In what seemed like moments, he was stepping onto the first stone of the staircase. Above him he could hear a buzzing sound, like a thousand hummingbirds beating their wings at a breakneck pace or a hive of bees a million strong. It pulled at him, calling to him to come forward.
He ascended the staircase, slowly but not with trepidation. He moved with respect. He belonged here. Each of the three hundred and forty steps brought him closer to his destiny. It was written in the cracks that splintered across the stones, in the pits that time and weather had worn into their smooth surfaces. He had been here before on other nights when the weed had been good and the mood had been right. He already knew what he would find when he reached the top. On either side of the platform would be two structures, each one towering above him almost sixty feet high. Between and beneath them would be the stone.
As Javier reached the top, it came into view, its surface stained red with the dried blood of sacrifice. The humming was so loud now that it beat against his eardrums and pulled at the hairs on his arms. He stepped toward the stone, his gait reverent, though his posture was proud; head high and chest out. This stone was not meant for the blood of warriors. He knew that. This was the place where prisoners of war were brought to die; their hearts pulled from their chests and offered up to gods he’d never heard named. This was the place for the subjugated and weak. This was the place where the powerful wielded their might.
Javier Quintana belonged there. He was a warrior. He felt the humming stop beating against him and begin caressing him. It enveloped him like a mother’s embrace.
He looked out from his perch high above the city below and smiled.
Part II
DECEMBER
I
Robert sat behind the bar at Jim’s and nervously twisted a cherry stem. The bar was empty, technically not even open, yet the door was unlocked. At any minute, Robert expected it to swing open and when it did, he was pretty sure things were going to get ugly. Javier had texted him saying he needed to meet. It hadn’t happened that often over the last few years, but when it did, it was never because of anything good.
To Robert’s credit, he’d done his best to stay out of Javier’s way. After all, their success so far had come from a mutual appreciation for obeying their own set of rules and living slightly outside the law. It had been almost five years since Javier first convinced Robert to come to The Wash. The two men had come up with a very simple plan, born from the years Javier spent dealing narcotics in Salt Lake City.
Robert would slip Javier free beer at Jim’s, engage all the locals in conversation and keep up the pretense that the two of them were just best friends from way back. Jim’s provided a safe place for Javier to work discreetly and in return, he slipped Robert a thirty percent cut of his profits and steered him toward opportunities to make more through other dealers. Jim’s wasn’t the place to score your own personal stash. Jim’s was the place dealers and their suppliers met.
The rules were few but very simple.
You passed through The Wash. You never stayed there.
You never dealt to locals. The Wash was clean.
No settling grievances in The Wash. Egos were left far behind. This was strictly a place of business.
No narcotics were allowed in the bar proper.
Everything happened discreetly. Vehicles were sometimes exchanged or trunks unloaded quietly behind the building. The object was simply to keep the pipeline flowing west and it worked perfectly. They’d named the bar Jim’s because it was a shortened version of Robert’s last name and didn’t scare away the white locals. Robert played the part of bartender/owner and stayed as low profile as possible. He did everything he could to appear like he was barely making it, even renting Ruth’s guest house helped perpetuate the idea that Robert was just a good, honest man who didn’t ask for much beyond what he needed to get by. No one suspected him, Javier or J.B. of anything other than being good neighbors and in fact, Robert was a legitimate businessman. Javier and J.B. were the muscle. The three were tight, practically inseparable, and Ogden Wash had no idea what they were doing.
The door swung open and Javier strode in and up to the bar.
“Everything cool?” Robert asked.
“Should be.”
Javier paused to take a drag off his cigarette.
“If you see Reller again this week, let me know,” he exhaled.
“J.B.!” Robert called.
From the doorway just behind the bar, J.B. stuck his head out.
“If you see Reller around when I’m not here…”
“I heard,” J.B. replied. He ducked back into the storeroom.
Javier threw a puzzled look at Robert, “Was that a stick in his hands?”
“He’s making a dreamcatcher. Says he dreamed he was drowning the other night and the storeroom’s the best place to concentrate. I figured we’re not going to get many customers at this time of day so no big deal.”
Javier chuckled, “You’re the only boss I know who would let his employee do some nutjob art project while you watch the bar.”
“I heard that!” J.B. yelled from the back.
Robert pulled out two Coronas, “I’m also probably the only bar owner who regularly gives away beer.”
He popped the caps off and passed one to Javier.
“It’s a wonder you stay in business, my friend.”
“No wonder at all,” Robert clinked his bottleneck with Javier’s. The two each took a drink and Javier turned his attention to the TV above the bar.
“Did you talk to Fenton?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Javier replied.
“And?”
“And he was as surprised as I was to know that Reller was ignoring the rules of our agreement.”
“So you think Reller will back off?” asked Robert.
