Frank huddled in the shelter of the old-fashioned phone booth, one of the three amenities in Olancha, the other two being a gas station and a restaurant. With the door shut against the wind, he could make himself heard. Dave Meecham seemed unable to grasp the facts as Frank had presented them.
“You sure they’re dead, Frank? Both of them?”
“As sure as I can be.”
“What about the other guy, the redheaded one?”
“Jason. Yes, I think he was killed by the fall. Roy Miller was there. When he saw Jason, he came after me. If Jason had been alive, I think he would’ve stayed to help him.” A blast of wind rocked the phone booth, blowing dust and grit under the door. Frank stood there, bathed in the purplish glare of the station’s pole light. “He’s still up there. I disabled his truck.”
“Disabled his truck? That’s a bad place to be stranded, Frank.”
“I left a jug of water, but that’s not the point. The point is that he’s a killer. He was out to kill me. He kills people.”
“Listen, Frank, I want you to meet me at the office at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. In the meantime, go home.” Meecham paused. Frank thought he knew what was coming. “And Frank, consider yourself suspended with pay until we clear all this up.” He hurried on, not giving Frank a chance to respond. “I’ll get a hold of Bob Dewey over at the Sheriff’s Department.” Frank winced. Lieutenant Dewey considered the law-enforcement part of the BLM a joke, and he let it show.
“They’ll wait for daylight before heading out,” Meecham said.
“How will they know where to go?”
“I’ll send Sierra and Wilson along to help out. They know the area. They’ll be fine.”
“Dave …”
“No, Frank, there’s no way you’re going. The Inyo Sheriff’s Department thinks you’re a loose cannon and maybe a guy with a grudge against poachers.” Meecham dropped his voice. “Sometimes you step over the line, Frank. Since you and Deputy Harris picked up Donald Miller’s body—he’s the other brother, right?”
“Right.”
“Since that little expedition, Harris has been having a field day making fun of BLM detective work. Sorry, Frank, but over there, you’re Inspector Butt Print, and we’re the other assholes.”
“Well they can stuff it, Dave.” Anger flooded through him in a hot flush. “Fat-ass squad-car cop couldn’t wipe himself in the dark. Harris can put it where the sun doesn’t shine—that is, if he can find it.” The words gushed out, washing the flash of rage away in a torrent of invective.
“Got that off your chest now?”
“Yeah, okay. You’re right. I’m hollering at the wrong guy.” He sighed into the phone. “It’s been a long day.”
“Yeah, I can imagine.” The concern in Meecham’s voice was genuine. “Now listen to me carefully, Frank. I’m talking to you as your friend, not your boss. Harris and some of the others think you’re a bit strange, overhyped on protecting the sheep, overhyped about killers wandering the desert. What I’m saying is, they could start looking at you, looking at you for taking out these guys because you think they’re bad guys.”
“Come on, Dave.” He felt a sinking in his stomach. He’d been here before. He didn’t quite fit, and there was always a price to be paid for not fitting. A wave of exhaustion passed over him. He felt boneweary and discouraged. What did it take? Did someone need a picture of the Millers setting something on fire, beating someone to death?
“Frank, I know it’s bullshit, but I want to be sure there’s no way we can be seen as covering up, so Sierra and Wilson go.” Frank heard
Meecham’s voice coming from the phone, sounding like it was a million miles away. “And Frank”—Meecham gave a short chuckle—“this time, Sierra and Wilson are on the corpse detail. Think about it.”
Frank thought about it. Sierra was uncommonly squeamish, didn’t like to look at dead animals, much less touch them. Just the sight of blood made him queasy. And Wilson hated physical labor. He was more than just lazy, never rinsed out his cup, couldn’t be bothered to pick up trash. Mainly, he liked chatting up the tourists. Mr. Charm. The corners of Frank’s mouth turned down in a thin smile. “Thanks, Dave.” Meecham was okay. “Oh, another thing. I was supposed to give a walk and talk—”
“I took it, Frank. They were hanging around the lawn waiting for you to show up. So I gave you a half hour, and then we went down to the kilns.”
