Pisadeira
One-thirty a.m. and a September heat wave, having rolled up from southern California, covered the valley under a heavy blanket of rainless clouds. The city broiled in sweltering, acrid humidity from which the night providing no relief.
Neither was there any relief outside the city where a Matte black Ford Expedition parked, all but invisible behind a sparse growth of Russian Olive trees. Occupied by Antone Smilie, Mila Lords, Erik Blackman and Peter James, it was stifling even with the windows rolled down. Body armor trapped heat as effectively as an overcoat, and any breeze that found its way into the vehicle did nothing more than stir up the heavy musk of sweat.
With her signature ponytail, Mila appeared more like a teenager than a thirty-four-year-old. Experienced beyond her years, she earned the position of team lead thanks to her high level of competency. Contributing to that competency was her fluency in four languages, including Portugese which, tonight, would likely come in handy.
Antone, a beefy man with sharp angular features, sat behind Blackman. He moved only to brush away the sweat beading on his brow, and run a hand over his militaristic, quarter-inch buzz cut. Blackman and James were smaller but deceptively strong. Sporting a mustache and short beard, Blackman was naturally bald while James’ faded, blond hair gave him the appearance of a young John Denver. However, “Peter James” and “Sweet Surrender” had never been used in the same sentence.
Still, no one complained or squirmed in discomfort although, out of boredom, James clicked his rifle’s laser off and on like an incessant blinker.
Fifteen feet away set an identical vehicle, likewise dark and silent. Occupied by J’vore Nelson, a.k.a. Mond for his verbose hatred of Mondays, and Patrick Tanz. Behind them sat two moderately large men and one tall, tough woman who played fly-half for the Salt Lake Slugs WRFC. Tactical Medic Providers, or the TMP crew, on loan from the FBI.
Silently uncomfortable, their thoughts focused on, aside from the heat, the upcoming operation innocently named Sweet Tooth. Nothing about the operation was sweet and no one looked forward to it, yet all were eager to get it over with.
But to everyone involved, just another day at the office.
Two a.m. rolled around and a pair of headlights approached along the nearby access road, several hundred feet away.
“Hang tight,” Mila whispered. Grasping the steering wheel for leverage, she twisted against her seatbelt to watch the slow moving headlights. “We’re standing down.”
No one muttered the displeasure they felt. Antone donned his night vision goggles, as did Blackman, and watched the white panel van pass by. Continuing for another hundred yards or so, it turned into the entrance of the Ojito Sugar Products facility and came to a stop. A twelve-foot chain link fence surrounded the perimeter and the gate was secured with a heavy log chain.
The team should have been in position long before now.
“Okay,” Mila whispered, not that it was necessary. “We blew our chance. When the boys downtown get their little snafu fixed, we’re going in diamond formation.”
No one voiced their thoughts aside from Blackman, who commented that he was keeping his Remington rather than swapping it for an AR-15.
The original plan had been to post Tanz and Blackman on each side of the front gate, twenty yards out, armed with 260 Remingtons. Mond and James were to be stationed twenty yards up the driveway on each side of the berm, while Mila and Antone snuggled in the spotty grass ten yards back from the gate. Geared up with body armor, body cams, and night vision, everyone was armed with knives, Glocks with four mags, AR-15s with four mags, concussion and smoke grenades, and a medic drop bag in case the TMPs ran into problems. Or the carnage was more than they could handle. The exception being Blackman who insisted on keeping his Remington, and Mila, whose weapon of choice was her Weatherby PA-549 shotgun loaded with G2 R.I.P. rounds.
Although Mila was as proficient with the Remington and AR-15 as the rest of her team, she was more comfortable packing her Weatherby in close quarters, such as tonight.
Authorizing Mila to pack her Weatherby, and a Glock 43 to fit her smaller hands, had been an eighteen month battle that Captain Marcus Tillen fought hard to win. The commitment and dedication he had for his people was reciprocated in loyalty.
When the van, which intel claimed would be transporting abducted civilians, likely including children, stopped for the gate, Mila was to announce themselves and order their adversaries to the ground. At the slightest hint of resistance, Mond and James would take out the driver and whoever was unlocking the gate. Mila and Antone would rush the van and take out the guards inside while Blackman and Tanz eliminated anyone escaping out the back.
Dangerous, absolutely. But Mila’s team had walked it down dozens of times to ensure the safety of the civilians. In addition, they had run force-on-force exercises using MILES gear. Now, they could only sit and watch the van disappear into the sugar factory.
After waiting a few additional minutes, Mila made her call.
“What’s your status?... I guess we don’t have a choice, do we?... Well, we just lost our opportunity... For me, pretty please?... Ok, call me... Fifteen minutes and we’re going in whether you’ve got it working or not... Thanks, appreciate it.”
Mila placed a second call, and a responding light appeared within the other vehicle. “The security techs promised that our mics and cameras will be up and running within fifteen minutes. We’re going in diamond formation and I’ll be on point.”
Mila gave the technicians an additional five minutes which proved to be the right call, as she was notified that everything was up and running. Giving her team a terse go-ahead, the six quietly exited the vehicles leaving the TMPs behind. After calling for an equipment check on her mic, which came through the ear pieces loud and clear, Mila called Command for a video check. Everything was in working order.
“We’re on,” she said and led the team quietly, quickly, to the main gate.
Bolt cutters were deemed too bulky for the operation, but using his flexible wire saw, Tanz had the lock cut within five minutes. Feeding the chain through the gate slowly, carefully so as to minimize the rattle, it coiled at their feet like a large, metallic snake.
Mila swung the gate open and led her men inside. Senses heightened by the unknown and the delicacy of the operation, the team proceeded cautiously, slowly, appearing as no more than black shadows on a cloudless night, should anyone be watching.
Ten months prior - late 2017 - an unassuming reporter working for a small, independent news organization broke a bombshell story that Ojito Sugar Products was, in fact, being maintained by a Brazilian cult. President and CEO of Ojito Sugar Products had long-term business dealings with the Governor, two state representatives, and a congressman in a hereditary relationship passed down through three re-elections. Ojito Sugar Products suspended operations five years ago and had since been in maintenance mode, yet continued receiving government subsidies that were justified by political word salad.
Shortly after breaking the story, the reporter disappeared along with her source evidence. A collusion of lawsuits put the news organization out of business and effectively buried the story. Fortunately, there were enough conscientious individuals who pursued the right channels that eventually resulted in tonight’s Operation Sweet Tooth. An endeavor that cost of several careers and left a trail of hard feelings.
In what was originally their operation, the FBI’s involvement was nixed and that was when the real infighting began. In the fallout, it was decided that local Special Forces - Mila’s team - would conduct the operation and the FBI would provide the TMPs. Doing so allowed the politicians and Feds to distance themselves if things went sour, yet share in the credit if the operation was successful.
Months of surveillance indicated that three to four guards armed with H&K G36s roamed the grounds. A lot of fire power just to protect a shut-down sugar factory. To complicate matters, these guards didn’t follow a set patrol, rather, they roamed the grounds at will and were often observed disappearing in a building only to appear somewhere else on the grounds. Guerrilla warfare in which Mila also exhibited competency.
Approaching the electrical shop, Mila froze, as did the entire team. Dropping to a crouch, they waited, listened. A quick gesture sent Mond around the back of the shop. Moments later came a scuff of feet on gravel and a guard stepped around the corner.
Surprised by the sudden encounter, his reaction was instantaneous.
“Polícia! Levante as mãos onde eu possa vê-las!” Mila commanded even as he swung his gun into position but never got the chance the fire. Flinching twice, he slowly folded to the ground like a deflating balloon. Mond wiped his knife on the fresh corpse before rejoining the team.
“Someone had to have heard that,” Mila whispered into her mic. “Spread out but stay in formation.”
Approaching the mechanical building on their left, Mila brought the team to a gradual halt. Listening, looking. No one moved, other than their heads, as they slowly surveyed the area through a two-tone of green and black.
No sign of anyone either visually or audibly, yet no one questioned Mila’s actions. While trivializing her instincts as “woman’s intuition”, it was an ability they highly respected. Waiting, exposed, and all the while becoming more concerned, they searched for what had brought her to a halt.
Painstakingly, as though progressing through her Tai Chi, patterns, Mila began moving once again. Whatever had stopped her hadn’t gone away.
With her Weatherby ready to fire at a moment’s notice, she crept forward making not even the slightest sound of placing her foot, her weight, on the packed gravel. No sudden movements that might draw attention.
Passing the electrical building, a sudden explosion of gunfire blew glass from the metal door’s small window. James grunted and dropped. Mila took a hit to the chest, gasping as it knocked the wind out of her. Staggering backwards, she let go with three quick blasts from her Weatherby. The recoil continued propelling her backwards as the G2 rounds blew holes through the door and everything behind it.
Hugging the ground as bullets whistled over their heads from a second guard, Blackman’s Remington exploded with a pounding concussion. The 130 grain slug, traveling at 2900 feet per second tore flesh, shattered bone, and threw the man off his feet.
“Any one hit?” Mila said, catching her breath.
“I got a through-and-through in my leg,” James said, matter-of-factly.
“Stay here to evac.”
Then, scuttling over to James, Mila found small trickles of blood leaking both the entry and exit wounds.
“Get going,” he told her. “I can wrap it.”
“Move,” Mila ordered and called in the TMPs.
Mond scurried to the door from where the first shots came and put his shoulder to it. After taking a quick look inside, turned to Mila and gave a slit-throat gesture.
Hurrying now, still highly alert, the team double-timed it to the boiler house. The main door was locked, but as with the gate, Tanz made short work of the handle. Retracting the deadbolt with his knife and carefully extracting the latch, he eased the door open.
Only upon entering did they realize that it was equipped with a contact alarm.
“Shit,” Mila grunted. “We just ran outta time.”
The warehouse-size building was maze of tanks, electrical and steam generators, and processing units. Moving grates that carried fuel to the now silent boilers, along with a network of pipes and conduit snaked overhead where flues breached the ceiling to expel gasses, steam and smoke. Cement steps lead to an upper level that was terminated by large roll-up doors. Windows that lined the upper walls were blacked out. Stairwells on each side of the area led to the basement, however the light escaping from below was not enough to interfere with the goggles.
“Everyone’s equipment still operational?” Mila whispered and received quiet affirmations.
“Tanz, Antone, take the left stairwell. Mond, the right. Blackman, you and I will recon. After that you’ll post yourself at the door and I’ll follow downstairs. Keep your head on a swivel but work quickly. We don’t know where the alarm reported to or how long until someone responds. Now move it!”
Tanz, followed by Antone wove their way through the machinery to the far stairwell. Steep and narrow, it was constructed of metal grated steps and the floor’s overhang prevented Tanz from seeing much past the foot of the stairs.
“We can’t risk going in blind,” he whispered.
“We don’t have time to recon,” Antone answered.
Voices below became loud, agitated. Orders were barked in a foreign language that only Mila would have understood. Then the lights went out, plunging the basement in darkness.
“I just killed the power, so step on it,” came Mila’s voice in their ears.
“Sounds like five, maybe six unfriendlies,” Tanz whispered. “Mond, you get that?”
“Loud and clear.”
A muffled shout from below and Mond sent two short bursts of his AR-15 into the stairwell.
“I’ll draw their fire,” Antone said and thundered down the stairs.
Reaching the bottom, he paused just long enough to spray a burst of fire across the ceiling. The muzzle flash of two weapons turned on him while a third gunman sprayed the stairwell below Mond. Even the rolling concussion of gunfire didn’t drown the screams.
Just to make sure the pitch black stayed that way, Antone popped a smoke grenade from his belt and rolled it across the room as Tanz hit the floor next to him. Hard, but with control.
Mond’s rifle continued thundering from above, it’s echoes reverberating in the small space.
The scene unfolded in the bright green of their night vision. Originally a storage room fifty feet square with cement walls, floor, and ceiling, there was a set of double doors straight ahead leading to a freight elevator, another double set on the right wall leading to the mechanical room. A hole had been carved through the wall next to Antone, large enough for a person to walk through upright.
