Jackrabbit Junction Jitters (37 page)

“Has Butch ever talked to you about Sophy?” Claire asked her
sister.

When she received no answer, she looked over her shoulder.
Kate was nowhere to be seen.

“Kate?” She shined the light into the grove of mesquite
trees behind her. “Where are you?”

Still no answer.

Claire shrugged. Kate had probably gone back up to the house
to nose around some more.

Turning back to the window, she shined the penlight back in
at the El Camino, memories of Sophy’s deadly threats and shotgun blasts dancing
through her head.

For the first time since she’d met Butch last spring,
uncertainty about his character made her tense. What did she really know about
the guy, besides the fact that he’d been tending bar at The Shaft for close to
a decade? How could he afford such an elaborate house, not to mention the
set-up in his office at the bar? How well had he known Sophy? Did their
relationship go deeper than fellow Rotary Club members?

The tinkling sound of glass breaking snapped Claire back to
the present. Something moved in the garage, off to the right of the El Camino’s
front bumper.

She redirected the beam of light. The sight of Kate standing
next to the car, brushing her hands on her jeans made Claire snarl.

“God damn it.” She pounded on the window, snaring Kate’s attention.

“What?” Kate mouthed, blinking in the beam of light.

“I’m leaving right now!” Claire yelled. “And you are, too!”

* * *

Kate crossed her arms and shook her head. She shielded her
eyes from the penlight’s beam and held a silent stare-down with Claire, even
though all she could see of her sister was the black outline of her head.

She was not leaving, not after finally finding a way into
Butch’s fortress—okay, forcing her way in. And while the garage didn’t exactly
open up to a secret room in his house, it was a start.

Besides, she wanted to see what he was hiding behind those
black-painted windows around the back side of the garage. The moldy, stale,
humid smell leaking out through the myriad vents interspersed below the windows
had filled her head with a new suspicion, one that involved the Mexican border,
oodles of cash, and a little plant called “Mary Jane.”

Claire shined the penlight on the pickup keys she was
holding, then Kate, then the direction where the pickup waited.

Kate smiled and waved, calling Claire’s bluff. Her sister
would never leave without her, not with their mother waiting for them back at
Ruby’s.

She skirted the El Camino and unlocked the door leading to
the outside, in case Claire came to her senses and decided to join her.

Ignoring Claire’s loud raps on the glass, Kate headed for the
room at the back of the garage only to find the door locked. She should’ve anticipated
that. Glancing around, her gaze landed on a tall tool chest against the wall. A
screwdriver would make short work of the lock.

She heard the flap of flip-flops behind her as she picked up
the screwdriver.

“Give me that thing.” Claire snatched the screwdriver from
Kate’s hand.

“I thought you were leaving.”

“I should have. I’m sure I’ll regret this.” Claire pocketed
the screwdriver and held out her hand. “Give me your Visa card.”

“What makes you think I have a Visa card on me?”

“Please, Kate. You’re a shoe-a-holic. You never travel
anywhere without a credit card.”

Pulling her platinum card from her inside jacket pocket,
Kate dropped it in Claire’s palm. “I’m not a shoe-a-holic. I just like to be
prepared for unforeseeable, necessary purchases.”

“You’re hopeless.” Claire slid the credit card along the
edge of the door. Kate tried to watch over Claire’s shoulder, but her sister
was too quick. Within seconds, the door popped open.

Standing back, Claire ushered Kate forward. “After you.”

“I want my credit card back.” Kate snatched it from Claire
and then pushed open the door, walked into the room, and blinked in the bright
overhead lights. A wave of humid heat made her breath stick in her throat.

“Well, would you look at this?” Claire joined Kate. “It
looks like we’ve stumbled upon the Great Cactus-Napper’s headquarters. Where’s
your camera, Lois Lane? This is all the proof we need to convince the police
that Butch is the evil master-mind behind that illegal cacti trading ring.”

“Cactus?” Kate rubbed her forehead, staring around the large
greenhouse. “Why the dark windows then?”

Clare walked over to one of the tables filled with hundreds
of baby cacti sprouting from the small containers of pebble-covered dirt.

