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It was going to be a scorcher. The morning sun beat down on the parched earth. Grizzly’s Jeep Wrangler bounded along the rough dirt road, sending a cloud of dust up in its wake. Up ahead, low mountains ringed a flat plateau where a lake had once stood. Nestled against a rocky hill stood their destination.
“I can’t believe Riv let you off your leash,” Bones said.
Grizzly smiled. “I pointed out to her that, when it comes to the adventure race show, there’s not really much for me to do outside of hosting. I asked which of her responsibilities she’d like me to take over since I had so much free time. It didn’t take her long to decide I should work on developing new projects.”
“You’re a devious man when you want to be,” Bones said.
Giant Rock was a massive, free-standing boulder located in a dry lakebed in the town of Landers, just north of Joshua Tree National Park. They parked nearby and hiked in. Bones marveled at the sight as he and Grizzly slowly approached. A lone figure stood in front of it, lending perspective. Bones shook his head. The thing had to be at least seven stories high. The exterior was muddy gray in color, weathered, and marred in spots by graffiti.
“This thing covers over six thousand square feet,” Grizzly said. “It’s either the largest free-standing boulder in North America or in the world, depending on who’s doing the measuring.”
“It’s impressive,” Bones agreed. A section of boulder had sheared away, but even this broken piece was a good twenty feet tall at its higher end.
Where the section had fallen away, it exposed smooth, white granite streaked with desert varnish. “I hate to see the way it’s been mistreated, though,” he said, looking at the many names carved or spray painted on the surface.
“I’m sure the local natives feel the same way,” Grizzly said. “This site is sacred to them.” He glanced up. “That must be the guy we’re meeting. The biographer.”
Up ahead, the person who had been standing beside Giant Rock turned and waved. Bones did a double-take when he saw the man’s face.
“No freaking way,” he said. “Nigel Gambles.”
Nigel Gambles was a slim man with short hair and an easy smile. An Englishman by birth, he now resided in Florida. An author and an expert in the field of cryptozoology, he and Bones had met on a previous occasion, while Bones was searching for the Florida Skunk Ape.
“Bones Bonebrake! I always hoped our paths would cross again, but I expected it would happen closer to home.”
They shook hands, then Bones introduced Grizzly.
“I was pleased, and more than a bit flattered to receive your call,” Gambles said.
“We appreciate your time,” Grizzly said. “How is it that you two already know one another?”
“We met through Joanna Slater. You might know her; she is also a television presenter in your field,” Gambles explained.
Grizzly’s face went blank. “We know one another.”
“So, you’re the guy who’s writing a biography of Kirk Striker,” Bones said to Gambles, steering the conversation away from the subject of Slater, for whom Grizzly could never quite manage to conceal his envy.
“That’s correct. I’ve written non-fiction, but never a biography. And Striker is a fascinating subject. I’ve been living in Salton for over a year. I purchased one of Rockwell’s lots. If you can ignore the foul-smelling air, it makes for a nice little second home. I’ve also uncovered plenty of mysteries and legends for future projects. The Mojave is a fascinating and mysterious place.”
“You’ve certainly chosen an unusual place for us to meet,” Bones said as they began a circuit of the giant stone.
“I chose this place not only because it’s interesting, but because you wanted to try and understand Striker’s eccentricities. And I believe that begins with his father.” Gambles paused, looked out at the parched horizon. “Kirk Striker was born Jacob Critzer.”
“Sounds German,” Bones said.
“He was the son of Frank Critzer, a German immigrant. A man who came to be known as the Cave Man of Giant Rock.”
“You have my full attention,” Bones said. Knowing Gambles’ fascination with the odd and unexplained, he had no doubt this story was going to be right up his alley. Grizzly was also listening with rapt attention.
“Frank Critzer was by all accounts a brilliant but highly eccentric man. A restless type who moved around a lot, he came to this area in the 1930s and was immediately drawn to a place the Native Americans called Great Stone.” Gambles inclined his head toward Giant Rock. “I don’t know when, exactly, he and his family parted ways, but it’s certain that by the time he arrived here, his son, the man we know as Kirk Striker, was no longer in his life. Critzer literally made a home here in a cave he tunneled out underneath the rock.”
“Really?” Bones asked. “Can we see it?”
