Red Mountain

by Dennis Yates

  “Kenneth Nolan…”

  The man opened his eyes. Robert slid the license into his own pocket.

  “You don’t have to believe me, but they took my family too. I don’t know why they’re doing this. But they said I have to kill you if I want them to live. Do you understand?”

  Ken nodded, but Robert couldn’t tell if he believed him.

  “If they’re telling the truth then your family is still alive. They just told you that I killed them so you’d be motivated. It’s a game their playing with us. Like dropping red and black ants into a jar and watching them battle to the death.”

  “What are you talking about? They showed me pictures…”

  “It’s all part of their game, Ken. Did you really believe they were the cops?”

  “All I know is that my wife and child are gone.”

  “Then let’s do something to get them back… Something that works for the both of us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean how are we going to make them think I killed you?”

  “Aw, fuck you...”

  “Listen to me. There’s not much time. They’ll be coming back soon to check. Since you’re the one who’s busted up, I don’t think you really have much of a choice. But if I can get you over that ledge and into the water we both might stand a chance.”

  Nolan’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You’re a crazy murdering son of a bitch. The cops will be here any minute, you’ll see. They said they’d give me some time to do what I wanted before they picked you up.”

  “They weren’t cops, Ken. Don’t you get it? We’ve been set up. They want us to try and kill each other.”

  Nolan grinned through bloody teeth. “I think you’re scared, man. Scared you’re going to be on the fast track to death row.”

  Robert pressed his makeshift knife against the man’s throat.

  “Go ahead. Do it,” Nolan whispered. “It’s what you’re good at, right?

  Robert pressed deeper into the man’s flab, until blood began to well up around the edges of the crystalline point.

  “You must listen to me, Ken. There’s an island in the middle of the reservoir. Right now it’s hidden by fog. Swim for it, and hang on. This area is full of security cameras. As soon as they see us in the reservoir they’ll be calling the cops. The men behind this won’t be sticking around. They’ll think you’re dead.”

  He drew back the blade from Nolan’s neck. The tip had left behind a red dot of blood.

  Nolan laughed incredulously. “I still don’t believe a fucking word you say. You’re a goddamn coward. You could’ve stuck me in the jugular with that thing and it would have been over.”

  “You’re exactly right. I’m trying to give you a chance to live.”

  Robert thought of something. A way to connect. He took out Connor’s drawing and handed it to Nolan.

  “What’s this?”

  “My son drew it for me.”

  Nolan squinted at the picture. He lifted his head and stared into Robert’s eyes.

  “Jesus, your kid really did draw this, didn’t he?”

  “His name is Connor. He and my wife were taken from me last night by a group of violent men. I have no idea why they chose us. They’ve taken them somewhere, and won’t give them back until I’ve done what they ask. Those men you think are cops are going to kill us all if they don’t see a clear winner tonight.”

  Nolan studied the picture some more and grunted. “Kid’s got talent.”

  Robert stood up on shaky legs. He walked over to the fence and sat down on the concrete ledge. It seemed that Nolan was coming to his senses. He could understand why he wouldn’t want to believe him, especially if Marsh had been feeding him lies.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll go along with your plan,” Nolan said. “But how am I going to do this if I can’t walk?”

  “I’ve already thought of that… I’m going to drag you over here and dump you over the fence. They’ll think I first stabbed you, then decided to drown you just to make sure.”

  “Then let’s get this fucking thing over with.”

  Robert took Connor’s drawing and folded it neatly back into his pocket. He slid off his jacket, lifted Nolan up by the armpits. He was heavier than Robert expected and his bad shoulder began to throb.

  “You’re going to need to help.”

  “Go to hell. You broke my leg, remember?”

  When they came to the ledge through the opening in the fence, Nolan used his good leg to help jack himself over to the other side. A concrete slope angled sharply into the slapping dark water. Robert had been too busy trying to support Nolan’s weight to notice he’d grabbed hold of a loosened iron bar and pulled it free.

  Robert set Nolan down on the narrow shore and looked up to see if anyone was watching. Nolan slid the iron rod out from behind his back and stabbed Robert in the chest. The pain shot up inside him, ringing all the way to the back of his jaw. It hadn’t gone in but had glanced against a rib and taken a lot of skin with it. He stared down at Nolan in surprise.

  “And here’s one for the wife,” Nolan said. He swung again and cracked the iron against Robert’s hipbone.

  As Robert pitched backward, he grabbed Nolan’s hair and pulled him into the reservoir with him. The water was ice cold and set his lungs on fire. Nolan let go of his club and began to claw at Robert’s face. Robert grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him toward the bottom, until he felt a current begin to pull them both down.

  When they reached bottom Robert realized that Nolan had been sucked up against the mouth of a giant intake pipe. Already Nolan’s movements had begun to slow as he ran out of oxygen. Robert tried to pull him away from the pipe but Nolan bit him in the arm. There was no time left now but to save himself. Robert kicked to the surface.

  Gasping for air, he treaded water with his face in a layer of mist. Warm bubbles left from Nolan’s lungs drifted up to the surface and burst next to him. Robert began to hear the sounds of people yelling in the distance. Then he saw a glow of yellowish light making its way around to his side of the reservoir.

