by Bryan Dunn
She had left the gas station over an hour ago, and still no sign of anything that looked like the Furnace Valley turnoff. She glanced over at the map, lifted it, dropped it back on the seat. Useless.
Where was that sign?
Where was that truck?!
And then she saw the eighteen-wheeler out the right side of her windshield, the midday sun flashing off its massive stainless steel tank. Two minutes later, she pulled to a stop alongside it.
It was just like the mechanic said—stuck in the sand. Really stuck. About twenty yards off the road and mired up to its axles in loose sand. It was a perfectly straight section of highway. The driver must’ve been telling the truth when he said he fell asleep.
It was going to take a crane to get it back on the road.
There was a brightly painted logo on the side of the tank—green and yellow—and the company name looked like it started with the letter R, but from Laura’s angle, she couldn’t quite read it.
Up ahead on her left, just past where the truck went off the road, was a pocked and sandblasted sign. She strained forward and could just make out the words:
Furnace Valley 20 Miles, Summer Population 16, Winter Population 150, No Outlet.
At the bottom of the sign an arrow pointed to a lonely-looking dirt road that wound up and disappeared over a small rise, then appeared again as it wound up the face of Furnace Mountain.
Laura pulled the Civic forward until she was even with the sign and then stopped. She stared at the turnoff, letting her eyes trace along the uneven dirt road. More of a Jeep trail than a road, she thought.
Did she really want to do this?
* * *
A loud crunching filled the Honda’s cabin as she swung onto the dirt road. Everything inside the car instantly began to rattle and shake.
She maneuvered the Civic up the small rise—and just as she crested the hill, she had to slam on her brakes and swerve, narrowly missing a fallen stand of cactus. The Honda skidded, but she managed to keep all four tires on the road. When the dust settled, another sign came into view, nailed to a slanting fencepost:
CAUTION—SUBSTANDARD ROAD
Laura shook her head as she read the sign and said to herself, Ya think?
Chapter 15
With Darwin on his shoulder and the bottle of scotch clutched in his hand, Fletcher stepped off the porch. As he walked to the pond, he broke into a favorite childhood rhyme:
“There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile,
He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile,
He bought a crooked cat which caught a crooked mouse,
And they all lived together in a little crooked house.”
He finished the rhyme and laughed at himself for remembering it. Darwin called out with an approving squawk.
“You like that one, Darwin? Maybe I’ll have to add a new line about a little crooked bird with a little crooked squawk.” Fletcher looked up at Darwin. “What do you think about that?”
Darwin answered with another squawk.
Fletcher stepped up to the reservoir, placed the bottle at the edge, and called to Darwin, “How about a little birdbath?”
Darwin knew the drill. With a series of squawks, he leapt into the air and landed on top of the nearby nursery, keeping a safe distance from the water—and Fletcher’s bath hour.
Fletcher placed a foot on top of a valve handle. Then, using it as a step, he boosted himself up. Just as he was about to drop into the pond, his foot skidded across the spoke wheel, cracking the valve open.
A moment later, at the base of the pond, water began to trickle out of a drainpipe.
Fletcher regained his footing, threw a leg up and over the side and splashed into the water, not bothering to remove his T-shirt, shorts, or even his tennis shoes.
Chapter 16
The Cadillac Escalade smashed through the wooden gate, reducing it to kindling, and sent the no trespassing sign wobbling through the air like a misshapen Frisbee.
The front of Frankie Desouza’s SUV had been outfitted with one of those cowcatchers—a matrix of heavy metal tubes bolted to the front bumper. Made smashing through things a breeze.
Frankie had even coughed up the extra dough to have the thing chromed, telling the dealer, “Of course I want it chromed. It’s a Cadillac, for Christ’s sake.”
The only reason Frankie even thought to get a cowcatcher was the deer he slammed into seven months ago while making a speed run to Los Angeles. It happened last year on a hot summer night, no traffic, when Frankie was really pushing it to get to the coast.
