After the incident with the Wolffe brothers; witnessing a murder, being kidnapped, having her arm broken, and almost being raped in her sleep, Sydney found it odd that she didn’t have nightmares. In fact, the nightmares which had plagued her for years no longer haunted her sleep. She found herself feeling strangely...freed. Still, this newfound freedom troubled her.
At first, she didn’t talk about it, speculating the trauma of the incident hadn’t truly hit her yet. Then, as the weeks turned into a couple of months, she started mentioning what she noticed. It was Bast, during a breakfast at Ira Milligan’s Café, who offered a possible answer.
“You saw a demon out there, near the Dragon’s Teeth,” she said. “One from your past. One of whom was far more frightening than the monsters who held you.”
***
The facility was outside Denver. It was a gentle autumn day. Looking back toward the mountains, there were the first dustings of snow upon the very highest peaks.
Sydney sat anxiously in her chair, unable to read the magazine she had taken from the table. Her eyes went to Lankin, who stood staring out the window, his eyes riveted to the mountains. Finally, she stood up and walked up to him.
“I want to thank you again for coming with me, Lazarus,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“This is as far as I go, Just Sydney,” his voice was just above a whisper. “I once told you this is something from which I cannot rescue you. This is something you must face on your own.”
“I know,” she said softly, placing a light kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for coming with me this far. Thank you for waiting for me to come back."
“Miss Pollack?” The man in a white coat appeared as if on cue. “We’re ready for you now.”
***
She sat in a chair, bound at her wrists and ankles, swaying side to side slowly. Her amber eyes, while still reptilian, seemed duller than Sydney remembered. She realized it was drugs. The woman in front of her was surely almost always in some state of sedation.
“Darcy…?”
“Jackrabbit?” Her voice had a slight slur to it, confirming Sydney's supposition. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you,” Sydney replied simply.
“Why?” Darcy hissed, leaning forward. “To gloat? I’m going to get out of here soon. Then I’ll finish what I started with you.”
“No, you won’t,” Sydney said flatly. “That has been seen to.”
Darcy sat back, letting out a disgusted hiss. The jackrabbit was no longer frightened of her, and that was frustrating. Insulting. This made her feel powerless; not the drugs that dulled her senses, not the restraints which held her to the chair.
“Then why are you here?” The hate in her voice was a tangible venom.
“You hurt me, Darcy,” Sydney replied coolly. “You frightened me. You tried to take everything away from me. Tried to break me. Make me a victim. You wanted to kill me.”
“But I failed…”
“You did,” Sydney Said. “What you did to me taught me not to be victim. Not to be scared.” She leaned forward, meeting the reptilian amber eyes that used to stalk her dreams “You’re the most hateful, angry, evil person I’ve ever met, Darcy, but I owe you something.” She then pressed her lips to Darcy’s brow. “I owe you my thanks; thank you for teaching me to be strong.”
Sydney pulled away and walked out of the room with a sense of purpose and confidence that radiated around her. Darcy watched in disbelief, finding herself feeling that she was somehow now in the debt of the jackrabbit.
Showing posts with label Marrakech Colorado. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Marrakech Colorado. Show all posts
24 September 2013
15 September 2013
The Gentle Art of Dismemberment
Thomas Wolffe was in a foul mood. His jacket had been burnt in the fire and his jaw ached from where Sydney had punched him. Instead of chasing after her, Christopher made them break camp and start out for the Dragon’s Teeth in the dark. As the first light of day colored the sky, Thomas; cold, hurt, humiliated, and angry, muttered curses under his breath well aware his older brother could hear them.
“One more word outta you, Tommy, and I’m gonna whack you upside your head with the Louisville,” Christopher said finally, with a motion to the baseball bat sticking out of his pack.
“Just can’t believe you let her go, Chris.”
“Me neither,” Byron chimed in. “Especially the way you were going on about her after that night at Magpie Jack’s.”
“Plenty of other bitches out there,” Christopher muttered.
“Bullshit!” Thomas snapped. “You took to her because she was Lazarus Lankin’s girl! And now you’re afraid ‘cause he’s coming for her!”
Christopher roared and punched his younger brother, sending him sprawling across the ground. In a single fluid motion, he pulled the baseball bat from his pack and twirled it in his hand before pointing it at Thomas’s face. He grinned with satisfaction as his brother bared his jugular in submission.
“Fuck you and fuck Lazarus Lankin!” Christopher growled. “I’m not afraid of him, but of course he’s gonna come for her. In fact…” he paused to sniff the air. “Yes! We’re being followed.”
He began walking in slowly-growing circles, twirling the bat. The other Wolffe brothers started to fan out, flanking Christopher. In a voice laced with homicidal malice, he began to sing.
“The cat came back
the very next day,
The cat came back
they thought he was a goner,
The cat came back
he just wouldn’t stay away…”
There was nothing but the early-morning calls of birds. Christopher growled again, the head of the bat smacking absently across his palm. He scanned the lessening shadows, knowing someone was out there.
“Here kitty, kitty…”
“Such a lovely singing voice you have there, Christopher,” Lankin appeared at the top of a rock outcropping. He hopped down, landing inches from the eldest Wolffe brother, his trek pole held down like a baton. “A crooner like you could’ve seduced Just Sydney with your voice instead of resorting to savaging her arm with a baseball bat.”
“That why you’re here? Tell me how to pick up a woman?”
“We’ll discuss that later,” Lankin said off-handedly. “What I really wanted to talk to you about was your assault on the Queen of Marrakech.”
“Ira got in the way,” Christopher said coldly. “Collateral damage is all.”
“Same goes for Connelly?” Lankin inquired, his voice dropping to a low growl. “Just got in the way?”
“Fuck Connelly!” Christopher snapped. “He had it coming from when he was with the sheriff and they busted me for shoplifting.”
“You were fourteen when that happened, Christopher,” Lankin shot back. “Holding a grudge like that for over twenty-five years isn’t healthy.”
“After that, him and the sheriff; they were always after me! Me and my brothers.”
“It is not as though you didn’t give them reason,” Lankin’s gaze shifted to Thomas and Byron, assessing their positions. “Any of you! Would you like me to cite particulars from your respective records?”
“Fuck you!” Christopher snapped. “You got it coming too, you know!”
“Because I was sharing my company with a girl you took a shine to?”
“Because you let our father die!” Christopher roared. “You didn’t even try to rescue him!”
“Your father went skinny-dipping in Deneb Gulch at the height of runoff!” Lankin retorted. “He was the kind of drunk that made Donnie Tabor look like a teetotaler! What he did was suicide; plain and simple, and you fucking know it!” He chuckled. “It’s really no wonder your mother ran away to Arkansas the first chance she got.”
“I’m tired of this shit and I’m tired of you, Lazarus Lankin, you self-righteous cocksucker!” Christopher snarled as he closed the distance between them. “It’s just you and the three of us out here now.”
There was a deafening crack as Lankin’s forehead smashed down across the bridge of Christopher’s nose. He drove his trek pole into Christopher’s belly, and snatched away the baseball bat before the man had hit the ground. Already, Thomas was coming at him.
Using his trek pole, he caught Thomas behind the knees. He fell backward, his head crashing against a rock. Upon seeing Thomas was unconscious, Lankin chuckled. Something which sounded like a growl bubbled in the back of his throat as he started to stalk toward Byron.
“When faced with greater numbers, go after the mouthy one first,” Lankin said casually. “That is most likely the brain, and the body cannot function without the brain. Although, the muscles might still spasm, which is why you go after the biggest one next. That leaves the heart; seat of the soul and the well of emotion.” He raised the bat as he got closer. “How about it, Byron?”
Byron dropped to his knees, baring his jugular. Lankin was almost satisfied with the thought of surrender when he noticed a glint in the other man’s eye. Spinning around, he saw Christopher coming at him. It was the sudden thrown rock smacking into his temple and dropping the Wolffe to the ground that stopped him. Sydney stepped out of the shadows with Tarot following close behind.
“Very nice, Just Sydney,” Lankin said. “I am impressed.”
“Didn’t I tell you I was the pitcher on my high school girl’s baseball team?” She asked somewhat playfully. “Good thing I’m a southpaw.”
“Holy shit, I can’t believe this is happening!” Tarot said. “But we got them!”
“Oh, it’s not finished yet, Jimmy,” Lankin said, once more turning his attention to Byron.
He stopped. There was the distant, but familiar thwock of a helicopter. Lankin turned back to Sydney and Tarot with a puzzled snarl.
“I got a signal and I let the sheriff know,” Tarot said, not backing down from Lankin’s stare. “You know, ‘Beware the monsters we fight’...”
“Lest monsters we ourselves become.” Lankin finished. “You did a good thing, Jimmy, although it is unfortunate…” he looked at Sydney. “…for us.” Then he looked back at the Wolffe brothers. “But exceedingly fortunate for them.”
“One more word outta you, Tommy, and I’m gonna whack you upside your head with the Louisville,” Christopher said finally, with a motion to the baseball bat sticking out of his pack.
“Just can’t believe you let her go, Chris.”