Directly before him set a row of ten beds, and another ten on the opposite side of the room where Mond was throwing lead at two gunmen. One unfriendly attempting to escape via the freight elevator ,whirled and sent a stream of tracers across the room at head level. Antone stitched him from hip to shoulder with a burst of fire. Two hard rounds punched him in the chest with rapid succession, preventing him from firing on the two men clambering through the hole in the wall.
Mond, along with Tanz’s crossfire, quickly took out their opponents with prejudice. The ear-shattering roar of gunfire echoed to an end, but the horrific chorus of screams didn’t.
Of the ten beds lined up in front of Antone, six were occupied by victims chained to the bedframes. Five kids lay strapped in beds on the other side of the room, all screaming, convulsing, and tearing their wrists and ankles on the restraints. It impossible to tell whether any had been hit by any of the flying lead, or if they were consumed by mindless panic. A wave of empathetic nausea swept through Antone and he turned away.
Mila charged down the stairs and ordered Mond to check the freight elevator and Tanz the victims. Antone followed his orders of pursuing the escapees while Mila assigned herself the mechanical room.
The room into which Antone stepped was large and sectioned with load-bearing cement walls. Doorways had been cut through them and naked lights strung haphazardly along the ceiling, spliced into wiring that was obviously not to code. A light switch hung before him, likewise spliced into the overhead wiring.
Empty boxes and sacks lay scattered about, and adjacent to the opening through which he entered set one pallet of canned goods and another of bottled water, apparently sustenance for the captives until their appointed sacrifice.
Antone negotiated the maze of cement walls, treading quietly on the moist dirt floor as he searched not only for the escapees, but escape routes, arms cache, or, and he didn’t want to think about it - charges for blowing the building.
Working his way through the utter darkness with the aid of his night vision, alert to every sight and sound, he deftly negotiated the rubble and scraps of building supplies. The muffled bang of a slamming door reverberated from somewhere ahead.
Coming to a wooden box with a hole in the middle, he kicked it aside to find a small pit that served as a latrine. Casting a glance into the shit-hole, Antone decided that it didn’t appear to be a viable means of escape.
Continuing, he reached the exterior wall and stopped before a fire door that wasn’t on any of the blueprints or building plans. Painted around it were graffiti and drawings in blood. Old blood. Dried. Black.
After briefly considering his options, he put a long burst into the latch blowing it to pieces, then yanked the door open, acutely aware that he was taking a chance on it being rigged with explosives. Instead, he was met with a loud and painful grating of hinges.
The door opened to a small sacrificial chamber roughly fifteen feet square. Cement steps framed both sides of a stone altar rising just over eight feet high and decorated with carved symbols he didn’t recognize. A bright, naked light bulb, apparently from a different power source, hung above a stone bowl that was affixed to the center of the altar. Momentarily blinded, he sent a short burst into the light, plunging the room into darkness.
The two men he pursued, lay across each side of the altar with their wrists slit and hanging over the bowl to catch their blood. No telling how many innocent lives ended in similar fashion, but judging from the amount of blood spatter and drips, it was considerable. One of the men slowly turned his head towards Antone and stared with unseeing eyes. He was already dead but his body didn’t yet know it. Legs jerked spasmodically and he slid off the altar, crumpling down the steps.
Only then did Antone notice the woman behind the altar, late seventies although it was hard to tell considering her condition. She hadn’t been there when he opened the door, he was sure of it.
A tall, gaunt hag with long grayish hair, she held him as tightly as a WWF bear hug with her dull, glowing eyes. Antone couldn’t tell if she wore clothes or not, as her body and what appeared to be robes, transformed from one to the other separate but one and the same. Wavering as seaweed in a gentle ocean current, her movements were fluid, hypnotic. With that same fluid movement, her face darkened with disdain. Dark crusted stilettos for teeth lined her gaping maw as she sucked in air as a dragon preparing to blow fire. Then erupted with the shriek of a thousand voices.
Pressure stabbed his ears and tore his body, shredding his soul, she bound herself to him, and broke the trance in which he was so tightly held. Antone let go with a burst of fire that blew the stone bowl of blood all to hell. Bullets puckered the dead man’s body, knocking him off the altar and chipped holes in the wall and altar. Stone and cement shrapnel flew in all directions, adhering to the walls with congealing blood.
He remembered no more.
***
Outside the tall picture windows of his great room, Cottonwoods lined a narrow creek of sculpted river rocks that was, in reality, a picturesque storm drain residents fooled themselves into believing was natural. Sprinkles of green leaves that hadn’t yet turned, punctuated the bright, golden leaves of those that had, the ripest of which were picked by fall breezes and deposited on Antone’s deck and patio furniture.
The ground-level floor of his townhouse consisted of a single-car garage and his man-cave. A room partitioned in half, the first of which was a fully equipped gym complete with stereo, treadmill, universal, weights, and dumbbell sets; the other a well-stocked kitchenette, pool table, and living room furniture strategically placed in front of a big screen TV.
Antone’s main living area was on the second floor. An open concept great room, dining room and kitchen there was a utility room and large pantry just off the kitchen. Master bedroom and bath took up the back half of the floor. Third floor contained a bathroom and three small bedrooms, all of which served as various office spaces. Visitors were rare and if anyone did spend the night, it was in bed with him.
On each floor set a well-stocked gun safe and another holding his thousands of rounds of ammo. Guns was his life, his comfort, his security. Now, they beckoned him as a wine cellar or beer cave taunts an alcoholic.
Staring at the idyllic fall setting just beyond his deck without enjoying the view, Antone’s face turned dark when his security system chimed. Still in the same sweats he had been wearing for the past week, he rose slowly from the love seat and gingerly walked to the glass patio door, staggering to maintain his balance. Sliding it open, he waited until an unexplained wave of fear subsided before stepping out. Gripping the railing, he peered upon a new Orange Metallic Burst Chevy Bolt EV. He knew the car. He knew the driver. For a brief moment, he considered leaping from the deck and dragging Mila out of her eco-warrior-chariot that she was so proud of, just to see if she’d still be proud of her little pumpkin after hammering her face on it a few times. He trembled with excitement at the what it would do to that cute little face of hers.
No. The neighbors would see or hear. Wait until she comes inside before doing anything rough.
Mila stepped out of her car appeared even more adolescent in her t-shirt, slip-on shoes, and form-fitting leggings that didn’t reach her ankles. Antone and most of the other guys looked for opportunities to work out with her, as she was prone to wearing thin and tight-fitting biker shorts and sports bra. Just to tease, no doubt. Now she had come to his home for the first time in the six years he had known her, uninvited, unannounced. Tonight all that teasing would come to an end and she’d have to pay up.
“Look at her,” the voice said. “She could be a little girl.”
A shudder of revulsion, and eroticism, raced through him.
“You know what she wants. Demanding it like she demands everything else,” the voice continued. “Why else would she come here? Alone, strutting her stuff. Daring you to take her down. Take her down hard.”
Oh, I’ll take her down all right, Antone silently answered. He glanced at his clenched hands clenching the deck railing, knuckles white. One good punch would knock her out cold.
“Where’s the fun in that? Fight makes it all the more satisfying.”
She’ll scream, he answered.
“Then shoot her if you must. You have three guns with silencers and she doesn’t need to be alive for what you want to do.”
Did he have time to unlock the safe, grab a gun, pop in a loaded magazine, and get back before she got tired of waiting for him to answer the door? Where would he hide the gun until the right moment?
No, he didn’t have time for all that. Besides, a bullet was too quick and clean, and sharing his pain was the only way of relieving it.
Reaching for the doorbell, Mila stopped abruptly as he remotely unlocked the door.
“Coward!” The voice spat.
“We’re team mates, bitch!” Antone said in a low, violent voice. Team mates have each other’s back. If I shoot her, then I’d have to shoot myself and that’s what you really want, isn’t it? Self-destruction.
“You WERE team mates. Not after today. Has she ever treated you like one? NO!”
Clamping his hands over his ears, Antone still couldn’t muffle the voice pounding in his head and staggered back to the love seat as Mila called out a tentative “hello” from the stairway. Waiting for her to appear, he poured another glass of Fireball cinnamon whiskey. It took both hands to guide the glass to his mouth. Taking a long slow drink and savoring the burn, he listened to her softly mounting the stairs. Slowly. Perhaps already aware of what she was stepping into, but women were like that and Mila’s intuition now frightened him. What if she read his mind, knew what he was thinking, planning, would she willfully sacrifice herself to him? After six years, she owed it to him.
Mila stopped in surprise at the sight of him, face drawn and pale, mussed hair, eyelids sagging.
“My God, Antone!”
“Look like shit, don’t I?” He said with a sneer.
A surge of violence ripped through his body as he stared at her. It took every ounce of willpower to control himself, keep himself from charging her. After obsessing over this very moment for the past week, he couldn’t decide on how to fulfill the ultimate gratification. Every fantasy that came to mind was better than the last and they flashed through his mind like movie trailers.
“I wouldn’t say you looked like shit, but what happened to you?”
“What happened to me? You mean since Operation Sweet Tooth? Took you long enough to check on me, didn’t it?”
Another surge of anger came from nowhere and slowly faded. Slopping a few drops of whiskey from his next drink, he tried acting nonchalant. Acting. That was a good term. He was memorizing the lines and actions of a different person because he was clearly not the same person who had accompanied Mila through the sugar factory over a week ago.
“Maybe Mila won’t put up a fight,” the voice offered. “Look at her. Here, alone, dressed in clothes that can be quickly and conveniently torn away. Demanding to be dominated and subdued.”
He looked down at himself and crossed his legs.
“Antone?” Mila’s voice, not the one in his head.
“Why the hell are you here anyway!”
Flinching as if slapped, she blinked in disbelief. The urge passed, leaving him with thoughts of mere seduction as his eyes nested on her leggings, tight against he crotch.
“Sorry,” Antone said and forced himself to look away.
“Sorry hell! I’m outta here!” Mila fired back.
“No! Wait! Please.”
His thoughts were wrong and he knew it. Knew that he couldn’t get away with it. Yet the voice told him it would be worth it. Satiating that violent lust was something he’d remember for the rest of his life, it would be his and his alone to relive over and over.
Maybe pity would draw her in close enough..
Squeezing the glass of whiskey to the point that his fingers turned white, Antone carefully set it on the end table out of fear that it would shatter in his grip. He cradled his head in his hands.
“Please,” he repeated as she turned to leave. “Stay. I’ve got to tell you something.”
Mila paused before warily approaching, more confused than angry. Keeping the love seat between them, she drew a stool from the breakfast bar and strategically placed it on the far side of the love seat. Antone smirked at her caution.
“Talk to me then,” she ordered.
“Something happened at the sugar factory.”
“You’re sure as shittin’ right about that.”
“No. Something really bad. It was in the hospital with me. Followed me home. I haven’t been myself ever since.”
“They had to restrain you.”
“I know. I woke up strapped to the bed.”
Clasping his hands before him, Antone looked upon purple bruises encircling his wrists.
“They did MRIs, CAT scans, toxicology, neurological, you name it and they tested you for it. They found nothing.”
“How do you know that?”
“Figure it out. You list Captain Marcus Tillen as your emergency contact so he has access to your medical information. Me being team leader, we discussed you, and don’t give me any shit about violating HIPAA.”
He looked at her face for the first time since his outbreak. Took a swig of cinnamon whiskey that brought tears to his eyes.
“Is there anyone you can call?”
“What, you finally ask about my family life after six years? The answer is ‘no’. My commanders were emergency contacts when I was in the military. Now I list Tillen. What do you care anyway?”
“What’s wrong with you? You’ve never acted like this before.”
“So what? This is the new me.”
Fighting the urge to leave, Mila continued the conversation. “I’m sure you’ve been asked enough times already, but what’s the last you remember?”
“Two guys with their slit wrists and the old woman. She’s here now. Somewhere. Maybe not alone. I think there’s others, the voices are different, anyway.”