“Who knows? Maybe he likes to control how much sunlight
these puppies get.” She looked back to Kate, her arms crossed. “Now, can we go
back to Ruby’s?”

Damn. Wrong again.

Her shoulders sagging in defeat, Kate nodded.

She’d thought for sure she’d find a room full of marijuana,
which would explain how Butch could afford such a lavish house. The Shaft might
be busy most nights, but not enough to support all of this.

Claire locked the greenhouse door behind them, dropped the
screwdriver back in the tool chest, and led the way around the El Camino. She
held the outside door open for Kate.

“I don’t understand where Butch gets his money.” Kate said
as she stepped outside.

“Neither do I.” Claire closed the door. “I wonder why he—”

“Hold it right there!” a familiar voice commanded from the
darkness in front of them. A blinding light blasted them.

Behind Kate, Claire groaned. “Oh, shit. We’re busted.”

Busted?
Nausea gripped Kate. “I’m going to throw up,”
she said, bending over, wheezing.

“I said don’t move!” Sheriff Harrison hollered. “You’re both
under arrest for breaking-and-entering!”

* * *

Monday, August 23rd, 2:37 a.m.

Hard, jagged edges scratched Mac’s shoulders through his
T-shirt as he squeezed through the hole into the dead man’s tomb. All of his
sweating and swearing had paid off. With the help of his pry bar, he’d managed
to widen the gap a few crucial inches without bringing the ceiling down on his
head.

Directing his hard hat light at the skeleton, he realized
why he hadn’t noticed whether both hands were present and accounted for when he’d
first peeked into the tomb. A large boulder sat in front of the skeleton,
blocking the lower half of the dead guy’s body.

Stones and pebbles clattered to the floor below him as he
crawled forward on his hands, sliding his hips, legs, and boots through the
hole.

He half-rolled, half-stumbled down the rocks; the slope was less
steep on this side of the cave-in. The smell of dust filled the tomb, thick in
the small, enclosed space. The scent of decayed flesh was not even a memory
anymore.

Brushing off his shirt and jeans, Mac tiptoed across the
floor toward the skeleton, as if his footfalls might wake the dead. As he
approached, he realized that the large boulder that had been blocking his view
was actually sitting on the lower half of the dead guy’s left leg. He grimaced
at what must have happened and scanned the concave section of the ceiling.
Gravity could be so cruel.

He walked around to the left side of the body, squatting
next to the boulder. A rusted canteen leaned against the wall within the
skeleton’s reach, a pickaxe lay a couple of feet beyond, out of reach. An
antique brass Davy safety lamp, tinted green with patina, lay on its side next
to the canteen.

So far, all signs pointed to this guy being the missing mine
owner he read about when researching the history of the Lucky Monk.

He tried to budge the boulder with his shoulder, but it wouldn’t
move.

What a miserable way to die: alone in a dark mine, trapped
under a chunk of ceiling. Had the miner bled to death? Or had the rock acted as
a tourniquet and allowed him to live until the water in his canteen had run dry
and then some? The mine floor was too dark and dust-covered to show traces of
dried blood in this light.

Leaning over the body, Mac admired the Lucky Monk’s
preservation handiwork. Dried flesh, the color and texture of turkey jerky,
clung to the skull and hung in strips from the jaw bone. A dusty, holey shirt
draped awkwardly on protruding shoulder bones. The right forearm dripped dried
skin, but the left arm was bare, the bone bearing chew marks. Both hands were
present, frozen in claw position. Flesh shrink-wrapped the fingers, nails still
visible on the digits not gnawed down to the knuckle.

Mac sat back on his heels. He’d hoped to find a hand
missing, making this imprudent trip into the tomb worth his time and energy.
Maybe even tie together two pieces of the puzzle upon which Claire had
stumbled. Instead, he’d just added another piece that didn’t seem to fit
anywhere.

A tingling in his toes drove him to his feet again. He
skirted the boulder and approached the dead man from the right.

Careful not to disturb the body, Mac trailed his fingers
over the pants pockets, wondering if the old miner had carried a leather wallet
or anything that would confirm his identity. But he felt nothing, just worn
cotton over pelvic bone.