“Afraid not. It was eventually filled in. Photographs have survived, though. It was a simple, one-room apartment with carpet and standard furnishings. But it wasn’t the cave home that made Critzer notorious.”
“What was it, then?” Grizzly asked.
“First of all, he was a German, which didn’t win him any popularity contests. He was also a short-wave radio enthusiast, even constructed a tall antenna in the rocks. That, plus sighting of strange crafts in the skies around Giant Rock, sparked rumors that he was a Nazi agent.
“He was a cantankerous fellow, always armed, chased away anyone who came too close to his home.”
“That’s rich, considering he was squatting on someone else’s sacred site,” Bones said.
Gambles and Grizzly nodded in unison.
On the far side of the rock stood a trio of boulders. On their own, any of the three would have impressed, but their appearance was almost apologetic standing in the shadow of giant rock. Gambles wandered toward the smallest stone, his eyes cloudy.
“This place has an odd effect on people. It draws them like a magnet. The Hopi tell tales of journeys made to this place to worship. Shamans returned here again and again to draw spiritual power on behalf of their people. Some even say this stone is the beating heart of Mother Earth. New Age spiritualists claim this is a site of powerful magnetic vortices. It’s also a UFO hotspot. I think Critzer was sucked in just like so many people before him. Over time, he became more reclusive and paranoid. In addition to the UFO sightings, he claimed to be developing advanced technologies and synthetic materials, which he claimed the government wanted to steal from him. He said he was frequently shadowed by men in black.”
“Sounds like Striker,” Bones observed.
Gambles nodded. “In Critzer’s case, it became a self-fulfilling prophecy. He was suspected of stealing large quantities of gasoline and dynamite from railroad depots and mines in the area. Locals also blamed him for several disappearances in the area, though nothing was ever proven. Finally, he came to the attention of the FBI. It culminated in July 1942 when Critzer died during a raid on his home. Depending on which version you believe, Critzer either blew himself up or was inadvertently killed when a tear gas grenade was dropped through a ventilation shaft and ignited an open case of dynamite.”
Bones contemplated the story in silence for a few moments. Either version was plausible.
“So, Critzer’s story has ended. Where does Striker’s begin?”
“Striker was desperate to distance himself from Critzer, due to his reputation and his German ancestry. He changed his name, moved to Hollywood, and pounded out a living writing pulp adventure novels. He admitted to drawing inspiration from tales his father told him as a young boy. He moved at the fringes of Hollywood circles, trying desperately to make it as a screenwriter. All the while he lived in fear.”
“Afraid his father’s reputation would catch up with him?” Bones asked.
“Not only that, but he learned that some form of madness ran in the male side of his family. He never interacted with his father, but he kept tabs on him from a distance. And the more bizarre Critzer became, the more convinced Striker became that he would suffer the same fate.”
“And then his dad goes and blows himself up,” Bones said.
“I think that was the nudge that really pushed Striker over the edge. To his peers, he seemed his normal self. He was churning out novels and screenplays, rubbing elbows with the rich and famous. But he was leading a double life. He began making treks out into the desert, first here, and then other places, wherever the spirits guided him.”
“Was he searching for the Arch Gold Mine?” Bones asked.
“It’s possible, but according to my research, his interests were broader than that. He was interested in pre-Columbian contact, legends related to Spanish explorers, Native American tales of mystery and treasure. The sorts of things he would write about in his screenplays or his adventure novels.”
“Is it possible that’s all it was?” Grizzly asked. “Just research?”
“Maybe. In any case he stopped writing almost immediately after he’d finally achieved his dream of having one of his screenplays produced for the big screen. In 1949 he dropped everything and moved out to his so-called UFO Ranch. Which you now own.”
“Do you think that move was somehow connected to his father?” Bones asked. “Maybe Critzer had found clues to a treasure. He was a miner, after all. That might have been what the stolen dynamite was for.”
“It’s not impossible,” Gambles said. “But although I believe Striker’s reason for leaving Hollywood was linked to his father, I don’t think it had anything to do with treasure hunting.”
“Why do you think he moved here?” Grizzly asked.
No one else was about, but still Gambles paused, looked around, then lowered his voice.
“I believe Kirk Striker was the Black Dahlia killer.”