He was going over ninety when he hit the deer. Big fucking mule deer was how Frankie told it. Caught the thing right in the chest. Dumb fucking animal, just standing there, not moving.
The impact was so violent that it severed the fully grown buck’s head, driving its eight-point rack right through the Escalade’s hood. Frankie was shaken up but unhurt. The airbag saving the scumbag from smashing his face into the steering wheel.
When Frankie staggered out of his car, he knew he’d hit a deer but hadn’t got a good look at exactly how big it was. When he saw the buck’s head sticking out from his car’s hood, he couldn’t believe his eyes.
Some fucking hood ornament.
Frankie began to laugh. Wait till Sonny and Tony and Big Jackie D get a load of this. It was a great big belly laugh that echoed through the desert night. What stupid fucking luck. “Fucking matchsticks,” Frankie said, glancing in the side mirror at the smashed gate.
“Didn’t feel a thing,” Frankie’s driver laughed.
“The guy’s loaded. Millions in the bank—and he puts up a balsawood gate.”
“Yeah,” the driver said. “What a cheapskate.”
“With that kind of money, you think the guy would’ve done something nice in wrought iron. Something ornamental.”
“The guy’s a bum. No class. Just look at the dump he lives in.”
Frankie thought about that, then grunted, “Go figure.”
The driver looked over. “Hey, boss… you think I should stop, see if we got any wood stuck in the grill?”
“No. I don’t think we should stop and see if there’s any wood stuck in the grill. Just keep driving. And watch the fucking road!”
“Sure. Okay, boss,” the driver said, gripping the steering wheel at the defensive ten and two position.
Frankie stared out at the desert. “When we get back to town, have the car detailed.”
Chapter 17
“Ah, this is the life, eh Darwin?” Fletcher pushed off the side of the pond and floated over to the bottle of scotch. He took a drink and slipped it back onto the cement rim.
Darwin raised his head, then waggled his beak approvingly.
“Here we are in our own private swimming hole, enjoying cocktail hour, doing the laundry and bathing all in one fell poop. Correction, Darwin. Make that—one fell swoop.”
Darwin tilted his head and gave Doc a confused look.
Fletcher splashed water at the macaw and said, “Come on Darwin, sing along…” And then he broke into a favorite ditty.
“We have a little garden, a garden of our own,
And every day we water there the seeds that we have sown,
We love our little garden, and tend it with such care,
You will not find a faded leaf or blighted blossom there.”
* * *
At the base of the pond, a rivulet of water flowed away from the open valve, snaking across the sand and disappearing beneath a greenhouse wall. Inside, the atmosphere was thick and breathless. All was quiet except for the tick tick tick of dripping water.
The rivulet coursed through the lath house, winding across the floor, past a palm, around a stand of bamboo and disappeared directly beneath the Fletcher’s creeper vine, feeding its roots.
Something was different now…
The creeper vine.
It had doubled in size! It was a now a giant throbbing green mass.
Closer in, surrounding the creeper, a more delicate sound could be heard—like a hatchling breaching its shell, or a chrysalis splitting in two.
It was the sound of growth.
Unbridled.
Insatiable.
Alien.
It was as if some freaky form of time-lapse photography had been projected onto the creeper vine, making it look like a Hollywood special effect.
Leaves opened and spread apart, drinking in the sunlight. Streamers rose, snaking out in all directions. Medusa-like tendrils danced in the air like jellyfish tentacles caught in an ocean current.
With each drop of water, the creeper grew and grew and grew.
It spread through the nursery—a thirsty predator choking and killing other plants—unable to slake its bottomless thirst.
At the back of the lath house, a jackrabbit flushed. It shot across the floor, zigzagging for the exit.
High above, close to the nursery’s ceiling, there was a sudden movement. A flash of green. A whistling sound. And then something swirled through the air.
A creeper stalk.
It dove downward, whipsawing from above like a striking snake—and fell on the rabbit, coiling around its body like a steel spring.