“There was no woman, young or old. You weren’t at the debriefing, but we reviewed the entire operation and everyone’s videos.”
“I don’t give a damn about what you reviewed.” Patting the seat next to him, he said, “here, put your sweet little ass next to me and I’ll talk.”
“I’ll stay here, thank you very much.”
He shook his head, a shiver ran through him. “Old woman in robes standing behind the altar. I opened fire on her. Blew that bowl of blood all to hell and made Swiss cheese outta the wall where she stood. Don’t remember anything after that until I woke up in the hospital.”
“What you are calling a woman is nothing more than a distortion in your video. Considering the comm and camera issues, it’s totally explainable. Besides that, Tanz and I followed as soon as we secured the other rooms. That was within seconds of when you opened fire the second time. By then, the TMPs had arrived, we had the area secured and Blackman was still posted at the door upstairs. No one, especially an old lady, could have, or did, slip past us.”
“You wouldn’t have seen her, but I saw what I saw. She was at the hospital and now she’s here. All of them. Watching me. Putting thoughts in my head.” He added, “you have no idea what she wants me to do. She opened my eyes and showed me Hell. Showed me what really I wanted. What I have to have. Mostly from you, and you wouldn’t think it was pretty.”
Mila tensed. She could outrun him to the stairs, but down the stairs and out the door?
“I know what you’re thinking and the answer’s ‘no’.” Antone continued. “I know I’m irrational. We’ve all taken aberrant behavior training. I know that and still I can’t control myself. Not when I’m awake, and not when I’m asleep.”
“What do you mean asleep?”
Antone picked up his glass, took a drink and daintily returned it to the table.
“I get these uncontrollable fits of emotion when I’m awake. I feel like one wrong step and I’ll fall over some cliff I can’t see. I’m not dizzy and don’t have vertigo, but I get that intense anxiety people with acrophobia get in a skyscraper or on the edge of the Grand Canyon. One wrong step, one nudge, will send me over the edge. They’re showing me what’s going to happen. When I do manage to go to sleep, I have nightmares I can’t remember, but I know she’s causing them. Maybe the others, too.”
Antone smiled wryly. “I’ve developed apnea and sleep paralysis on top of everything else. Maybe I’m having mini heart attacks. That’s what it feels like, anyway.”
Mila watched as Antone carefully picked up his glass, fondled it thoughtfully, then quaffed it as though it were lemonade. Something about the way he moved.
“I feel her,” he eventually said. “The old woman. She’s here. I don’t know how to make her go away.”
“Have you seen her?”
“No, but I know it’s her. The same way that you know it’s your boyfriend making a noise somewhere else in your house. Or your cat playing with a toy even when you can’t see it. Sometimes she brushes against me, just enough to remind me that she’s here. Or she’ll make a noise somewhere in the house, a natural sound but it’s unnatural. But mostly, they talk to me. Not just talk, hypnotize. Never shut up, driving me insane.”
A tickle of nervous perspiration crept down Mila’s arm. “Can I open the windows? It’s so hot in here.”
“One wrong step and I’m on you like there’s no tomorrow.” He chuckled. “No tomorrow, that’s good.”
Mila talked her way through opening the windows. The patio door, she left open. If the situation became desperate enough, she could leap from his deck.
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” she said, returning to her stool. “Especially from you.”
Antone poured the last of his whiskey and washed down a hand full of pills with it.
“Who said it’s coming from me?” He said, clearing his throat. “It’s happening to me, not coming from me. I’ll never go back to work. Not after this... this little mental breakdown. Maybe that’s all it is. I simply snapped. I’ll never make it past the shrink, and I sure as hell will never pass another MMPI.”
“A nine-year-old girl died in the hospital last night.” Mila said, changing the subject. “A girl we rescued. Rumor is that she died from apnea, although the autopsy hasn’t come back yet.”
“Strange, wouldn’t you say? Has anyone else either on our team or anyone we rescued experienced any strange maladies?”
“Maladies,” Mila chuckled. “No.”
“So, what happened after I went AWOL?”
“You were totally catatonic. I took your magazine and ejected the shell in the chamber, then went back for the TMPs. You were brought up in the freight elevator with the others. Wherever the boiler room door alarmed to, a carload of reinforcements arrived and we exchanged a fire. I think our guys hit a couple of them. They didn’t expect our level of resistance.”
Antone sat for a long time looking at his bottle and wondered out loud why he didn’t just drink from it. “I’m wearing down,” he said. “Slowly losing control. I can’t trust myself around other people. I can’t trust myself around myself.”
“Do we need to remove your guns?”
“You’re real funny, aren’t you? There’s a thousand ways to kill yourself and I’ve considered every one of them. I don’t have much else to think about. Even know how to swallow my tongue if I have to.”
“Speaking as a friend, you check yourself in somewhere. Whether you come back or not, you have to get better. You know that I have to report our conversation. I can’t cover for you.”
“First off, we’re not friends and never have been!” Antone whirled to face her.
“You know what? Maybe you’re right,” Mila fired back. “I’ve called, texted, emailed a dozen times over the past week and you haven’t responded to a single one. No, we’re not friends but that doesn’t mean I don’t care for you as a person.”
“You care for me AS A PERSON! That makes me feel a helluva lot better!” Veins bulged across his temples, his thick arms rippled, knuckles turned white as he fisted his hands. Glaring, lips quivering, the moment of rage passed and he continued calmly. “Let me tell you ‘friend’, there was something down there. A hallucinogen, poison, virus, hell, maybe that cult really did have a personal relationship with demons and now they’re pissed because I shot up their altar.”
“Friends or not, I’ll check in on you first thing tomorrow morning.”
***
Mila startled at the sight of Trent standing before her. Deep in thought, she hadn’t heard him enter the room.
“You’re jumpy tonight,” he said. “The funeral got to you today.”
“Yeah. On top of that, the detective investigating Antone’s death was there. I’m unofficially a ‘person of interest’.”
“You had nothing to do with it.”
“I didn’t do anything to prevent it. On top of that, he’s a novice, a two-year-old detective so how good can he be?”
“You’re going to be fine. You lost one of your team members, it’s not the first time.”
“Well thank you so much for trivializing it,” Mila said, wiping her eyes to keep the tears from spilling.
Trent stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her protectively. For the two years they had been living together with marriage an on-again off-again subject. Mila now feared that it was too late, all things considered.
“Is anyone local? Maybe someone you can talk to? Figure out what’s going on?”
Mila said quietly, “just the girl who died in the hospital last week. Now I heard another kid we rescued has died, kidnapped from Mexico. Why kids? Over eight hundred thousand kids go missing in the U.S. every year. Eight million kidnapped worldwide. Why? For this kind of shit? We rescued half a dozen and now two are dead. What’s the point?”
“Go to bed. This past week has been rough, you’ll feel better tomorrow.” He said and kissed her on the forehead.
“I don’t feel like sleeping. I’m going to get a snack.”
“After all you ate today?”
“So what, you’re counting calories for me!” Mila fired back. “You know, just leave me the hell alone.”
“I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it that way.”
Trent hugged her tight, reassuringly. Mila stood without responding. Watching him crawl into bed, she went cold as his heat dissipate from her body. Sunshine, their large yellow tabby, promptly took her position between his feet. Curling in a loose ball, she stared at Mila with unblinking eyes.
Normally, Mila would have climbed into bed and read herself to sleep but tonight, hairs prickled on the nape of her neck and along her arms. Uneasy. Jumpy. Perhaps the presence Antone had spoke of had followed her home as well. Or the power of suggestion. More likely her imagination, and she was going to prove it was that and nothing more.
Quietly making her way through the small living room and wishing Sunshine would accompany her, Mila paused in the kitchen, listening, waiting, then into the dark hallway leading past the utility room where her reflection in the stacked washer and dryer windows gave her a start. Still refusing to turn on the lights just to prove her point.
The hair prickled on the back of her neck. Still, she refused to turn on the light. The day she was afraid of the dark, especially in her own house, would be the day she turned in her badge.
Mila didn’t enter the spare bedroom. Headlights of a passing car sent shadows running across the walls an ceiling, followed by a cold, musty draft. She backed away. She wasn’t about to pay credence to her fears by checking the closet and under the bed.
Mila returned to the bedroom, to the light, to Trent, and to Sunshine. If anything, she crawled into bed more troubled than before. A floor joist creaked in the spare bedroom sending a jolt through her. A window creaked with the sound of strained glass. She held her breath waiting for it to break.
Were these the normal sounds of the apartment cooling down? Or settling? Maybe from the neighbors overhead? Sounds that she had never paid attention to in the past?
Mila awoke with a start, although she didn’t think that she had been asleep. The closet door stood partially open but her attention was drawn not from within the black interior, rather, the dark corner of the room next to the door. Ambient light filtered in through the open window and the curtains waved slowly, just enough to send faint shadows moving across the wall. A bright moonbeam played across the floor thanks to a separation between the curtains.
The shadowed corner felt deep, cavernous, an opening into which she was about to fall. The moment of vertigo passed but the presence remained. Watching. Knowing Mila was now aware of it, moved so slightly that she thought it was her imagination. The power of suggestion, thank you very much, Antone.
Mila tried to turn on the light but her arms didn’t respond. Tried turning her head but was unable so much as flex a muscle.
A ripple of lighter darkness from the shadowy hole, like strands of floating cobwebs, weaving into a cohesive form. Mila’s eyes went wide although she fought to clench them shut. Shutting her eyes would shut out the entity, something so primal, as old as Creation itself. Playing with her as a cat plays with a mouse before the final kill. Heart racing, lungs paralyzed, she gasped for breath, her chest convulsing. Mila struggled to turn on the lamp, to break the spell, but could do no more than twitch.
Seventy, maybe eighty years old, long dirty silver hair that, like the robes covering her body, waved as if the air were an ocean current playing with it. Spindly arms ending in long narrow hands and thick jointed sticks fingers, pronounced ribs, skeletal neck, she moved towards the bed. An aged, grayish face that nonetheless appeared taut but certainly not youthful. Beak nose, deep set eye sockets that housed two dull glowing embers. At times she robes obscured her body and at times her nakedness revealed as they dissipated, only to reappear.
Sunshine issued a low throaty yowl and rose to her feet, back arched high, hair like a halo. Hissing violently, Sunshine leapt from the bed and darted out of the room with the crumpling noise of claws on carpet. Trent lay sound asleep.
The figure disappearing into the beam moonlight then reappearing much nearer.
Mila screamed but had no voice. Tried moving her paralyzed body. Sweat beaded on her face, collected under her arms and breasts. The thing strengthening by the moment, pulling her into the abyss of which Antone had spoken, that black opening in the corner of the room, sucking her soul from the shell of a body.
Grinning through cracked lips dripping spittle, the hag savored every painful convulsion as Mila’s body cried for breath that didn’t come. Pulling itself onto the bed, floating, yet dimpling the covers under her weight. One hand painstakingly placed. Then the opposite leg, so carefully set down. Gray wet teeth glistened around the black gape of her mouth. Now the other hand. Blankets puckered and tightened across Mila’s body and the hag savored every moment. No need to hurry, she had the entire night to enjoy Mila.
What little air remained in her lungs was forced through a clenched throat, body wracked with seizures from lack of breath, and the only sound a rattling hiss. Her screams were heard only in her mind. Kicking, thrashing, throwing her arms up for protection, and for all her effort, came to nothing more than muscle twitches.
Trent would have to feel the mattress sink under the demon’s weight. He would have to awaken!
No, she realized. They had slept together long enough not to be disturbed by a shifting of the mattress. Rolling, tossing, turning, getting out, getting in, they had learned to sleep through it all. She could die at his side and he’d never know. Suffocated, and he would be the only suspect.
Cupping Mila’s breasts with burning cold hands, forming a bone encrusted bra, the woman climbed onto her, digging her knees in Mila’s abdomen like a bull rider securing himself to his mount. Leaning forward, her long hair enveloped Mila’s face and blocked out all light and pulled Mila into her vast depths of eternity. Eyes inches away, glowing deep dull red, her mouth working as if she were mouthing words. Raunchy breath hung like a poison over Mila’s face.
