High Desert Barbecue

by J. D. Tuccille

  “Well … yeah. There was the house and the wife and the job. The house was one of those cookie-cutter deals in a quaint-by-decree town. Y’know, your fence can’t be higher than five feet and you can’t change your oil in the driveway and the neighbors come in three different flavors of pain-in-the-ass. It was perfect for Toni.”

  Lani leaned back against Scott, who nuzzled the top of her head and copped a feel—gently slapped away—under the cover of darkness.

  “So, why’d you marry her?”

  “She was a real looker when she was 24. There’s no denying that. The sex was unbelievable.”

  “This seems to be something of a theme in your life.”

  “I know what I like. But when I married Toni I hadn’t yet realized that a decent piece of ass could be had on a short-term rental basis; I didn’t need to take on a long-term lease.”

  Scott successfully stifled a laugh, but Lani could feel the spasms through his touch and shot an elbow into his ribs.

  “Jesus. I was just starting to like you.”

  “Can you tell he used to be a car salesman?” Scott asked.

  “Bullshit. I sold insurance. What a racket.

  “Anyway, Lani, if it makes you feel better, I didn’t go over too well in that cookie cutter town either.”

  “Who’d ever guess?”

  “Yeah. One of the town councilmen called me a ‘menace’.”

  “Did you proposition his wife?”

  “Nope. I just threatened to pour a load of concrete down his chimney. Him and his chums passed an ordinance banning new fireplaces. I just figured he ought to give up his own if he was gonna go and pass a law like that.”

  Lani reached back and stroked her boyfriend’s cheek.

  “Suddenly, I understand why you and Scott are friends.”

  “That’s it,” Scott joined in. “Rollo and I share a certain constructive disrespect for authority.”

  “No shit. But you’re better than me at making up your own rules while making people think you’re living by theirs. You blend in and subvert the system. I need to do things my own way, but there’s not a lot of room left for that.”

  Scott hoisted his drinking tube aloft—a nearly invisible gesture in the dark.

  “To Rollo, the last of the mountain men.”

  “So,” Lani asked. “Did you do it?”

  “What?”

  “Pour concrete down the councilman’s chimney?”

  “Heh. I ain’t telling.”

  A papery rustling interrupted the conversation. Scott thrust something into Lani’s hand. She smelled the sweetness before she tasted the candy bar.

  “Want some chocolate, buddy?”

  “Sure.”

  Scott brushed the bug net aside. He launched the piece of candy into the darkness.

  “Ow! Son of a bitch.”

  “Sorry. Your big head was the only thing I could see.”

  The night was filled with the sound of chewing. Eager molars crunched down on chocolate, peanuts and caramel.

  “Damn that hit the spot.”

  “So,” Lani began around a mouthful of partially chewed candy. She stopped, chewed some more, and then swallowed before beginning again.

  “So, how’d you get from a life you hated to farming dope in the national forest?”

  “Oh that. Well, my escape was always camping and hiking. Toni came with me at first. But she never much liked it and did it to make me happy. Later, she didn’t much like me either, so I went off on my camping trips by myself to get away from things.”

  “Did you divorce her and decide that life in the woods was better than life in a model town?”

  “Technically, I’m still on my last camping trip. It’s going on six years now, so Toni and my boss have probably figured out that I’m not coming back. Hang on …”

  The sound of a zipper cut through the night.

  “Yep, here it is in my pack. I still have the airport parking receipt for my car. What a piece of shit. D’ya think it’s still there?”

  He chuckled and continued without waiting for an answer.

  “Even buying nothing but occasional supplies, I ran out of cash pretty fast. And there wasn’t anything left for an occasional blow-out in town. It wasn’t long before I turned to a little part-time agriculture. Hell, it wasn’t hard. That stuff will grow anywhere!

  “Anyway, that’s enough about me. What made you decide to torment kids for a living?”

  In the distance a coyote howled, and was quickly joined by others of his kind. Silent until now, curled up at the feet of the sleeping bags, Champ responded with a low growl.

  “I’ll tell you—if you have a joint to share.”