“Me neither,” Byron chimed in. “Especially the way you were going on about her after that night at Magpie Jack’s.”
“Plenty of other bitches out there,” Christopher muttered.
“Bullshit!” Thomas snapped. “You took to her because she was Lazarus Lankin’s girl! And now you’re afraid ‘cause he’s coming for her!”
Christopher roared and punched his younger brother, sending him sprawling across the ground. In a single fluid motion, he pulled the baseball bat from his pack and twirled it in his hand before pointing it at Thomas’s face. He grinned with satisfaction as his brother bared his jugular in submission.
“Fuck you and fuck Lazarus Lankin!” Christopher growled. “I’m not afraid of him, but of course he’s gonna come for her. In fact…” he paused to sniff the air. “Yes! We’re being followed.”
He began walking in slowly-growing circles, twirling the bat. The other Wolffe brothers started to fan out, flanking Christopher. In a voice laced with homicidal malice, he began to sing.
“The cat came back
the very next day,
The cat came back
they thought he was a goner,
The cat came back
he just wouldn’t stay away…”
There was nothing but the early-morning calls of birds. Christopher growled again, the head of the bat smacking absently across his palm. He scanned the lessening shadows, knowing someone was out there.
“Here kitty, kitty…”
“Such a lovely singing voice you have there, Christopher,” Lankin appeared at the top of a rock outcropping. He hopped down, landing inches from the eldest Wolffe brother, his trek pole held down like a baton. “A crooner like you could’ve seduced Just Sydney with your voice instead of resorting to savaging her arm with a baseball bat.”
“That why you’re here? Tell me how to pick up a woman?”
“We’ll discuss that later,” Lankin said off-handedly. “What I really wanted to talk to you about was your assault on the Queen of Marrakech.”
“Ira got in the way,” Christopher said coldly. “Collateral damage is all.”
“Same goes for Connelly?” Lankin inquired, his voice dropping to a low growl. “Just got in the way?”
“Fuck Connelly!” Christopher snapped. “He had it coming from when he was with the sheriff and they busted me for shoplifting.”
“You were fourteen when that happened, Christopher,” Lankin shot back. “Holding a grudge like that for over twenty-five years isn’t healthy.”
“After that, him and the sheriff; they were always after me! Me and my brothers.”
“It is not as though you didn’t give them reason,” Lankin’s gaze shifted to Thomas and Byron, assessing their positions. “Any of you! Would you like me to cite particulars from your respective records?”
“Fuck you!” Christopher snapped. “You got it coming too, you know!”
“Because I was sharing my company with a girl you took a shine to?”
“Because you let our father die!” Christopher roared. “You didn’t even try to rescue him!”
“Your father went skinny-dipping in Deneb Gulch at the height of runoff!” Lankin retorted. “He was the kind of drunk that made Donnie Tabor look like a teetotaler! What he did was suicide; plain and simple, and you fucking know it!” He chuckled. “It’s really no wonder your mother ran away to Arkansas the first chance she got.”
“I’m tired of this shit and I’m tired of you, Lazarus Lankin, you self-righteous cocksucker!” Christopher snarled as he closed the distance between them. “It’s just you and the three of us out here now.”
There was a deafening crack as Lankin’s forehead smashed down across the bridge of Christopher’s nose. He drove his trek pole into Christopher’s belly, and snatched away the baseball bat before the man had hit the ground. Already, Thomas was coming at him.
Using his trek pole, he caught Thomas behind the knees. He fell backward, his head crashing against a rock. Upon seeing Thomas was unconscious, Lankin chuckled. Something which sounded like a growl bubbled in the back of his throat as he started to stalk toward Byron.
“When faced with greater numbers, go after the mouthy one first,” Lankin said casually. “That is most likely the brain, and the body cannot function without the brain. Although, the muscles might still spasm, which is why you go after the biggest one next. That leaves the heart; seat of the soul and the well of emotion.” He raised the bat as he got closer. “How about it, Byron?”
Byron dropped to his knees, baring his jugular. Lankin was almost satisfied with the thought of surrender when he noticed a glint in the other man’s eye. Spinning around, he saw Christopher coming at him. It was the sudden thrown rock smacking into his temple and dropping the Wolffe to the ground that stopped him. Sydney stepped out of the shadows with Tarot following close behind.
“Very nice, Just Sydney,” Lankin said. “I am impressed.”
“Didn’t I tell you I was the pitcher on my high school girl’s baseball team?” She asked somewhat playfully. “Good thing I’m a southpaw.”
“Holy shit, I can’t believe this is happening!” Tarot said. “But we got them!”
“Oh, it’s not finished yet, Jimmy,” Lankin said, once more turning his attention to Byron.
He stopped. There was the distant, but familiar thwock of a helicopter. Lankin turned back to Sydney and Tarot with a puzzled snarl.
“I got a signal and I let the sheriff know,” Tarot said, not backing down from Lankin’s stare. “You know, ‘Beware the monsters we fight’...”
“Lest monsters we ourselves become.” Lankin finished. “You did a good thing, Jimmy, although it is unfortunate…” he looked at Sydney. “…for us.” Then he looked back at the Wolffe brothers. “But exceedingly fortunate for them.”
12 September 2013
Shadow Salvation
She had no idea how long she had been running. How many times she stumbled over the uneven ground, causing her to nearly fall completely. How many times she kept checking to make sure her clothing was on correctly because she could still feel Thomas Wolffe’s hands on her and smell his breath on her face.
Every so often, the idea of exhaustion set in. Her arm was screaming in fiery tones and her lungs burned as she kept running. Still, she didn’t dare stop. Anytime she considered it, she thought she heard other foot steps, other voices. She was sure of it; she was being followed. Hunted.
Along a turn, she felt her foot catch a root. Her balance was gone. She tired to brace herself, hoping not to land on her broken arm.
Suddenly, she was stopped. A strong arm encircled her waist and drew her close. Another covered her mouth, stopping the yelp springing from the back of her throat. A set of lips brushed her ear. Hot breath, of which she was intimately familiar with spoke in hushed and urgent tones.
“It’s alright, you’re okay,” Lankin whispered. “I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”
Sydney spun around and threw her arms around his neck. Her right arm cried out in pained protest, but she squeezed as tightly as she could. Over Lankin’s shoulder she could see Tarot watching them. There was a look in his eye suspended between elation at seeing her and fear of what had happened to her.
“Glad we found you, Syd,” he said.
“Me too!” She whispered back. “You have no idea. Are we safe?”
“Relatively speaking,” Lankin said impassively. He was studying Sydney’s broken arm. “This is not set right, you know.”
“Yes,” she replied. “Either from when it was first broken or when I punched Thomas to get away.”
Lankin drew her close and pressed his lips to hers. At first, she was completely shocked; getting kissed, especially with the tender intensity he reserved for when they went to bed together, given the circumstances, hardly seemed right. She started to pull away, but, it was Lankin, she found herself being absorbed, like pine needles and dry leaves in kindling flames. Then, as unexpectedly as it started, he pulled away. There was an expression in his gray eyes she Sydney only rarely saw; that of regret.
“I want you to know how deeply sorry I am…”
The sound of breaking bone echoed across the darkened expanse of Backcountry. White-hot flashes of pain strobed across her vision as she dropped to her knees. Tears streamed from her eyes. A scream raced out of her mouth, but was intercepted by Lankin’s hand.
“It’s alright, you’re okay,” he hissed. “Your arm is set correctly now. The endorphins will start shortly, helping to mitigate the pain.” His eyes moved to Tarot. “Get some painkillers from your first aid kit, Jimmy, and make her a sling."
“Right now, I hate you only slightly less than the Wolffe brothers,” Sydney panted as she stood up.
“Understandable,” Lankin said off-handedly. “But you realize it needed to be done. Perhaps someone else might have cooed at you more, but the result would’ve been the same.”
“You should have warned her, Lankin,” Tarot said, handing Sydney some aspirin.
“I did.”
“Now what?” Sydney asked.
“Jimmy is going to get you back to Marrakech,” Lankin replied. “The Wolffe boys and I need to have a…conversation.”
“What?!? Lankin, are you crazy?!?” Tarot exclaimed. “It’s the Wolffes! They killed Connelly! They almost killed Ira!”
“I know. That’s precisely what I mean to discuss with them. At length.”
“Lazarus, listen to Tarot,” Sydney put in. “There’s three of them!”
“Your advice is duly noted, Just Sydney,” he said wearing an expression of mountain lion stalking its prey. “Don’t worry; I’ll provide them an opportunity to surrender.”
Every so often, the idea of exhaustion set in. Her arm was screaming in fiery tones and her lungs burned as she kept running. Still, she didn’t dare stop. Anytime she considered it, she thought she heard other foot steps, other voices. She was sure of it; she was being followed. Hunted.
Along a turn, she felt her foot catch a root. Her balance was gone. She tired to brace herself, hoping not to land on her broken arm.
Suddenly, she was stopped. A strong arm encircled her waist and drew her close. Another covered her mouth, stopping the yelp springing from the back of her throat. A set of lips brushed her ear. Hot breath, of which she was intimately familiar with spoke in hushed and urgent tones.