Heavier and heavier the woman grew, compressing Mila’s lungs. Ears roaring from the mounting pressure, she sucked in breaths, each more shallow than the previous. Blackness filled her vision. A numbing, light-headed sensation swept through her. Chest cramping spastically.
Mila stopped breathing.
The Retirement Party
The conference room into which Ron peered, had been cleared with the exception of one table, and chairs lining three of the walls. Men sprawled in one position or another while the women sat in a more dignified manner, and the overflow congregated around the two doorways.
Three suited men ranging from Supervisor to Department Director stood behind the table that served as their podium, all smiles. Between them was a beaming Justin who shifted from foot to foot and fiddled with his fingers in self-conscious acceptance of their accolades.
Justin hoisted his swag with proud embarrassment and thanked his superiors and co-workers for all their support over the years, how fulfilling his career had been, and that he sincerely wished everyone the best of luck. The Director then instructed each person to stand and give their memories of working with him.
Leslie, a short, blond office roommate, sidled up to Ron and peered in. Five years his junior, she was on an unending quest to stem the appearance of aging.
“Talk about hypocritical,” Ron whispered and eased back a step. After taking a look inside, Leslie stepped back as well, not wanting to be invited into this adult version of show-and-tell.
“He wanted a big retirement party, I’m glad he got it,” she said.
“I wouldn’t call this a party, but Justin did want a big sendoff. Ironic, though. Management is gushing over how much he meant to the company, what a valued employee he was, and how he’s leaving a lasting legacy. He’s all smiles over how much their support meant to him, but everyone knows he’s retiring is because they turned him down for that supervisor job. Over thirty years experience and they give it to someone with only four years experience. But now it’s all hugs and kisses.”
“So, is this is how the company’s doing retirements now?” Leslie said. “It’s so... procedural, if that’s the right word. Structured. Impersonal.”
“Yeah, and that’s why he threw his own retirement party last week. Had to buy his own cake and ice cream, and nobody from management even attended.”
“I was too busy serving to notice.”
“I didn’t stay long. I tried talking to him but he just looked past me, like he was taking a head count or searching for his inner circle of friends. Anyway, I’m done with attending retirement parties. Everyone wants a big attendance but they only visit with their buddies. Now we have formal ceremonies like this.” Ron said with a gesture.
He was answered with scattered laughter as a co-worker relayed some humorous event and added a friendly insult.
“You went to Gerald’s retirement party last summer, didn’t you?” Leslie said, resuming their conversation. “I thought about going but didn’t.”
“Yeah, and that was strange. It was more like a funeral than a party. I mean, Gerald was only middle management but, as we know all too well, he had a lot of influence. Bigwigs attended and they all sung his praises, then sat there smiling stupidly while he gave them a peepee-whacking for forcing him into retirement the way they did.”
“I know a lot of people didn’t care for him, but I got along with him just fine.”
“I asked him what his plans were and he blew me off with, ‘I always got plans.’ so I gave him a big hug in front of everyone.”
“You didn’t!” Leslie gasped and broke out laughing, attracting the attention of several people seated just inside the doorway.
“Absolutely. I mean, I’ve known him since the day I was hired. We worked well together and accomplished a lot, and then to blow me off like that? Before he began climbing the corporate ladder, we used to play basketball during lunchtime, go to lunch together, and actually had a lot to talk about back in the day.”
“That’s too bad. So, are you going to have a retirement party?”
“It’s pretty much expected, but I’m just inviting our organization and several others who’ve told me they wanted to attend. I won’t do what Bill or Fiona did, that’s for sure. Just haul their shit out the last day without so much as a ‘goodbye’.”
“Neither left on good terms.”
“Whose fault is that? I mean, refusing to attend your own retirement party is insulting. It’s the last time you’ll see most of the people that you spent years working with.”
“Not necessarily. Look at Sean. He retired for eighteen months, the company re-hired him for eighteen months, retired for six months, now he’s back working again. Or John. After they threw him a retirement party, he tells management that he’ll stay if they move him to the training department, so guess where he’s working now?”
“Well, that’s not happening to me. I’m an old-school dinosaur and no longer compatible with today’s younger work force or corporate ideologies. I already told management that when I walk out that door, I’m not looking back.”
“I guess you’re right,” Leslie said. “Retirement parties are going to be a thing of the past, anyway. Half the company is either a hybrid or working from home, and those who actually come to work don’t stay very long. You don’t build relationships with your co-workers anymore, so nobody really cares when the old shuffle out and the new shuffle in.”
“The company has already put me out to pasture. I was told that the reason I didn’t get the last two jobs I applied for, was because they were looking for someone with ‘more longevity’. The same with Justin, here.”
“That’s age discrimination.”
“Yeah, and so what? The way I see it, I’m not forcing my way into a job where I’m not wanted. No, I’ve bucked management enough times that they’ll be relieved to see me go.”
“So,” Leslie said, “you just want a small party? You’ve worked here what, thirty, thirty-two years, and a lot of people will want to say goodbye. You’ve had a big impact and the non-management types appreciate working with you. People say it all the time.”
“I’m not having an open invite like this. No, I’ll go around and say my goodbyes in person.”
The conference room was slowly emptying with attendees and carried the hot stuffy air out with them.
“Anyway,” she said stepping aside to make room for those filing out. “ It looks like the party’s breaking up. Are you going back to the office?”
“No. I’ll wander the halls for another half an hour and then leave.”
“I think I’ll wait for everyone to clear out and wish Justin a final farewell. After that, I’ll have to start working on your retirement party, and it’s going to be everything you hate,” she said with a mischievous smile.
“Knock yourself out.”
The Bear Valley Affair
Bear with me while I figure things out - here is the reformatted story which should be easier to read.
Mountaintop pines caught the first rays of the morning sun. Shadows clung stubbornly to the forest floor, and meadows lay under a mist with grass and flowers heavily beaded with dew. Soon, the damp, crisp freshness of night would turn sultry under the mid-August sun.
Light breezes spread the sharp aroma of campfires, a perfume that set Mark’s stomach grumbling with the anticipation of breakfast. A shade under six feet, Mark was trim and solid. His features leaned to the round side of oval, nose defined but not sharp, and a mocha complexion from his heritage and the summer sun. Shining raven hair was pulled into a short braid that nestled between his shoulders.
Birds heralded a new day, and the fast-moving Elk Creek gurgled at his feet, splashing over and around rocks. A small, dark, water ouzle disappeared into the fast water only to pop up onto a rock a few feet away.
“We’re not here to birdwatch,” Larry called from the rock on which he perched. “If we don’t catch three more, we’re going to be fishing for lunch, not breakfast.”
Larry, or Lawrence, was always “Lt. Stokes” to Mark. African-American, as was his wife Alyssa, Larry was a quietly powerful man. Having been a collegiate wrestler and a damn good one at that, he was bulkier, taller, and kept himself in top physical condition. He had worn his hair in a Short Afro with Temple Fade since the time they met, over fifteen years ago as rookie police officers. On the job, they were colleagues but outside of work, the best of friends.
“I thought about crossing over and fishing the other side,” Mark called back as Stokes deftly landed his dry fly across a nice deep pool.
“If you can’t cast to the other side, you’re not much of a fisherman.”
“Then my fishing skills match your cribbage skills. You’d think that at your age, you’d be able to count to fifteen.”
Larry ignored the dig.
Day three of their four-day camping trip, and the previous night, Mark and Rachael, Larry and Alyssa, had played four-handed cribbage long into the night. Paired into teams with husbands versus wives, the stakes had been a fish-fry breakfast. Adding insult to injury, the women set the alarm clocks for five a.m. and requested coffee and a blazing campfire before sending the men out to catch the entrée.
Two tents pitched between the Winterhawk’s 32-foot camp trailer and Stokes’ 28-footer, housed the teenagers. Dakota Winterhawk and Tucker Stokes occupied the green tent. Anna Winterhawk and her good friend Brenda had the yellow tent.
“Shut up and fish, okay?” Larry called back. “If we don’t catch at least three more, somebody’s going hungry and it won’t be the wives and kids.”
“Here,” Mark said. Pulling a protein bar from the pocket of his jacket he threw it to Larry.
Mark wore his signature jacket, brown leather with a white breastplate loosely patterned after the Red-Tailed Hawk. He had made several versions, ranging from heavy fleece-lined to the thin leather he now wore.
“Hey, take a look.” Stokes said, nodding towards the nearby dirt road.
A Ford Bronco with bold SHERIFF lettering came to a stop. Moments later, a uniformed man exited the vehicle and strode across the meadow towards them. Older than Mark and Larry, he may have once been fit but now a heavy paunch folded over his belt. Graying at the temples, his face was patterned with sun-damaged wrinkles and his forehead lined with concern.
“Don’t think he wants to look at our fishing licenses,” Mark said.
“Don’t think he’s here to wish us good luck either.”
Reeling in their lines and collecting their creel of fish, Mark and Larry met him halfway.
“We’re looking for a young girl, thirteen years old,” the sheriff said.
“We haven’t seen anything,” Larry answered. Exchanging handshakes, he continued, “I’m Lt. Stokes, Salt Lake City police and this is Detective Mark Winterhawk.”
“Yeah. I talked to your wives a few minutes ago. They said you were up early and might have seen or heard something.”
“Maybe the kid went out for a morning stroll?” Mark said.
He shook his head. “Several people heard an ATV come and go sometime in the middle of the night. The parents are a basket case. She’s hysterical and he’s threatening to buy a rifle and shoot the ex-husband. They’re convinced the woman’s ex has kidnapped the kid. Claims to have a restraining order against him.”
“They don’t think she just took the ATV for a joy ride?” Larry asked.
“They don’t have an ATV and everybody else’s off-road vehicles are accounted for.”
“Our kids were up all night, so they’d have heard or seen anything,” Mark said.
“I didn’t speak to any kids.”
“We’ll go back and ask. You’re thinking she was abducted, then.”
“At this point, anything’s possible. The family went into town for ice cream the other day and girl posted pictures all over social media, so literally hundreds of people know they’re camping here. It could be anyone.”
“Have you started a search?” Larry asked.
“We’re setting up a command center at the Elk Creek Ranger Station. Search and Rescue is on their way but with a few hours head start, it don’t look promising. There’s a helluva lot of country to cover.”
“We’ll help any way we can,” Mark said. “We can be at the ranger station within half an hour.”
“Thanks, but I’m not taking civilian volunteers.”
“We’re a little more than civilian,” Larry said.
Rachael and ’Lyss had a breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage and sourdough flapjacks sizzling in butter and grease upon their return. That, with the sharp smell of percolating coffee along with the sound of snapping flames sent Mark’s stomach grumbling. Sally, the Winterhawk’s chocolate lab, counter surfed the folding table laden with food yet to be cooked.
Tall and lithe, Rachael Winterhawk wore her long black hair straight accentuating her bronze complexion. Mark met her at a festival when she held a dual career of stock car racing and modeling. Careers that she carried into their marriage until seven years ago, when she left them for engineering. Athletically enough for one and nubile for the other, Rachael maintained those qualities well. Alyssa, or ’Lyss, was roughly the same height as Rachael and had a curvaceous figure that turned heads. Her Shaggy Bob accentuated her figure in an elegant manner.
“Larry,” ’Lyss said, giving him a welcoming kiss. “The sheriff was just here and told us what happened.”
Rachael turned from the griddle of eggs and sausage, saying, “We knew you’d volunteer, but you still owe us.”
“We caught five,” Mark said, eyebrows raised seeking approval. “Consider it a down-payment on tomorrow’s breakfast?”
He set the creel aside and Sally trotted over to inspect.
Larry climbed into the tent that housed the boys. Consensus was that about three-thirty that morning, an ATV came into the campground from the east, idled for about a minute during which time they heard people moving about, then left the same way it came.
