The Girl With 39 Graves

by Michael Beres

  The man waved Niki up. “I’ll shoot him again!”

  Mariya watched as Niki struggled to her feet. The man held his pistol and flashlight on Niki, limping behind her to the pickup. He reached in, started the engine, and had Niki walk ahead into the headlights. He went back to Lazlo and swung the pistol, hitting Lazlo in the head.

  Niki screamed, “Lazlo!”

  The man turned. “Shut up and move!”

  Mariya crawled forward and stood. The truck’s headlights lit up the Castle Rock replica, tilted awkwardly to the side. The man had Niki climb into a hollow at the base of the rock. He gave orders Mariya could not hear above the pickup’s rumbling. Niki began handing things up. The man made a pile on the ground. A rifle with a cylindrical magazine caught in the beam of the flashlight. A Tommy gun like she’d seen in American gangster films!

  Mariya moved in closer. She was barely able to walk to where Lazlo lay breathing heavily. It was too dark to see if Lazlo’s eyes were open. She turned to get in close enough, but instead of the man standing at the edge of the hollow, only Niki was there, Niki reading from a yellowed sheet of paper she held up to the light from the pickup’s headlights. Suddenly, the pistol Mariya grasped was snatched away and she was thrown to the ground.

  Although in a world of pain, Lazlo held his breath and closed his eyes when the man shined the flashlight on him. The man had taken his pistol. He played dead, then turned to watch as the man led Mariya to the hollow lit by headlights. He blinked his eyes. The spinning eased but he could not get up. The headlights blinded Niki. She’d not seen Mariya until now. They spoke but the pickup’s rumble was loud. Their body language, bending forward slightly, made Lazlo realize they wanted the man to assume both he and Janos were finished.

  Niki handed over a sheet of yellowed paper. The man pocketed it and gave orders. Niki and Mariya were forced, despite their conditions, to carry several guns, including revolvers, shotguns, and two Tommy guns, from the cache beneath the Castle Rock replica to the pickup. The way the man had Niki and Mariya hold the guns by the barrels, there was no way they could turn them on him without being shot. They also carried what appeared to be ammunition boxes.

  Mariya and the man both limped while Niki could not carry anything with her left hand. Niki shot in her arm and Mariya injured by the crash. Lazlo concentrated on the man’s limp, looking for weakness. From the shine of blood at the top of the man’s right boot it appeared he’d been shot in the foot.

  After several loads were dumped into the pickup bed, the sounds of metal on metal made it obvious the man was searching the ammunition boxes. A minute went by before the three were back at the cache, the man ordering them into the pit, saying he needed them to look for something. Lazlo tried to sit but managed only to raise his head before pain overtook him. He watched carefully. Niki and Mariya’s lives depending on detail.

  Mariya glanced up, saw the man look back toward where Lazlo lay. She whispered something to Niki. When the man turned back, Lazlo heard him. “No talking, just find it!” Lazlo saw Mariya remove her shoe and put it back on.

  The key! Mariya had been carrying the Brooklyn safe deposit box key in her shoe!

  After more shared whispers, Lazlo knew Niki and Mariya would attempt escape. He needed to get to his hands and knees, perhaps get the man’s attention. As he tried in vain to make his move it happened.

  “Is this what you’re looking for?” shouted Mariya.

  Lazlo saw it all. The thrown key, the speed of the two getting out and around the boulder while the man ran after the key. By the time he retrieved it from the ground behind him, they were gone. The man turned, ran to the side, fired several shots into the darkness, took a step forward, and stopped. He had what he wanted squeezed tightly in his hand. He limped to the pickup, climbed in, and leaned sideways to use his left foot for accelerator and brake.

  Lazlo readied himself as the pickup’s backup lights lit and the rear wheels spun it backwards directly at him. With all his strength, thinking of Niki, he rolled sideways and felt flying stones as the truck roared past, then lurched forward to the parking lot exit.

  The pickup’s engine echoed in canyons as it made its way down the mountain. There were footsteps on gravel, Niki calling to him.

