Texas Gothic

37



my first memory, on waking in stuffy, cramped darkness, was of Phin speculating on how much brain damage Nancy Drew must sustain from getting hit on the head all the time.

Which wasn’t the only inaccuracy in those books. I couldn’t recall the girl detective ever waking up in an attic or stable or basement prison with the acrid taste of vomit in her mouth.

I vaguely remembered puking on one of the guys as they moved me. At least my unconsciousness had been intermittent and not prolonged. And when I touched my head, there was a huge lump. Out was better than in. Yay for first-aid training.

My prison was not an attic, stable, or basement. It was moving. I could hear the crunch of a gravel road, and as I bounced around, unable to uncurl my arms or legs from my fetal position, I realized I was in the trunk of a very small car. Like a Mini Cooper. The ride was ever so slightly lopsided, so I knew it was Stella, with her donut spare tire.

What kind of morons drove a sports car with a donut tire over hilly gravel roads? All I knew was they better not put a scratch on my car, or I’d kill them.

I could just barely hear them talking, one of them yelling at the other. “You dumbass. We were supposed to talk to her about finding the gold mine for us. Not knock her brains out.”

“Not steal her car, either, but you did that.”

“All I could think about was getting away from there.”

“Me too. It was freaky. That whole family is freaky.” There was an anxious pause. “We probably shouldn’t have messed with them.”

“You think?”

I couldn’t hear them for a while, and I thought maybe they had lowered their voices, but they must have been thinking, and the effort was too much for them to talk at the same time.

“Let’s do this: We’ll drive over to where those old abandoned shafts are. We’ll park, and we’ll offer her a share in whatever gold she helps us find.”

“And if she won’t help us?”

Whatever they would do was lost, because they hit a hard bump and the loose tire iron tapped the bump on my head, and the sparkles of white across my vision were so pretty, I had to fall into them and go to sleep for a while.

When I woke up again, Stella was stopped at a distressing angle, the engine was off, and the moron pair was—I listened intently—not just silent, but absent. The stillness was too complete.

It was stifling hot, and I’d slid to the side of the trunk, crumpled in a stiff, aching ball. My wits must have been returning, because I had the sense to be terrified at my predicament. Had they decided to just leave me to bake? July in Texas in a closed car. It wouldn’t take long. I might have been dead already if it had been the middle of the day.

I finally worked through my panic and remembered the inside handle. It took me a minute to find it, pull it, and lever up the hatch.

The sun had climbed high overhead. Maybe an hour longer and I would have been cooked like a turkey.

Woozily I climbed out of the trunk, holding on to my head when it threatened to wobble off my neck. Dumb and Dumber had managed to throw my backpack in with me, and I drank half the bottle of water, took an aspirin, and looked at my cell phone.

No bars. I glanced around at the granite outcroppings that surrounded me, and didn’t wonder why.

I was at the foot of the ochre-colored mountain that ran through the middle of the McCulloch property. I’d been heading toward this bluff the night I’d fallen into the sinkhole. The dig site was far on the other side, but I’d never seen this area in daylight.

My kidnappers were nowhere I could see. The keys were still in the ignition, though it didn’t really matter because they’d hit a hole and the spare had blown out like a party balloon. Stella wasn’t going anywhere.

And neither was I, except on foot.

Eeny-meeny-miny-mo. I headed for more-open ground. It might be a hike, but the highway was in that direction.

I didn’t expect to trip over Dumber’s body.

I didn’t expect to hear the sound of a diesel truck engine approaching over the hill.

And this time, I didn’t need a ghost to tell me I was in trouble.

Scrambling for cover, I threw myself into a dry rain gully just deep enough for me to lie in. The truck came nearer, and I could hear booted footsteps approaching from a second direction. Suddenly the ditch that hid me reminded me too much of the graves we’d excavated by the river. Sweat gathered under my shirt, and I wondered if an anthropologist would find me someday and take my remains back to a lab to determine that my cause of death was a bad case of recklessness.

Too bad I couldn’t imagine my way out of this situation as clearly as I could imagine that scene.

