Linda Welch - A conspiracy of Demons (20 page)

T
he mountain
side stretched eastward for miles before curving north to embrace the basin.
The west face jutted toward me, hiding a third of the shallow bowl which lay at my feet
.

I sat on the unyielding
rock and slowly, steadily breathed
in
thr
ough my nose
, out through my mouth, until my erratically beating heart slowed to
a near—
normal
rate
.
Sweat dried on my brow
and
prickled beneath the waffle-weave shirt.

Surrounded by
peaks
, Clay Basin looks like a steep-sided bowl broken
by dozens of narrow gullies. It i
s a
natural collection area for spring snowmelt
and supports a
lively
ecosystem
.
Sub-alpine plants such as f
airy slipper, columbine, needle grass, gentian, senecio, twinflower, sedge and lousewort flourish
with those gener
ally found at higher altitudes:
snow buttercup, pygmy bitterroot and alpine phlox. B
lueberry, elder and rose’s wood
compete for nourishment with engelmann
spruce and limber pine
.
The first good snowfall makes the area inaccessible. Six inches on the valley floor translates to four feet or more in Clay Basin.

I unclipped
mini
binoculars from my belt and slowly scanned the area, up the steep mountainside
s
, over the basin. Lichen-coated, shelf-like rock formations rode down in the west like narrow, uneven steps.
Surrounded by a thin margin of mud and Baltic rush,
water
puddled in the middle of the basin
.
I started down, pausing
once in a while
to use the binoculars.
T
he
entire basin
became
visible
as I rounded
the west point of the mountain
.

The trail was still wide open to hikers and rock hounds
,
but
I
seem
ed to be alone up here. Still, I kept my eyes
peeled
for sunlight glinting off metal.

Ground cover was
sparse
, mostly hardy plants with a sprinkle of yellowing grass.
A few bright-red Indian paintbrush and wild aster still bloomed, but it was too late in the year for most plants.
Mountain blueberry sprouted between boulders in a tangle of branches. Soil had eroded from the roots of one old spruce, leaving them clutching a pile
of
smooth rocks.

I began a methodical
search
. Moving
south
across the basin,
I eyed the gr
ound, the boulders, tree trunks and
rock beneath
tangled
shrubbery.

I sat down again half an hour into the exploration. I could be up here
till nightfall
doing this.
Was I on the wrong track and came up here for nothing?

Movement caught my eye. I sprang from the rock, drawing the Ruger from beneath my vest, prepared to go to the ground.

A man stood on the rock above and to the left of one of the narrow
gullies
in the basin’s side. His hands shot up. “Don’t shoot!”

Then he dropped his hands and chuckled.

My voice carried in the still mountain air. “Don’t move.”

“What?”

My aim didn’t waver. “I said, don’t move.”

“Christ have mercy! You can see me!” He stepped to the edge. “You
can
see me, can’t you?
”

Crap.
I lowered my hand
.

The guy flapped both hands at me. “Don’t
go! Stay there. I’ll come down.”
And he disappeared.

I holstered the
gun and minutely shook my head
. Couldn’t I go anywhere without running into dead people?

He didn’t reappear in front of me, but in the mouth of the
gull
y
. I walked to mee
t him. A
baggy blue suit and white shirt hung on a
six-foot
-
tall
skinny body and
scuffed
,
black lace-up shoes
covered big feet. He could be in his late-thirties,
with
short black hair
which
shone with grease
. Sallow skin, red-rimmed blue eyes and a pinched mouth below a hooked nose completed the impression of a man not at the peak of good health.

As I closed the gap
, I blacked out. I felt nothing
and saw only a dark-gray expanse.

Then I
came
back, still on my feet, stumbling from shock.
What in God’s name was that?

“Are you okay?”
he called in a high, wheezing voice.

I blinked rapidly
to clear
my
fuzzy vision. “Yeah, thanks. Must be the altitude.” Sweat broke out all over me,
it trickled down my spine and
a
drop drizzled into my right eye
. The sun shone too bright
ly
, the air
felt
too thin.

It passed. I felt fine.

As I reached him, he sneezed.

“Sorry, no handkerchief,” he sniffled.

“Allergies?”

“Yeah. Guess they came along for the ride.
Achoo!”