  Chapter 31

  The small circle clustered even more tightly as the coyote chorus continued. Jason snugged up against Samantha, Terry huddled between Bob and Rena, and Ray found himself pressed between the group’s nominal leader and the mammal-hating fireplug. Damp and chilly under the thin, crinkly mylar of his now-tattered emergency blanket, which he’d spread out as a body-covering poncho, Ray inched away from his comrades. Almost immediately, he felt Rena’s breast back in place against his arm. He shot a quick glance at her, and found his look returned by a sharp scowl.

  “Can’t we have a fire,” Terry asked. Just a small one, maybe.”

  Jason briefly dragged his attention from the woman sitting next to him.

  “Umm … I don’t think that’s a good idea. Ray, you’re the law-enforcement guy. What do you say?”

  Ray sighed.

  “It might just make us a target, and they’re obviously armed and willing to fight. It wouldn’t be a bad idea for one of us to stand guard, if anybody is willing to volunteer.” He looked around the circle.

  Everybody found someplace else to direct their eyes.

  “Or not.”

  Ray glanced back at his neighbor and found her looking at him again. He felt a sudden flush of warmth—uncomfortable warmth. The coyotes chose that moment to raise the volume.

  “Uh, I guess you guys don’t like coyotes, right. I mean, they’re mammals and all.”

  “Oh, that’s not true. After all, they eat other mammals. I think that’s pretty cool.”

  “Yeah,” Bob added. He hunched forward to meet Ray’s eyes, barely visible in the gloom. “It’s really a misconception to say that we hate all mammals. We just can’t stand the destruction that some mammals wreak upon the wonderful, defenseless world of plant life. But carnivores are fine; we have nothing against coyotes.”

  Jason cleared his throat.

  “I think coyotes are pretty cool, but they have nothing on deer. Deer are so sensuous.” He paused. “Is it sensuous or sensual, I always get those confused?”

  Ray’s jaw fell open.

  “Deer?” Samantha asked. “But they’re herbivores! You can’t like plant-eaters.”

  “I think it’s ‘sensual’,” Terry added.

  “No, really,” Jason objected. “They have those firm, muscular flanks, and those glistening, moist eyes—”

  Oh wow, Ray thought.

  “Oh wow,” Samantha said. “That’s exactly how I feel about manzanita. I love how the warm red color of life flows through the stalks during the Monsoon. The bark is so smooth and—”

  “Oh yeah.” Bob said. “Manzanita are way … sensual? Is the word ‘sensual’?

  “Prickly pear, too. The contrast between the bright red fruit and the thrusting thorns is just …” his voice trailed off.

  “Erotic?” Rena asked.

  “Yeah. Erotic.”

  Terry stirred, the hood of his rain jacket bobbing in the dark.

  “Oh man, that’s so cool. I’ve never felt that way about anything.”

  “Anything?” Jason asked.

  “How about people?” Ray asked.

  A long silence ensued.

  Ray sniffed. His head shot up. He sniffed again.

  “What the hell? Is that marijuana?” He stood and inhaled deeply. “Goddamnit. That
’s illegal! I can’t believe that we’re chasing those scumbags, and they’re having a pot party.”

  Ray suddenly felt chilled once again. Cool air moved over bare skin—lots of bare skin. He looked down. His silvery emergency blanket clutched, uselessly, at his ankles. Rena stared at him—at least, at a point on him about half way up. Her eyes didn’t waver.

  Flushed and confused, Ray grabbed the thin mylar sheet and draped it around himself like a toga.

  “On second thought, I think I’ll go stand guard duty.”

  Chapter 32

  Scott awoke with the sun. The first pale splashes of light were hazily visible on the canyon’s walls through the thin green tarp, though the sun had yet to visit the floor of the canyon. Between these high rock walls, a clear view of the sun itself was hours away, and Scott hoped to be on the trail long before he stood in direct sunlight.

  His bladder felt heavy and close to bursting. A quick glance revealed Champ sprawled across the tarp’s two human occupants, with his head on Lani and his hindquarters resting on Scott’s midsection. The dog snored softly and one paw twitched in accord with some fragment of canine dream.