  In the dark Niki came to him and pressed firmly on his shoulder wound. The rumble of the pickup faded.

  “I’ll hold it,” he gasped, sitting up. “Please, both of you, see to Janos.”

  The female pilot and male EMT in the helicopter taking off from the Vernal hospital helipad saw emergency vehicles flashing like deranged fireflies converging on the Mountain View Care Facility. “We’re out of here,” said the pilot as she throttled up to gain altitude before heading to Ute Mountain.

  At altitude heading north, they saw two emergency vehicles swarming toward the care facility break away and also head north, following Route 191 through the Ashley National Forest. Routes 191 and 44 were part of a scenic byway. Unfortunately all they could see from the helicopter was darkness and emergency lights trying to keep up. A few minutes later they saw flashing lights in the distance to the northwest.

  “Did dispatch say who called?” asked the pilot.

  “A cell phone in the fire tower,” said the EMT. “A guy named Horvath climbed the tower and someone was awake in the Manila office to get the 911.”

  “The Manila sheriff got woke up,” said the pilot.

  “A dollar says she’s got pajamas on under her uniform.”

  “You’re on.”

  “Would she have had time for a bra? I mean, she’s bigger than even you.”

  “Don’t be a smart ass,” said the pilot, turning on floodlights.

  Canyon rock cast sharp shadows dancing against smoother boulders, shadows from blasting and busting up and clearing done in the 1930s.

  Chapter 31

  Before dawn, a hundred yards from the crossroad locals considered downtown Manila, a black 1939 Buick Four-Door Touring Sedan and a tan 1939 Buick Century Sport Coupe were backed in side-by-side on a cattle guard. A distant streetlight cast ghoulish shadows on the faces of four men inside each of the Buicks. The back seat men wore dark jackets and hats, their ties off, having become part of mummy-like bindings holding arms behind their backs—bits and pieces of rope, Scotch tape, and whatever the men in the front seats, who wore work uniforms and caps, could find in their barracks building. The Sport Coupe back seat was tight; the tall man and stocky man crammed together. The Touring Sedan back seat was roomier; the two back there leaning against the doors. Out of sight on the floor, the man the others claimed was responsible for Henry’s disappearance didn’t need tying up because he was dead.

  Of the 38 Barracks Three men, six were chosen to drive the goons to Manila. The St. Louis barge boy, whose friend accidentally killed the guy on the floor, sat in the black Buick driver’s seat, while Nick, the electrician, sat beside him holding a pistol on the two live wires in back. George, from Chicago, sat in the tan Buick driver’s seat, while Bela, the Ukraine vampire, sat beside him holding a pistol on the two in back. A hundred yards up the road Jimmy the Big Apple and Jethro the Georgia baritone were in a phone booth beneath the streetlight. Back at camp Quiet Paul Fontaine had collected coins for the phone from the pockets of the hoods.

  No fingers were lopped off by the crosscut sheers brandished by the Ukraine vampire. The hoods weren’t worked over like a couple Boston toughs suggested. The hoods’ spokesman named Al said they’d get theirs. This was answered by tales of Barracks Three men avenging others. George included Henry’s geological stories, the ancient area rock not giving a damn about humans who were like ticks to be popped. Bela told the men Sal killed the girl and by doing so, killed himself. As planned, Barracks Three men were unanimous. Rather than cutting fingers, they put on an act, demonstrating how tough the CCC had made them and saying they’d killed others. Of course they knew bluster wasn’t enough and
would not release the men until after a couple important phone calls.

  Jimmy and Jethro trotted back from the phone booth and opened the doors of both cars, making sure the hoods could hear.

  “It was the cat’s meow,” said Jimmy, clapping Jethro on the back. “He sounded exactly like them.”

  Bela got out and stood with them between the open car doors. “So everyone can hear, who did he sound like?”

  Jimmy pointed to the coupe’s back seat. “Like the short guy in there.” Then Jimmy turned and pointed to the sedan’s back seat. “And like the loud one in there.”

  Bela put his hand on Jethro’s shoulder. “Show them.”