My mouth wanted to twitch. I ha
d never
met a shade with allergies before
, but as I’d learned over the years, there is always a first where shades are concerned
.
“
How long have you been up here . . . sneezing?”

“
What year is it?”

“Two-thousand-twelve.”

“The twenty-first century? Christ. I died in 1986. So the world didn’t
end
in 2000.”

My breath
faltered
in my throat. 1986, the year Jack died, the year Coleman abducted him a few hours after he hiked Clay Basin.

“Do you see all ghosts, or am I special?”

I
squinted
against the sun’s glare. “I see
people who
died by violence.
”
But, yeah, I think you’re special.
I think you’re
what I’m looking for.

“
Wow!
”
His shoulders twitched. “
I think my death was violent.
Were you
searching
for me?”

“
I came here looking for a clue to a friend’s death.
”
And I think you’re it.

“
Did you find it?
” He came nearer, making me step back.

“Maybe.”
I worked my tongue over my lips to moisten them.
“
So, what happened to you?”

He became agitated, scrat
ching his arms above the wrists and
moving his head side to side. He abruptly spun to put his back to me
, took a few paces,
swiveled
back and
scrubbed at his brow
. “
It’s blurry. I remember some things, but there are huge gaps.
”

H
is memory had deteriorated. It often happens. Time gradually wipes a shade’s memory, except if
they have constant social interaction,
like Jack, Mel and Carrie.

“Go on, Mr. . . .”

“
Hogan
.
Taft Hogan
.”

“
Tell me what you do remember.
Who killed you?
”

He sighed. “
Rusty. And I think I did something bad. I think I deserved what he did
to me
.”

“
W
hat was your relationship to Rusty
?
” I prompted.

He made a growling noise and clenched his hands,
his voice grated.
“I can’t remember!”

“Okay, easy, Taft.
”

“He was a kid,
nineteen,
twenty
, and big.
Muscles on his muscles. He
pushed me away
. I hit my head on a filing cabinet.”

“Filing cabinet? Were you in a business
office?”

“I think so.” He shook his head. “
Or a home office?
”

“Maybe
. Go on.”

“B
lack, everything black. I
tasted blood
in my mouth
and
couldn’t breathe
,
and . . . weight on my body, all over, crushing me.
Then I went to sleep again.
”

He looked over his shoulder at the
gully
. “In there. He put me in there and covered me with rocks.”

Acid surged up my throat
. Blackness. I saw it
in
my vision of Taft’s last moments.
Thank the Lord
I only
shared a shade’s vision
, not sensed or physically felt what they did.

Rusty
buried Taft alive.

Sucking in a quick breath, I brought my head up. “Let’s go take a look, shall we?”

I walked past him to the
gully
,
barely more than
a crack about three feet wall to wall, widening to five foot
and
run
ning maybe ten foot along. S
mall, pale rocks covered
the ground
.
Sedge and alpine phlox had rooted in tiny pockets of dirt and up the slanting sides.

“And you’re. . . ?” I jabbed my thumb down.

“Yeah,” he said from behind me. “Under there.”

“Did you see
another person
w
ith Rusty when you . . . woke
?”

“He’d gone, I was alo
ne.
”

“Then he had help.” I squatted, picked up a flint rock the size of my hand and tossed it aside. “No way
one
man could gather this lot and carry it in here before you woke.”

He backed out
to
the basin. “
Can you help me
?”

“The best I can do is get you justice so you can go on your way.”

He shook his head. “
I don’t think you should
. I told you,
I have a feeling
I brought this on myself.”

Were I in his place, no matter the reason, I would be raring to see
my killer get his
so I could pass over
.
Whatever knowledge he ha
d
lost,
Taft
retained a deep-seated belief he was the guilty party
.
But his conscience, right or wrong, made no difference to me.
I
’d do my damndest to find this Rusty and I
would
collar
him
for Taft’s
murder, and
maybe
for Jack and Mel’s.

He looked so forlor
n when I left, body slumped
, gaze on the ground. I
vowed to
return to Clay Basin next year and spend some time with Taft. After I talked to Mike Warren and he sent a detail, Taft’s mortal remains would be dug up, moved and properly interred, but his shade would linger for years to come.

And the exercise would do me good.

My Jeep waited
near
the road
in a small, open
plot
of sandy soil be
hind a stand of
pine.
I trudged onward. My legs were tree trunks I could barely shift.
A miniature dirt devil had lashed me with particles of dirt and sand a few miles back and it stuck
to my sweaty face and neck. I
need
ed
a shower before I
retrieved
Royal from the hospital.

