Forbidden Entry (19 page)

Eyes bulging, the driver screeched, “Who the hell are you calling an idiot?”

I noted the brief flash of resentment in Burton Carr's eyes before he shot Linda Tressick one of those ‘what are you gonna do' looks. “Okay, Darcy,” the woman stated firmly. “Enough. You need to calm yourself down so we can find a solution to this problem. And if you two can't come to an agreement, I'll have to settle it for you. We can't have this road blocked all day while you two continue your pissing match.” She pointed at the driver. “You, sir, need to move that truck out of the way right now.” And in a no-nonsense tone, she addressed Darcy again. “Does your pickup still run or do I need to give you a tow?”

The petite woman folded her arms and planted booted feet. “It runs, but I'm not going anyplace until I get paid for the damages he caused. You can't just let him off the hook! Someone's got to pay for fixing my truck. I lost a week's worth of eggs and somebody's got to help me find my chickens!”

As I stood there wondering how the scene was going to play out, yet another pickup arrived, this time from the opposite direction. It pulled up behind the gravel truck and a chunky, square-jawed guy clad in jeans, checkered shirt and dark glasses emerged. He raised a hand in greeting and strode purposefully into the fray. “Jack, how you doin'?” Linda inquired while he shook hands with her and Burton Carr.

“I'm good.” Exuding an air of all business, he said crisply, “Rod, let's you and me have a little confab.” Their heads bowed in conversation, the two men walked to the truck and then Rod climbed into the cab. Jack trudged back and without pretense said to Darcy, “Ms. Dorsett, I apologize for any inconvenience or damage to your vehicle. Besides Linda here, do you want to get additional law enforcement or the insurance companies involved, or do you want to settle this now ourselves?”

She reached up and straightened her hat. “Settle it how?”

“It's our goal to be good neighbors, and we don't want any trouble. So, what's it going to take to make this go away?”

His thin smile struck me as disingenuous and just a touch intimidating, so I shifted my attention to Darcy's reaction. At first she appeared taken aback and then her eyes narrowed with suspicion as her gaze bounced back and forth between Linda and Burton Carr. “Okay, Mr. Loomis, what are you offering?”

“Five hundred and we all walk away happy.”

A cunning gleam entered the woman's eyes. “My neck really hurts,” she complained, rubbing it gingerly. “Most likely, I have whiplash.”

Jack Loomis looked like he was chewing a hole on the inside of one cheek. “One thousand.”

“Two,” she countered. “Cash.”

He countered, “Fifteen hundred and that's my final offer.”

Wow. Fifteen hundred dollars for a little dent and some broken eggs? Quite a generous offer.

While she hesitated, Burton and Linda traded an amused glance before the BLM agent volunteered, “I'll help you round up the chickens if that will help conclude this matter.”

Darcy gave Jack a curt nod. “Deal.”

He unsnapped his shirt pocket and pulled out a sizeable wad of bills. He peeled off fifteen, but instead of handing them to her, he held the money away from her grasp. “These two government officials are witnesses that you are being paid in full for any and all damages and that this matter is closed forever. Agreed?”

She snatched the money. “Agreed.”

He issued Linda and Burton a two-fingered salute, strode back to the truck, signaled to the driver and then jockeyed his polished bronze pickup until he got turned around and headed back in the direction he'd come. Interesting. I could only gather that he was the owner or supervisor for the sand and gravel company. And no doubt the truck driver had called to alert him of the situation. On the one hand, I had to admire his slick handling of the circumstances, but it struck me as mighty odd that he would be carrying around that much cash.

CHAPTER

18

Things happened swiftly after that. Darcy moved her weather-beaten pickup out of the way, her whiplash having apparently vanished, and Burton walked back to his vehicle while Rod shoved the big gravel truck in gear. He roared by wearing an unpleasant smirk, leaving a thin trail of dust in his wake. As if on cue, a grey van, a battered, orange pickup and two ATV riders, having luckily missed the roadblock, rounded the corner and proceeded along the road. While Darcy and Linda went chicken hunting in the sagebrush, I hurried to catch Burton Carr before he could get away. Phone to his ear once again, he was already executing a U-turn as I sprinted towards his vehicle, shouting, “Mr. Carr, wait!”

Appearing distracted, he flicked me a startled look as I rushed up to his window. He lowered the phone and thumbed the OFF button when I handed my business card to him. “Kendall O'Dell. I'm a reporter with the
Castle Valley Sun
. Linda Tressick said you'd be able to help me.”

He stared briefly at my card before looking up. “Help you with what?”

“Find the spot where the two bodies were discovered last week.”

Fixing me with an expression of genuine puzzlement, he absently smoothed his uneven mustache. “What for? There's really nothing to see now.”

“I'm working on a possible story angle and I thought I'd get a few photos and talk to some of the people involved, such as yourself.”

Apparently considering my request, he continued to stare at me questioningly for additional seconds. “Personally, I think you'll be wasting your time. The officials have concluded their investigation, the vehicle has been towed and just this morning I relocked the gate.” He glanced upward. “In addition to that, I'd be wary of venturing up the mountain today considering the weather conditions.”