“It’s alright, you’re okay,” Lankin whispered. “I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”
Sydney spun around and threw her arms around his neck. Her right arm cried out in pained protest, but she squeezed as tightly as she could. Over Lankin’s shoulder she could see Tarot watching them. There was a look in his eye suspended between elation at seeing her and fear of what had happened to her.
“Glad we found you, Syd,” he said.
“Me too!” She whispered back. “You have no idea. Are we safe?”
“Relatively speaking,” Lankin said impassively. He was studying Sydney’s broken arm. “This is not set right, you know.”
“Yes,” she replied. “Either from when it was first broken or when I punched Thomas to get away.”
Lankin drew her close and pressed his lips to hers. At first, she was completely shocked; getting kissed, especially with the tender intensity he reserved for when they went to bed together, given the circumstances, hardly seemed right. She started to pull away, but, it was Lankin, she found herself being absorbed, like pine needles and dry leaves in kindling flames. Then, as unexpectedly as it started, he pulled away. There was an expression in his gray eyes she Sydney only rarely saw; that of regret.
“I want you to know how deeply sorry I am…”
The sound of breaking bone echoed across the darkened expanse of Backcountry. White-hot flashes of pain strobed across her vision as she dropped to her knees. Tears streamed from her eyes. A scream raced out of her mouth, but was intercepted by Lankin’s hand.
“It’s alright, you’re okay,” he hissed. “Your arm is set correctly now. The endorphins will start shortly, helping to mitigate the pain.” His eyes moved to Tarot. “Get some painkillers from your first aid kit, Jimmy, and make her a sling."
“Right now, I hate you only slightly less than the Wolffe brothers,” Sydney panted as she stood up.
“Understandable,” Lankin said off-handedly. “But you realize it needed to be done. Perhaps someone else might have cooed at you more, but the result would’ve been the same.”
“You should have warned her, Lankin,” Tarot said, handing Sydney some aspirin.
“I did.”
“Now what?” Sydney asked.
“Jimmy is going to get you back to Marrakech,” Lankin replied. “The Wolffe boys and I need to have a…conversation.”
“What?!? Lankin, are you crazy?!?” Tarot exclaimed. “It’s the Wolffes! They killed Connelly! They almost killed Ira!”
“I know. That’s precisely what I mean to discuss with them. At length.”
“Lazarus, listen to Tarot,” Sydney put in. “There’s three of them!”
“Your advice is duly noted, Just Sydney,” he said wearing an expression of mountain lion stalking its prey. “Don’t worry; I’ll provide them an opportunity to surrender.”
05 September 2013
The Damsel and the Dragon
During the altercation at Ira Milligan’s café, her lower right arm was broken by the baseball bat, which Christopher took with him as a weapon. Taking her jeep, they drove to far edge of Gaia’s Backbone. She overheard the Wolffe brothers talking about making for the old ghost town of Hell and Gone. Lankin had told her about the place once. He promised to take her there someday.
Exhausted, they stopped at sunset, the Dragon’s Teeth only a few miles away. Strangely, Sydney was not truly afraid. She had been truly afraid before. By way of comparison, her situation was merely worrisome. That was probably why, coupled with the exertion of their hike and the pain of her broken arm, she found herself drifting into sleep.
***
When she saw the familiar face, the familiar set of reptilian amber eyes, swaying before her, Sydney moaned audibly. If Darcy was at all offended she made no indication. Instead, she pushed herself closer, pulling herself on top of Sydney.
“Hello, jackrabbit,” she hissed.
“Oh, fuck you! Fuck you!” Sydney snapped. “Like I need you showing up in my dreams right now! If I ever doubted it, this proves it; there is no god!”
“My, my, jackrabbit, you’re awfully riled up,” Darcy persisted, pushing Sydney onto her back. “You’re in trouble again. Trouble seems to love you.”
“Oh, you’re an observant one.”
“You know he’s coming for you,” Darcy said coldly, leaning closer. Her wieght and the heat of her breath was so very real. “An Interested Party. I’m sure that excites you.”
“Fuck you!” Sydeny spat squarely into Darcy’s face. “Yes, I know he’s coming, but it has more to do with what those fuckers did to Will and Ira than with me.”
“Does that hurt your feelings?”
“Why should it? I didn’t enjoy being a victim when you found me in Leeds, and I don’t like the idea of being the victim now.”
Darcy’s face hardened and then screwed into a malicious smile. Sydney felt a hand being jammed up her shirt and another working its way into her pants. Darcy leaned in so close their lips brushed together, her breath stank of cheap liquor and rotten teeth.
“Then pull yourself together, jackrabbit!” She hissed. “Stop being the damsel in distress and become the fucking dragon!"
***
Her eyes flew open to Thomas Wolffe on top of her, groping at her. She spat and screamed. Her right fist connected firmly with his jaw, sent him flailing.
“Get the fuck off me!” She shouted, biting back the exploding pain shooting up her arm. “Don’t you ever fucking touch me!”
Before Thomas could do much more than wipe the blood from his mouth, Christopher was between them, flanked by Byron. He regarded Sydney with twisted arousal as she tried to readjust her clothing.
“I have dibs, Tommy, we discussed that,” Christopher said calmly, not even offering his brother a sidelong glance. Slowly, he stepped forward. “Spunk, fire, that’s what you got. I like that. A lot.” He licked his lips. “When we get to Hell and Gone, me and you…”
Whatever he was going to say next was interrupted by the impact of the toe of her boot against his testicles. Even as he doubled over, Sydney pushed him into Thomas, who then rolled into the fire. She didn’t see what happened next. Before she even fully realized it she was running through the new moon Backcountry shadows with the sounds of the Wolffe brothers howling and yipping behind her like feral dogs.
31 August 2013
Tragedy at Milligan’s
It started with Byron Wolffe showing up at the café clearly intoxicated and being loud about it. His brothers, Christopher and Thomas, were already there. Ever since knowledge of the Wolffe boys' return to Levant County, and especially to Marrakech, many of the locals were on edge. It was only a matter of time before something happened.
When Ira Milligan calmly asked Byron to be a little quieter, he shot up from his seat, shouting cheap vodka obscenities, and smashed his coffee mug on the side of her head. That was when William Connelly, whom had been seated a few tables away, tried to interfere. He managed to subdue Byron without much effort, but failed to notice that Christopher had gotten the baseball bat Ira kept behind the counter.
The beating was merciless. Christopher didn’t stop until Connelly’s head split open. Both he and Thomas, who held Connelly down, were caked with blood and savage amusement. Once assured their prey was dead, they recovered Byron, and with a crack to Ira’s ribs, ran from the café.
***
Bast and Tarot were waiting when Lankin stalked in with a snarl on his face and murder on his mind. Ian was taking a statement from Ira as she was being loaded into the ambulance. Connelly’s shrouded body was being put into the county coroner’s truck. Lankin walked up to Ira and squeezed her hand.
“I will take care of this, I promise you.” He said, and then turned his attention to the EMT. “If she gets anything less than the best of treatment…”
“Say no more, Lazarus,” the EMT said.
“Lazarus, they took her,” Ira said.
“Took who?”
“Sydney! Just Sydney! Your Sydney!” She cried. “That’s why they hit me in the ribs, I tried to stop them.”
“I see,” Lankin muttered, his eyes narrowing and his face darkening.
“Don’t worry, Lazarus,” Ian said. “Word’s already out. They won’t get far.”
“How very reassuring, Deputy.”
He stepped back outside. There was a crowd. It was as if half the county had shown up. Lankin felt a growl boil in his throat as his fists clenched and unclenched.
“What now?” Tarot inquired, stepping into his field of vision. “I don’t think the Wolffes are going to let the sheriff get them after this.”
“They are going to make for the Dragon’s Teeth,” Lankin mused. “The terrain there is difficult and if they can get through it then it’s just a ridge away from Hell and Gone. If they can make Hell and Gone, they’re effectively out of the county.”
“And then who knows where,” Tarot finished, once more catching himself thinking that those who mapped Levant County and Gaia’s Backbone named many of the geographic features to try and frighten away the foolhardy. “Not good. I’ll go get my gear.”
“Why?”
“Because I know you want to go after them,” Tarot said. “And I want to help.”
“I don’t need your help,” Lankin growled. “You’d slow me down.”
“Dammit, Lankin! Sydney’s my friend too! And you and Bast are the closest thing I have to a family anymore.”
“I am not going to discuss this with you, Jimmy,” he shot back and then felt a strong hand seize his arm. Looking down, he saw Bast, pulling herself to a stand from her wheelchair with one arm.
“Then you will discuss it with me, Lazarus Amun Lankin!” She said, her own gray eyes narrowed in predatory challenge.
“Stay out of this, Bast!” He snapped.
“Little brother, you mean to go hunting monsters,” she started, her eyes never flinching. “And certainly you remember the saying about fighting monsters.”
“Do not become the monster in the process,” Lankin said. “Yes, I’ve read Nietzsche.”