  Jethro stood taller, like a guy ready to croon. Sounding exactly like the stocky guy in the tan Buick, he began. “He says, this is Lonzo. So I says, I got news from Manila. The Lonzo guy says, what news? And I says, the CCC guys got our guns and they killed one of us. Lonzo says, the boss ain’t gonna be happy. And I says, too bad, ‘cause we’re taking off. The Lonzo guy asks where, and I says, some other family, maybe Luciano or Genovese or Costello.”

  “I read up on gangs in the newspapers,” said Jimmy proudly.

  Jethro continued. “Then I called the phone number we found on the other guy.” He changed his voice to sound exactly like the loud guy named Al who squirmed in the sedan’s back seat. “Someone sounding like a kid answers. Says his name’s Felice. I tell him I’m calling from Manila and next thing I know an old man named Rosario answers. So I pretty much tell him the same thing I told the Lonzo character, only this time I add that us boys don’t like the idea that Little Sal killed the girl. The Rosario guy doesn’t talk, mostly listens. So I tell him maybe we’ll run away to Italy like Luciano. The old guy’s breathing heavy the whole time I’m talking. At the end he says, ‘You guys are dead, all of you. Dead!’”

  The four live ones in the back seats stared silently, the distant streetlight illuminating the whites of their eyes. When Al stopped squirming, Bela knew they had them.

  After the call, Lonzo left the family apartment building to tell Cavallo his Uncle Rosario also received a call and there’d be an emergency meeting in the room above the garage. Last time they met there was when Cavallo’s cousin was sent to prison. Lots of shouting. This meeting was similar, Lonzo and Felice told to wait outside. During the meeting Uncle Rosario did most of the shouting between bouts of coughing.

  “I thought we had good men! All of them will be dead! My nephews disappoint me at every turn! First, your idiot cousin puts himself in prison! Then, your son kills himself!”

  Cavallo pounded the table. “He didn’t kill himself! Those boys killed him!”

  Uncle Rosario coughed and spit. “Why? A girl! Your son, a fucking murderer!”

  Cavallo imagined reaching across the table to strangle his uncle. He waited for the gasping to stop. “We’ll kill those sniveling boys!”

  “Is that what you want, Nephew? More men disarmed and shamed? It’s a stain on the family!”

  “I don’t give a goddamn about stains! I care about avenging my son’s death! The political bullshit was your idea! Family legacy! My son who’d already run a man down with the Packard—what a laugh!”

  “I’m not laughing. I know about him killing a drunk. After running over him I heard he backed up and hit him again. He was supposed to receive discipline in the CCCs. He was supposed to be the future of the family.”

  Cavallo stared into his uncle’s bloodshot eyes. “By climbing your fairy tale ladder? Heroin money in Switzerland? What good is it?”

  Both paused, breathing heavily.

  Finally Uncle Rosario spoke. “What about our men? One killed and the rest—”

  Cavallo interrupted. “Don’t forget them saying they might go to Genovese or Costello, or escape to Italy. You think other families know about the heroin?”

  “Older ones might know,” said Uncle Rosario.

  Cavallo recalled the funeral, Francesca screaming as she leaped into the casket only to be dragged out. The beautiful casket with gold-plated handles.

  Next morning the tan Buick headed north to Rock Springs, then east on Lincoln Highway.

  “Still think we should go to Canada?” asked the passenger.

  The driver shrugged. “Gas jockey back there said roads up to Jackson and Cody are rough. I’d hate to have to turn around.”

  “Yeah, these crossroads look like shit.”

  “Maybe Chicago and go north through Wisconsin.”

  “Why do you suppose the CCC boys left gas money in our wallets?”

  “They want us to run.”

  “At least we didn’t have to get rid of no body. You think Al will come this way after he dumps it?”

  The driver lit a cigarette. “I don’t give a damn anymore because they’ll be gunning for us. If Al wants to go back to New York, let him. We’ll drive to Chicago and head north.”

  “But without guns or ammo, what are we supposed to do?” said the passenger, hitting the dash with his fist.

