The Relic Runner Origin Story Box Set

by Ernest Dempsey

  In some ways, Sanders had been relieved when she left. But it had been hard on Tripp. The boy was sixteen, so at least it hadn't happened when he was young, but the sheriff often wondered how much his son blamed him for what happened.

  Now Tripp was dead, and Sanders had nothing left but his job and the lonely mountains around him.

  At the moment, however, he had something else in his possession: revenge.

  In his mind, he prettied it up by calling it justice. He'd run through the footage in his imagination of how he wanted this to play out at least a dozen times during the night and again that morning.

  His favorite was walking into Tyler's… Billy's cabin and shooting him in the back of the head. But that would be messy, difficult to clean up. He knew people who could handle that kind of work, but he resisted using them. Loose ends were problematic and the more eyeballs that fell on a crime scene, the more lips tended to flap later on down the line.

  Sanders had settled on a single plan, one that would be simpler to cover up. He would go in, perhaps have a cup of coffee with Billy, then lure him outside where blood would soak into the ground after the sheriff executed the man who killed his son in cold blood.

  A quick wrap up in the black plastic tarp Sanders had stowed in the back of his SUV that morning, a little wash with the hose on the driveway or dirt, and the scene would be pristine—just as if Billy Trask had simply been erased.

  Of course, Sanders would have to deal with the man in the back, which is why he brought two pieces of plastic. The stranger was dangerous, there was no doubt about that. But with his attention focused on either arresting Trask or whatever the man's intent might be, Sanders could take out both of them.

  The stranger had suggested that he was some kind of government agent, but Sanders knew better. He was no fool. The man would have presented some kind of identification as soon as he introduced himself. That hadn't happened, though he'd offered at the end of their initial meeting.

  The sheriff had declined to play the role of the dumb country bumpkin cop who trusted people too easily.

  It was a simple role for him to play since that's exactly how he'd lost his wife.

  As long as the stranger believed that Sanders bought his story, he wouldn't be a threat.

  He knew the man was armed. Maybe he hadn't been when he came to the office the previous afternoon. He claimed he was unarmed. That would have been smart. Entering a police station with a firearm… not so much.

  None of that mattered. The man in the back would get the first bullet. Billy would get the second, although Sanders planned on letting the man who killed his son get more than one. He'd probably start with a knee, then the top of a foot, the groin, and work his way up until the final round went through Trask's head.

  He would suffer for what he did to his son. That much was already decided.

  The sheriff guided the vehicle around the last bend, and the cabin came into view. The modern design featured a single roof that slanted down toward the driveway, covering a porch that wrapped around to the front. A matching work shed stood off to the right.

  The sheriff had been to the cabin before, right after Tyler… Billy had finished construction. Sanders preferred the older style log cabins to these modern ones, but he had to appreciate the location. The view was incredible, and in the back of his mind, the sheriff started considering how he might acquire the property when the owner was gone. That would be months down the line, but the daydream prodded at his mind as he pulled up to the building and shifted the transmission into park.

  "Stay in here and keep a lookout," Sanders ordered. "When you see us come out the front door, you can get out."

  There was no protocol for this. Sanders hinged everything on the belief that the stranger would do as told. But why wouldn't he? The sheriff was helping the man catch his quarry in a subtle, legal manner.

  "Whatever you say, Sheriff. I'm a lawman too. I know how to play by the rules."

  Sanders didn't buy it for a second, but he gave a curt nod to acknowledge the man's statement, and climbed out of the car.

  The air had cooled more overnight and a fresh layer of thin powder coated the gravel driveway underfoot. It squished and crunched beneath the sheriff's boots as he approached the cabin.

  As he neared the steps, the wooden, windowless door opened.

  Billy stood inside, holding a white coffee mug.

  "Come on in, Sheriff. I'll finish up my breakfast and we can head out. Got a fresh pot of coffee if you'd like a cup."