  Scott eased himself out from under Champ and slid from his sleeping bag. The dog stirred and raised his head in response to the commotion.

  “Stay.”

  Champ whined, yawned widely, and then flopped back down on his mistress’s belly.

  Lani shifted in her sleeping bag, and then was still again.

  Scott’s bladder still felt heavy, even free of the dog’s weight. He quietly eased his feet into his hiking shoes, tucked his pistol into his right hip pocket, raised the edge of the bug net, and ducked out under the sky.

  The ground was damp underfoot, as if it had rained again in the early morning hours. Confirmation for that theory was found in the cigar-like configuration of Rollo’s bedding, which he had rolled around him as protection against the weather. Only the top of the older man’s head and the tip of his nose were visible. Loud snores issued from these projecting features, easily drowning out Champ’s efforts.

  Scott walked into the rocks up-canyon from camp and found a likely spot in which to relieve himself. The early morning chill felt bracing, like a quick cup of coffee, but he was more than happy to tuck everything back where it belonged when he was finished.

  He started back toward camp, and then stopped and glanced further up-canyon.

  “Hmmm.”

  A few minutes later, he slipped from rock to rock, listening for tell-tale sounds, though he wasn’t quite sure what they might be. In shadow among the rocks as he was, he wasn’t too worried about spying eyes. Still, he stepped carefully to avoid setting small rocks rolling and sending up a clatter that might alert his pursuers.

  Despite the cool air, he started to sweat. A bead of nervous perspiration rolled down his face. As much as he wanted to know what the firebug rangers were up to, he didn’t want to be caught sneaking up on people who had unloaded impressive quantities of ammunition at him just a few hours earlier.

  That ammunition might have come from official sources, but he suspected the rangers wouldn’t follow official procedures if it came to an arrest.

  He froze as a low noise eased its way across the canyon floor. It repeated. It sounded almost like a chorus of low, warning growls—like something a pack of wild dogs might emit if a stranger wandered too near the den. He followed his ears, carefully, to a raised clearing along the canyon wall.

  Up close, the noise became clearer and less threatening. It was snoring—a lot of snoring. He peeked around a large boulder.

  “Holy shit,” he hissed.

  In the clearing, huddled together on the ground, lay the firebugs. They were wrapped in sparse coverings including emergency blankets, a rain jacket and uniform bottoms. Chests rising and falling almost in unison, they clearly shared a moment of contented deep sleep.

  Day packs and rifles were arranged in a tight circle around the tangle of human bodies. Scott briefly considered approaching closer to gather up the rifles. He put his hand on the butt of his pistol as he considered the idea. Then he thought of his odds against the bunch if they awoke while he was festooned with more weapons than he could handle. He withdrew, slowly and quietly.

  Back in camp, the tarp was already down and packed away, and Lani had the stove going. Rollo sat on his pack, gnawing a piece of jerky. Champ sat attentively next to him, closely eyeing the dried meat.

  “Hey, honey. I’ll have some coffee ready in a minute,” Lani said. “Where were you?”

  “I scouted out the folks who are chasing us. I’m not completely convinced they’re Forest Service.”

  “What?” Rollo spat a piece of jerky to the ground. “Who in hell do you think was shooting machine guns at us?”

  “Rollo, they’re all sleeping half-naked in a pile.”

  The older man’s eyes widened.

  “They had an orgy?” Lani asked. She laughed.

  “No, they’re only half naked. I think they’re trying to stay warm. Aside from the guns, they have almost no gear. Considering what I just saw, and that weird ceremony we interrupted yesterday, I’m favoring the idea that we’ve run up against some bizarre cult.”

  Rollo spat again.

  “What about their trucks and uniforms?”

  “They only have pants. Hell, maybe they ate the real rangers and used their shirts for napkins. If that’s the case, that would suggest they’re marines. But that seems improbable.”

  Lani stood with a steaming metal cup in her hand, which she handed to Scott. He took the cup and elaborately kissed her hand.

