The man who’d gone out for the shears spoke up. “There’s red sky to the east. Reveille’s not far off. Let’s get cutting.”
Chapter 30
The ski mask was hot. No one at the reception counter. A 60s era camera and push button lock guarding the inside entry. Guzzo put one hand on the counter, vaulted, and duck walked behind the counter to a doorway. No one in a back office. Desk, filing cabinets, copy machine, piles of paperwork, and a facility map. He located the room, Decken MaCade and Sherman Leahy. A doorway out the back of the office open. Scent of dried urine. A fat female aide in blue slacks and flowery top walking the other way. Soon after she turned a corner, Guzzo found the room, took off the ski mask, and pushed open the unlatched door.
A curtain separated the beds. Sherman Leahy near the door, lights out, eyes closed. Beyond the curtain, CNN logo and split screens on bed two’s wall-mounted television. Captioning on, sound off.
Decken’s face was gray, wrinkled, spotted like a barnyard belly. Wisps of white hair waved in the building’s HVAC circulation. His nose tube sweat reflected CNN strobe.
“Who the hell…?” he asked, reaching to both ears to turn up hearing aides.
“Don’t you recognize your great nephew?”
“I got no nephews.”
Guzzo pulled back his jacket sleeve, revealing his tattoo. “Remember my Desert Storm tattoo, Uncle Decken?”
Confused look. “Why you wearing rubber gloves?”
“You need to tell me something. It’s important. My friends were here earlier and you told them. Now I need you to tell me where the CCC boys hid their cache so I can help. Get it? I’m here to help.”
“If I don’t tell?”
“They’re my friends, too. If you can’t tell your own nephew—”
Decken shook his head. “I ain’t telling.”
Guzzo moved in, shadowing the television glow. “I’ll have to kill you.”
A brief pause, a childlike voice. “Go ahead.”
“And I’ll have to kill old Sherman behind curtain number one.”
Decken’s eyes widened. The reek of sour breath, but no words. He coughed, sputtered, turned, pulled open a nightstand drawer, and fumbled with toothpaste tubes and spit cups before bringing out a .38.
Never allow a gun to be pointed more than a second. A second later Guzzo held the gun and Decken rubbed his wrist.
Guzzo aimed the .38 at bed one, tenting the curtain. “Well?”
“If I tell, you won’t shoot him?”
“That’s the idea.”
“Look inside. One of the bullets is missing.”
Guzzo retrieved a rolled up wad of paper from one of the six, unrolled it, and held it beneath the bedside lamp. “This the exact location?”
Decken nodded. Guzzo smiled. Decken smiled. Guzzo closed the .38’s cylinder, studied the thickness of the pillows behind Decken’s head, and noted Decken’s hands firmly clasped on his chest in coffin pose. Guzzo turned off the bedside light.
On the muted television, CNN news had gone to an ask-your-doctor-about prescription medication commercial, required warnings scrolling wildly.
The pickup parked beneath bright overheads was dusty, its bent bull bar flecked with white paint. All four did a dance of indecision as they approached, keeping the pickup between them and the entrance.
“There’s a wheelchair in the entry,” said Lazlo. “I’m the shittiest looking. I’ll get into it and become a resident.”
Niki knew in her gut the pickup driver killed her father, and her brother. She imagined him throwing her father from the roof of their building. Her father feisty, once he made up his mind, like Decken MaCade with his .38 stashed in his nightstand drawer. And here was the pickup—Wait, passenger side window facing her not reflecting light.
Niki gave her Caravan keys to Janos. “Go! You’re the fastest. Get the van.”
Janos took them and started running back toward the hospital. Mariya ran with Janos.
Lazlo walked ahead with his pistol out. “I’ll go in—”
Niki saw movement in the vestibule. She grabbed Lazlo’s sleeve, pulled him back. “Lazlo, I must do this!”
She ran, the pickup shielding her from the care center entrance as the door swung open. She scrambled through the truck window, climbed over the console into the back, elbows and knees striking hard objects in the narrow space behind the front seats. Should have taken Lazlo’s gun. Smell of cigarettes and stale beer. The pickup door opened.