“Hard to say. I used to think Fenton had him by the balls but now I don’t know. Fenton says he’s pulling him out of the region completely. He’ll send someone new next time. Says that he understands if we need to fix things on this end.”
“So he gave you permission to clean things up?” Robert asked vaguely.
“Yep.”
Robert looked back down at his beer.
“When are you going to do it?”
“This week, hopefully. As soon as I see him where he’s not supposed to be.”
Robert shook his head, “I don’t know how you do it.”
“Do what?” Javier replied and took another pull from his beer.
“I’ve never understood how you can commit to something like that so easily.”
Javier turned away from the television and leaned one elbow on the bar, “You know I’ve never eliminated a problem unless it was deserved.”
“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying you seem to really enjoy it. I’ve never understood that.”
Javier’s mouth curved into a slight smile.
“You want to know the truth?”
Robert nodded.
“It’s all in the way you look at it. You’re content to treat life like a journey without a purpose. To you, it’s a ride. You take in the sights as you go and you spend your time soaking up what’s around you as you pass through. I’m not like that. I have a goal. I have a destination. I want to get there as quickly as possible because when I do, then I can begin to slow down and look at life the same way you do.”
He paused and shifted in his chair.
“When I come across a person like Reller, or even Fenton for that matter, I ask myself ‘what can he do to help me reach my goal?’ Often, the answer is nothing. He doesn’t block my path but doesn’t help me along either. No trouble. However when he becomes an obstacle…” his voice trailed off and he shrugged. “There are two ways to deal with an obstacle. You can go around it or you can remove it. I spent years going around obstacles until one day, I was forced to remove one and when I did it felt good to know it was out of my way permanently.”
Robert held his gaze, “Would you say
you enjoy it?”
Javier thought for a moment and then shook his head.
“Too strong a word,” he said. “It’s satisfying. Like a job well done.”
“And it doesn’t bother you that it’s someone’s life you’re taking?”
“Not one bit.”
Javier turned back and looked up at the television again.
“Have you ever thought about what would happen if I became an obstacle at some point?” Robert asked.
“Yep.”
“And?”
“You and I both know that’s never going to happen,” he clinked his bottle against Robert’s, who smiled back uneasily.
II
If someone asked Ruth Biden what separated The Wash from other towns and cities she’d visited or lived in, she would likely tell them it was the sense of community. It permeated everything in The Wash. People seemed to genuinely care about each other. This was especially true around the holidays. Make no mistake about it, Ogden Wash had its fair share of flaws but from Thanksgiving to Christmas it was like your family extended well beyond the walls of your own house. This feeling was in large part due to a tradition James Ogden began during his first Christmas after settling the town.
According to legend, Ogden led his group of settlers through some of the harshest country imaginable enduring Indian raids, disease, persecution by other faiths and finally, discontent within their own ranks. By the time they settled in Ogden Wash, there were only six families left, fewer than forty people, including children. These forty withstood what Ogden himself likened to the trials of Moses’ people and as the colony built up, tensions began surfacing. That first Christmas Eve, Ogden gathered together all forty and told them that this night, more than any other night, was a night to forget the faults of others and come together in peace. He asked that each family reach out to the others, ask forgiveness of one another and as a community, share a meal together.
These days residents of Ogden Wash no longer shared a Christmas meal together, but they did tend to take care of one another through thick and thin. This meant those less fortunate in the community could expect surprise gifts of food on the doorstep, anonymous presents for the children and occasionally, gifts of money to help get through the year. Ruth had been the beneficiary of some of that kindness in the year preceding Robert’s arrival. When she’d been at her darkest, she’d one day found an envelope shoved under the door with five hundred dollars in it. She still did not know who had given it to her but since she couldn’t thank them personally, she swore to never let the tradition die as long as she had the means to give to others.
This year, she was doing pretty well for herself and while she didn’t have enough money to make a big difference in someone’s life, she did have more than enough food put away. She sent Robert off to round up some nice wicker baskets that she could fill with some of her home preserved vegetables. She knew most of the people at the end of her road on a first name basis. All of them worked for the Heller-Ross Mining Company. The housing had been built by the company and while they didn’t pay particularly well, they did allow their employees to live there rent-free. Ruth planned on making baskets for a few of the families she knew were struggling, like the Marino family with their two small boys. She’d also decided to make a large basket for Phillip Anderson’s family.
Anderson was a different sort for sure. Still, he had been decent to her if not overtly kind. She wasn’t doing it for that though. She was doing it because James Ogden’s tradition meant seeking out those who you weren’t the best of friends with and showing them kindness. Ruth figured that Phillip Anderson was one of the few people in The Wash who she could say fit that bill.
As she finished cleaning up the last of the dishes, she realized she could either wait another forty minutes for Robert to get back or she could go down to the root cellar herself.
“I may not be able to next year,” she said aloud and walked to the cellar door.