  “So we’re being chased through Sycamore Canyon by a pyro death cult? How likely is that?”

  Rollo grumbled in obvious agreement.

  Scott sipped his coffee and sighed.

  “Well … it’s a lot more likely than the idea that we stumbled on a band of naked homicidal rangers holding a torch-lit forest-burning ceremony.”

  Chapter 33

  Fingers clenched in a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, Ranger Tim guided a government-issue SUV of not terribly recent vintage at wildly excessive speeds down Interstate 17. With the gas pedal pinned to the floor, Tim kept his badge visible on the passenger seat next to him. He felt the comforting weight of his Sig pistol on his hip.

  In his present mood, Tim wasn’t sure if he’d resort to the badge or the gun if pulled over by a Department of Public Safety officer. He hoped the green truck with its official seal would discourage a traffic stop, but it was no guarantee. He wasn’t in the mood to be interrupted—his mission was far too important for that—so he kept his options open.

  His own Park Service supervisors had provided the truck; the Forest Service, in the person of Martin Van Kamp, insisted that it was running low on available vehicles. Van Kamp rubbed in the point that Tim himself had been responsible for one of the trucks lost in the fire down Woody Mountain Road. Tim smarted at the memory of the conversation. It was one more reason for him to rush to his destination and punish the people who he saw as the cause of his humiliation.

  Nobody accompanied Tim. He’d been clear on that point.

  “I don’t want you down there alone,” Van Kamp whispered in a gentle, soothing tone. “You should have backup. We already know these people are dangerous.”

  “I don’t want anybody along to get in the way,” Tim answered.

  The Chief Ranger waved his hands dismissively from behind his desk. Even propped up in his chair as he was, the effect was a bit like a kid reaching to pull himself over a wall.

  “Nobody will be in your way. They’ll be there to help. You’ll be in charge.”

  “Help?” Tim rested his hands on the desk and leaned forward—and downward—to face Van Kamp. “Help like Jason ‘helped’? Help like the tree huggers ‘helped’? If I get more help like that all I’ll need from you is a few kind words at my funeral.”

  Van Kamp managed a weak smile as he pushed back from his desk. His chair thudded i
nto the file cabinet behind him and his arms wagged wildly as the chair tilted, and then righted itself.

  “Uhh … no. No, I can get you better people than that. I’m sorry—”

  Tim shook his head.

  “I don’t care who you get. I don’t want ‘em.” His lips skinned back from his teeth in a feral grin. “Damnit, Van Kamp. I don’t want any witnesses.”

  Hours later, speeding past the Stoneman Lake exit and down the highway as it descended steeply from the high country, Tim exulted in the focus and freedom he felt in his solitary mission.

  As the packed-dirt emergency pull-off ramp came into view, the acrid smell of overworked brakes filled the air. He didn’t worry a bit; the problem couldn’t be with his truck. He hadn’t touched his brakes since he’d started the engine.

  Chapter 34

  Rollo took the lead as the trio of renegades tramped their dusty, sun-drenched way down-canyon toward … well, they didn’t really know what they tramped toward, but they were all too aware of what lay behind them.

  “My cache is somewhere up ahead.”

  “Where?”

  The older man pointed up and to the right. Scott followed the line of his finger to the canyon wall. The rocks rose sheer and steep, broken by ledges and sharp projections of stone. Here and there a shrub-like tree clung for dear life to a few square feet of gravity-defying soil.

  “Up there.”

  “On the canyon wall?” Lani asked. She shielded her eyes with a hand and craned her head to spot where the two men were looking.

  “Christ no. Up on top. On the mesa, but further down the canyon. I’m not sure how far.” He paused for a moment, and then shielded his own eyes. “That does look kind of high, doesn’t it?”

  Scott stood in place and contemplated the towering canyon walls. Sycamore Canyon wasn’t the deepest gouge in the Earth that Arizona had to offer, but that was a long way up—and back down.

  “You climbed up that with your gear?”

  “Well … no. I came in over the trail from further up the the canyon.”