  ****

  He swam back to shore. Shivering, he pulled on his jacket and hat and started to climb the slippery ivy hill. A man’s voice shouted up at him to stop. Robert hid behind a tree and watched. There were many couples standing on the path below, staring up at him. They also had several dogs straining on leashes. He figured it was some kind of neighborhood watch program. He’d heard of the rise in citizen patrols but had never seen them in action.

  Just my luck…

  “He’s up there! I see him behind that tree!” a woman screamed.

  The crowd started to run up the hill toward him. Their dogs barked excitedly and hauled them up faster. Robert tucked his head and charged through a patch of blackberry vines. Stickers tore through his clothes and scratched his skin. Flashlight beams danced wildly around as the citizen patrol got closer. He found a muddy path and followed it down to the grove of cherry trees.

  He dug his arm inside the tree and pulled out the plastic-wrapped revolver. The citizen patrol had now broken up into two groups. One group was coming down the hill toward him while another worked up from below. Soon their flashlight beams were criss-crossing near where Robert stood.

  “He’s over there!” a man’s voice called out.

  Two men began to move cautiously toward him, one with a wide-eyed black lab at his side. Neither one of the vigilantes looked anxious to fight.

  “You might as well give it up, Mister,” one of the men said. His voice trembled. “We’ve got you surrounded. The police are on the way.”

  Robert pulled his cap down low over his face. He raised his pistol and waited until they saw it glint in their flashlight beams.

  “Holy shit! He’s armed!” someone shouted.

  Robert aimed the gun just above their heads and fired. Branches split apart and rained down on them. The two men flattened against the ground. The black lab whimpered and covered its ears with mud-sopped p
aws. Other members of the brave citizen patrol could be heard diving into bushes and behind trees, cursing as they scratched themselves. Robert saw an opening in the woods behind him and ran toward it.

  He’d survived his first match…

  CHAPTER 14

  When Underwood first settled in Wrath Butte to begin his new career, Frank Longhorn, the retiring sheriff, regaled him with the story of Charlie Maynard—Oregon’s infamous merchant sailor turned cross-country bank robber. It so happened that Wrath Butte Bank was the last place he’d held up before disappearing into the mountains with a posse of lawmen on his trail, including Frank Longhorn and two men from town he’d recently deputized.

  Underwood recalled reading about Maynard’s career as a criminal, but was unfamiliar with how he got there.

  Legend had it that Charlie Maynard grew up in the thriving town of Portland. As a young man, he’d dropped out of school and began unloading freight from ships that made their 80-mile journeys up river to Portland’s docks. The work was strenuous, and Charlie struggled to help his tubercular father by keeping food on the table for his seven younger brothers and sisters.

  On the night Charlie turned drinking age, his father was too sick to even get out of bed. He felt guilty at seeing his son’s youth being eaten up so quickly by work. He had wanted to take his eldest out on the town for his birthday and educate him in the ways of the adult world. Most of all he wanted Charlie to know he still had a future.

  During the day when Charlie was at work, his father composed a mental list of everything he’d wanted to share with him. A sense of urgency was haunting him day and night. He slept very little, and thoughts about the cold ground next to his departed wife’s grave caused his bones to ache all the more.

  When Charlie returned from the docks that evening, his father called him to his room. He told Charlie how sorry it was that he couldn’t take his own son out for a few pints on his birthday. Charlie didn’t seem to mind, having never cared much for the smell of liquor anyway. He told his father he’d be just as happy playing games with the younger children or reading to them. His father disagreed, insisting a man of Charlie’s age needed time to mingle with other men, maybe even buy himself a whore if he felt like it. He’d pressed some money into Charlie’s hand and told him not to come home until he had some stories to tell. He said that the pain he felt for his son had become unbearable. Charlie deserved a chance to experience freedom once in awhile.

  There was no sense in arguing with the dying man, so Charlie thanked his father and left, confused about where he should go. As he walked the darkening streets, he thought about concocting some stories to tell his father so he could save the money for his family. His younger siblings were growing so fast. They needed new shoes and warm jackets for winter. Yet Charlie never lied to his father, and he knew if he came home with a few made up stories, his father would certainly be able to tell if his was lying.

  He passed near a small tavern where a friendly crowd standing in the doorway waved at him to come inside. Charlie didn’t recognize anyone—they were all strangers, merchant sailors who told him they’d only been in Portland for a few days.

  Charlie had never been in such coarse surroundings before and was stunned by the forward women and the drunks. A man who wore a silver plate for a nose laughed when he observed the shock on Charlie’s face. When Charlie glared back, the man apologized and asked him if he could makes amends with a bit of rum. His name was Captain Greeley, and he claimed to have sailed the world nine times over.

  Several rums later, Charlie found his surroundings had much improved. He and Captain Greeley were later joined by some of Greeley’s crew. Stories were traded and songs were sung at the tops of their lungs. Throughout the night, Captain Greeley continued to take Charlie’s cup and refill it with more rum. Charlie made many attempts to leave, but his new friends kept stopping him at the door and begging him to stay a little longer.