  "Sure," Sanders said reluctantly. The ache in his heart still throbbed from the loss of his son. That feeling only swelled as he climbed the steps, drawing close to the man who had befriended and then killed him. "Good morning for a hot cup of joe."

  "It sure is," Billy said. He closed the door once Sanders was inside and led the way to the kitchen.

  He set down his mug next to a nearly empty plate of eggs, toast, and cottage cheese, and made his way over to the coffeepot in the corner.

  Billy took down a mug with the Colorado state flag imprinted on the side and proceeded to fill it with the remains of the pot. He turned around, holding the mug at waist level. When Billy saw the sheriff holding his pistol he abruptly halted, spilling steaming liquid onto the floor near his boot.

  "Sheriff?" Billy asked. "What are you doing?"

  "I know who you are, Billy," he said, slandering the name with his tone.

  "What are you talking about?" Billy kept his movements to a minimum, though he noted the heat on his jeans where some of the coffee had soaked through.

  "Billy Trask?" Sanders clarified. "You came here throwing your money around, buying up friends, allies, and what you probably thought was security. Did you think you could get away with it?"

  Billy inclined his head and sighed, rapidly coming to grips with what Sanders meant. "Fine, Sheriff. You got me. My name isn't Tyler Mumford. But that isn't a crime. I changed my name? So what? People do that all the time, don't they? There are certain people I would rather not find me. Okay?"

  "Oh, I'm sure there are." Sanders kept the presence of the stranger in his car to himself.

  "Look, Sheriff. Let's sit down and talk about this. I haven't broken any laws. Just… put the gun down and we can figure this out."

  Sanders looked at the younger man as if an alien were about to pop out of his chest. He cocked his head to the side, analyzing Trask with hardened, pain-gripped eyes. "You murdered Tripp and the other two," he said finally. "Killed them in cold blood. Why? Why did you do it, Billy?"

  Billy's face tightened. "Sheriff, you know me better than that. I don't know who would say such a thing, but I wasn't even at the bar last night. I was here the whole time."

  "Is that right? Seems like you got there pretty fast, Billy." Sanders spat the name. "Like maybe you were close by after leaving the scene of the crime." The cop felt the trigger tighten against his finger. Every instinct in his soul told him to squeeze and end this murderer at that very moment, but that would make things tricky. Blood would get everywhere. Sanders knew he had to stick to the plan.

  "Look, Craig," Billy said desperately, using the sheriff's first name. "Your son was my friend. Steve and John, too. Now, I want to find this killer as much as you do, but it wasn't me. You have to believe me."

  Sanders shook his head grimly. "No, Billy. I don't. Step outside."

  "What are you going to do, Sheriff? Arrest me? On what grounds?"

  "Murder charges. Three of them."

  "You have a warrant?" Billy clenched his jaw. He knew how things worked, or at least how they were supposed to. This guy couldn't do anything without a warrant for his arrest.

  "No," Sanders admitted. A twitch of relief shot through Billy's skin. "But I have probable cause. And this pistol. So, you can either step outside right now or I will shoot you in the head and claim it was self defense. I doubt the local prosecutor will think much of it. He and I go way back."

  The relief in Billy's eyes vanished. "Fine,
Sheriff. Take me in. But I want an attorney."

  "Move."

  Sanders flicked the pistol toward the door.

  Billy slowly set the coffee mugs on the counter and raised his hands. "I'm moving. Relax, Craig."

  Billy eased around the kitchen island and made his way to the door with Sanders close behind. The cop kept the pistol aimed straight at his captive's spine. If he so much as twitched the wrong way, Sanders would drop him right there.

  The prisoner opened the door and stepped out into the cold. "Can I at least get a coat?" he asked.

  "It's warm in my ride," Sanders countered. "Get moving."

  "Okay. Okay. Take it easy."

  Billy descended the steps and landed on the snow-dusted gravel with a crunch. Sanders looked toward his SUV as he followed, wondering when the stranger would make his appearance.