The rabbit screamed and kicked, unable to free itself from the creeper’s grip. The stalk constricted again, adding coil after deadly coil.
The rabbit pumped its legs. Then its eyes bulged. And then its body convulsed and fell quiet as the creeper patiently smothered its prey.
A short while later, the tip of the tendril loosened, freeing itself from the rabbit’s body. It rose straight into the air, bobbing and weaving like a charmed cobra. Then without warning, it struck down—and like a straw being driven into a soda cup’s lid, it plunged into the rabbit’s neck.
If you’d been there, with your ear pressed close to the rabbit, you would’ve heard a tiny sucking sound as the fluids were drained from its body.
Chapter 18
Darwin heard it first and let go with a shrill squawk.
Fletcher turned to see what it was and couldn’t believe his eyes when Frankie Desouza’s pearl-white Escalade rolled past the main house and pulled up directly in front of the pond. What the hell was he doing here? And how did he get past the gate?
Then he remembered he’d never gotten around to putting a lock on it.
The doors of the Escalade winged open, and Frankie and his driver climbed out. They walked around the SUV and approached the pond, both of them looking slick and out-of-place in the open air setting.
Frankie, sweating in the afternoon heat, was dressed in a Hawaiian shirt with a bamboo motif, linen pants, and calfskin loafers. Frankie’s driver, an ex-Vegas bouncer, wore a shiny designer T-shirt, knife-creased slacks, and black patent loafers with little gold bars across the vamp for a touch of class. Yeah, right.
The driver’s neck and arms were laced with tattoos—tats, he probably called them—that presumably illustrated the story of his pathetic life. He could’ve saved a bundle if he’d just had DUMBASS stitched across his forehead. As if that weren’t enough, the guy’s name was actually Vinny. Vinny Carpito. He was a walking, talking, 250-pound cliché that stood six feet tall and looked desperately short on IQ.
“What happened, professor? You get drunk and fall in?” Frankie said, motioning to the bottle of scotch.
That caused Vinny to burst out laughing. Fucking Frankie, what a ball-buster.
Fletcher swam forward and gripped the side of the reservoir. “What the hell are you doing here, Desouza? This is private property.”
“Don’t you know it’s rude to answer a question with a question?” Frankie glanced at Vinny. “I think the professor is drunk.”
“What would you know about manners? You’re a two-bit crook.”
“Now, now. Let’s not get personal, professor.”
“Oh, sure… let’s not get personal,” Fletcher said, smoothing a hand across his scalp. “Now get the fuck off my land. Nothing personal.”
“Alright, okay professor, we’re going to leave—but there’s some business to take care of first.” Frankie went to the SUV and put a hand on the door. “Got the papers right here in the car.”
Chapter 19
Fletcher boosted himself up and out of the pond, stripped off his T-shirt, wrung it out, and looped it over a shoulder. “I’m not selling, Desouza. Never. You and your slippery partners will never ever get your hands on this piece of land.”
“This is a new offer,” Frankie said, holding up the contract. “We sweetened the pot. We’re going to guarantee you another million bucks on the back end.” Frankie smiled through a bank of unnaturally white teeth. “Be just like winning the lottery, professor.”
“You see the gate, Desouza? Huh? Or maybe it’s that your boy doesn’t read so good?” He hooked a thumb at Vinny. “What about it, Desouza? Can your ape here say his a-b-c’s?”
Rage swept across Vinny’s face. He took a step toward Fletcher.
Frankie reached out, stopping him with a hand. “Let it drop, Vinny.” He looked at Fletcher and said, “The gate? Yeah, sure, we saw it.” He gave Vinny a wink. “Didn’t we, Vin?”
“Sure did, boss,” said Vinny, working hard to regain his cool.
“Very unfriendly of you, professor. And you never return my calls. So what am I gonna do? I gotta come all the way out here and visit you in this…” Frankie cast his eyes about, finally letting them come to rest on the main house. “In this shithole.”
“That’s it, Desouza. I’ve had enough of your crap,” Fletcher said, and marched towards the house. “I’m calling the sheriff.”