She flipped the light switch, revealing a set of wooden stairs and the smell of cool, fresh soil. It was as if the air was somehow purer in this part of the house. She held on to the railing and slowly made her way down. The bulb hanging from the ceiling gave off enough light for her to see the shapes of canning jars on the shelves around her, but it wasn’t bright enough to really illuminate the labels. She grabbed a flashlight hanging from a nail and headed over to the far wall. She picked up an empty pail and setting it on an empty shelf, carefully chose between carrots, relish, beans and okra before carrying the pail full of vegetables upstairs. After a couple of trips, she sat down at the table to rest.
“Strawberry jam,” she suddenly said, and grabbing the empty pail from the table, stood up and headed back down the stairs again. The jam would make a nice finishing touch to the baskets and as she reached for a jar she grimaced. It was wet.
“Damn it,” she muttered. “The seal must have broken.”
She shined her flashlight onto the shelf and saw that the jar seemed to be in good shape. The shelf was wet and the rock wall behind it seemed to be wet also. She reached back and touched the wall. The stones were the original foundations of the house and had been put together with a mortar that stood strong for over one hundred years. Now it seemed something was compromising it.
She dug with her finger around the four wettest stones and felt them give a little.
‘That can’t be good,’ she thought. She dug a little more and soon pried one loose, then she felt back in the space she’d pulled it from. It was open as far back as she could reach. She shook her head and frowned again. She was certain from what she had read of the house that there should be a solid wall of soil and rock behind these stones.
She shined her flashlight inside. There was nothing she could see. Pulling at the next rock, she felt it give also.
“Knock! Knock!” a voice called from above.
“I’m in the cellar, Robert!”
She heard him make his way down the stairs.
“What are you doing down here?” he pointed down at the pail by her feet. “I would have done this for you.”
“I know you would have. I just like doing things myself if I can. Do me a favor though, see if you can see to the back of this hole.”
Robert gave her an odd look and then took the light from her. There seemed to be a space about three or four feet deep behind the wall. He reached his hand in and pushed his body up against the shelf to get as far as he could.
“I can’t reach the back but there’s a wall back there about three feet away,” he said. He crooked his elbow to feel for a bottom.
“I can feel something.”
“You can?” Ruth said excitedly.
“Yeah. I think it’s the bottom. It feels like more stone but it’s right at the edge of my fingertips.”
Ruth motioned to him to pull his hand out. She picked up a few jars from the shelf and moved them out of the way.
“Let’s see what’s back there,” she said, a mischievous smile and a sparkle in her eye.
It took about 20 minutes to clear the shelves and expand the perimeter of the opening. When it was finished, they were looking at a three-foot by three-foot cube cut into the soil behind the wall. There was nothing in it from what their light showed, but it was wet. Robert twisted his body, put his head in the opening and shone the light inside to get a better look.
“Looks empty, but it had to have been dug out for some reason.”
“It must have hidden something,” Ruth said. “Probably a hidey-hole to protect valuables from marauders.”
“Could be,” Robert shone the light above him.
“Ruth, I think there’s some writing on the ceiling. Let me get turned around here.”
He maneuvered so that he was bending backwards, his shoulders resting on the shelf and his face looking up. He pulled the flashlight back in next to his head.
“Ruth, there’s a pull ring here and a word. It says ‘Moloch’. Should I pull the ring?” he asked.
“Sure.”
Robert pulled himself out, reached back in and grabbed the small pull ring. He yanked down on it and the ceiling of the chamber fell in, rock and wood scratching his hand as it came down.
“Why do I listen to you?” he said, sucking the fingertips to help soothe the pain.
“What did you think was going to happen?” she laughed.
He shined the flashlight back into the opening and began clearing out rocks and rubble. After a few handfuls he could see something. He reached in, grabbed it with both hands and pulled it out of the hole. It was a box, two feet by two feet and slightly wet.
“You have any idea what this could be?”
Ruth suddenly felt like she was ten years old again, her eyes sparkling with excitement. She put a hand on his arm.
“Let’s take it upstairs.”
They set it on the table in the little kitchen. The box had no carvings or writing on it. It was simply a wooden box with a hinged top and a hook latch on one side.
“What do you think?” asked Ruth.
“I don’t know.”
Ruth’s own mind was running through the possibilities. She doubted it could be money. The Ogdens hadn’t been known as misers by anyone’s standards.
“Could be some special family heirloom, I suppose,” she said.
Robert reached for the latch on the front, “Ready to open it?”
Ruth nodded.
Robert unhooked the latch and lifted the top of the box. Inside there was a stone sitting in a puddle of water so deep it nearly reached the lip. It was round and smooth, but flatter on one side than the other and shaped like a teardrop. Robert picked it up. Water dripped from his fingers as he carried it over the floor and set it on a dishtowel by the sink. He dried it off and felt the weight of it.
“Yep,” he said aloud. “It’s a rock.”
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