I shaded my eyes against the bright sunshine, following his gaze to the ragged clouds swirling around the top of the peaks. “Looks pretty nice to me. I checked the forecast online earlier. The storm front isn't supposed to move in until tomorrow or maybe the next day.”

His look of disdain cancelled out his indulgent smile. Apparently, he didn't appreciate me challenging his prognostication. “I'm more than familiar with this area,” he responded coolly. “Believe me when I tell you that the mountain tends to generate its own weather patterns. They can sometimes be unpredictable and take people by surprise…like those two young folks unfortunately discovered.”

Duly chastised, my face warmed with chagrin. “I came prepared for bad weather.”

He heaved a sigh and consulted his watch. “I'd normally be happy to escort you there, but I've got a mandatory meeting in Prescott within the hour.”

I squared my shoulders. I hadn't come all this way to turn back now. “If you'll point me in the right direction, I'm sure I can find it myself.”

His brows dropped lower as he tapped his fingertips on the steering wheel. “I'd really feel more comfortable showing you the spot myself. Is there any chance you could come back tomorrow?”

“Not really. My plan is to go there today.”

“Can't you wait one day? I'll be in this general area and could meet up with you at your convenience.”

I pondered his suggestion for long seconds. My agenda for Monday was packed. “Thanks, but it really fits my schedule better today.”

A quick flash of exasperation crossed his face. “I hope you're prepared to take a hike…literally. That road is closed for a reason and has been for quite a while. It's in terrible condition and unless you know where you're going, I'm not sure you'll be able to find the exact location anyway. There's nothing much left there to see except a bunch of muddy tire tracks from all the emergency vehicles and everything.”

Was I mistaken or did it seem like he was trying to discourage me? “Well, yes, I am prepared to walk. Approximately how far is it from the junction?”

He reached into the door's side pocket and pulled out a map.

“I won't need that,” I stated breezily, holding up my phone. “I've got GPS…”

He waved away the end of my sentence. “Lots of dead zones up there, so you can't always count on it unless you've already downloaded the area maps. Have you done that?”

I'd meant to, but had run out of time. “No, not yet.”

A tight, humorless smile. “Well then, it's always smart to have an old-fashioned paper map as a backup. Trust me.”

“I have one. Thanks.”

“Really? You have a Forest Service motor vehicle use map and an interactive travel map?”

I hesitated. “Well, no. Is that really necessary?”

“You may not think so, but I happen to know what I'm talking about.”

I felt a bit taken aback by his curt, defensive demeanor. Either he was super-sensitive and had misconstrued my responses as criticism, or he was still ticked off about Darcy's wimp remark and taking it out on me. Whatever, I really didn't have the time or patience to be lectured. “I'll take your advice and download the maps.”

“Good.” He snagged a pen from his shirt pocket and began marking the map anyway. “The online maps are good, but my directions may differ just a bit.”

I decided that alienating this guy would not be smart, so I graciously thanked him, tacking on “Oh, one more thing before you go. I understand you're acquainted with Harvel Brickhouse?”

“I know him.”

“He's on my list of people to interview, but I understand he moves around a lot.”

A cagey smile hovered around the corners of his mouth. “He's not an easy guy to find. You might try reaching him at the McCracken Ranch first, but if he's not there, he could be at his cabin or out working one of his mining claims.”

In my haste to follow the story, it didn't dawn on me until that particular moment that I didn't have the slightest idea what Harvel Brickhouse looked like. Just how did I intend to find him as I tromped through the brush hunting for him? “Could you give me a brief description of him, so I know who I'm looking for?”

“You can't miss him. Just look for a big, brawny guy about six foot six with mutton chops wearing a shaggy old hat. That's Harvel. But, even if you do locate him, he may not talk to you. He's a pretty unsociable guy.” He paused, apparently weighing my reaction. When I showed no signs of abandoning my goal, he concluded, “Okay, I'll indicate how to get to his cabin and the mining claims accessible by four-wheel-drive vehicles.” He made several more notations on the map, handed it to me and then cautioned, “Ah…there are some…peculiar and disreputable individuals living around that area, so I'd be real careful if you insist on going alone.”

As if to defy his words another dump truck driven by a young Hispanic guy roared by, followed by a pickup and four young guys on quads. I smiled. “Looks like I'll have plenty of company.” My attempt at humor fell flat, so I inquired, “I gather you're referring to some of the inhabitants of Raven Creek?”

“I am.”

“I've already been warned, but thank you for your concern. By the way, do you have a card? I'd like to ask you a few questions at some point.”

He pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “About what?”

“Your involvement in the discovery of the bodies.”