  Five steps away from the porch, Sanders heard a subtle crinkling sound behind him. He started to turn his head, but a muted pop sounded over the parking lot. The noise was little more than a click, but the bullet it accompanied zipped through the back quarter of the sheriff's head.

  The sheriff dropped to the ground with a thud.

  Billy heard the sound and whirled around. Surprise and fear soured his expression as he stared into icy cold familiar eyes. His gaze fell to the barrel pointed straight at his forehead.

  "Bo? How did you—?"

  The muzzle puffed and sent the round through Billy's skull. For a second, the legs held, then buckled. Billy fell to the ground a few feet from the sheriff.

  Fourteen

  Cuchara

  Dak's plans were thrown out the window the second he arrived at Purgatory Mountain.

  He could see the cluster of police SUVs and patrol cars gathered around the driveway entrance as he rounded a bend in the road an eighth of a mile away. He scowled at the sight, wondering what Billy was up to.

  Dak rolled to a stop in front of the driveway and lowered his window. Four cops stood guard at the gate. Their casual conversation ended when Dak's SUV came to a halt.

  One of the officers, a younger guy with a clean-shaven face, noticed Dak and stepped toward the vehicle.

  "Gonna have to ask you to keep moving, sir," the cop said.

  "Is everything okay?"

  The cop cocked his head to the side, his cheek brushing against the shoulder of a thick, hunter-green coat. The expression on his face begged the question, "does it look like everything is okay?" To his credit, the officer didn't go that route. "This is a crime scene, sir, and we're conducting an investigation."

  Dak didn't press the issue. He nodded, thanked the deputy, and gently pressed on the gas. As the SUV accelerated away, he kept glancing in the rearview mirror at the collection of cops loitering around the driveway.

  Crime scene? What crime?

  He had a strange feeling in his gut that he already knew the answer, or at least partly.

  His thoughts raced. The initial plan had been to do a little recon of the mountain, get a feel for the layout by driving by it a few times, circling around as much as possible. He wouldn't make a move on Billy's cabin until he'd analyzed every approach angle and even then, he'd need a way to figure out where any security cameras were hidden in the woods that could set off an alarm or alert Billy to his presence.

  All of that went out the door. Something happened at the top of Purgatory Mountain, and Dak needed to find out what.

  Part of his scheme was to see if the general store had any old ski run maps from the abandoned resorts. While such a pamphlet was hardly the detailed topographical map he would prefer, it would give Dak a general idea of the mountain's layout.

  He felt his heart beating faster than normal and focused on slowing his breathing as he continued into the small town. It was getting close to lunch, and he knew the bar would be open, though he did not intend to go there.

  Dak needed information, and fast.

  He steered the SUV into a parking spot in front of the general store and killed the engine. He stepped out of the vehicle and walked up to the front door, taking a quick look around to survey the lot. A few other cars, but no threat appeared in his view.

  He pushed the door open and walked into the tiny purveyor's shop. The tightly packed aisles offered snacks, bread, cereals, cans of soup, candy, and a wide selection of other grocery goods. While the building was small, Dak marveled at how the owners were able to pack so many items inside. In the back, a refrigerator ran the length of the wall and stretched down the left side, creating an L shape. Milk, soft drinks, beer, and juices filled the chilled shelves.

  To his left, an older woman worked the cash register. She was easily eight inches shorter than Dak. Her graying, curly hair dangled over huge, round glasses. Her light blue zip-up hoodie draped over her, hanging just below the waist.

  "Morning," she greeted. "Anything I can help you with?"

  Dak checked around to make sure she was talking to him. One other person in the room perused an assortment of beer in the back. With so many to choose from, Dak figured the guy would probably be there for several minutes. If he'd known what kind he wanted upon arrival, he would have already been standing at the checkout counter.