Lazlo caught off guard, conjuring up a younger man able to run and leap into the pickup bed. But he was breathless, gripping his pistol, watching the pickup disappear into the darkness.
After climbing over the reception counter and going through an office, he knew where to look. Muted television, commercial for an exercise device. Something whining. The sulfurous scent of gunpowder. Lazlo turned on the overhead lights.
Both men dead, shot in the head. Decken sprawled on the floor between the beds. Blood from both spreading, the roommate’s into his pillow, Decken’s outward onto the floor and beneath the beds. A thick pillow beside Decken with two holes and powder marks. An older .38 special near Decken’s right hand. Hearing aide on the floor whining its feedback. Crime scene first glance left the impression Decken used pillows to deaden the shot into his roommate, then himself. First investigator would look for Decken’s fingerprints on the gun.
Lazlo ran, almost knocking over a woman in blue slacks and flowery blouse. “Hey, I thought I heard—Hey!”
“Call police!”
The van pulled up to the entrance as Lazlo ran out. He dove onto the back floor, its sliding door already open. The door powered shut as Janos sped off. A text came in on three phones, Janos, Mariya, and Lazlo reading the same message.
“Heading north. 191. Not seen in back.”
As Janos sped through Vernal toward Route 191, Lazlo detailed the murder-suicide setup, gripping the seatback to keep from being thrown around. When the van stopped cornering he sat up. Behind them, a half-mile back, the flashing lights of a police car headed the other way toward the Mountain View Care Center. Ahead, mountains thrust skyward millions of years earlier spoke with the stars.
The map from the cylinder of the old man’s revolver was in Guzzo’s pocket. He’d memorized it. Manila at the top, Vernal at the bottom, Routes 191, 44, and the Sheep Creek Loop in detail, along with an entry road to the Ute Mountain Fire Lookout Tower. He’d seen Sheep Creek Loop signs earlier that day. The map had an X labeled, “Under Castle Rock boulder, 200 paces SE of tower.”
The lights of Vernal faded. It cooled as he climbed into the mountains and he closed the passenger window. He took off the latex gloves and threw them into the back seat. He saw no one behind, but watched for headlights when switchbacks began. He’d be to the fire tower in less than an hour, but no need to risk being pulled over or hitting an animal.
Rocks and boulders in the headlights would have a lot to say if they could speak. One particular boulder to his left was rectangular like a bank vault. Perhaps 1939 funds were put in many banks. In the cache beneath the boulder he’d find the key, not what the CCC men had done to deserve death years later, but what they knew.
Pescatore said bring what he found to the fish market. The farther north he drove, the more Guzzo thought of the cache as the key to a fortune. The only place he and Pescatore met was the fish market. Where did Pescatore live? A high-rise downtown? Pescatore had accumulated power and money. If Guzzo simply supplied the contents of the cache…He’d make a decision when the time came. Certainly not a future in Orland Park cutting lawn, spreading Weed and Feed. He and his family deserved more.
Orange cones closed off the pullout where he’d pushed off the motor home. Somewhere in a Vernal morgue, bodies of the two in the motor home were probably shredded to bits. The pullout where he’d pushed off the white Navigator an
d shot the man who climbed out was not blocked, the torn-out section of guardrail out of sight. Obviously no one had reported this “accident.”
After turning onto Route 44 toward the west edge of the gorge, Guzzo drove a long straight stretch and in the side mirror spotted headlights a mile back. Could be someone from a lodge or campground along the gorge. As the road snaked back and forth, the headlights disappeared and he searched ahead for Sheep Creek Loop. With the window closed, the smells in the pickup had changed, perspiration mixed with a sweet smell.
Over the years, Lazlo heard stories from men worried about wives, sweethearts, and daughters, out alone at night. He’d been Father Gypsy in the Kiev Militia, the burden of victims weighing heavily. For him lovers remained simply lovers. Yet now, after knowing Niki only days, he was being thrown about on the floor of her van. He’s finally met her and she dives through a killer’s open window! As he hung onto the seatback, Lazlo could smell her, the sweet scent of the woman he wished to spend his life with.
“Janos! You see them?”
“Occasionally a taillight!”