Pouring himself a much-needed cup of coffee, Mark said, “they’re setting up a command center at the ranger station. We’re going down there to see what we can do.”
Rachael rotated the grill off the fire. “The poor girl, I hope she’s all right. I could hear her mom and dad calling. Paisley. I can’t imagine what they’re going through.”
“Any premonitions?” Mark asked.
She shook her head. Rachael had the dubious gift of premonitions, one that she considered more of a curse than blessing. But at the moment, nothing, which could be a good thing.
“I’m going to get a backpack ready,” Mark said as he folded pancakes over eggs and sausage, taco style. Larry loaded his onto a plate, covered everything with maple syrup, and carried it into their camper.
Quickly loading his solid frame backpack with snacks, bottles of water, rope, and a first-aid kit, Mark stepped out to find Larry with his similarly loaded backpack and his service weapon, a Glock 22 .40 caliber strapped to his hip. Mark strapped on his own service weapon, an STI .45 Lawman ACP. Not that they intended to shoot anyone, but there was no telling if whoever Paisley went with was armed. Besides, this was bear and wolf country.
“Larry thought you should use the walkie talkies since there’s no cell phone service,” Rachael said.
“We’ll see what they want us to do first.”
With that, they tossed their backpacks into the bed of Stokes’ Jimmy, a big Sierra 2500, and roared away. Much to the chagrin of Sally who expected to be invited on every trip.
Three men and two women were inside the ranger station when Mark and Larry arrived, representing Forest Service, Fish and Game, sheriff and deputies. The group was engrossed in a topo map taped to the wall, and introductions were professionally succinct.
“The kids heard the ATV about three-thirty,” Larry announced. “It pulled into camp, stopped for a moment, then left heading east on the Landmark Road.”
“Good info, thanks,”
“As I was saying,” the sheriff – Caden Caprio – briefed Mark and Lawrence. “State police are covering the main roads. Search and Rescue has a bird in the sky and six people on the ground covering Bear Valley Creek, and Wyoming Creek over to Lola Creek,” he said, drawing a circle on the map. “That’s areas 1, 2, and 3. We’ve got more people on the way to cover Collie Lake and Marsh Creek. For now, we’re going out in teams of twos. Robin and Dave, you’re area 4, from NF-568 over to Dagger Creek. Leaman and Ramadi are going to take the North Fork Elk Creek trail, then follow Camptender over to the Silver Moon trail, area 5. ”
“You two,” Caprio told Mark and Larry. “I want you to start at the switchback on Bear Valley Mountain and follow the Mountain Meadows trail to where it intersects with Camptender, then back to Dagger Falls Road. That’s area 6. Most of these trails are wide enough for an ATV, and they crisscross everywhere, so just because they headed east don’t mean they didn’t change course. If they get into the wilderness area, we’re probably looking for bodies.”
“What are their names?” Larry asked.
“The girl is Paisley Macon and she’s wearing Harry Potter pajamas and pink slippers. We have reason to believe the mom’s ex, Arleigh Macon, took her. Mom and dad are Harlow and Bruce Wilder. If there’s nothing else, let’s get moving. Check in when you can. Be careful because we don’t know if he’s armed.”
Within the hour, although it seemed much longer, Mark was leading the way along Bear Valley Mountain in his F-250, with the Stokes following in Larry’s Jimmy. Barren, rolling hills stripped clean from the last forest fire, rolled across the horizon below. Dead fall spread across the landscape like spilled toothpicks, but here and there were groves of pines that miraculously escaped the flames. Distant, forested mountains were a hazy blue-black from the light smog pushing out of the Boise area.
The plan was for Rachael and ’Lyss to remain at the lookout tower on top of Bear Valley Mountain where they could get cell phone service. Mark and Larry would relay information via walkie talkie.
Keeping his eyes on the narrow road that cut along the steep hillside, Mark said to Rachael, “We should have good reception since we’re only going about four or five miles. We’ll let you know when we turn back to Dagger Falls Road. You’ll be okay?”
“For the third time, yes, we’ll be okay. I’ve got my CZ and ’Lyss has her Sig, and we a cooler of snacks and drinks. Besides, if we need anything, it’s not that far back to camp. We’re good, so stop worrying.”
“Sorry. I’ve worked too many years with obsessive compulsive behavior being a job requirement.”
The road made a switchback and ended at the lookout tower. Larry pulled next to him and climbed out.
“You got everything you need?” Larry asked ’Lyss.
“Yes. Again.”
“Okay then, don’t forget to call the kids.”
“I know. Please. Just worry about yourselves.”
“When you call the office, remember to ask for Lt. DellaRoma.”
“I will, I will.”
“Call the office for what?” Mark said.
“I requested a background check on the dad and family since the sheriff obviously isn’t going to share any information with us.”
Hoisting their backpacks, Mark and Larry kissed their wives good luck then walked down the road to the trailhead.
“If nothing else, the hike will do us good,” Mark commented.
“I’d rather be fishing.” Larry said. “Since you’re the tracker, I’ll follow,”
Mark checked in with the sheriff, offered a silent prayer to the spirits and angels, then led the way into Bear Valley.
“Even I can track this,” Larry said, pointing to a clear set of ATV tracks.
“If this is them, there’s one thing I don’t understand. Why are they on the west side of Bear Valley Campground, when they left heading east? Did they double back?”
“And if they did,” Larry continued Mark’s train of thought, “where are they going?”
“It makes no sense.”
“Unless these aren’t their tracks. But then, these trails off limits to motor vehicles.”
Two hours at a slow steady pace, with frequent stops to look and listen, brought them to the East Fork of Elk Creek where the trail dropped into a long, lush meadow. Here, they stopped for Mark to reconnoiter and Larry to check in with ’Lyss and Rachael.
“Hey, babe,” he said after a burst of static. “Did DellaRoma have any info on the girl and dad?”
“Plenty. Little over a year ago, mom and dad went through a nasty divorce. Court records show that mom threatened the dad both financially and socially. She got the house and moved her boyfriend in. He’s now her husband. Arleigh the dad, on the other hand, threatened to load the girl into a car and drive off a cliff. He was found guilty of vandalism, but he got off easy when the judge ruled that she had provoked him into doing it.”
“What a wonderful example of parenting. Mom makes threats and dad takes action.”
“It looks that way. Interestingly enough, Arleigh Macon reserved a camping spot at the Fir Creek Campground not far from here.”
“That’s east of us on Landmark Road, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“Interesting. Thanks. Love you.”
Lt. Stokes was seated on a log snacking on cheese and crackers, and washing it down with a bottle of water when Mark returned. He quickly updated Mark on the latest information.
“Do you think this is the same ATV that took Paisley?”
“Pretty certain. There’s fresh dust on the grass, powdery where the dew didn’t form, so it had to be this morning.”
Taking snacks and water from his backpack, along with his binoculars, Mark walked up a partially uprooted stump angling towards the sky. With the splintered end rising a good seven feet off the ground, he had a clear view of the surrounding landscape.
“We should be pushing on,” Larry said.
“Patience. Give things time to fall into place.”
“Patience my ass, it’s getting hot.”
A flash caught Mark’s attention. Zooming in, he saw a handlebar and rear-view mirror reflecting the morning sun.
“I got something,” he called back to Lt. Stokes. “Could be an ATV.”
Stokes rose and hefted his backpack.
“It’s on the other side of Elk Creek,” Mark said, “maybe half a mile away, near the upper end of the meadow.”
“He could be watching the trail, and we don’t know if he’s armed.”
“I think they’re in flight mode, not waiting and watching.”
“So, what do you suggest?”
“What say we split up? You follow the meadow and I’ll take the hillside, just inside the timber. If he is sitting and watching, we’ll flank him.”
“Are your betting your life on this?”
“I’m betting both our live,” Mark said and walked back down from the towering stump. “But that’s assuming he’s armed, which I doubt.”
Pointing to a distant, low rise at the upper end of the meadow, Mark said, “the ATV is on the other side of that rise. The trail angles through the meadow lengthwise then loops around the upper end.”
“You’re sure it’s an ATV.”
“The tracks we’re following lead that way.”
In keeping to his word, Mark followed the low domed hilltop to the edge of the burn and entered the spotty pine forest. He didn’t hurry, given that Larry had the longer route. From his elevated position, Mark acted as Larry’s eyes, pausing frequently and for long periods of time scanning with his binoculars.
With a stealth that had been ingrained into him since his earliest memories, Mark moved silently, fluidly, between the trees, through grass and wild shrubbery. Reaching out with his senses, becoming one with the nature around him, listening for disturbances. The angry chatter of a scolding pine squirrel, the raucous teasing of a jay or raven.
Mark found the ATV just beyond a growth of four pines, and after waiting to make sure it was abandoned, began investigating.
“It looks like they hit a rock a couple hundred yards back and bent the oil plug, draining the oil pan,” Mark said as Larry met up with him.
“Then this is where the engine seized.”
“Yup. And look here, I’d say he’s size 11 and she’s still wearing slippers. She was helping him push it.”
“Voluntarily?”
Mark shrugged. “Who knows? Whatever plans they had, this screwed them up big time.”
“The trail splits up ahead. West takes them to the North Fork of Elk Creek. North takes them to Silver Moon. East takes them back to Dagger Falls Road. Anyway you look at it, it’s a long hike, especially for a kid in slippers.”
“I would think that if they were going back to the road, they’d simply cut across country instead of following the trail.”
“Maybe they’re lost.”
“Let’s call in the ATV and location. It’s time for me to really start tracking,” Mark said.
Skirting the meadow, they came to a patch of groundwater that turned the trail soft and dark. Water still seeped into the man’s footprints, and Mark commented on the fact that they were closing in. Hopefully, dad wouldn’t panic and do anything stupid. Or, more stupid than what he’d already done, Mark thought.
The trail turned north and became hard and rocky and Mark wondered how much farther the girl could go in slippers, uncomfortable with how the situation was playing out. Stopping for lunch at the intersection of Mountain Meadows and Camptender trails, Mark took a seat on a fallen log while Larry selected a shaded rock. The day was heating up under the full sun and sapping their strength. The girl and her dad must be suffering even more.
“This is as far as the sheriff said to go,” Mark commented. “From here, we’re to take Camptender back to Dagger Falls Road.”
“The tracks don’t go that way. I don’t think we should, either.”
“I agree. I say we check in with the sheriff and keep going.”
“He won’t be happy about it.”
“Probably not. We can follow Camptender over Silver Moon Creek and maybe meet up with the other search team, the deputies. They can take over the search and cover a lot more ground on horseback.”
Continuing, Mark kept his eyes on a trail that was becoming more difficult to follow. An upturned pebble here, loose dust there, a minute scuff on the hardpan was indication enough. The girl was becoming footsore and Arleigh more agitated, as evident where he turned around, walked back, or impatiently waited. Whether she fell or he was becoming rough with her slow progress, Mark saw where she had gone to her knees and struggled to get back up.
A wider, better developed trail paralleled Silver Moon Creek in zigzag fashion, and the open land gave way to forest. Continuing until they reached a copious amount of shade where soft, cool breezes wafted down the canyon, they rested. Judging from the sun, it was close to two in the afternoon and the heat was beyond oppressive. The scent of pines became dull and heavy, birds that had been chattering throughout the morning went silent.
Larry pulled out the map given them by the sheriff, and after a moment of looking, said, “we’re off the search map. It ended where we were supposed to take Camptender back to Dagger Falls Road.”
“We didn’t bring the atlas or Forest Service map, did we?”
“Nope.”
The search plane passed overhead south of them, at less than a thousand feet.
“The sheriff must have got our message about the ATV. I’ll call in this time,” Mark said, holding his hand out for the walkie-talkie. Larry tossed it to him.
Mark was forced to walk back to Camptender Trail for better reception. It was Rachael on the other end.
“Hi Rache, it’s Mark,” he said through heavy static.
“Hey, hon, where are you? Is everything okay?”
“Fine. You got a map?”