My girl patiently waited
to take me home. I picked up my pace.

T
he sandy ground drew my gaze
from fifteen feet distant
. Footprints. More than I made when I got out of the Jeep. I hun
kered down faster than you can
say . . . squat.

Slowly, quietly, I drew my Ruger and slid off the safety as my gaze
panned
around. Trees were sparse this near the road, but plenty of serviceberry
bushes
and thickets of Douglas hawthorn provided cover. Someone could be
hiding here,
waiting for me to walk into the open
ground
near
my Jeep.

The birds which
had fa
ll
en
silent as I walked began to sing and hop from branch to branch. A robin foraged in the undergrowth. An auto roared down the road. I couldn’t wait here all day. If
someone
did lurk, they had more patience than I.

I came up in a crouch, then upright. The birds stopped tweeting, but the robin still made one heck of a noise.

Deep breath, Tiff. Deep breath.
I walked to my car with my
hand tight on the pistol, finger in the trigger guard,
and stopped
near the driver-side door.

My shoes are size nine, small considering my height, but someone with bigger feet had left their
prints mingled with mine. They
also circled the Jeep. I went to the passenger side, more confident
with the
cliff face at my back. I checked the doors near the handles, but
saw
no scratches to indicate they were jimmied. Nothing inside had been moved that I could see.

Okay. So far so good.
But I was
n
o
t through.
Sliding two fingers under the hood, I pressed the latch to pop it, lifted it a bare two inch
es and tried to see inside, but the gap wasn’t wide enough.
With a silent prayer, I opened the hood all the way
.

Whew.
No foreign objec
t
s
such as explosive devices in
here.

Next,
I squatted to look in the
wheel wells
and car
efully felt
inside
them
.
Clear!

But no, Miss Paranoia was not through yet. I lowered to my belly
,
squirmed under the car and eased onto my
back
.

Nothing
here.

I closed my eyes. Lying
on the cool, soft, sandy soil felt good.
And I was beat. I’d be happy relaxing here
another hour, except I needed to get Royal. The hospital
would not
release him without someone to drive him home.

He
appeared
without a sound, big
brown
boots which would fit those big footprints, blue jea
ns grubby at the hems. And then
a rifle butt came down and rested on the ground.

My hand
which held
the Ruger lay on my belly. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t as much as twit
ch. Sweat beaded on my forehead and
dribbled down
beside my ears.

After
two or three
long minutes, he walked away
toward
the trees and brush.
I took in a
breath, rolled from beneath the car
and up on my knees with my
gun in both
hands. I
trained
on his back. “
Stop right there!”

Instead of obeying, he spun around and stared at me.
H
is face drained of color
a second later as
the BB rifle hit the ground and his hands pistoned skyward.

A crashing to my left, and I swung my aim
to cover a boy whose
hands
were
full of paper targets and a BB rifle as he fought free of a serviceberry bush.

“Grandpa! Wait up!”

Oh, man
. I pointed my Ruger up and clicked on the safety as my face heated to boiling point. I exaggerated a wince. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

The kid still had his mouth open. The elderly bearded, gray-haired guy cleared his throat. “Young lady,” he began, and I
braced
for a lecture only a grandpa could give.

“Stupid, stupid,
stupid!”

The Jeep
hared down the canyon road as I berated myself. Grandpa was in high dudgeon and
defusing
the situation took some doing. I didn’t blame him for being angry, and
let him rail at me for a while, his tirade interspersed with
“little lady”
as he looked
up
at me. When he started to run down, I
said I thought
someone
had
tried to break into my Jeep and returned for another go. I left him and his grandson not entirely
placated, but I didn’t think
he’d
call the cops on me.

I had
barely
enough time to get home
, jump in and out of the shower
and go get Royal. Maybe I could talk him into stopping to eat
after we left
the hospital.

A tiny beep told me I
had
cell-phone
coverage again, but a quick check sh
owed
no one
had tried to call.

I drove up Beeches
an hour later
. Dirt and sand still stuck to my hair. The shower beckoned. I swung the Jeep to park in front of my house and leaned over to the passenger seat to grab my belt pack.