The truck stopped, the engine rumbling and gasping into silence. A door opened and closed and someone, I think it was the driver, said to Boots, “What the hell happened here? Why is Bob Dyson lying in the dirt where anyone can run over him? Is he alive?”

“For now.” Both voices sounded familiar, though I couldn’t quite place them. A gravelly Texas drawl wasn’t exactly unique around there. “Had to give him a conk on the head. It’s going to start being a joke before long.”

“That’s what the Mad Monk does,” said Truck. “But what was Bob doing out here?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t think he saw anything. I can set it up so that someone finds him when we’re clear.”

“That would be better,” said Truck.

Better than what? The possibilities took my imagination to ominous places, chilling despite the heat. They talked dispassionately of conking people on the head and something “worse” than leaving poor Dumber—Bob, I mean—lying there to get more brain damaged than the pot had already made him.

Truck’s next words dribbled icy fear down my neck.

“Where’s his ATV? And his buddy? Maybe we’d better have a look around.”

Crap!

I had to do something. Fire ants of panic ran through my skin. I could lie there, desperately sending psychic 911 calls to my sister—who could be anywhere right now—and let Truck and Boots find me in a convenient, ready-made grave. Or I could make a break for it.

What if they had a more long-distance weapon than the shovel—or whatever they’d hit Bob with, and Mac, and how many other people?

Two sets of boots crunched on the sand. The gully hid me from the approach, but once they were up the hill, they had only to look down to see me.

A cool breeze wafted over my fevered skin. I raised my head, searching along the gully, and saw a hole maybe twenty feet away. A sinkhole, a cave, I didn’t care. I low-crawled through the dirt until I reached it, then peered in. It was a steep but climbable slope, shale hardened into something like concrete. I slid down on my butt into the dark recess, and willed my heart to stop pounding so I could hear what the men were doing.

I could see surprisingly well, and my stomach dropped at the sight of a pale glow from the recesses of the cave. But it wasn’t the glow of the specter. It was an electric lantern, and it was on, which meant I’d managed to hide in the bad guys’ lair.

Frying pan. Fire.

I needed to get out of there before Boots and Truck came back. I scrambled up the slope, my head throbbing so hard that my vision wavered like a mirage.

The men had passed the gully, and they would come across Stella any minute. No way to hide a blue Mini Cooper in sage and sand country. I had to take my chance now, hoping they wouldn’t glance back the way they’d come until I was out of sight.

I clambered up and over the hill, running for the diesel truck, praying for all I was worth that the driver had left the keys in it.

Crap!

Not only had he taken the keys, he’d locked the door. I whispered a few more frustrated curses. My head felt like the sprint had split it open. My vision was so blurred, I could barely read the letters on the box in the passenger seat. But my subconscious spoke up and said it was important, so I steadied myself against the truck, shaded my eyes, and squinted as hard as I could.

BLASTING CAPS.

Whoa.

Blasting caps. Mining. Gold mine. Dumb and Dumber weren’t so far off at all. Someone else was looking for—had found—the lost gold mine already.

I stumbled back and looked at the truck. I knew it, and not just by sound. It belonged to Steve Sparks, the ranch manager.

When my luck ran out, it ran out big-time. I heard running boots and whirled—oh God, bad idea—to face the two men. With my vision still spinning, it took me a second to recognize the bulldog face under an equally familiar ball cap with “Something Mining and Drilling Company” on the front.

Mike Kelly. Of course he would have known the right rumor to spread to hide their treasure hunt in the pasture. And he knew the land, probably better than anyone.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” said Mike Kelly. “Can no one keep this kid out of here?”

I didn’t even try for a riposte. I was so nauseated, the wittiest thing I’d be able to manage was barfing. I just turned like a cornered animal and ran the other way.

Steve Sparks caught up to me before I could focus my eyes on escape. Even after I’d recognized his truck, I hadn’t believed it was him. Mrs. McCulloch thought he was a nice guy. A loyal guy. No one trusted a Kelly, but the McCullochs trusted Steve Sparks.

And then biting fear took hold of me, because I realized I was probably never going to have a chance to warn them.

“Dammit, kid.” Sparks actually looked regretful. “I was hoping this wouldn’t have to happen.”