“I owe you one.”
“You owe me more than one, amigo. By the way, you turning prima donna on me? Got your own little fan club, huh? That Rockford woman, the one from the college, she starts in bitching ’cause you’re not leading the talk. Wants to know where you are. Oh, and you’d better get in touch with that Reyes—uh, that Linda Reyes—she sounded worried, like she might start a search party of her own.”
“You talked to Linda?”
“I called her this afternoon, looking for you. She asked a lot of questions about where you might be. Smart lady. But I could hear the worry.”
“My next phone call. And thanks again, Dave.”
“Por nada. And don’t go off getting into anything. Tomorrow morning, we’ll sort this out.”
“Miller’s van is at the mouth of the canyon. There was bedding in the van, and I left a half-full gallon jug of water, so Miller should be nearby. And Dave, tell Sierra and Wilson to be very careful. Roy Miller kills people.”
Linda didn’t pick up his cell phone at the caboose. He figured she must have gone directly home or gone home after checking his
place. Meecham said he’d called her that afternoon, trying to find out why the hell he hadn’t shown up for his walk and talk. He dialed the number of the Joshua Tree Athletic Club, and she picked up on the first ring, her voice tense and hurried.
“It’s me, Frank.” He sounded oddly mechanical.
“Oh my God, are you okay? Where the hell have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”
More worry than anger, that’s good, he thought. “It’s a long story, but I’m okay.” He could hear her muffled voice telling someone, “It’s him. He’s okay.” Then he heard her breathing through the phone, waiting for him to go on, tell her what had happened. Habits of a good reporter—regaining control, ready to listen.
“I spent the day with Roy Miller, sort of by accident—he, uh, thought I was Eddie Laguna. So we went up in the canyon to wait for Dr. Sorensen, the poacher—only he didn’t show up.”
“Jesus Frank, what the hell happened?”
“I had to kill somebody.” He felt his voice stick in his throat. “Left him at the bottom of a mine shaft. Not even sure he was dead.”
He could hear voices in the background. He waited, listening to the wind and the faraway sounds in the Joshua Tree Athletic Club.
“Come to the club. I’m taking care of the bar, Frank. Dad and his friends are getting ready to—never mind that stuff. We’ll talk and grill some steaks. Tonight’s grill your own. There’re some filets left and mushrooms and onions. Jan’s been here since six o’clock, and Jimmy Tecopa. They’ve been waiting here in case you called. You better get here before everyone gets drunk.”
He swallowed against the wave of emotion that choked off his voice.
“Frank, are you there? Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Well, are you going to be able to come? Say yes, Frank.”
“Yes,” he said. He could manage that much.
Frank pulled his beloved truck up near Linda’s cabin, hoping people wouldn’t hear his arrival. He hated being at the center of things, and
he knew they were all waiting for him to show up and tell his story. He stepped out and carefully pushed the door closed to avoid the telltale thump.
“Hiya there, Flynnman.” Linda stood silhouetted in the light coming from the side door to the club’s kitchen.
“How’d you know I was here?” He looked past her and checked around the building for well-meaning friends lurking in the shadows.
“I was watching through the kitchen window. Sort of figured you’d go for a soft landing.” She started across the gravel, closing the distance between them.
“God, it’s good to hear your voice.” He took her into his arms. “And smell your hair.” They stood holding each other in silence.
Then she said, “You could’ve heard my voice sooner if you’d carry your cell phone.” She pushed back from him. “How does Dave Meecham deal with that?”
“It’s a long story.” He grinned. “The thing is, I’m here now. And …” He held up his hand. “I’ve got a couple of cans and some string, so we can always be in contact.”
“Not funny, Frank. I tried to call you—a bunch of times.” She dropped her voice. “Mitch and Shawna were burned to death in their trailer. It was no accident. It was them.”