“Jimmy goes with you,” Bast said. “And that is the last word on the matter.”
“Very well, elder sister,” Lankin muttered. Then, with a determination in his expression that made Tarot jump. “You; my house before the end of the hour, if not sooner. We go light and quick. After all, we have monsters to hunt.”
When Ira Milligan calmly asked Byron to be a little quieter, he shot up from his seat, shouting cheap vodka obscenities, and smashed his coffee mug on the side of her head. That was when William Connelly, whom had been seated a few tables away, tried to interfere. He managed to subdue Byron without much effort, but failed to notice that Christopher had gotten the baseball bat Ira kept behind the counter.
The beating was merciless. Christopher didn’t stop until Connelly’s head split open. Both he and Thomas, who held Connelly down, were caked with blood and savage amusement. Once assured their prey was dead, they recovered Byron, and with a crack to Ira’s ribs, ran from the café.
***
Bast and Tarot were waiting when Lankin stalked in with a snarl on his face and murder on his mind. Ian was taking a statement from Ira as she was being loaded into the ambulance. Connelly’s shrouded body was being put into the county coroner’s truck. Lankin walked up to Ira and squeezed her hand.
“I will take care of this, I promise you.” He said, and then turned his attention to the EMT. “If she gets anything less than the best of treatment…”
“Say no more, Lazarus,” the EMT said.
“Lazarus, they took her,” Ira said.
“Took who?”
“Sydney! Just Sydney! Your Sydney!” She cried. “That’s why they hit me in the ribs, I tried to stop them.”
“I see,” Lankin muttered, his eyes narrowing and his face darkening.
“Don’t worry, Lazarus,” Ian said. “Word’s already out. They won’t get far.”
“How very reassuring, Deputy.”
He stepped back outside. There was a crowd. It was as if half the county had shown up. Lankin felt a growl boil in his throat as his fists clenched and unclenched.
“What now?” Tarot inquired, stepping into his field of vision. “I don’t think the Wolffes are going to let the sheriff get them after this.”
“They are going to make for the Dragon’s Teeth,” Lankin mused. “The terrain there is difficult and if they can get through it then it’s just a ridge away from Hell and Gone. If they can make Hell and Gone, they’re effectively out of the county.”
“And then who knows where,” Tarot finished, once more catching himself thinking that those who mapped Levant County and Gaia’s Backbone named many of the geographic features to try and frighten away the foolhardy. “Not good. I’ll go get my gear.”
“Why?”
“Because I know you want to go after them,” Tarot said. “And I want to help.”
“I don’t need your help,” Lankin growled. “You’d slow me down.”
“Dammit, Lankin! Sydney’s my friend too! And you and Bast are the closest thing I have to a family anymore.”
“I am not going to discuss this with you, Jimmy,” he shot back and then felt a strong hand seize his arm. Looking down, he saw Bast, pulling herself to a stand from her wheelchair with one arm.
“Then you will discuss it with me, Lazarus Amun Lankin!” She said, her own gray eyes narrowed in predatory challenge.
“Stay out of this, Bast!” He snapped.
“Little brother, you mean to go hunting monsters,” she started, her eyes never flinching. “And certainly you remember the saying about fighting monsters.”
“Do not become the monster in the process,” Lankin said. “Yes, I’ve read Nietzsche.”
“Jimmy goes with you,” Bast said. “And that is the last word on the matter.”
“Very well, elder sister,” Lankin muttered. Then, with a determination in his expression that made Tarot jump. “You; my house before the end of the hour, if not sooner. We go light and quick. After all, we have monsters to hunt.”
27 August 2013
Prologue; Lone Wolffe
The room was filled with the Celtic Nu-Grass sounds of Tin Thistles. As he worked his way closer to the stage, Tarot could not help but smile bittersweetly at the sound of Whisper taking lead vocals. It had been almost two years since they broke up, but he could still remember how desperately he wanted to be hand-fasted to her. It was his dad’s death, and the mourning of it, which reduced them to just two very close friends. Still, when she would sing a song of love and loss, Tarot sometimes caught himself wondering if she was singing about, or even to, him.
The stage was by the pool tables and he found a familiar face to stand by that offered a good vantage point. Sydney smiled slightly toward Tarot, lifting her pint glass of stout in a wordless toast. It was a lively night at Magpie Jack’s, filled with good music and camaraderie. In that simple set of moments Tarot couldn’t be happier.
Seeing Sydney jump with a shocked expression changed everything. She yipped and spun around. It was obvious someone had touched her in a way she didn’t want to be touched.
“What the fuck?!?” She snapped. “Keep your hands off my ass!”
His dark-bordering upon obsidian-eyes held her. He didn’t so much smile at her as seem to snarl in a predatory fashion. There was no remorse in his expression as he took another step toward her, causing her to subconsciously step back. Tarot felt a knot form in his belly.
“Hey, hey,” he said quickly. “I’m pretty sure the lady’s already got a date.”
“Little Jimmy Tabor? Donnie Tabor’s boy?” The dark-eyed man’s gaze focused on Tarot. “Trying to act all grown up and gallant? How cute. Why don’t you go on now and play with your toys while we adults do our adult things.”
“Leave us alone,” Sydney said hoping the intimidation she was feeling didn’t catch in her voice. “I’d hate to tell Grizz that I had to glass some dickhead in his bar.”
“You’ve got spunk,” the dark-eyed man said, licking his lips. “How sweet.” He took another step forward. “I wager as sweet as candy.”
“Christopher Wolffe!” The voice behind him got the dark-eyed man to snarl in a more aggressive fashion as he turned around.
He stood casually. Dressed in hiking boots, a pair of camouflage cut-offs and a black t-shirt. In his left hand he held a pool cue, the heavier end pointed toward the floor. His gray eyes regarded the other man with feline detachment as he brought his right hand, holding a glass of red wine, to his lips.
“It’s been a bit,” he said, taking a sip.
“Yes, Lazarus,” Christopher muttered. “It’s been a bit. Still drinking Spanish reds?”
“Not exclusively, but I endeavor to avoid anything that comes out of a plastic jug,” Lankin replied making his way closer to Sydney and Tarot, his gaze never wavering. “I see your time away from Marrakech has done little to improve your manners.”
“Pretty little thing standing with a little boy in a mountain bar,” Christopher shrugged. “A man can get some ideas.”
“And young Master Tabor may have mentioned she was accompanied?”
“I don’t see anyone with her other than this pup who thinks he's a man now.”
With an annoyed sigh, Lankin stepped between Christopher and Sydney. His gray eyes narrowed and a growl resounded from deep within his wiry frame. The pool cue raised ever so slightly.
“I loath to be trite, Christopher, however, this young lady already has an escort,” Lankin said in slow even tones.
“Oh, I see.”
“I hope we are clear now.”
Christopher raised an eyebrow and smiled slightly, baring his teeth in a way that sent a chill down both Sydney and Tarot’s spines. Then he bowed his head, almost submissively as he stepped back a few paces. Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet the others’ gazes once more.
“I’ll see you later, Lazarus,” his voice just above a growl and it only softened slightly when he turned his attention toward Sydney. “And I’ll be seeing you again.”
Christopher melted into the crowd. Lankin’s gaze never flinched, even after the front door of Magpie Jack’s swung open and closed once more. He felt Sydney’s arms encircle his neck and her grateful kiss upon his cheek. Another growl resounded in his throat as he took a sip of wine.
“Not good,” Tarot mused. “If Christopher’s back in town than so are Thomas and Byron. Those Wolffes, they don’t go roaming around alone.”
“And I can barely contain my excitement,” Lankin muttered as he finished his wine in a single gulp.
The stage was by the pool tables and he found a familiar face to stand by that offered a good vantage point. Sydney smiled slightly toward Tarot, lifting her pint glass of stout in a wordless toast. It was a lively night at Magpie Jack’s, filled with good music and camaraderie. In that simple set of moments Tarot couldn’t be happier.
Seeing Sydney jump with a shocked expression changed everything. She yipped and spun around. It was obvious someone had touched her in a way she didn’t want to be touched.
“What the fuck?!?” She snapped. “Keep your hands off my ass!”
His dark-bordering upon obsidian-eyes held her. He didn’t so much smile at her as seem to snarl in a predatory fashion. There was no remorse in his expression as he took another step toward her, causing her to subconsciously step back. Tarot felt a knot form in his belly.
“Hey, hey,” he said quickly. “I’m pretty sure the lady’s already got a date.”
“Little Jimmy Tabor? Donnie Tabor’s boy?” The dark-eyed man’s gaze focused on Tarot. “Trying to act all grown up and gallant? How cute. Why don’t you go on now and play with your toys while we adults do our adult things.”
“Leave us alone,” Sydney said hoping the intimidation she was feeling didn’t catch in her voice. “I’d hate to tell Grizz that I had to glass some dickhead in his bar.”
“You’ve got spunk,” the dark-eyed man said, licking his lips. “How sweet.” He took another step forward. “I wager as sweet as candy.”
“Christopher Wolffe!” The voice behind him got the dark-eyed man to snarl in a more aggressive fashion as he turned around.