“’Lyss is getting it with a few other things.”
Several minutes later, Rachael called back with map in hand. Mark described their location.
“Okay, so you’ve left Camptender and are starting up the Silver Moon trail. It continues on for several miles to Prospect Creek. There’s a ranch and landing strip there. Any sign of the girl and her dad?”
“I’m still tracking them. Can you let the sheriff know?”
“He’s very, shall we say, unhappy, with what you’re doing. Tell Larry that ’Lyss is also very unhappy, since the sheriff gave her an ass-chewing over you two not following orders.”
“Ouch. You’re not coming in clear, so we’re probably going to lose contact after this.”
“You take care.”
Mark updated Larry and added, “We’re getting close, so I’ll go first. Follow me about twenty-five yards back. We won’t be together if I get jumped, but you’ll be close enough to respond.”
“I don’t like you taking the lead all the time. Don’t forget, I outrank you.”
“Since this isn’t in our jurisdiction, rank don’t matter. Like you said, I’m the tracker.”
They started off with guns in hand.
Paisley’s feet were now scuffed the ground with every step as someone trying to keep their shoes, or slippers in this case, on. Or perhaps she was leaving a clear trail, Mark couldn't tell. A quarter mile farther he came across a pink slipper patterned with yellow daisies. Dirty, muddy, it’s stitching was coming apart.
Once again the search plane passed overhead to the north, and higher. Arleigh would be growing desperate, not only because the search was closing in on him, but his escape was being slowed by his daughter. If Mark was attuned to the narrowing of the search, how much keener did Arleigh feel it? How would he react? Abandon her? Kill her?
Not far from the slipper, he found the first speck of blood. Barefoot and bleeding, Paisley would slow them down considerably. So close, Mark thought, fighting desperation. With her rescue within their grasp, time was running out faster than they could travel and the thought of arriving a split second too late hounded him. He felt the world around them stop to watch with anticipation. Over and over the image of arriving just in time to witness Paisley’s murder hounded him, spurred him on.
The trail turned rocky and the blood specks became more difficult to find, but Mark tracked with the skill of his forefathers. Not that this was the most difficult tracking he had done but it had the highest stakes for sure. Then the second slipper. Several hundred yards farther, rocks gave way to hard packed dirt and the girl’s footprints no longer appeared, not even a hint of blood. Was he carrying her? Or had he killed Paisley and tossed her body off the trail?
Crouching nose to the ground, Mark found the hint of a heel print and marked it with a small rock. Crawling forward, he found another and marked it. Placing his own heels on the marks he made, it was obvious that the stride was not that of a man carrying a teenage girl and the chill of realization momentarily chased away the heat.
Behind him came a soft scrape of rocks. Whirling, he and Larry stared at one another. Mark gestured “all clear”.
“The girl’s not with him,” Mark said softly.
“Damn. She has to be somewhere between here and that last slipper. Unless he left her farther back and carried it this far to throw anyone off.”
“He’s in a hurry and not thinking. The last speck of blood I found was about three hundred yards back. Dead or alive, she’s close by.”
Throwing caution aside, they hurried back. It took Mark a few minutes to find the blood he was looking for.
“You take the uphill side of the trail. I’ll take the downhill side,”Mark said.
With the uphill side of the trail being softer dirt sprinkled with pine needles, Larry had the easier search than Mark, who had to negotiate knee-high grass. Pausing to listen, he heard the faint gurgle of water below.
He hadn’t gone far before finding several blades of bent and bruised grass. Ahead was a small, natural opening between brush and where found a few more blades of damaged grass. The sound of the stream became louder as he approached. By the sound of it, Silver Moon Creek was no more than a trickle of water perhaps six inches wide and three or four deep. Then came another sound. A small, plaintive wail.
With his every sense alert, Mark crept through the sparse brush and trees. Twenty feet away sat a small hunched figure, hair disheveled, sobbing. Wearing only Harry Potter pajamas, Paisley sat crying, soaking her feet in the trickle of water.
Mark swayed with relief. He crouched, watching for a few moments to make sure she was alone, then he re-holstered his gun.
“Paisley,” Mark said softly.
Screaming, lurching to her feet, she stumbled and fell.
“Hey, it’s okay, I’m a police officer,” Mark said.
“Go away!” She screamed. “Leave me alone!”
“You know I can’t do that. Can we sit and talk for a little while?”
Shaking, she stared at him with indecision, weighing her options.
“There’s no place to go and you won’t get far barefoot. I’ve got food and water.”
She stared back indecisivel,y then dropped back to the ground. “I don’t care no more.”
“I’m going to call my friend, he’s also a police officer. Is that okay?”
“I don’t care,” she said, nestling her head in her hands.
“Lieutenant! Down here!” Mark called. Then to Paisley, “are you hurt?”
“My feet.”
“Where is your dad?”
“Why? I haven’t seen him for, like, months.”
Larry came storming through the brush, gun in hand.
“We found her,” Mark said, then turning back to Paisley, “if your dad didn’t take you, who’s the man you were with?”
“I don’t know. Stupid. I’m a damned stupid idiot. I’m in a whole shitload of trouble, aren’t I?”
“Not really. Who is he?”
“All he told me his player name, MupoLupo666. We met playing online video games and he said he was fifteen. When I said we were camping here, he said we’d hang out. My parents suck, so I snuck out this morning but he wasn’t no fifteen years old.”
“Predator,” Larry whispered to Mark.
“Go on,” Mark prompted.
“When I saw that he was old, like in his twenties or thirties. It was too late. I told him I was going to jump off the ATV and he said to go ahead, I’d just get boogered up and it’d be easier for him. He told me that if I didn’t go with him, he’d shoot me.”
“He’s armed then?” Larry said.
“Yeah. Big gun.”
“Where did you last see him?” Mark said.
“Up there,” Paisley said and threw her arm in the general direction of the trail “I couldn’t walk no more so he left me. Said he wasn’t screwing his life over someone like me. He was going to shoot me but I told him someone would hear, then the plane scared him. So he just left me and said I wouldn’t make it out alive anyway.”
“You are going to make it alive. Can I take a look at your feet?” Larry said, crouching next to her. “Would you like some water? Something to eat?”
“Guess so,” she said and pivoted to present her feet to him. Both soles were raw, cut, and blistered.
“You went east this morning. How did you get over here?” Larry said.
Paisley smirked, chuckled, then answered. “He ditched the ATV in the brush next to the river. He had a camper van at the Fir Creek Campground and taped my hands and feet together. I was really scared, but it was funny, too. It was dark and he was going too fast and crashed into one of those rocks they line the campground with. I told him my dad was camping there and he’d kill him, so MupoLupo gets the ATV out of the brush and we come back this way. The sun was coming up and he was scared someone would see us, so we took this road but it stopped on top of a mountain that had a tower, so we turned around and found this trail.”
Mark handed her some jerky, cheese and crackers, and a bottle of water. Larry pulled out his first aid kit, but a distant gunshot rippled down the canyon stopping him.
“Damn it all,” Mark grumbled. “Tell you what, take care of her and get her back the Camptender Trail.”
Two more shots in rapid succession echoed down the canyon.
“Two different guns. One’s a rifle.”
“Don’t you dare!” Stokes demanded.
Another shot.
“Gotta respond to this.”
“Then here,” Larry said handing Mark his sidearm. “Take mine, too.”
Mark stuck Larry’s Glock in his waist band, grabbed his backpack, and headed up trail at a jog he could maintain for long periods of time. Two more shots echoed down the canyon. The search plane crossed the canyon about a mile ahead and three more shots rang out.
Mark had reached a point where the canyon opened and the forest thickened when the rapid clip-clop of hooves stopped him cold. Pulling Larry’s Glock from his waist band, he eased off the trail. Moments later, a brown piebald horse trotted over a rise in the trail. Saddled and carrying a pack and empty scabbard, it’s reins trailed between its legs.
“Whoa, whoa,” Mark said gently and stepped out. It shied, eyes wide with fear. Mark feared it would bolt. However, the horse remained, snorting, side-stepping, but not running off. Mark approached calmly, soothing it with soft “whoas”. It’s head jerked as he gently took up the reins.
Gently sliding his hand down its neck, he slowly, carefully, lifting his foot to the stirrup. The horse flinched and sidled away. Mark regrouped, took gentle control, and this time mounted as the horse circled him warily.
T Turning back up the trail, he coaxed it into a canter that would have been a nice ride under any other circumstance. As they approached the area where Mark believed the fighting had occurred, he slowed to a trot and then a walk. Keeping a close eye on the horse’s behavior, he was certain it would tell him where.
And it did.
The horse shied, reared, and swung it’s head, showing the whites of it’s eyes. It took several minutes to settle the horse enough to dismount and hitch it to a tree. Pulling out Larry’s Glock, Mark cautiously proceeded on foot. Three brass casings lay on the side of the trail.
A stifled groan came from a patch of White Mules Ears. Dropping and ready to fire, Mark called out.
“This is Detective Mark Winterhawk. Identify yourself.”
Everything went tense and silent. Mark called out again. Eventually came a strained, “Deputy Ramadi.”
“I’m going to approach, is that okay?”
“Yeah.”
Mark approached in a low crouch, slowly, cautiously, scanning the surroundings. He came to a light-haired man of about thirty lying in a bed of tall flowers. The right shoulder and left ankle of his uniform were wet with blood. Relief swept over his face when Mark slipped the gun back into his waist band.
“I got a first aid kit,” Mark said, unslinging his backpack. “It doesn’t look like you lost a whole lot of blood.”
“Hurts like a son-of-a-bitch.”
Mark rifled through his backpack for a bottle of water and his kit.
“Bastard ambushed me from the rocks,” Ramadi said and struggled to a sitting position. He took the bottle of warm water Mark offered. “Bleeding’s pretty much stopped but not completely.”
Ramadi chugged half the bottle in one go. Mark unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it over his shoulder. Ramadi endured the pain silently through gritted teeth.
“Where’s the other deputy?” Mark said.
“Leaman? Her horse threw a shoe several miles over and she headed back. Since nobody was assigned to this area, I decided to swing around and head back myself.”
“We have the girl. The man who took her isn’t her dad,” Mark said. Then, “this’ll hurt a little.” Ramadi groaned and his face contorted as Mark doused the shoulder with alcohol.
“That didn’t hurt too bad,” Ramadi wheezed. “Bastard popped me in the shoulder. Knocked me off my horse. He was really after my horse.”
“It’s hitched to a tree just down the trail,” Mark said. Wrapping gauze around the wound, he secured it with sports tape before re-buttoning the shirt.
“Which way did he go?”
Ramadi waved to the other sidehill. “North. We exchanged fire. It sounded like he had a .357 Mag. He got me in the leg and I dropped the rifle, of all things. Right there in the damn trail. No way of getting it without getting shot again, so I crawled up here. He took my rifle, then the plane flew over and he took several shots at it. Last I saw, he was heading to Prospect Creek. Did I tell you that he really wanted was my horse, but it bolted?”
By the time he ended his explanation, Mark had his leg bandaged.
“You say you found the girl. Is she alive? Hurt?”
“She’s fine. Lt. Stokes took her back to Camptender Trail where he could get receiption and call in a rescue.”
“You two have been a big help in spite of what Sheriff Caprio thinks. He doesn’t like working with people he don’t know.”
“Totally understandable. As for you, I hate to say this, but you’ve got a ruptured Achilles. Or maybe that’s good news since he missed the bone.”
“Well shit, I’m due for some time off. Help me up,” he said extending his good arm.
“So he’s got your rifle and a handgun and about a half hour head start,” Mark said, helping the deputy to his feet.
“You ain’t going after him.”
“Can you ride?”
“Yeah. I’m not so bad that I can’t. But you can’t be going after him by yourself.”
Mark, bearing Ramadi’s full weight, walked him down to the trail.
“I’ll get you on your horse and you go back to Camptender. I’m going after the perp. He only identifies himself by his player name MupoLupo666.”
