bunker.”

  “You have a bunker?”

  “Uh-huh.” The brown eyes had regained their sparkle. “It’s really cool. There are beds and a bathroom and a kitchen with food and everything. Under the ground.”

  “Really? I thought it was solid rock there.”

  “They built it on the side of the hill. Then they covered it up with dirt.”

  “Must have taken a long time.”

  “They’re always building on it. For as long as I can remember.”

  Not that it was remotely her business, but Gracie asked, “That must take a lot of money. How can they afford all that?”

  “Oh, my grandpop gets his disability check every month.”

  “Why’s he on disability?”

  “He got shot in Vietnam. He only has one leg. He’s in a wheelchair.”

  Before Gracie could adequately process that information, Baxter added, “All the parents work. But don’t worry. The older kids take care of the younger kids when they’re gone.”

  “Where do they work?”

  “Um, my dad and Uncle Win work construction. Mom Brianna works part-time at the grocery store. Mom Michelle works at a bank. Mom Angela works in an office. She’s a secretary or something like that.”

  “You call all of them Mom?”

  “Mom Brianna is my real mom. The others aren’t my real moms. They’re just married to my dad. We just call ’em Mom Brianna, Mom Angela, like that, to keep ’em straight.”

  “So your dad . . . uh . . . so . . .” Gracie cleared her throat. “How many wives does he have?”

  “Three.”

  “Three. And your uncle Win? How many wives does he have?”

  “Two.”

  “And those are what? Your aunts?”

  “Yup. Auntie Jennifer. Auntie Kimberly. Auntie Kimberly’s my dad’s sister.”

  “And what about your grandpop? How many wives does he have?”

  “Just one besides Gran Sharon.”

  “I see. And what does your gran Sharon think about that?”

  “She left Grandpop.”

  “I don’t blame her. How many kids live there . . . in the compound?”

  “Um . . .” Baxter thought, tapping his chin with a finger. “Maybe twelve. Thirteen. Something like that.”

  “So Jordan is your cousin?”

  “Yeah.”

  Gracie thought for a moment, then said, “At the training the other day, there were other people there—other men. Do they live at the compound, too?

  “Some of them do. But not all of them. They just come with us when there’s a training.”

  “And what are they training for?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, raising a shoulder. “We just train.”

  “Are they planning something?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, come on, Bax. This is your family.”

  He threw his hands out, palms up. “I don’t know anything. I haven’t been initiated yet.”

  “Initiated. What does that mean?”

  “When the boys turn fifteen, we’re initiated. That’s when I’ll find out all kinds of stuff.”

  “And what’s involved in this initiation? What will you have to do?”

  “I don’t know that I have to do anything. I get a badge of honor though.”

  “Badge of honor. What’s that?”

  “A tattoo.”

  “What kind of a tattoo?”

  “A tear. Right here.” He pointed to the outer corner of his left eye.

  “That boy, that young man, Jordan,” Gracie said. “He had something at the corner of his e
ye. I couldn’t see it because I was too far away. Was it a teardrop tattoo? Was that his badge of honor?”

  He nodded. “His birthday was in May, but he only got the tattoo a few weeks ago. I dunno why.”

  “What does the teardrop signify?”

  “I dunno. There’re some other ones, too. There’s this one . . .” He scrunched up his face. “I can’t really describe it.”

  “Can you draw a picture?”

  “Okay.”

  “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

  In the kitchen, Baxter sat down at the table. Gracie grabbed a piece of paper and pencil from next to the telephone, slid them in front of the boy, and sat down in the chair opposite.

  Tongue showing at the corner of his mouth, Baxter carefully drew a picture, then he turned the paper around and pushed it across the table in front of Gracie.

  She looked down, her breath catching. The symbol was one she had seen on the Anti-Defamation League’s Hate on Display page. “It looks like part of a peace sign,” she said. “Upside down. Without the circle.”

  “What’s a peace sign?”

  Gracie picked up the pencil and drew the peace symbol.

  “Yeah,” Baxter agreed. “It does look kinda like that.”

  “But you don’t know what it means?”

  Baxter shook his head, then said, “There’s another one.”

  Gracie slid the paper back in front of him.

  Baxter started drawing. “Wait.” He scribbled it out. He tried again, but scribbled that out, too. “I can’t get it. It looks like a spider web. They get that on their elbow.”

  Gracie took the pencil from his hand and drew the diamond with legs with the 88 beneath. “Have you ever seen one that looks like this?”

  Baxter slid the picture so that it was in front of him. He stared down at the picture, unmoving.

  “Bax? Do you recognize it?”

  “Yeah. I have that one.”

  “You do?”

  He stood up and, with both hands, grabbed the bottom of his black T-shirt and lifted it completely off his head.

  Then he turned away from Gracie, pointing over his shoulder to his back. “See? Right there.”

  Between the boy’s shoulder blades was a small tattoo of the diamond with legs with the numbers 88 below. But instead of fixing on the symbol, Gracie’s eyes were locked on black and yellow splotches covering Baxter’s back and ribs—a mass of fading bruises. “Bax,” she breathed. “What happened to you?”