He stood casually. Dressed in hiking boots, a pair of camouflage cut-offs and a black t-shirt. In his left hand he held a pool cue, the heavier end pointed toward the floor. His gray eyes regarded the other man with feline detachment as he brought his right hand, holding a glass of red wine, to his lips.
“It’s been a bit,” he said, taking a sip.
“Yes, Lazarus,” Christopher muttered. “It’s been a bit. Still drinking Spanish reds?”
“Not exclusively, but I endeavor to avoid anything that comes out of a plastic jug,” Lankin replied making his way closer to Sydney and Tarot, his gaze never wavering. “I see your time away from Marrakech has done little to improve your manners.”
“Pretty little thing standing with a little boy in a mountain bar,” Christopher shrugged. “A man can get some ideas.”
“And young Master Tabor may have mentioned she was accompanied?”
“I don’t see anyone with her other than this pup who thinks he's a man now.”
With an annoyed sigh, Lankin stepped between Christopher and Sydney. His gray eyes narrowed and a growl resounded from deep within his wiry frame. The pool cue raised ever so slightly.
“I loath to be trite, Christopher, however, this young lady already has an escort,” Lankin said in slow even tones.
“Oh, I see.”
“I hope we are clear now.”
Christopher raised an eyebrow and smiled slightly, baring his teeth in a way that sent a chill down both Sydney and Tarot’s spines. Then he bowed his head, almost submissively as he stepped back a few paces. Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet the others’ gazes once more.
“I’ll see you later, Lazarus,” his voice just above a growl and it only softened slightly when he turned his attention toward Sydney. “And I’ll be seeing you again.”
Christopher melted into the crowd. Lankin’s gaze never flinched, even after the front door of Magpie Jack’s swung open and closed once more. He felt Sydney’s arms encircle his neck and her grateful kiss upon his cheek. Another growl resounded in his throat as he took a sip of wine.
“Not good,” Tarot mused. “If Christopher’s back in town than so are Thomas and Byron. Those Wolffes, they don’t go roaming around alone.”
“And I can barely contain my excitement,” Lankin muttered as he finished his wine in a single gulp.
07 February 2013
Epilogue; The Custodians
Trace was taken down from Phantom Peak without further incident, just questions racing through his mind. That night, the storm moved in. A dusting of a few inches of snow coated the higher peaks. Had he not been found, he would’ve died of exposure, becoming a meal for the scavengers and bleached bones upon the tundra. Another victim of the mountain locals called haunted or cursed.
It was only when the doctors began to examine him that he really felt he had gone downhill. The skull fracture had caused swelling to his brain, which had damaged motor skills to his right side. Not that it really mattered; his right collarbone was broken in three places and his right forearm in six. He had broken his back, as was well his pelvis. His right leg was not so much shattered as ground into powder.
He would live, but it was questionable how well he would be able to function, let alone walk. Trace wondered if being told he’d survive, given the damage, was really good news after all. Maybe exposure was the better option.
“A few years ago, Lazarus’s big sister was in a rollover up Deneb Gulch. The doctors said she’d never walk again.” Ian said a few days later. “Six months later, she was dragging herself along through Leeds’s town park with a set of crutches. She’s determined to summit the Death’s Head in the next two years.”
Trace knew his cousin was trying to help. Telling him not to give up. The pain and the surgeries and talk of therapy made such pep talks sounds silly. A few days after Ian’s visit, a card arrived for him. It was a picture of some nameless snowcapped peak with a very brief message written inside;
If you give up now, then your injuries have beaten you. Bear that in mind.
-L. Lankin
***
It was the middle of March when Ian brought him up to Marrakech. His leg, precariously held together by pins, like a few other parts of his body, was encased in a brace and he hobbled along with crutches. One of his doctors remarked how proud he was of Trace’s progress and he mentioned the name Bast Lankin. The doctor chuckled.
“Her stubbornness is contagious,” the doctor said.
A fat full moon shone down upon the fresh fallen snow across Gaia’s Backbone, making the high peaks look like they were encrusted in a blanket of cut diamonds. Warm light and jovial voices spilled out of Magpie Jack’s. Trace smiled weakly to himself. It had been six months since he’d had a beer, and he intended to buy a glass of wine for the man who pulled him off of Phantom Peak.
Lankin was sitting with Bast and a brunette girl who was introduced as Sydney. He traded civilities with Ian that seemed strained at best. Even so, it seemed the two men respected one another.
“And how long before I pull you off another mountain?” Lankin asked Trace with a smirk that was rather predatory.
“Hopefully never again,” he replied. “But I want to start hitting trails again by summer. My girlfriend’s been taking me to Denver’s City Park to try walking a little more outside of PT.”
“That’s good. You’ll recover. Give it a season, you’ll be hitting the Backcountry again.”
“I’m hoping so,” Trace said. “I don’t know that I’ll be trying another shot at Phantom Peak.”
“That’s probably for the best,” Lankin mused.
“I’m still trying to wrap my head around what happened up there,” Trace said. “I swear I heard laughing and voices. I swear I saw a girl, and maybe even a guy, not a stands of aspens. And the mountain lions? Was I in shock, or did you really call them Mother and Father?”
Lankin’s gaze hardened. He seemed to be restraining something. Trace noticed how Bast was eyeing him strangely. Both Ian and Sydney seemed uneasy at the Lankin siblings’ reaction.
“Let’s go up to the bar and get a drink, Trace,” Lankin said suddenly. “I owe you a beer from our first meeting, and I’m sure Grizz would be interested to hear of your trials and tribulations.”
“Oh, sure. Let’s go.”
The others watched them go up to the bar. Grizz made an excited greeting at receiving his company, calling for a round, on him. Ian looked over at Bast, but quickly averted his gaze, going back to his beer. Sydney started to open her mouth, but was silenced by gentle squeeze to her wrist.
“Were you to ask some of these old-timers, like Grizz, we Lankins don’t die, we just disappear,” Bast began, as though in a trance. “That we haunt the wilderness, as it were. There are other old-timers who say our parents are shape-shifters. Some will claim to hear their voices on the wind and others say to have seen them just as they must have looked the day they left Lazarus and I.” She looked away, almost wistfully. “Then, there are those who say they appear as two groves of aspens; one with yellow leaves and one with red, far closer to tree-line than normal. And, of course, the mountain lions…
“They watch. Perhaps it is they are the ones who decide who comes out of the Backcountry and who doesn’t. Some would call it all ghost stories, and there’s a logical explanation. But they’re up there, and they’re always watching.”
It was only when the doctors began to examine him that he really felt he had gone downhill. The skull fracture had caused swelling to his brain, which had damaged motor skills to his right side. Not that it really mattered; his right collarbone was broken in three places and his right forearm in six. He had broken his back, as was well his pelvis. His right leg was not so much shattered as ground into powder.
He would live, but it was questionable how well he would be able to function, let alone walk. Trace wondered if being told he’d survive, given the damage, was really good news after all. Maybe exposure was the better option.
“A few years ago, Lazarus’s big sister was in a rollover up Deneb Gulch. The doctors said she’d never walk again.” Ian said a few days later. “Six months later, she was dragging herself along through Leeds’s town park with a set of crutches. She’s determined to summit the Death’s Head in the next two years.”
Trace knew his cousin was trying to help. Telling him not to give up. The pain and the surgeries and talk of therapy made such pep talks sounds silly. A few days after Ian’s visit, a card arrived for him. It was a picture of some nameless snowcapped peak with a very brief message written inside;
If you give up now, then your injuries have beaten you. Bear that in mind.
-L. Lankin
***
It was the middle of March when Ian brought him up to Marrakech. His leg, precariously held together by pins, like a few other parts of his body, was encased in a brace and he hobbled along with crutches. One of his doctors remarked how proud he was of Trace’s progress and he mentioned the name Bast Lankin. The doctor chuckled.
“Her stubbornness is contagious,” the doctor said.
A fat full moon shone down upon the fresh fallen snow across Gaia’s Backbone, making the high peaks look like they were encrusted in a blanket of cut diamonds. Warm light and jovial voices spilled out of Magpie Jack’s. Trace smiled weakly to himself. It had been six months since he’d had a beer, and he intended to buy a glass of wine for the man who pulled him off of Phantom Peak.
Lankin was sitting with Bast and a brunette girl who was introduced as Sydney. He traded civilities with Ian that seemed strained at best. Even so, it seemed the two men respected one another.
“And how long before I pull you off another mountain?” Lankin asked Trace with a smirk that was rather predatory.
“Hopefully never again,” he replied. “But I want to start hitting trails again by summer. My girlfriend’s been taking me to Denver’s City Park to try walking a little more outside of PT.”
“That’s good. You’ll recover. Give it a season, you’ll be hitting the Backcountry again.”
“I’m hoping so,” Trace said. “I don’t know that I’ll be trying another shot at Phantom Peak.”
“That’s probably for the best,” Lankin mused.
“I’m still trying to wrap my head around what happened up there,” Trace said. “I swear I heard laughing and voices. I swear I saw a girl, and maybe even a guy, not a stands of aspens. And the mountain lions? Was I in shock, or did you really call them Mother and Father?”