“But why—?”
Mariya reached between the front seats and held Lazlo’s arm. “Deep breaths, Lazlo.”
Lazlo grasped Mariya’s hand. “Do you have the envelope Sonia gave you?”
“Of course, I’ve carried it in my shoe since we left Kiev.”
When Mariya gave Lazlo the envelope with hair Doctor Marta’s grandfather had saved he put it in his shirt pocket and clutched it to his breast. “Bela Voronko saved hair. George Minkus saved hair. Niki’s father saved hair. Janos! Faster!”
The fire tower access road was an unpaved two-track climbing back and forth between pines. At the top it widened to a small parking area surrounded by new growth pines, cleared brush piles, and sharp-edged rock like rusted saw teeth. The tower, painted white, stood on the partially cleared plateau, a haunted cabin on stilts. The only lights below were miles north, the town of Manila. Guzzo checked his compass and drove off the smoothed parking area around the side of the tower, the 350 straddling rock like a boyhood toy tilting back and forth.
As promised by MaCade’s map, the Castle Rock miniature stood out in the headlights, well off the parking area on a down slope protected by old growth pines, a few of which appeared to have burned in a recent fire. He did not get out to walk the 200 paces. Instead he drove up to the rock, its face ten by ten feet, but not so thick. It sat on a sagebrushed rubble bed. Someone had graffitied it with initials obliterated by time. The only character distinguishable was a plus symbol between two sets of initials. The plus was crooked, as in X marks the spot.
When the driver got out but left the door open, Niki stayed put on the floor. Her knees were sore, metal tools in a vinyl bag having gouged her. Inside lights had not come on. She inched up slightly and saw him with a flashlight inspecting the Castle Rock replica. She listened for sounds of another vehicle. Had Lazlo, Janos, and Mariya gotten her text? She was about to climb into the front seat but the man returned, boots clacking and shuffling on hard stone. When he got back in she felt the seatback shift and curled up, trying to make herself smaller. After he slammed the door the pickup lurched forward, seesawing over rock, then a jarring thump as the front end made contact with the Castle Rock replica.
The engine growled, tires spinning on rock. She searched the vinyl bag she’d knelt on. Jack, handle, and lug wrench. She pulled out the wrench, gripped its end to swing it. But suddenly the ceiling and backs of the seats were lit from behind and she caught a glimpse of the driver turning as she ducked back down. He seemed an ordinary looking man in his 40s. But this was the man who’d killed her father.
Lazlo knelt behind the center console as Janos neared the pickup, stones from spinning dual rear tires pummeling the van, cracking the windshield. Straddling large rocks, Janos accelerated closer, headlights on the driver who turned and smiled. When the man faced forward, Lazlo caught a glimpse of Niki’s hand come up from the floor directly behind the driver’s seat. She held something. Lazlo pulled out his gun. Ahead of the pickup the Castle Rock replica was tilted at an odd angle.
The pickup’s backup lights lit, the impact throwing Lazlo forward onto the center console. Janos put the van in reverse but the pickup kept pushing. Rather than snaking between larger rocks as Janos had done driving in, the pickup pushed the van, its underpinnings sounding like a jackhammer at work. In the parking area, Janos turned the steering wheel and the van careened sideways.
“Keep the lights on him!” shouted Lazlo, reaching across to the sliding door handle.
The pickup circled to the driver’s side of the van as Lazlo jumped out the passenger side rear door. After Janos powered the sliding door shut, Lazlo ran behind the nearest boulder, taking aim at the cloud of dust created by the van and pickup circling madly in the small parking area.
Guzzo saw two in the van. Before their arrival, the 350 had done its work, the Castle Rock replica tilted to one side. Charred pines kept the replica from tumbling down the mountain. The shine of metal in the shale hollow. He’d need to eliminate the two in the van. Assuming Niki Gianakos, the original mark, had not been in the motor home, she’d get it now.
The van was a toy for the raised 350 with its six wheels and bull bar. The chase raised ancient dust. Guzzo had the angle, the embankment steeper along the edge of the parking area, the van trying to turn back but too late. He plowed it onto the rocks, then onto a steep rock-strewn pathway between pines. He backed up and slammed the van’s rear corner sending it over on its side and down the rocky slope. At first the van slid, but as the slope became steeper, it went into a roll, headlights whipping back and forth before finally going out.