  "Actually," Dak said as he ambled to the counter, "maybe you can. It's a pretty random request, but I was wondering if you had any old maps of the abandoned ski resorts."

  His emerald eyes met hers with a sort of boyish innocence.

  She licked her lips and frowned in a way that told him she was trying to recall seeing anything like that.

  "No," she said finally. "Sorry, I don't think we have anything like that here. You might be able to get one at the main resort in town. It's just a park now."

  "Thank you," he offered. "I heard there were two abandoned resorts. Is that right?"

  She nodded. "Yeah, but Purgatory got bought up by some young fella a while back. Moved here from out of town. Bought the whole mountain. Don't know where a man his age got that kind of money, but he must have a lot of it. Built himself a cabin up there several months ago. Must be quite a view, not that he can enjoy it anymore."

  Dak noticed there was no malice in her last words. "What do you mean?"

  "Cops found him and the sheriff both shot dead up there earlier today."

  The breath caught in Dak's chest. "Dead?"

  "Yep." She crossed her arms. Her voice took on a somber tone. "They're still investigating, but it sounds like Sheriff Sanders went up there to talk to Tyler Mumford—that was his name—about the killings that happened last night at the bar."

  Dak didn't bat an eye, a statue in the face of a tempest. "Killings?"

  "I know," she exhaled. "I've lived here for nearly thirty years. I don't recall anything like this happening before in our little town. It's a quiet place. Now, all of the sudden, four murders in twenty-four hours? It's all so sad. Poor Andy."

  "Andy?"

  Her eyes had wandered down to the countertop. She lifted them when she heard his question. "Oh, yes. Andy Eller. He was a deputy, second in charge around here in the police department. He's the new sheriff for now until the next election. He must be overwhelmed. Terrible way to take over the sheriff duties."

  "I'm sure it is." Dak couldn't tear himself away from the conversation, no matter how much he wanted to. "I'm so sorry, but you said the sheriff and this… Tyler fellow, were both killed?"

  She nodded. "I've only heard a little more than you, but it sounds like they were both shot. I don't know if they shot each other, but that's what it sounds like. There must have been a bad disagreement. I can't imagine why those two would kill each other. Maybe the sheriff blamed Tyler for his son's death. They were friends, after all. Still, it's very strange."

  Dak decided it was time to end the conversation. He'd hung around too long already and the less memorable he could make himself, the better.

  "Well, thank you. I appreciate your time."

  The man in the back of the store had selected his beer and was walking toward the counter
holding a twelve pack.

  "Have a good day," Dak offered.

  "You too, hun," she said and turned her attention to the other customer as Dak quietly left.

  Outside, he casually glanced around, climbed back into the SUV, and started the engine. Several thoughts swirled in his brain as he backed out of the parking spot and eased back onto the road.

  Someone had killed Billy Trask. While he was satisfied that his next target had been eliminated, more questions bubbled to the surface. Who had killed Billy and Sheriff Sanders? Had it been the deputy whose wife Dak saved the night before? Had Andy Eller learned about what happened and taken out his revenge on the elder Sanders and the man he knew as Tyler Mumford?

  That was doubtful. He'd done a little digging into the local deputy and learned that the man, like his wife, was a good person. Any smidge of guilt Dak felt over killing Tripp and his two cronies in the bar parking lot vanished when he learned more about the woman he'd saved—and her husband.

  Andy Eller was honest, not given to the Romanesque way of getting ahead. He'd worked hard as a cop, always doing things by the book. The lady at the general store was right about one thing: Andy Eller was going to have his hands full.

  One thing was certain in Dak's mind: the two men hadn't killed each other. It made sense on the surface. The new sheriff would probably make a statement in the coming days about the double homicide, how the two men had shot the other over some sort of disagreement.

  Based on the scant amount of information Dak had gleaned—some from the server, Merrick—there might even be a paper trail of money connecting the two men. From there, disagreements, arguments were easy to put together as motives.