Lankin’s gaze hardened. He seemed to be restraining something. Trace noticed how Bast was eyeing him strangely. Both Ian and Sydney seemed uneasy at the Lankin siblings’ reaction.
“Let’s go up to the bar and get a drink, Trace,” Lankin said suddenly. “I owe you a beer from our first meeting, and I’m sure Grizz would be interested to hear of your trials and tribulations.”
“Oh, sure. Let’s go.”
The others watched them go up to the bar. Grizz made an excited greeting at receiving his company, calling for a round, on him. Ian looked over at Bast, but quickly averted his gaze, going back to his beer. Sydney started to open her mouth, but was silenced by gentle squeeze to her wrist.
“Were you to ask some of these old-timers, like Grizz, we Lankins don’t die, we just disappear,” Bast began, as though in a trance. “That we haunt the wilderness, as it were. There are other old-timers who say our parents are shape-shifters. Some will claim to hear their voices on the wind and others say to have seen them just as they must have looked the day they left Lazarus and I.” She looked away, almost wistfully. “Then, there are those who say they appear as two groves of aspens; one with yellow leaves and one with red, far closer to tree-line than normal. And, of course, the mountain lions…
“They watch. Perhaps it is they are the ones who decide who comes out of the Backcountry and who doesn’t. Some would call it all ghost stories, and there’s a logical explanation. But they’re up there, and they’re always watching.”
05 February 2013
Watcher Upon the Rocks
For Trace, all he had were the moments. Moments of pain. Moments of cold. Moments of hunger. Moments of thirst. Moments of fear. Moments of anger. All of these were shrouded in intervening moments of blackness. He really had no idea how long he’d been where he was. Although, once he woke to the sight of the moon staring down at him like a cold half-lidded eye against phantasm clouds, giving him the impression at least one day had passed. Beyond that, time had little meaning. With what had happened to his right arm, it’s not like he could check his watch or reach for his phone to pretend to call for help.
He assessed the damage in stages. For every bit he discovered, the pain sent him back into the black. First, was his head, which had been wet and sticky on the left side. When he tried to touch it, it felt like something that was supposed to be solid gave way. He might have screamed before he passed out. Next, was the realization he could not feel his right arm, and it looked like his collarbone might even be sticking out of his shirt. Finally, he was able to lift his head up just enough to see his right leg was at an odd angle and partially buried.
First, he was terrified. Injured, half-buried under scree, this was not good. He was in no condition to move and it could be days before anyone even thought to look for him. Then, the anger came. He was angry that he thought he could beat Phantom Peak, that he let himself get caught in this situation, that he didn’t listen to the stories, that he’d stupidly left his pack behind when he went scrambling across the scree.
He was going to die. That much was obvious. He had no food or water with him and he was injured. What was worse about this realization was the knowledge that it was not going to be a quick death. Ravens would probably be picking at his flesh while he would still be alive to feel it.
The rain brought him back. Cold drops pelting his damaged frame. He opened his mouth and greedily gulped at the little bit of water falling from the sky. The breeze chilled him. He could already see the sky clearing, even if the clouds overhead were so ominously black.
Something was watching him. There was no doubt about it. He could feel the eyes burning into him. Slowly, despite the pain in doing so, he turned his head slightly to see what it was.
The mountain lion laid passively just a few yards to his right, its tail moving slightly. It didn’t look like it was going to pounce just yet. Instead, it just watched him. Only when another, far larger, cat walked up, did the first one stand to stretch. Trace swallowed back a hard lump just hoping they’d make it quick.
“Hello, Mother. It’s been a bit.” The voice sounded familiar. “I was just telling Father I was up here looking for someone that Bast said was in need of help. I’m sure she’ll just be positively tickled to know I reached him in time. Thank you so much for looking after him for me. It appears I have a new place to look for the lost here now.”
Both mountain lions were standing and watching. Then, they turned and began to walk away. Perhaps under normal circumstances, Trace would’ve been surprised beyond all reason, but he was on Phantom Peak. His experience here had taught him reason didn’t readily apply.
There were people checking him. He looked up to see a pair of familiar feline gray eyes framed by a mane of rust colored dreadlocks. The wine guy from Magpie Jack’s. Something that looked like a smile crossed his face.
“It’s alright, you’re okay,” he began. “You’ve been injured, but I’m here to help. My name is Lazarus Lankin. Can you tell me your name?”
“Trace…” He wheezed, his throat was so dry it hurt. “Trace McAlester.”
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Trace, Trace McAlester.”
“Just Trace,” he said, almost laughing.
“I know a girl named Just Sydney,” Lankin said in a friendly tone. “She’s yet to tell me the etymology of her name, though I think it’s Farsi.”
This got Trace to laugh, but then the pain seized him.
“Hush, relax, and save your strength,” Lankin cooed before looking over his shoulder. “Help me get his leg uncovered, then you haul ass back up to the summit to radio Connelly.”
“Do we have to worry about your…parents?” Ian asked as he started to remove rocks from around Trace’s leg.
“No.”
“I never imagined you as the superstitious sort, Lazarus,” Ian mused. “Always living by that rule of respecting the Backcountry or it’ll kill you.”
“I do live by that, but you are up here because of a premonition from my sister,” Lankin said. “I allow for the possibility my parents have turned into a pair of mountain lions.” He shrugged. “It’s a leap of faith.”
“Isn’t a leap of faith the same as superstition?”
“Not really,” Lankin said casually. “Every moment here in the mountains is a leap of faith, and in the Backcountry? Doubly so.” He paused to chuckle. “Really, Deputy, I thought you’d know that by now.”
They worked in silence to get Trace’s leg uncovered. The sun came back out, warming things once more. Ian then began to hike back up to get a signal to contact Connelly. Lankin set about making sure Trace was stable enough to transport.
“You’re doing great,” he said in a warm tone. “We’ll be getting you out of here soon. In fact, we should be down in time for trivia at Magpie Jack’s, and you’re young and strong, you’ll be better and back to getting into Backcountry trouble before you know it.”
“I thought I heard someone,” Trace said weakly. “A girl. Thought I saw someone too, but it was just a tree.”
Lankin looked at Trace a moment before looking down toward tree-line. Along the krumholtz, the mountain lion pair stared back, before melting into the shadows once more.
“How interesting,” he muttered.
He assessed the damage in stages. For every bit he discovered, the pain sent him back into the black. First, was his head, which had been wet and sticky on the left side. When he tried to touch it, it felt like something that was supposed to be solid gave way. He might have screamed before he passed out. Next, was the realization he could not feel his right arm, and it looked like his collarbone might even be sticking out of his shirt. Finally, he was able to lift his head up just enough to see his right leg was at an odd angle and partially buried.
First, he was terrified. Injured, half-buried under scree, this was not good. He was in no condition to move and it could be days before anyone even thought to look for him. Then, the anger came. He was angry that he thought he could beat Phantom Peak, that he let himself get caught in this situation, that he didn’t listen to the stories, that he’d stupidly left his pack behind when he went scrambling across the scree.
He was going to die. That much was obvious. He had no food or water with him and he was injured. What was worse about this realization was the knowledge that it was not going to be a quick death. Ravens would probably be picking at his flesh while he would still be alive to feel it.
The rain brought him back. Cold drops pelting his damaged frame. He opened his mouth and greedily gulped at the little bit of water falling from the sky. The breeze chilled him. He could already see the sky clearing, even if the clouds overhead were so ominously black.
Something was watching him. There was no doubt about it. He could feel the eyes burning into him. Slowly, despite the pain in doing so, he turned his head slightly to see what it was.
The mountain lion laid passively just a few yards to his right, its tail moving slightly. It didn’t look like it was going to pounce just yet. Instead, it just watched him. Only when another, far larger, cat walked up, did the first one stand to stretch. Trace swallowed back a hard lump just hoping they’d make it quick.
“Hello, Mother. It’s been a bit.” The voice sounded familiar. “I was just telling Father I was up here looking for someone that Bast said was in need of help. I’m sure she’ll just be positively tickled to know I reached him in time. Thank you so much for looking after him for me. It appears I have a new place to look for the lost here now.”
Both mountain lions were standing and watching. Then, they turned and began to walk away. Perhaps under normal circumstances, Trace would’ve been surprised beyond all reason, but he was on Phantom Peak. His experience here had taught him reason didn’t readily apply.
There were people checking him. He looked up to see a pair of familiar feline gray eyes framed by a mane of rust colored dreadlocks. The wine guy from Magpie Jack’s. Something that looked like a smile crossed his face.
“It’s alright, you’re okay,” he began. “You’ve been injured, but I’m here to help. My name is Lazarus Lankin. Can you tell me your name?”
“Trace…” He wheezed, his throat was so dry it hurt. “Trace McAlester.”
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Trace, Trace McAlester.”
“Just Trace,” he said, almost laughing.
“I know a girl named Just Sydney,” Lankin said in a friendly tone. “She’s yet to tell me the etymology of her name, though I think it’s Farsi.”