Guzzo pulled up sideways and aimed his flashlight out the window down the slope. The van in a cloud of dust below, its roof smashed against a tree. Airbags had gone off, fabric like dried animal skin visible. Because there was no movement, he’d have time to retrieve what was hidden. He’d make certain the two in the van were dead and wipe out his tire marks before leaving. They’d be discovered in the morning, a tragic accident on Ute Mountain.
Just as Guzzo was about the put the transmission in reverse and go back to the Castle Rock replica, a hand grabbed his left arm and something smashed into his right shoulder.
There were two! One outside, one in the back seat! He reached to the passenger seat where he’d placed his pistol. It was gone!
A shot from behind into his right foot slammed down the accelerator, then slipped to the side. He pulled his second pistol from his shoulder holster, aimed at the man outside hanging onto his jacket. Whoever was in the back with his other pistol grasped his arm and his shot went through the windshield.
The grip on his left arm tightened after the shot. The 350 still in gear, rolling at idle. He crossed his left foot over his burning right foot and pressed the accelerator, the pickup dragging the man outside who wouldn’t let go. When a blow to his head came from the behind, he dropped the pistol he held in his right hand, grabbed the pistol hitting him, and fired toward the back seat.
A woman behind screamed and the man outside growled as he accelerated the pickup. The legs of the fire tower loomed up quickly and he stood on the brake with his left foot. The man outside and the woman behind crashed forward, the woman wedged between the seats, the man outside still hanging on. Despite being dragged by the pickup the man outside had an arm around his neck!
Guzzo tucked the pistol between his legs, grabbed the shifter, put the 350 in reverse, accelerated, and slammed the brakes as he spun the steering wheel, body-slamming the man into the side of the 350, and at the same time slugging the woman wedged between the seats. When he was about to accelerate again, the 350 went dead. While being slugged, she’d somehow gotten to the keys, turning off the ignition.
Guzzo felt on the floor and the gun that had slid from between his legs. He got a grip on it, aimed out the window, and fired
.
Niki’s left arm aflame, a bullet had shattered bone. The driver’s door open, the man gone. She crawled onto the driver’s seat, scrambling with her good arm to get out. There’d been the crash, the van gone, Janos and Mariya gone. Somehow Lazlo had gotten out of the van and—
“Lazlo!”
Lazlo and the man on the ground in the dark. As she struggled to push herself out, there, on the floor, was a gun, the smell of gunpowder as she grasped it in her right hand and fell to the ground. She got to her knees, felt for the trigger, fired a shot into the air. The canyons echoed it back. The dark mass of Lazlo and the man struggled before her. If Lazlo could he’d have shouted something when she fired, but there was only the sound of gurgling gasps for air, Lazlo being choked to death in the darkness.
She moved in close but was kicked by a boot. The killer on top, strong and young. She had a pistol, but even if she aimed correctly, would the bullet go through the man and into Lazlo? It was too dark, the struggle an ancient creature kicking at shale, gasping its last gasp. Despite her useless burning left arm, she joined them.
Gripping the automatic tightly in her right hand and holding her finger carefully away from the hair trigger, she pushed her face between them, smelling, listening. Her neck twisted to one side as the killer became aware of her.
“You’re next!”
On her back, her left arm flailing helplessly in a world of pain, she wedged her right hand with the pistol to the center of the killer’s mass to fire into him. But he grabbed the pistol and flung it away into the darkness.
Mariya’s legs torn at by sharp rock as she climbed, nearing the lookout tower plateau. Janos trapped in the van, legs crushed but alive. Janos insisting she take his pistol.
Over the last sharp-edged rock she saw them. A tall man holding a flashlight in one hand and a pistol in the other aiming down at Lazlo and Niki. Lazlo on his back, gasping for breath. Niki beside him, her jacket sleeve dark with blood. Mariya aimed the pistol she held, but they were too far away and if she missed…
The Girl With 39 Graves Page 30