As he rose to his feet again, his boot bumped against the
dead man’s right hand, knocking it forward a couple of inches and turning it
palm-side up. He bent down to return the hand to its original position and
noticed a short piece of thin rope trailing out from the palm.

With a light tug, Mac freed the rope from the miner’s hold.
The piece was slightly frayed at both ends and braided in an unusual pattern.
It reminded him of the sandal Claire had found in the same bag as the mummy
hand.

He unbuttoned his shirt pocket and pulled his small
flashlight free. Under closer inspection with the halogen light, he was fairly
sure this was the piece missing from the heel portion of the sandal, but he
couldn’t be sure until he got back to Ruby’s. He stuffed it into his front
pocket.

The sound of claws scratching on wood boards made Mac flinch
in surprise. He stared at the wall of boards, his skin prickling. Something on
the other side of those boards wanted to pay its respects to the dead man
sprawled at Mac’s feet.

After several seconds, the scratching stopped.

Mac remained frozen, staring at the powder gray nail heads
dotting the slabs of pine. He waited for the ruckus to start up again, telling
himself it was only a rat or porcupine or some other desert creature.

Silence reigned.

With one last glance at the dead man, he started toward the
rock pile, but stopped two steps later and spun back around.

He again focused his light on the boarded up wall. Except
for a small spot of rust here and there, those nail heads looked new, unmarred
by time. But if this was the missing mine owner, this guy must have died over a
hundred years ago. Iron nails should have rusted by now.

Mac crept over to the wall and shined his flashlight on
several of the nail heads. They were definitely not one hundred-year-old nails.

He examined the boards, realizing they didn’t have that
cracked and aged appearance of century-old wood either. He shined his light on
the end of one board where it abutted the timber beam, looking for signs of
wear, and instead found a price tag stapled to the rough end. Faded, but still
visible, were the words: Creekside Supply Company.

Somebody else had been in this part of the mine before, and
within the last couple of decades at that. Somebody who had ignored the dead
man lounging just feet away while hammering up boards.

Had it been Joe? He’d owned the mines for a little over a
decade before dying. It could have been the owner before Joe too, or even the
owner prior to that guy based on how long the hardware store had been in
business.

And why had someone wanted to block off the remaining section
of the tunnel?

The scratching started again down near his feet, louder,
more determined.

Mac stumbled backwards, almost landing on his ass for the
second time that night.

Regular old packrat or not, there was something about
standing next to a dead man while listening to the sound of something wanting
to get into the tomb that made Mac’s upper lip sweat in spite of the mine’s
cool temperature.

His curiosity about what was on the other side of the
blockade ebbed, his bones and joints aching. Besides, he needed the crowbar
from his truck to break through the wall; the pry bar was too long. He stuffed
his flashlight into his shirt pocket and crawled up the pile toward the hole
without looking back.

Tomorrow, he’d return, crowbar in hand, and find out what
was hiding behind those boards.

He ducked through the hole, carefully wiggling through.

His pack sat on the floor on the other side, rumpled and
dusty, a mirror of himself. He rubbed his burning eyes. As he bent over to lift
his pack, his small flashlight slipped out of his shirt pocket and bounced on
the stone floor. The battery cover broke open and the two AA batteries spilled
out, rolling in different directions across the floor, disappearing into the
shadows.

“Shit.” Mac dropped onto his hands and knees next to his
pack. He pulled off his hard hat, searching for the escapees with his hat light.
One battery lay in a crevice along the base of the wall. Mac stuffed it in his
pocket and clambered toward the rock pile.

Half way there, he noticed a footprint.

It wasn’t his.

He sat back on his heels, staring down at the wavy-lined
imprint. It hadn’t been here earlier when he’d climbed through the hole to
spend some quality time with the dead miner.

He shined his light across the floor toward the main adit.
Several more prints with the same tread design headed to and from the edge of
the rock pile. They were too big to be Claire’s or Jess’s, and nobody else at
the R.V. park had a clue how to get up to the mine.