  By the time he drained his final cup, Charlie was overcome with an intense dizziness. Since he’d never been drunk before, he had no clue that he’d also been drugged. After his head struck the table and he was out cold, two giggling crewmen picked Charlie up and followed Captain Greeley through a door behind the bar. Showing the way by lantern, Greeley took them down a staircase to a dank tunnel where they passed below several city blocks. If Charlie had been conscious he would have seen the cages of female sex slaves and Chinese opium dens. The tunnel finally ended at the docks where ships floated gently on the black Willamette, decks busy with the movement of shadows.

  Charlie had been shanghaied.

  For the next fourteen years he vanished without a trace. Some believed he’d been murdered, or run away to the woods to work in a lumber camp. Overcome with grief, his father died within months after his son’s disappearance. The children were sent to an orphanage. Six years later, most of Charlie’s siblings were buried side by side after a deadly flu outbreak swept through the city. Captain Greeley returned from a long trip at sea and purchased a house in Portland at a bargain.

  ****

  On a foggy winter day a merchant ship brought Charlie back to Portland. The house where he’d once lived was no longer standing, having at one time burned to the ground. After making several inquires, he was able to locate his sister Iris—the only sibling still alive who’d married and stayed in the city. She barely remembered him. His face was so deeply tanned and thin, and his eyes frequently stared at empty corners of the room or spaces beneath trees. Then inexplicably, he’d slowly nod his head and smile before turning back to meet your gaze. Iris took her brother’s odd behavior as a sign of sheer exhaustion and being too long at sea. She saw that he rested in her guestroom for the next few days before taking him to the local cemetery to place flowers on the family graves.

  Over the next few weeks, Iris failed to see any improvement in her brother’s behavior. His condition seemed to be getting worse. She heard him shouting in his sleep at nights, and once while she stood outside his door she listened to him having conversations with invisible persons. When she glimpsed Charlie’s face without his knowledge, she saw the great effort it must have taken him to conceal his darker emotions from her. His tragic life had shattered his poor soul to pieces, she thought. How else could she make sense of his refusal to go to church service with her? Did he really mean it when he told her he had no use for God?

  She needed to get him to talk, to confess to her what he was experiencing. Her husband was beginning to feel uncomfortable in his company, and her children thought their uncle frightening.

  When they went alone on a carriage ride to the countryside, Iris asked Charlie about what had happened to him all those years. At first Charlie merely repeated his story of being shanghaied, of seeing foreign lands from his captor’s deck. Yet something in his eyes told Iris there was much more he was leaving out. She begged him to tell her the whole truth, to allow her to bear witness for him. When Charlie saw her tears he too began to cry. He’d gripped both her hands in his and gradually began to speak…

  What he told Iris made her blood run cold, and after he was finished she ordered him to pack his things and leave her home at once. He put up no argument and did as she asked. She never saw her brother again.

  It was shortly after Charlie left his sister’s home, however, that Portland was besieged by a series of grisly murders. Captain Greeley and several of his crew were found slaughtered in their homes, in a manner reserved only for those who engaged in the practice of drugging men and turning them into slaves once they awoke at sea. The victims had all been hung from the ceiling by their ankles. The killer had intentionally slit the tops of their heads so they would slowly bleed to death while thinking about what they had done.

  One of the crewmen, however, had escaped the fate of his captain and the others. He’d also seen Charlie’s face. When the police raided the small room Charlie had been renting from an old widow, the mysterious lodger was nowhere to be found.

  According to Iris’s in
terview with the chief of police a week after the murders, her brother had confessed to her that he’d made a pact with an evil spirit. He’d told her in great detail how he’d barely escaped from Greeley and lived on a remote island somewhere off the coast of Africa among the natives. At first the natives had tried to kill him. In fact they’d left him for dead. Yet somehow Charlie managed to survive the deep spear wound to his back after spending weeks hiding in the jungle undetected, going to the sea late at night and soaking the infected wound, snaring small animals and stealing from the long boats left out on the beach.

  The next time he approached the tribe, Charlie first rubbed his body down with white ashes. The tribe believed he’d come back from the dead, and it was his new ghost status that allowed him to live freely among them without fear. Later, he befriended the tribe’s witchdoctor and sometimes dentist, where he learned a style of black magic, including the ability to conjure. He’d admitted to Iris he was protected by two of the creatures he’d helped bring to life, that they were always close by in case he needed them.

  For a year and a half following the brutal murders of Greeley and his crew, Maynard moved up and down the country holding up banks. Bank employees, like many folks, found themselves easily taken in by Charlie’s immense charm. It was only after he’d departed that his befuddled victims realized they’d been robbed. Some claimed to have heard unusual sounds or saw figures that were little more than wisps of smoke. The police surmised that Charlie had the ability to mesmerize.

  Those who’d tried to collect on a bounty for Charlie’s head were never so lucky. Even those who dared to get in his way found themselves on a short cut to an early grave. In all, eleven murders were attributed to Maynard’s crime spree, which ended a month after his holdup in Wrath Butte.