“What? When did this happen?”
“They think it was sometime yesterday.” Her voice was muted.
He shook his head slowly. “God, what a shame.” His face creased in a thoughtful frown. “I can’t figure out what makes him tick.” He spoke softly. “Something’s missing inside.” He looked up. “But two of them are gone, and they should have Roy Miller soon. I fixed his van so it wouldn’t run.”
“Oh Frank, I’ve been so worried. It could’ve been you.” She paused, her voice hardening. “Damn it, carry your phone, okay!”
He pulled her to him again. “I will. You’re right. I wasn’t thinking about other folks.” He rocked her gently. “Being alone all the time, you forget about others.” He tipped up her face. “I won’t forget.” He kissed her softly. “You can count on it.” A slow grin spread across his face. “Besides, I know better than to come between a reporter and her story. Hell hath no fury like a reporter scooped.”
She punched him none too gently in his abdomen. “That’s the truth, Flynnman. Don’t ever forget it.”
“Hey, there you are—and there’s Frank.” Jack turned and shouted back through the open door. “Just hang on a moment. They’re both out here.”
“Looks like we gotta go to the party,” she said, loudly enough to be heard.
“Yup.” He leaned down. “But for now, I’m telling them that things worked out. Everything’s okay. That’s it.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll run some interference.” She dropped her voice. “Besides, tonight I want you to myself.” She squeezed his arm.
“Sounds good.” He felt himself blushing and was grateful for the dark. “And tomorrow’s going to be tough.”
“How come?”
“Guess I’ll have to explain this all over again to the people at Inyo County Sheriff’s Department.” He paused. “And Dave’s sorta pissed off.”
“Why?”
“No cell phone.”
“I’m with him.”
“Why didn’t you identify yourself?” Clearly, it was more an accusation than a question. Lt. Robert W. Dewey didn’t bother to hide his skepticism. He’d listened to Frank’s story without interruption, his long, angular frame upright in the wooden office chair, hands on his knees, his hazel eyes never leaving Frank’s face.
It was the question Frank would have asked himself. “It wasn’t a completely conscious decision. They took me for Eddie Laguna. At the time, it seemed like a good idea to play along. I had an idea who they were. I was off duty. My weapon was in the truck. I believed them to be dangerous. I think I was—am—correct in this assessment. So I played along, hoping to get clear as soon as I could. As it turned out, the opportunity didn’t present itself.”
“What made you think they were anything more than punk bikers?” Dewey’s expression hardened. Frank could read the barely
concealed contempt. He told himself that no matter what, he knew the truth because he’d been there. Or did he? Why had he gone along? He knew part of it was because he’d thought he might learn something, because he’d figured he could beat them out in the desert. And he had. Only he’d never thought it would cost two lives. In fact, he hadn’t thought about it much at all. Full of himself catching the bad guys. He’d played it by ear, trusting to luck, or whoever watched over drunks and fools.
“They were more than punk bikers, Lieutenant. The one who called himself Hickey was armed with a Glock. At the Joshua Tree Athletic Club, they put a man in the hospital simply because they felt like it.”
“Yeah, and the lady bartender scared the shit out of them with a shotgun. Real badasses.”
Frank felt his face burning. People believed what they wanted, especially cops who were sure that they were trained and impartial observers, readers of human character, able spot a phony, a slimeball, or a liar. Self-assurance hardened their prejudices. Well, to hell with them. Maybe his motives hadn’t been pure, but Roy Miller and his companions were very bad people.
Frank looked around the room. There was Lieutenant Dewey from the Inyo County Sheriff’s Department, Jack Mitchell from Fish and Game, and Dave Meecham. Even Meecham’s face registered pained skepticism.
“I did what I thought was necessary at the time. It became clear to me that I wasn’t going to make a round-trip. Miller all but told me I was a done deal. I believed him. When Hickey and I went into the mine, I did what I had to be sure I didn’t stay there. Jason’s death was an accident. He fell over backward from the recoil of a .458 Winchester, which he fired at me. I made my way down the canyon, disabled their van, left water, and called my superior, Chief Ranger Meecham. That’s it.”