  “We figure out a way to make some dough. Take it easy on the car. It’s all we got.” The driver took a drag on his cigarette and blew smoke into the passenger’s face. “We’ll get where we’re going when I say we’re there. Then we’ll sell the car and split up.”

  The passenger sunk lower in his seat, looking like a fat kid. “Split up?”

  “I move faster on my own. If you don’t like it—”

  “All right, all right,” said the passenger, looking out the windshield at the jagged teeth of the Rockies.

  “I might join the Army,” said the driver.

  “Which one?”

  The driver threw his cigarette out the window. “Don’t get smart.”

  Earlier that morning, before sunrise, the six who’d made the trip to Manila and sent the hoods on their way returned to a barracks ready for inspection. With only an hour to spare before reveille, they shared the phone calls with the others, Jethro doing the voices again. Even after this, some were worried the hoods would return.

  “They will not return,” said Bela.

  “He’s right,” said George. “There’s nothing in it for’em.

  Jimmy, the barracks leader who’d gotten back some of his steam said, “It’s obvious officers and LEMs were paid off. We’ve hidden all the guns and ammo in the truck. You guys figure out a hiding spot?”

  Everyone nodded, looking toward quiet Paul Fontaine.

  Silent Joe Palooka from Chicago stepped forward. “Paul’s got the spot and I wrote a note we can leave in it.”

  “Okay,” said Jimmy. “Let’s bunk for a few minutes.”

  Reveille, latrine rush, and breakfast went off as usual. Silence from other barracks men and staff about anything going on was strange. Decken got his truck filled with gas and requisitioned another. The men were worried they’d be split up with crews from other barracks, but that didn’t happen. It was as if everyone, right up to the camp superintendent who joined them at mess, knew what went on during the night needed finishing off.

  It was a bright crisp summer morning. Sure, it would be hot later that day, but in the morning it was wonderful. They even saw a few wild horses that had ventured into the canyon, perhaps running with a cattle herd.

  On the way to the work site on the road to Vernal, Paul Fontaine, riding shotgun, had Decken detour onto the Sheep Creek Loop. The second truck followed. The Dodge and GMC engines moaned as they climbed to the fire tower with all the men aboard. They parked to the southeast side near the Castle Rock replica Henry had been finishing when he disappeared. Only problem was, the replica was on its side and needed to be put upright.

  Decken climbed the fire tower to have coffee, keep the ranger’s attention, and fill him in on the plan to create a Castle Rock monument. The men started by shoveling a rock base in which the boulder would sit.

  “You t
hink they can stand that thing up?” asked the ranger.

  “There’s 38 of them and two trucks,” said Decken.

  “They better not wreck those trucks,” said the ranger, looking down with his binoculars.

  “Don’t worry,” said Decken. “Here, let me have a look.”

  Once the base, lined with sharp-edged rock from pebble size to man size, was complete, 38, minus the one who drove the Dodge, inched the boulder up using their strength combined with the pushing force of the Dodge. It’s rear wheels spun a little with the initial push. During the tipping process, out of sight of the ranger and Decken, the men quickly emptied the contents of the Dodge into the cache before the boulder rolled gently into place.

  Once the Castle Rock replica boulder was set up, the Dodge backed away, the driver got out, and the Barracks Three men took off their work hats and bowed to the ranger and Decken who’d moved out onto the balcony of the tower.

  “It looks great,” said the ranger.

  “A tribute to the young man who discovered it,” said Decken.

  “It’s on a flat, high and dry, not in the way or anything,” said the ranger. “I’m going to tell the forest service to leave it be.”

  Decken took off his hat. “Tell them it’s in honor of a CCC man who’s gone.”

  The ranger took off his hat. “I’ll make note in the fire tower log so no one disturbs it.”

  “The CCC thanks you,” said Decken. “Maybe someday a President will come here and tour the place.”

  “Maybe so,” said the ranger. Then he shouted, “Beautiful work, men!”

  The 38 men put their floppy work hats back on and saluted.

  The ranger and Decken saluted back.