Movement caught my eyes. The house lights were off, but small blue digital
displays
on the coffeemaker, microwave and phone
were
enough to outline someone who stood at the window.

I peered. Was th
at Mel, and Jack beside her?
What were they doing
? They held their arms straight in front of them,
their hands up, palms out and
flapping frantically.

T
heir faces became visible
a
s my sight adjusted
. They were
repeating
the same word
, and their hands continued to jerk.

No no no no.

My
tired eyes flared
. I dropped the belt pack, turned t
he key in the ignition and peeled
away from the curb.

My heart banged in my chest.
Holy crap!
They were warning me to stay out of the house. Someone must be in there, or was in there and left a carrying card I did not want to examine. I couldn’t settle my th
oughts on what I should do, so
I
kept driving.

M
y cell rang
as I paused at the intersection
. I glanced at the caller
’s
number and hit the button with my thumb. “Mike!”

“Tiff, I’m at Clarion General. Royal
was attacked in
his room
.”

Keeping to the speed limit as I drove to Clarion Ge
neral required a large heaping of self-discipline. I wanted to put my foot down and keep one hand on the horn. My fist thumped the steering wheel as the Jeep idled at the light on Thirty-second and West Temple
.

“C’mon, c’mon!”

The light
changed
, my foot smacked the pedal
and the Jeep veered into the hospital
parking lot
.

After driving through the east and north lots,
I was ready to park on the sidewalk when a car pulled
from
a stall and I zipped in.
Hard as I slammed it,
I’m surprised the
Jeep’s
door didn’t explode
.
I entered the hospital through the north
entrance
, charged up the stairs
and walked quickly along the length of the building
on slickly polished floors. Why does a hospital, where sick people
totter around, wax the floors?

I zipped past
specialist’s departments where people waited in miniature lounges.
It’s a big hospital, yet
I made it to the patient’s wing
and headed for Royal’s room
five minutes after leaving my car.

A police officer stood outside the closed door. A crack ran diagonally down the observation window and tape crossed it corner to corner in a big X in case the glass decided to fall out. I peered in. The hospi
tal bed lay on its side. T
hose beds are
heavy,
tipping it required considerable force. Overturned chairs and table, a television on the floor with screen smashed and
electric
innards coming out. A big dent in the side of the vital signs monitor and plastic leads tangled like spaghetti.
A confetti of papers, paper cups and I don’t know what else littered the floor.

I couldn’t take it in.

“Miss Banks?”

I turned to the officer. “Yes, that’s me.”

“Mr. Mortensen
is thataway.” He pointed along the corridor. “Go through
the discharge lounge. End of the hall, second left.”

I nodded and headed off. Discharge lounge. That was good, right? It meant Royal was okay to leave. He wasn’t hurt in the attack.
But Officer Whomever said
through
the discharge l
ounge.
Was it a shortcut to Critical Care?

I
saw an open door but a male and a female volu
nteer stood in front of the sign
. “Is this the departure lounge?” I as
ked
.

The guy’s
lips ticked. “No, Ma’am. You’ll find those in Salt Lake International
Airport. This is the discharge l
ounge
.
”

Duh.

I went in the lounge, and didn’t need directions from there
.
A
clearly annoyed voice behind a door which stood ajar
led me to Royal
.
“
It’s procedure, Mr. Mortensen. Your injuries should be monitored overnight.”

“A scratch and a few bruises do not require monitoring.
I am leaving
when
Tiff gets here.”

I hurried between a peach vinyl couch and pale turquoise vinyl chair and pushed open the door.
Royal
stood with arms folded
and an obstinate set to his jaw
.
A cut with a butterfly bandage decorated
his
eyebrow and bruises discolored his face.
The nurse looked ready to
beat him with her clipboard
. Mike Warren lea
ned on the wall near the window
.

“Royal?”
An ache welled in the pit of my stomach.
I wanted to fly across the room into his arms
.

In th
ree strides, he walked to me, pulled me
to his chest
and hugged
me tight, his cheek pressed to mine. “I’m fine, Sweetheart.”

I eased away from his shoulder - from the way in
which he held me
,
you would never suspect
a bullet
recently pierced
it
.
“What happened?”

His eyes smoldered.
“I was resting my eyes
, he thought I was asleep
and weak
er than I am. We fought
. Hosp
ital personnel heard the racket
and he ran away.”