“You mean, Sheriff Templeton?”
That stopped him in his tracks. He looked at Desouza. “Who else?”
“Bought him breakfast just this morning,” Frankie answered, enjoying the look of surprise on Fletcher’s face. “That old boy sure loves his biscuits and gravy. You know, I think the only thing Dale Templeton likes to do better than fill that hog belly of his is play high-stakes poker.”
Fletcher’s face fell, suddenly understanding. “You and Templeton?”
“Like this,” Frankie laughed, holding up a hand with crossed fingers. “In fact, I’m helping Sheriff Templeton out with a—how should I put it—personal problem.”
“You? You’re helping the sheriff?”
Frankie gripped the front of his shirt, pumping it in and out, trying to coax a little air across his chest. “Oh yeah… seems the sheriff’s into a couple of associates of mine for thirty grand. Like I said, old Dale loves his Texas hold ‘em. And professor, that’s a lot of doughnuts for a public servant to come up with.”
“The bum is a degenerate gambler,” Vinny added, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Spitting on his badge.”
“Now, now, Vinny. Take it easy on the sheriff. Besides, we don’t say ‘degenerate gambler’ anymore. We say—he’s got a disease. It’s just like the guy who drinks too much. He’s not a drunk, or an alcoholic—he’s got a disease. He can’t help it. It’s not his fault. No one’s to blame for anything anymore. Isn’t that right, professor?” Frankie laughed, adding, “What a racket.”
“Well, trespassing sure as hell isn’t a disease.”
“Ha! Very funny. You got me there, professor. But hey, just give the touchy-feely crowd time—and they’ll work some wiggle room into that, too. Wait, I know—I’m not trespassing—I’m boundary challenged.” Frankie laughed at his cleverness and pumped his shirt again. “Anyway, I decided to help the sheriff out with his problem—and wouldn’t you know it—he’s agreed to come on board with the casino project. You know, to help smooth things with the locals.”
“You mean, help coerce citizens off their land.”
“You’re on fire today, professor.” Frankie watched Fletcher as he crossed the porch and entered the house. Then he motioned for Vinny to go around back.
Chapter 20
Fletcher came out of the house with a 12-gage Remington pump, steppe
d off the porch, leveled the shotgun at Desouza, and racked the pump, jacking a shell into the chamber.
Frankie stared at the shotgun. He held his hands up, but you could tell he thought it was some joke.
“You a stone cold killer, professor?”
Fletcher sniffed, jerked the barrel a couple of inches to the right, and pulled the trigger. The sand next to Desouza’s feet exploded, showering his gleaming loafers with dirt and sand.
A new look bloomed on Frankie’s face. A look of respect.
Fletcher racked the pump. “Now get the hell off my property, Desouza. If I ever see you here again, I’m going to just start shooting and tell everyone it was self-defense.”
“Sure, sure, professor,” said Frankie, the amber draining back into his olive complexion. “We’ll just see what the sheriff has to say about that.”
By the time Fletcher saw him, it was too late. All of Vinny’s 250 pounds hammered into his right side, knocking the shotgun loose and sending both men tumbling to the ground.
Fletcher’s legs were pinned, but when Vinny loosened his grip to go for his arms, Fletcher twisted, thrusting one leg up like a piston and driving his knee into Vinny’s chin with a snapping thud. Fletcher grabbed for the shotgun, just as—
Darwin swooped down from above, raked Vinny’s skull with his claws, then shot straight up, disappearing into the sun with a loud squawk. That gave Fletcher just the opening he needed to sweep the shotgun around and point it at Vinny’s chest. He dropped his finger to the trigger, and—
A shot rang out.
A nine millimeter slug slammed into Fletcher’s neck, tearing out a piece of his throat—and instantly killing him.
Still stunned from the blow to his chin, Vinny staggered to his feet, looked over, and saw Frankie pointing his Glock. Then he watched as a curl of smoke looped out of the barrel and vanished in the thin desert air.