“That’s it, huh?” Dewey stared at Frank. “Let’s see what my boys say, Flynn. And it still doesn’t explain why you were at Laguna’s in the first place. Feeding his cat? Pretty damn lame.”
“I’d like to know that myself, Frank.” Mitchell leaned forward,
his tanned young face serious. He and Frank had become friendly over the last year, ever since Mitchell became the local Fish and Game agent. Frank had shown him some of the back country, the bighorns. He knew how Frank felt about poachers.
“I recognized Eddie Laguna’s picture. I went to urge him to turn himself in voluntarily before his picture made the paper. I’ve known him for a long time. I figured it might go easier with him.”
Mitchell and Meecham exchanged brief looks.
Dewey jumped in. “You like to poke your nose into other jurisdictions, don’t you, Flynn? What’s the deal here? Stick to taking care of rocks and tourists.” Dewey didn’t bother to conceal his contempt. Frank watched Dave Meecham’s face cloud over.
“You think that was a useful observation, Bob? Public relations isn’t your long suit.” Meecham held up his hand. “That’s it. This isn’t an official inquiry; it’s a courtesy offered by one law-enforcement agency to another. And now it’s over. You have anything else to take up with one of my people, go through channels.”
“You can count on it.” Dewey’s voice was hard with anger. The charged silence filled the room. Dewey looked down at the backs of his large, bony hands, which were clamped on his knees. The creased khakis rode high on his legs, exposing a couple of inches of hairless white skin.
Dewey sighed and grimaced with the effort of apology. “Oh hell, Dave, no offense intended. He’s your man. It’s just that wanna-bes are a pain in the ass.”
Meecham shook his head, laughing without humor. “Talk to you later, Bob.” They all had risen, anxious to escape the tension. Meecham turned to the Fish and Game agent. “Stick around for a minute, would you, Mitchell? Some things to clear up.”
The beeping of Dewey’s phone sent hands reaching for cell phones, hoping it was their call, until Dewey flipped open his phone, turning away from the others.
“This is Dewey.” The angular head nodded slowly up and down in unconscious acknowledgment. “Where?” Dewey’s body tensed and his head stilled. “Okay. Have Harris wait there. I’ll call the coroner and see if we can get an ME out there.”
Dewey turned back to the group. He looked at Frank while he addressed the others. “They found the body of a Randall Clark on the power-line road. His windpipe was crushed. Looks like your Roy Miller’s a killer after all.”
Frank looked stricken. “Damn, this is my fault.” They were staring at him.
“What the hell are you talking about, Flynn?” Dewey’s face registered bafflement.
Meecham looked at Dewey. “He left him water, Bob. Didn’t want the son of a bitch to die of thirst.”
Dewey stretched to his full six-three. Frank could imagine the popping and clicking of sinews and joints. He looked at Frank as if seeing him for the first time. “Okay, Flynn. There’s already an APB out on him. I figure we’ll have him in the next twenty-four hours.” The morning sun filtered through the cottonwoods, filling the office with pale yellow light gently tinged with green. “The water was the right thing. There’s no way you could’ve known.”
“Thanks.” Frank held his gaze. “And Lieutenant, Miller’s gone. You can count on it. He and his brothers, and the other man, Hickey, lived somewhere along the Mojave River in Oro Grande. At least that’s what Mitch Cooper told me. He used to be one of them.”
“Where can I find this Mitch Cooper?”
“Can’t. He burned to death in the fire over at the Ophir mine near Randsburg. Somebody tied him and his girlfriend up and set fire to the trailer. It’s in Kern County, just over the line.”
Dewey shook his head. “We’ll pull out all the stops, Flynn. There’s just one of him.”
“Yeah, he’ll be traveling light.”