I knew “this” was going to be bad. He grabbed me, and the pain in my head gave me an idea. I let myself go limp. His hold loosened in surprise, and I slid from his grasp to land in a boneless heap on the sand.

I lay still and faked unconsciousness. It wasn’t much of a stretch; their voices seemed to float from far away.

“Damn, Steve! What did you do?”

“Nothing.” I heard him bend close and prayed the tripping of my pulse or my quick, terrified breaths wouldn’t give me away.

Steve Sparks gave an incredulous huff, almost a laugh. “You’re not going to believe this, Mike. Someone already hit her on the head.”

“I doubt it was the Mad Monk.” Mike Kelly sounded grim. “I guess hitting her again would look suspicious.”

“More suspicious than a ghost hitting her once?” asked Sparks.

“We could put her in her car, run it into the cliff, but the bump’s on the back, not the front.” Something in Steve’s expression must have made Mike add, “Come on. It was only a matter of time before the Mad Monk had a fatality. And everyone knows she can’t keep on her own side of the fence. My brother has been griping about it for days.”

I stiffened on the ground, unable to stay limp as fear burned through me. How could this be real? Ghosts and magic were nothing compared to these yahoos having a cold-blooded discussion on the best way to kill me.

“It’s just …” Sparks was wavering. “A big step.”

I heard it before they did—the rumble of truck tires over stony ground. My heart gave an almost painful leap of hope.

“Hell,” said Mike Kelly. “What now? When did this turn into Main Street?”

Sparks walked away a bit, I supposed to take a look over the hill that hid his truck from view from the road. He wasn’t gone long enough for me to think of jumping Mike, and when he came back, his voice was strained. “It’s Ben.”

Yes, Ben!

And then I heard Mike Kelly inhale. An anxious breath of anticipation and excitement. A fiendish inspiration.

He had something planned for Ben. My heart beat so hard, I couldn’t believe they didn’t hear it. Ben was driving right into a trap, and I didn’t know how to warn him.

“Listen,” said Steve, and something in his voice made me think he’d realized the same thing I had. “You hide, with the girl. I can bluff through this.”

“What if she called him?” Mike didn’t sound worried at all, but as excited as if he’d been handed a birthday present. “We need to get rid of him, too.”

“I can handle this, Mike. I’ve done it before. I’ve got every reason to be here.”

“Don’t get squeamish. With him gone, Helen McCulloch will turn to you to run things, and you can suggest she sell this land back to me. Or hell, marry the grieving widow, then you sell me the land.”

I didn’t think I had any room inside me for one more emotion, but indignation managed to squeeze in with the others. I was sure it was Kelly who had hit Mac the night before, and the only thing that surprised me now was that he hadn’t killed him. Maybe he’d tried but hadn’t been able to get down the ravine.

Steve hesitated long enough for me to know he was thinking about what Mike Kelly had said. And if he could think about it, he could do it. Or at least stand by and watch it be done.

As soon as Ben rounded the hill, he would see Steve’s truck and it would be too late for them to hide me. Steve would have to go along with Mike’s plan or give up and go to jail. I was not taking bets on that.

With a burst of energy I didn’t think I had, I rolled under the diesel truck and out the other side. My head seemed to keep moving after my body stopped, but I couldn’t spare the time to be sick. I pushed myself upright, swallowing the bile that rose in the back of my throat.

Surprise had given me a precious head start. I staggered to my feet and ran.

The pounding of my steps was like a hammer to my skull. In the corner of my eye, I saw Ben’s truck, and his stunned face through the windshield. My goal wasn’t to get to Ben, but alert him to danger by my wounded-gazelle-like flight across the pasture. I wasn’t worried about myself. I didn’t consider the possibility that either of the men could catch me. I was all-star varsity soccer. I was Braveheart in Urban Outfitters. I was Supergirl.

I was seriously delusional.

Steve Sparks did catch me. Didn’t even have to hit me on the head. The jarring stop rattled my bruised brain, and I slid into genuine, dark, dismal unconsciousness, seriously wishing I hadn’t compared myself to William Wallace, who had met such a very sticky end.