“Well, MupoLupo is wearing a green shirt. That’s all I can tell. I heard that they found his van at the campground.”
“He crashed into a rock.”
“Coincidence, huh? That’s where her dad, Arleigh, is camping. Apparently Arleigh follows Paisley on social media and was camping there just to harass the mom. Close enough to worry her but far enough away to not get charged with stalking. The sheriff ran him off, anyway.”
“Helluva life for a kid.”
“Think this over very carefully, detective. He’s armed and dangerous.”
“So am I.”
Deputy Ramadi supported himself on a pine bow while Mark gathered his horse. It was an excruciating task of mounting him into the saddle, and Mark feared his wounds would open up. If they did, it wasn’t enough to be noticeable. Ramadi called the situation in on his satphone before handing it to Mark.
“Take my satellite phone if you’re going after him. Search and Rescue are coming up the trail now, so I’ll probably meet them about halfway.”
Mark took the phone, wished him good luck, and waited until he disappeared down the trail. He seemed to be riding well enough.
Tired, thirsty, and worn down by sun and thin air, Mark nonetheless pushed up the trail at a strong pace. His quarry didn’t appear to be in as good a physical condition and now the rifle was weighing him down. The extra eight or nine pounds wasn’t much, but Mark noticed he was shuffling more, his gait shorter and not as steady. And he was resting more often.
The pines thinned out into rolling hills that sloped down to Prospect Creek, a wide, shallow stream of water that Mark instinctively evaluated for fishing. Opposite the creek ran a wide meadow thick with willows that carried all the way to the ranch a quarter mile away. Mark turned to watch a helicopter land on the distant flats of Camptender Trail. After a few minutes it rose and disappeared.
Selecting a nice flat rock on which to rest, he scanned the area with his binoculars. A few hundred yards away and not far below him, he caught a brief glimpse of the man. As described by the deputy, he was wearing a dark green long-sleeve shirt. His brown hair shoulder length, a scruff of a beard on his square face, and he was shouldering the deputy’s rifle.
He’s not walking with confidence, that’s for sure, Mark thought as he watched the man stumble over the rough terrain, hunched in the way tired people walk.
If the perp made it across Prospect Creek, rooting him out of the heavy willows would be extremely difficult and dangerous. If he made it across the meadow and to the ranch, the sheriff would be looking at a hostage situation.
Mark placed a call on the deputy’s satphone.
“Sherrif Caprio. Is this Detective Winterhawk?”
“It’s me. How’s Deputy Ramadi?”
“On his way to Boise. Now why don’t you just tell me where the hell you are so we can get you out of there?”
“I’ve got the perp in my sights if you want him. Your deputy thought he was armed with a .357 and he now has a rifle.”
A lengthy pause made Mark smile briefly with self-satisfaction.
“Where are you? And don’t try anything.”
“I’m where Silver Moon runs into Prospect Creek. The perp is making his way through the trees and if he gets across Prospect Creek, you’re going to have a helluva time finding him in all those willows. Not top mention a hostage situation if he makes it to the ranch.”
Mark could feel how much Caprio hated asking him, but said, “can you keep eyes on him?”
“I can do that.”
“Whatever you don’t scare him off. I’m sending one of our choppers. I’ll let them know your position.”
“Appreciate it.”
The man crawled into the shade of a tree. Whether he was waiting for night, catching his breath, or weighing his options, Mark waited him out. Eventually came the distant “whumping” of a helicopter. The man heard it too. With his attention fixed on the approaching helicopter, Mark scurried closer, stopping behind a pine tree a hundred yards back. While he wanted to get close enough to provide support, he didn’t want to get close enough to catch any friendly fire.
The chopper approached and Mark watched the man ready the rifle. He phoned in a warning and moments later, the chopper veered away. It hovered off in the distance before beginning a new approach. Through his binoculars, Mark saw a shooter strapped to his seat inside the open door. Then a loudspeaker blared a warning to the man.
Mark watched him shoulder the rifle and take aim through the pine boughs. The helicopter came in high and the man let go with a shot. The chopper swung, then tried for a better run.
Mark yelled to the man, identifying himself and ordering him to disarm. He was answered by bullets ripping through the trees around him. Taking aim, Mark fired back, shattering a limb several feet above his head. Scurrying around the tree, he exposed himself to the helicopter. Caught in the open, he fired two shots. Then came a lone shot came from the helicopter. It hovered for several minutes before peeling off towards the ranch.
The satphone came to life.
“We got him and are sending in a recovery team,” came the sheriff’s voice. “If you want to cross over to the ranch, the chopper will take you back.”
“I appreciate it,” Mark said with relief. “Let them know I’m on my way.”
He stood, took in the rugged countryside, smelled the distant willows, listened to nature’s silence, and thought of fishing Prospect Creek. In a moment of poignancy he reflected on the man lying below, then began his hike towards the lowering sun and the awaiting helicopter.
Magic Valley and the Winter of ’49
While many of us have experienced winters of heavy snow and brutal cold, they are so often forgotten with summer’s arrival. However, should you ask an old-timer about the worst winter they remember, and odds are they’ll recall the winter of ’49. The stories dad told me sounded exaggerated, or at the least embellished by time and fading memory. He spoke of driving through the town of Oakley and finding himself eye level with the power lines, as city crews gave up trying to remove the snow and resorted to packing it down. Fences buried so deep that a car could drive over them just to reach the main road, and drifts reaching the eaves of the house. The Burley Sheriff, with whom dad was friends, spent five days stranded on a train in Wyoming, handcuffed to a prisoner he was returning to Idaho.
Fantastic stories assuredly, but all true.
November 1948 ended normally enough, but December came with deep snow and temperatures that would turn extreme. The December 3rd issue of the Minidoka County News reported a record snowfall followed by another 2 ½ inches, adding that:
"Rupert's city mail carriers had a vote of appreciation to extend this week - to the people who cleared their sidewalks of snow after the record storm over the weekend.
'We wish we were able to extend that vote to everyone,' one of the carriers stated after trudging around his route, much of it through snow knee deep.
The moral is - shovel off your walks if you want [to] keep your mailman in a happy frame of mind."
By December 16, newspapers were already making claims of the "Weather Man Busy 'Bustin' Records Of Past 28 Years". While the December snowfall was heavier than normal, temperatures had been rather moderate; as of December 16, the coldest day had been a mild 13 degrees above zero. Within three weeks, the temperature would plummet to minus 23 degrees. The Burley Bulletin reported January 4, 1949 that:
"Old Man Winter cut loose with a horse laugh at the machine age Sunday night when he traveled around Burley and vicinity chopping the bottoms off all the thermometers.
Motorists in the area woke up Monday Morning to discover that their ordinarily reliable automobiles were suffering from hardening of the water system.
Quite a number of local residents had prepared for the onslaught of freezing weather by equipping their iron steeds with anti-freeze, but there were enough shivering car owners peering under assorted hoods around town to indicate that plenty of them forgot."
Roving reporters observed many such sights but most notable involved a new 1949 automobile being towed by a hefty work horse.
That first week of January 1949 saw temperatures in the Minidoka Irrigation District at -2 degrees on Sunday, January 2; -21 on Monday; -22 on Tuesday; and -17 on Wednesday. Despite the extreme temperatures, the week’s snowfall totaled only 3.4 inches. Still nothing spectacular until “Old Man Winter” hit with another round of storms the following week. The January 18 edition of the Burley Bulletin reported:
"All highway traffic to and from Burley was cut off Friday night and Saturday by the drifting snow which was carried by 35 to 50 mile winds and deposited in huge drifts over the highways surrounding the town.
Greyhound and Trailways busses were stranded, and Empire Airlines had to bypass Burley, one of its scheduled stops. Skyways planes equipped with skis, were kept busy looking for stranded motorists and bands of sheep and cattle."
January 16 and 17 saw temperatures hitting -16 degrees both nights. By now, many had given up on driving their cars and returned to horse-and-buggy or horse-and-sleigh as a means of transportation. Brief respites between storms did little to raise hopes, as temperatures remained in the deep freeze and fears of more storms to come, in what was now being called a “Merciless” winter.
The Burley Bulletin, February 1, reported:
"What with atomic bombs, guided missiles, flying saucers, presidential inaugurations and the like, the weather must have decided it wasn't rating very high as a topic of conversation and decided to do something about it.
Result - Burley and most of the rest of the Western United States has one of the longest extreme cold spells in history; cattle and sheep freeze and starve to death; all-time low temperature readings are chalked up at many points in the western part of the nation; hay is flown to starving cattle; water supply is threatened in some towns; houses burned when frozen oil lines are being thawed; Burley has its own 'operation chicken-feed' to aid starving game birds."
During the week of February 1, ice on Little Wood River was reported to average 4 ½ feet thick, and the town of Shoshone implemented contingency plans to house and feed rural students if the roads closed before busses could take them home.
Snow fell on an almost daily basis, and each week saw an additional 5-6 inches along with temperatures dropping well below zero. From November through January, the weather service recorded 29 days with a minimum temperature reading of zero or below and 37 inches of snow with heavy winds that created drifts well over ten feet.
February came with a sense of relief, a belief and hope that the worst was over. Thoughts were now turning to the flood potential. But Old Man Winter pounded the area with one final, 3-day barrage that would prove to be the worst of the winter. It was a blizzard that would kill Kenneth Bright of Murtaugh and leave two of his friends in serious condition as they attempted to walk 23 miles to town when their car became stuck.
Driven by 35 to 50 mile per hour winds, snow buried the Western U.S. in what was now recognized as the worst storm on record. A caravan of 20 cars followed a snow plow to Rupert, but the cars at the end of the caravan became drifted in, so powerful was the storm. Those in the rear cars were forced to abandon their vehicles and move in with the lead cars.
KBIO radio broadcast appeals for rooms for stranded motorists, and the Burley and Rupert Chambers of Commerce issued appeals to residents to take in the stranded motorists, as the hotels were filled and “stranded motorists continued to pour in to the two towns."
A situation developed at the Coldwater area where 26 people and 20 cars were stranded for eight days. Among the stranded were Mr. and Mrs. Winder from Portland, Oregon, who gave an account of the ordeal.
"The Blakes housed 26 people and fed them all during the time of the stay at Bonanza Bar, food was plentiful. This was augmented by produce from a stalled truck, providing them with fresh celery, lettuce, radishes and oranges. Once during their stay there they had "roast turkey", which was one of the 20,000 lbs. of frozen turkeys that were being taken from Portland, Ore. to Omaho [sic], Neb...
Mr. Blake or 'Bud' had just killed a pig a few days before the storm struck there and a day before that had gotten his fresh meat out of his locker, so provisions were ample for all needs.
The biggest cause of discomfort was that there was only one bedroom in the house, so many people had to slep [sic] in chairs or draped over the counters.
The Winders report that a Mrs. Osborn, who had walked along with her husband and daughter through deep snow from upper Raft River to Bonanza Bar, had frozen her legs so badly that her nylon stockings had to be peeled from her legs. She was brought to Burley via plane and met at Burley airport by a car.
The Winders say that the first plane that flew to Bonanza Bar sustained a broken propeller and a second plane sent to the rescue fell into the river at that point. However, the pilot was able to extricate himself from the plane, which sank..."
Winter spread across the entire northern plains with far reaching effects, such as creating a slump in the potato market. The produce could not be shipped to markets, not only because rail service was interrupted, but the warehouses themselves were inaccessible and had not been opened for fear of freezing all the potatoes.
Don Dean, who lived in Twin Falls, gave me an account of his experience as a “cat skinner”:
"I was a new father and the first outing with our new son, a blizzard stopped us from getting home but we did make it to my parents’ home. When the roads were opened we went home but a few days later the wind closed the roads again. The neighbors got to town by going on the canal banks and roads that were not closed. They brought back word that I was to get to the Cat that I operated for a living. The County and other Government Agencies declared an emergency, and every one with the right type of machinery was asked to help clear the roads.