He removed a card from his shirt pocket and handed it to me. “My cell number's there if you change your mind about going today. Good luck.” He waved a quick goodbye and drove away. Noting the time on my cell phone, I turned and hotfooted it to my Jeep. Crap! The delay had cost me over an hour. I started the engine and as I rumbled over the cattle guard, it was amusing to see Linda Tressick in full pursuit of a clucking brown chicken while Darcy clutched another one tightly to her breast as she held a cell phone pressed to her ear.

Raring to continue my quest, I bounced along the washboard road and in less than ten minutes passed through Cleator, another of the numerous out-of-the-way communities that had flourished in the hinterlands of Arizona, fed by the discovery of gold, silver and copper, only to become ghost towns when the mines finally played out. I often wondered why some people chose to stay on when there appeared to be no reason for the town's continued existence. Hardly more than a wide spot in the road, the main focal point of the tiny cluster of ramshackle tin-roofed houses and rusted trailers was the James P. Cleator General Store and Bar. There were two pickups, a dirt-encrusted Jeep and several quads parked outside. Other than a few people drinking on the open patio and a couple of mangy-looking dogs running around, there were few signs of life. There was, however, a plethora of crudely drawn and worded signs protesting the possibility of a freeway and a few more condemning the sand and gravel company that left little doubt as to how the residents felt.
POLLUTERS GO TO HELL! SAVE OUR DESERTS and FREEWAYS SUCK!

The last building in the town that looked like it might have once been a garage was covered with graffiti, witchcraft symbols and swastikas. I'd visited an abundance of these small out-of-the-way communities in Arizona these past nine months while on assignment and found that all manner of eccentricities were free to flourish. That was one of the wonderful things about living in a free country. As long as people operated within the boundaries of the law, they were free to be as weird or stupid as they pleased. But, I'd also discovered that a fair amount of illegal activities operating out of sight thrived as well.

Approximately four miles beyond Cleator I passed the entrance to the Circle M Ranch. A small sign read:
McCracken. Private Property. No Trespassing.
I toyed with the idea of stopping at the ranch first, but decided to press on. Finding the spot where Jenessa died was my priority. The range fence seemed to go on forever and I studied with interest the rough, boulder-strewn terrain where Elizabeth had lived before marrying John Hinkle. What must life have been like growing up out here in such isolation? High on the mesquite-and juniper-covered hillsides to the north, I spied a few grazing cattle. Now that I understood how tough ranching was, I had nothing but admiration for the hardy souls who chose this rigorous way of life, for those who sacrificed to keep these secluded private ranches operating and worked long, hard hours to maintain the vanishing rural western lifestyle. I drove on, cognizant of the deteriorating road conditions. Rocking back and forth, I bounced over the tops of exposed boulders, dipping in and out of deep ruts. Even so, I was making good progress, but then less than a mile later, I ended up behind a truck hauling four modular toilets. I couldn't help but laugh out loud at the original name—GRAB YOUR SEAT PORT-A-POTS—but lamented that the slow-moving vehicle presented yet another impediment to my tight schedule on a road too curved and narrow to safely pass. Fortunately, I didn't have to follow it for long when the driver turned right beneath a sign reading
RAVEN CREEK SAND & GRAVEL CO., Authorized Personnel Only
. The clever slogan below read:
WE'LL ROCK YOUR WORLD!

My Jeep rattled over a series of extremely deep indentations that literally had my teeth clattering together. Oh man. Darcy was right about the deplorable road conditions. But then, almost immediately after passing the entrance, the graded surface smoothed out, proving that it was most likely the heavily-loaded gravel trucks causing the damage. Within several more miles, I noted a subtle change in the foliage as the elevation increased. The mesquite and chaparral gave way to scrub oak, larger junipers and, ahead on the higher slopes, a sprinkling of skinny ponderosa pines appeared along with a few patches of snow. I pulled to the side of the road, intending to download the maps, only to realize there was no cell service. Grudgingly, I had to admit that Burton Carr had been right and felt a twinge of gratitude as I studied the paper map he'd insisted that I take.

The high-pitched drone of an approaching vehicle split the air, disturbing the peace and solitude broken only by the occasional whisper of the wind through the nearby junipers. An athletically-built young guy, cap on backwards, his face hidden behind a bandana and sunglasses, buzzed by, slowing only briefly to glance in my direction before accelerating up the hill towards Crown King. The idea of tooling around on a quad sounded like fun, but the ear-grating noise was definitely annoying.

Less than a mile later, I turned right and passed a yellow sign warning
UNMAINTAINED ROAD
.
I headed northwest, winding my way higher up the switchbacks as sunlight and clouds fought for supremacy. I knew from the quick research I'd done that all of the peaks in this magnificent mountain range were over 7000 feet high. Good Lord! Unmaintained was definitely an understatement. The recent rains and snowmelt had washed enormous rocks down the embankments and created deep grooves and teeth-jarring potholes, some of which were still muddy pools. The rugged terrain made for a challenging drive and it was stomach-swooping scary to maneuver along the narrow ribbon of road with not a guardrail in sight. In some places, significant portions of the road had washed away into the deep ravine. One wrong move could send the vehicle plunging down the steep, rocky slope into the creek below.