This got Trace to laugh, but then the pain seized him.
“Hush, relax, and save your strength,” Lankin cooed before looking over his shoulder. “Help me get his leg uncovered, then you haul ass back up to the summit to radio Connelly.”
“Do we have to worry about your…parents?” Ian asked as he started to remove rocks from around Trace’s leg.
“No.”
“I never imagined you as the superstitious sort, Lazarus,” Ian mused. “Always living by that rule of respecting the Backcountry or it’ll kill you.”
“I do live by that, but you are up here because of a premonition from my sister,” Lankin said. “I allow for the possibility my parents have turned into a pair of mountain lions.” He shrugged. “It’s a leap of faith.”
“Isn’t a leap of faith the same as superstition?”
“Not really,” Lankin said casually. “Every moment here in the mountains is a leap of faith, and in the Backcountry? Doubly so.” He paused to chuckle. “Really, Deputy, I thought you’d know that by now.”
They worked in silence to get Trace’s leg uncovered. The sun came back out, warming things once more. Ian then began to hike back up to get a signal to contact Connelly. Lankin set about making sure Trace was stable enough to transport.
“You’re doing great,” he said in a warm tone. “We’ll be getting you out of here soon. In fact, we should be down in time for trivia at Magpie Jack’s, and you’re young and strong, you’ll be better and back to getting into Backcountry trouble before you know it.”
“I thought I heard someone,” Trace said weakly. “A girl. Thought I saw someone too, but it was just a tree.”
Lankin looked at Trace a moment before looking down toward tree-line. Along the krumholtz, the mountain lion pair stared back, before melting into the shadows once more.
“How interesting,” he muttered.
02 February 2013
Watcher Upon the Mountaintop
Ian liked to consider himself in good shape, but he could hardly keep up. Lankin set a merciless pace, only stopping long enough for Ian to catch up. The snarl on his face reflected his agitation at having to slow down. Above them, clouds were gathering and the air hinted of rain, perhaps even graupel.
Once Ian returned to Lankin’s he barely had time to transfer his gear from one vehicle to another. Lankin set off at a furious pace, getting them to the dirt tracks four-wheelers used around Gaia’s Backbone at a speed that would have resulted in a severe speeding ticket at the very least. He drove at least two, perhaps even three miles past any four-by-four road Ian was aware of before finally stopping, getting out of his vehicle and slipping into his pack before the engine had completely shut off. Lankin was already at least fifty yards away when he looked back at Ian, still getting his back on.
“We do not have time for you to dally, Deputy,” Lankin said, making no effort to mask his ire at the situation.
The sky turned black, matching his mood. Ian struggled to keep up. What was more unsettling than his companion’s mood was the fact he could feel eyes on him. Someone, something was following just out of sight. If Lankin was aware of it, he didn’t let on. He just kept his purposeful gate, marching toward the summit of Phantom Peak with grim determination of a pallbearer on the way to a gravesite.
It took two hours to reach tree-line from where they parked. Lankin finally stopped at a rather large boulder to have some water and unshoulder his pack. When Ian finally caught up, he looked on impassively.
“This is the trail, such as it is,” Lankin said. “Anyone who comes up here seems to intuit this route. It would seem that your cousin just kept going instead of turning around. If he was smart, he made for the lake on the other side, which is what the ones who come down off this mountain do.”
“And if he didn’t?” Ian asked breathlessly.
“If we don’t find him on this route, we won’t,” Lankin replied. “You’ll have to reconcile he’s one of the lost.”
“That’s a cold way of looking at it,” Ian muttered.
“No, Deputy,” Lankin corrected. “It’s realistic.”
A drop pelted Ian’s face, cold and jarring. There was a chill on the breeze. Although there was clear skies on either side of them, the sky above looked like it would open up with a deluge.
“It might blow over, but we should put on our shells,” Lankin said. “This boulder here has a nice cut we can use for a bivouac if needs be. The summer before my sister’s accident, we camped here.”
“You camped here?!?” Ian exclaimed. “With all the stories? My god! Why?”
“We had our reasons.”
They crawled inside the cut to put on their hardshells. Both men noticed the pack stashed next to the rock. Ian felt his heart sink at the realization of whom it belonged to. It didn’t fit; Trace was young and a little cocky, but to just leave his pack seemed too careless. Lankin noted the pack with a detached glance, his eyes tracking back out to dirt and rock landscape outside. It was starting to drizzle.
Movement caught Ian’s attention. He moved back toward the opening to get a better look, hoping it was Trace coming back to collect his pack, making this whole trip for naught. His hopes were dashed when he saw it wasn’t. In fact, it wasn’t even human.
The mountain lion looked to weigh three hundred pounds if it weighed an ounce. It was sitting looking directly at the boulder, directly at the two men. Without a conscious thought, Ian’s hand slipped down to the pistol he had belted to his waist. He only realized what he was doing when he felt a strong hand seize his wrist.
“Don’t you dare!” Lankin hissed.
With that, he pulled the hood of his shell over his head and reshouldered his pack. He stepped out into the rain causally, walking toward the big cat. Ian watched horrified as Lankin got to within just a few yards of the animal and stopped. The mountain lion could easily pounce if it so desired. At the moment it just watched as the person in front of it folded his arms across his chest and smiled off-handedly.
“Hello, Father. It’s been a bit.”
The mountain lion yawned before it laid itself down. It’s tail swished back and forth as something of an afterthought. If anything, it really didn’t seem at all interested.
“So, I’m up here looking for someone,” Lankin continued. “Someone Bast seems to think is alive, and perhaps in need of some help. Have you seen anyone like that?”
The mountain lion stood up and stretched. With another large yawn it revealed its full set of large teeth. It turned and started walking in the direction of a scree field.
“Are you coming, Deputy?” Lankin called over his shoulder as he began to walk, not bothering to see if he was being followed.
Once Ian returned to Lankin’s he barely had time to transfer his gear from one vehicle to another. Lankin set off at a furious pace, getting them to the dirt tracks four-wheelers used around Gaia’s Backbone at a speed that would have resulted in a severe speeding ticket at the very least. He drove at least two, perhaps even three miles past any four-by-four road Ian was aware of before finally stopping, getting out of his vehicle and slipping into his pack before the engine had completely shut off. Lankin was already at least fifty yards away when he looked back at Ian, still getting his back on.
“We do not have time for you to dally, Deputy,” Lankin said, making no effort to mask his ire at the situation.
The sky turned black, matching his mood. Ian struggled to keep up. What was more unsettling than his companion’s mood was the fact he could feel eyes on him. Someone, something was following just out of sight. If Lankin was aware of it, he didn’t let on. He just kept his purposeful gate, marching toward the summit of Phantom Peak with grim determination of a pallbearer on the way to a gravesite.
It took two hours to reach tree-line from where they parked. Lankin finally stopped at a rather large boulder to have some water and unshoulder his pack. When Ian finally caught up, he looked on impassively.
“This is the trail, such as it is,” Lankin said. “Anyone who comes up here seems to intuit this route. It would seem that your cousin just kept going instead of turning around. If he was smart, he made for the lake on the other side, which is what the ones who come down off this mountain do.”
“And if he didn’t?” Ian asked breathlessly.
“If we don’t find him on this route, we won’t,” Lankin replied. “You’ll have to reconcile he’s one of the lost.”
“That’s a cold way of looking at it,” Ian muttered.
“No, Deputy,” Lankin corrected. “It’s realistic.”
A drop pelted Ian’s face, cold and jarring. There was a chill on the breeze. Although there was clear skies on either side of them, the sky above looked like it would open up with a deluge.
“It might blow over, but we should put on our shells,” Lankin said. “This boulder here has a nice cut we can use for a bivouac if needs be. The summer before my sister’s accident, we camped here.”
“You camped here?!?” Ian exclaimed. “With all the stories? My god! Why?”
“We had our reasons.”
They crawled inside the cut to put on their hardshells. Both men noticed the pack stashed next to the rock. Ian felt his heart sink at the realization of whom it belonged to. It didn’t fit; Trace was young and a little cocky, but to just leave his pack seemed too careless. Lankin noted the pack with a detached glance, his eyes tracking back out to dirt and rock landscape outside. It was starting to drizzle.
Movement caught Ian’s attention. He moved back toward the opening to get a better look, hoping it was Trace coming back to collect his pack, making this whole trip for naught. His hopes were dashed when he saw it wasn’t. In fact, it wasn’t even human.
The mountain lion looked to weigh three hundred pounds if it weighed an ounce. It was sitting looking directly at the boulder, directly at the two men. Without a conscious thought, Ian’s hand slipped down to the pistol he had belted to his waist. He only realized what he was doing when he felt a strong hand seize his wrist.
“Don’t you dare!” Lankin hissed.
With that, he pulled the hood of his shell over his head and reshouldered his pack. He stepped out into the rain causally, walking toward the big cat. Ian watched horrified as Lankin got to within just a few yards of the animal and stopped. The mountain lion could easily pounce if it so desired. At the moment it just watched as the person in front of it folded his arms across his chest and smiled off-handedly.