It was seven or eight miles to the Cat, and the next morning I started out. It seemed that every one along the way knew I was coming. They met me with car, truck, or tractor taking me as far as they could through the field or road. Then I walked to the next ride.
When I got to the Cat someone had stolen the battery and rope that we started the Cat with. The Cat was sitting out in the desert, three or four miles from a house, so I cut some wire from the electrical system to start it with. Tying a knot in one end to hold it on to the flywheel, I wrapped the other end around my hand. When I pulled the wire, it caught on the deck and dug into my hand. Blood spurted out of my glove, but it was too cold to look. I made the knot smaller and started the Cat. When I stopped after that first trip, I took off my glove to look at my hand. All the skin and meat was torn from my knuckles.
I had left my wife and baby at home without a car or telephone. One of my sisters hiked a couple of miles to stay with them, but it seemed as if every body else had something more important to do than getting my wife and baby to a safer place. Finally my dad and brother-in-law walked in and carried our baby out in a bushel basket.
That same day I had to open the road to the airport where about twelve cars were stranded. After I got them to the airport, I plowed a road out through the sagebrush to get water to a band of sheep. Then back to get cars from the airport to town in a blizzard. I got to the Highway Yard in Twin Falls some time that evening and parked the Cat in the shop. I didn't get down from the Cat right away so the men in the shop came to see if I was all right. The wind had blown on only one side of my face and I guess it looked like a piece of ice. I hadn't had time to shave for some time and we figured the whiskers had insulated my face and kept it from freezing.
I saw a thermometer that said -26 that morning. The wind blew all morning and at noon we left town, plowing roads as we went. The drifts were very uneven, some places ten feet deep, five feet away you could see the pavement. Some time that night a Wessal past us, trying to get some milk and baby food to someone. A Wessel was an Army vehicle with tracks and it traveled pretty fast over the top of the snow. Shortly after they passed us we came to a home, and the door flew open just before I ran over the Wessal. They had driven one track on the high drift of snow and the other was one on the pavement, causing it to tip over. We hooked the Cat on to it and set it upright. The oil had run out of it and they added some more oil and tried to start it. No luck. I ended up pulling it about a fourth of a mile before it started.
The farther we got from town the more pleased people were to see me. Most of them asked us in for coffee and cake or pie. If it was mealtime, we ate with them. One place where we stopped hadn't been to town for a month. They had chickens that were laying eggs and another neighbor had butchered a hog. Since they were not out of flour, salt, baking powder, or sugar, we had breakfast with them at four in the morning. Just as we were finishing another neighbor came in and invited us to his place for cake. We had to pass it up.
Then there was one place we stopped that had the biggest dog that I had ever seen. I had plowed their driveway out, got off the Cat and had started for the house when the dog got up in front of me. I went way around him, and the people told me they had a pair of dogs; they had hair or wool that the people combed off them and wove into clothing.
When clearing the streets in Hollister I broke a rail and my dad spent some time getting the railroad on the phone to repair it. The train ran to Wells [Nevada] tri-weekly; it had gone down to Wells but couldn’t get back because of the broken rail."
Throughout the region came stories of heroism, sometimes successful, sometimes futile. Brad Messer, a reporter for the Burley Bulletin, reported in the February 22 edition:
"I have just returned from a trip by plane to the snow-bound little community of Moulton [now a ghost town], which consists of a school and a couple of houses. The purpose of the flight was to drop fuel oil and food to the school teacher and ascertain if there was any other need at the moment. Word was received by Burnell Wrigley, assistant super-intendant of Cassia County schools, that Lillian Doldeer, the Moulton school teacher, was in need of supplies. This word had come by way of messenger on horseback.
The first attempt to reach Moulton [which had no contact with the outside world for over two weeks] was made by snow-plane, but the winds had been so strong that the ground was either swept clean or buried under deep drifts. A second attempt was then made, in which the supplies were dropped.
Thursday afternoon Roundy flew back to Moulton with five 5-gallon cans of fuel oil, and in another plane, piloted by Bob Hellig, two boxes of food and candy were carried. I rode along in the second plane, acting as bombardier when it was time to drop the boxes, and taking pictures as Ken released the cans of fuel oil...
As the plane carrying the cans of oil made the first run over the yard to drop supplies, the children who had been running about the yard in the snow and waving wildly, huddled close to the building near the teacher. At roof-top altitude, Ken Roundy let go the first can of oil so that it would land in a deep drift beside the school. After each run, as soon as the can had hit the snow, the children and the teacher would all wave...
When Roundy had dropped all the cans of fuel oil, I prepared to heave the first of the boxes of food as Bob piloted the plane into position. The children dashed out into the snow to get the packages so quickly that it appeared they had hold of them before the packages actually came to rest...
In the deep snow in the yard, a large 'O" had been trampled in the snow, in accordance with CAP signals, indicating food was needed. When we returned to the airport, Roundy notified Wrigley and plans were made to fly more food supplies to the marooned teacher and pupils, as soon as proper steps could be taken."
In Albion, approximately 75 men, 50 of whom were students from the Albion Normal College, shoveled a mile-and-half path to rescue Mrs. Edna Perrins, who had suffered a stroke.
"The snow proved too deep for the V-type plow, and several men tackled the job of helping the plow by hand with shovels about 6:30 p.m. Approximately 50 men students at the college [Albion Normal College] joined in the shovelling later, and a detour was made thru an adjoining field where the snow was not so deep.
Talfer said that it was 3:30 a.m. Thursday when the crew finally reached the bottom of the Albion hill on the View road side, and at 4:30 an ambulance arrived, following a plow that had cleared the road from the Springdale area.
The ambulance went on to Albion where Mrs. Perrins was placed aboard and taken to the Rupert hospital."
Two days after that final blizzard, temperatures hit 51 degrees, roads opened and the threat of flooding was very real. In Burley, the main concern was Goose Creek, which ran from northern Nevada and Trapper Creek to the Snake River and dissected our property. Farming and development filled in the channel following the construction of the Oakley Dam. Our family also owned the Grandview Grocery for the better part of a century:
"The Goose Creek channel has been obliterated and encroached on in many places because the creek is usually dry, and while the natural grade for it is to the northwest, the creek could come into town...
Old timers have called at The Herald-Bulletin office during the past week telling of flood waters being three and four feet deep around the present Grandview Grocery, and how rowboats were used on the main streets of Burley in past years."
And so ended the Winter of ’49.
Many of Idaho’s worst storms have been forgotten, and even now there is little talk of the 2016-2017 “snowpocolypse” - a winter in which I plowed through 5-foot-plus drifts to reach my pigeon loft. Yet more than 70 years have passed since the winter of 1949 and memories of the struggle, heroism, and tragedy remain, as they say, indelibly etched in memory.
Sources: The Burley Bulletin, Jan. 4, 1949 to Feb. 22, 1949; Minidoka County News, Dec. 3, 1948 to Feb. 24, 1949.
Hank
Emotions welled as he sat on the patio watching the pup play with their four adult hunting dogs. Today was the pup’s last day with them, and he reflected on the coincidence - perhaps Divine Providence, all things considered - that led to this moment.
Two months prior, he left on a hunting trip with one of their dogs but found himself detoured by the compulsion to buy a grocery store sandwich. Firstly, he never bought food for hunting and secondly, a bag of snacks set on the seat beside him. Furthermore, the sandwich he craved had to come from a specific store that he had already passed.
It was there that he found the frightened two month-old pup in the cart return area where someone had dumped him just minutes before. Without a second thought, he abandoned the hunt and returned home with the pup. Hank, as he would be named. Soon afterwards, he and his wife noticed gentle, caring manner in which their dogs treated the pup and how they were careful to make eye contact before communicating in the dog-language they spoke. Their vet then confirmed what they suspected: the pup was deaf.
Now, two months later, Hank was leaving for the state prison to be part of a program that centered around inmates training rescued dogs, particularly those with disabilities like Hank. Watching the dogs romp about in autumn’s chill, he smiled fondly at how this discarded, unwanted pup, was destined for a greater purpose.
Ringnecks and Train Wrecks
Having witnessed my share of oddities over the years and hearing of many others, some venturing into “Twilight Zone” material, I have learned to keep an open mind to all possibilities. We generally view the world around us through a pinhole of experience, and as our experiences increase, so does our understanding.
Which brings to mind a chance encounter with a man whose name I forget, if he told me at all, in an area called “The Bottoms”.
The Bottoms is an area relatively unchanged over the centuries, with the exception of the nearby reservoir and a few graveled roads. It’s a place considered by many to be sacred and where fishermen, hunters, and others have reported seeing and hearing strange things. I found it nothing but beautiful and serene. Even the large, gray wolf I encountered one morning while duck hunting stood peacefully silent, watching me and my dogs from across the stream we were hunting. Then gone, as if it were a figment of my imagination.
It was in November of 2009 that a friend won a reservation hunting coupon in a raffle. The coupon could then be redeemed for a reservation hunting permit for the current season. Unfortunately, he hurt his back and was unable to hunt that year, so he offered me the coupon at half price. I didn’t think twice about accepting.
At the time, I hunted with our two Chocolate Labs. While waterfowl hunting was terrific, the wily Pheasants either lost themselves in impenetrable brush or flushed well out of shotgun range. Not that my dogs were incapable hunters, either. Unlike many retriever owners who limit their dogs to nothing other than fetching birds, I always tried to recognize and utilize my dogs’ entire skill set and they never let me down.
On this particular warm and sunny November day, I was returning from an unsuccessful hunt when out of the corner of my eye, saw a mixed breed cattle dog racing across the grassy landscape towards me. Behind the dog walked a man whose age I was unable to determine. Wearing a cowboy hat with a braid of black hair bobbing between his shoulders, his face youthful and weathered so he could have been anywhere from his 40s to 60s. Fearing that I would either hit the dog or that it would chase me down the graveled road for who knows how far, I pulled over and stopped.
Not knowing the dog’s temperament and taking a chance on getting bit, I nonetheless climbed out and endured her happy antics as I walked back to the man. Our conversation, while not word-for-word, is relayed as best as I can remember.
“Afternoon,” I called out, not knowing how he would interpret my approach. “Didn’t know how far your dog would chase the truck.”
“She’d chase you for a bit until she tired out and came back.”
“It’s sure a beautiful day. Maybe too good, because the ducks aren’t flying and the Pheasants won’t hold.”
“If you want geese, go up on the ridge over the reservoir,” he said gesturing to the south. “You can limit out in probably an hour.”
“I’m not big on geese but I would like to get a Pheasant or two.”
“Pheasants,” he said disdainfully. “I don’t want nothing to do with them.”
Thinking along the lines of cuisine, I said, “some roosters can be tough, but I marinate them tenderize the meat.”
“It’s not that. I couldn’t eat one even if I was starving.”
I gave him a puzzled look since Pheasants were generally considered standard household fare. He resumed walking from wherever he was coming from to wherever he was going, while his dog ran and snuffled for mice and gophers.
“There was a train wreck years ago,” he said after a bit, “We got to it about two days later.”
We walked in silence while he recollected.
“There were a few bodies lying around, whether they were thrown from the train or had survived long enough to climb out before dying, we didn’t know. Didn’t matter one way or the other as they were out of their misery. When we came up on the wreck, there was a flock of Pheasants picking at the bodies. Most of the people had their eyes eaten out. I’ve never been able to eat a Pheasant since.”
I sensed that he wanted to talk more about the part he played in recovering the bodies, but it was one of those hesitant conversations in which he wasn’t ready to further divulge, and I didn’t want to pry. We reached my truck and the subject changed back to hunting before we parted ways with congenial “goodbyes”.
I estimated that the nearest house was a good seven or eight miles away and the nearest vehicle I had seen was five, but he and his dog took a direction adjacent to both. I started the truck and considered this new perspective he had given me regarding the sought-after game bird as they disappeared into a brushy trail that led deeper into a land that hadn’t changed in centuries.
I would have liked to heard other stories, of which I’m sure there were many, but he and his dog were gone as if, like the wolf, had never existed. Yet they did, at least during our brief encounter.