“Hello, Father. It’s been a bit.”
The mountain lion yawned before it laid itself down. It’s tail swished back and forth as something of an afterthought. If anything, it really didn’t seem at all interested.
“So, I’m up here looking for someone,” Lankin continued. “Someone Bast seems to think is alive, and perhaps in need of some help. Have you seen anyone like that?”
The mountain lion stood up and stretched. With another large yawn it revealed its full set of large teeth. It turned and started walking in the direction of a scree field.
“Are you coming, Deputy?” Lankin called over his shoulder as he began to walk, not bothering to see if he was being followed.
31 January 2013
The Wrath of the Sphinx
Deputy Ian McAlester never really cared for coming to Marrakech. The town had no formal law enforcement of its own, and the it was unspoken, but understood, the sheriff only came in if called, even then, being looked on with disdain by watching locals. That was not to say Marrakech was lawless. It was often said in semi-joking terms that the rule of law was not in the hands of the mayor and town board, but that of three individuals; Ira Milligan, Grizz, and Lazarus Lankin. The last person to try and tangle with that law was Franklin Davis, almost two years before, in connection with the murder of Donovan Tabor. Ian had been the one to come up and make the arrest.
There was a ball of anxiety in his gut as he pulled across the driving bridge to the last house on Lovecraft Lane. Two vehicles sat in the drive, notating someone was home. As he got out of his truck, Ian could hear the sound of wood being split out back. It reminded him that there was a storm forecasted to move in. There was even the suggestion that this could bring the first flakes of snow for the season above tree-line.
Following the sounds of chopping and splitting, Ian came upon Lankin, working in an almost effortless fashion on some logs just short of the cliff overlooking Marrakech Gulch. He was dressed in jeans and a pair of boots, his wiry muscles cording and snapping in an almost predatory rhythm. A woman with long, curly brown hair was gathering the split pieces and taking them to be stacked by the back door. She was the one who noticed Ian in his full Levant County Sheriff's uniform.
“You’ve got company, Lazarus,” she said.
He turned, ever so slightly in mid-swing, to regard Ian before splitting the log he was working on as though it was an afterthought. The girl was walking toward Lankin as he reached down to hand her the split pieces of wood with one hand, in the other, he kept holding his splitting maul. He gave her an off-handed smile as she took the wood.
“Why don’t you go brew us some tea,” he said softly.
“Don’t be too long,” she whispered, giving him a kiss on the cheek and going into the house.
“Your sister said you were seeing someone,” Ian said after she went inside. “She said it was sort of serious. Well, serious for you.”
“What do you want, Deputy?” Lankin inquired coldly, setting up another log to split.
Ian jerked back, as though he had been physically struck. It was obvious Lankin had no interest in small talk. Not with him. The only time Lankin went out of his way to deal with the sheriff's department was during a rescue. Even then, it was done so dismissively.
“You and Grizz spoke to my cousin, Trace, a week or two back,” Ian started. “Tried to warn him off Phantom Peak.”
“And?” The spitting maul slammed into wood with a thunderous crack.
“His girlfriend called me today,” Ian continued. “Apparently, Saturday, he came up here to try it anyway.”
“It’s Tuesday, Deputy,” Lankin observed, swinging again, not checking to see if he was heard over the impact of the maul into wood.
“Exactly!” Ian exclaimed. “He’s hasn’t come back yet! Which means he’s still up there.”
“Most likely.”
“’Most likely’?!? Lazarus, he could be injured, or worse.”
“He could,” the log split and another was set in its place.
“And you’re just going to split wood?” Ian found himself starting to shake. “There’s suppose to be weather moving in!”
“Yes, weather is moving in, which is why I’m getting my firewood ready.”
“I can’t believe you!”
“Connelly is in charge of rescue operations in this county,” Lankin said casually, swinging down on the fresh log. “Have you even bothered to talk to him?”
“You’d be the first person he’d call, Lazarus,” Ian said. “Everyone knows you’re the go-to guy for the Backcountry. No one knows Gaia’s Backbone as well as you. Even Phantom Peak.”
“Call Connelly and tell him to have a body bag ready.”
“You’re not even going to try?!?” By this time, Ian was standing face to face with Lankin. “You bastard! You pussy! What? You afraid because Phantom Peak’s where your mommy and daddy disappeared?”
In a flash, Ian found himself hanging above Marrakech Gulch, Lankin’s left hand locked tightly around his throat, his splitting maul slightly raised. His gray eyes were narrowed with predatory intensity. Something that sounded like a growl resounded in the back of his throat.
“The sphinx used to ask travelers a riddle about a creature who walked on different numbers of legs at different times of the day,” Lankin hissed. "Although I always liked the version of the riddle my sister told me; ‘shall I kill you, traveler? Or shall I set you free? What walks on four legs? Then two? Then three?’”
“Lazarus…”Ian wheezed.
“The riddle!” He roared. “What is the fucking answer?”
“Man!” Ian screamed “Man! It’s Man! Okay!?!”
He found himself back on the ground, sputtering for breath. For a brief moment, he considered charging Lankin for assaulting him. The splitting maul coming down into the log, just inches from Ian’s face, shattering the log into two pieces, got him to reconsider.
“Don’t ever mention my parents again!” Lankin growled.
“Sonuvabitch!” Ian wheezed. “You do have a weakness after all.”
“Call Connelly and get a body bag, Deputy,” Lankin said. “Three days missing on Phantom Peak? It’s not going to be a happy ending.”
“He’s still alive!”
“Oh? And you know this?” Lankin mocked. “Are we psychic now, Deputy McAlester?”
“No, but some people think your sister is,” he retorted. “And she says Trace is still alive up there!”
Lankin froze in mid-swing on another log. Slowly, he lowered the splitting maul, his head cocking to the side inquisitively. Perhaps at some other time, Ian would’ve been amused to see Lankin looking almost shocked.
“Really, Lazarus,” Ian began, pulling himself off the ground. “Do you think I’d have come up here to ask you otherwise? The only reason I’m here is because Bast said there’s still a chance.”
“Go grab your gear and be back here in an hour.”
“Now?” It was Ian’s turn to be shocked. The sphinx-like smile returned to Lankin’s face as he once more raised the maul and split the log in one stroke.
“Yes, now,” he replied off-handedly. “Weather’s coming and we don’t want to prove my dear sister wrong, now do we?”
There was a ball of anxiety in his gut as he pulled across the driving bridge to the last house on Lovecraft Lane. Two vehicles sat in the drive, notating someone was home. As he got out of his truck, Ian could hear the sound of wood being split out back. It reminded him that there was a storm forecasted to move in. There was even the suggestion that this could bring the first flakes of snow for the season above tree-line.
Following the sounds of chopping and splitting, Ian came upon Lankin, working in an almost effortless fashion on some logs just short of the cliff overlooking Marrakech Gulch. He was dressed in jeans and a pair of boots, his wiry muscles cording and snapping in an almost predatory rhythm. A woman with long, curly brown hair was gathering the split pieces and taking them to be stacked by the back door. She was the one who noticed Ian in his full Levant County Sheriff's uniform.
“You’ve got company, Lazarus,” she said.
He turned, ever so slightly in mid-swing, to regard Ian before splitting the log he was working on as though it was an afterthought. The girl was walking toward Lankin as he reached down to hand her the split pieces of wood with one hand, in the other, he kept holding his splitting maul. He gave her an off-handed smile as she took the wood.
“Why don’t you go brew us some tea,” he said softly.
“Don’t be too long,” she whispered, giving him a kiss on the cheek and going into the house.
“Your sister said you were seeing someone,” Ian said after she went inside. “She said it was sort of serious. Well, serious for you.”
“What do you want, Deputy?” Lankin inquired coldly, setting up another log to split.
Ian jerked back, as though he had been physically struck. It was obvious Lankin had no interest in small talk. Not with him. The only time Lankin went out of his way to deal with the sheriff's department was during a rescue. Even then, it was done so dismissively.
“You and Grizz spoke to my cousin, Trace, a week or two back,” Ian started. “Tried to warn him off Phantom Peak.”
“And?” The spitting maul slammed into wood with a thunderous crack.
“His girlfriend called me today,” Ian continued. “Apparently, Saturday, he came up here to try it anyway.”
“It’s Tuesday, Deputy,” Lankin observed, swinging again, not checking to see if he was heard over the impact of the maul into wood.
“Exactly!” Ian exclaimed. “He’s hasn’t come back yet! Which means he’s still up there.”
“Most likely.”
“’Most likely’?!? Lazarus, he could be injured, or worse.”
“He could,” the log split and another was set in its place.
“And you’re just going to split wood?” Ian found himself starting to shake. “There’s suppose to be weather moving in!”
“Yes, weather is moving in, which is why I’m getting my firewood ready.”
“I can’t believe you!”
“Connelly is in charge of rescue operations in this county,” Lankin said casually, swinging down on the fresh log. “Have you even bothered to talk to him?”
“You’d be the first person he’d call, Lazarus,” Ian said. “Everyone knows you’re the go-to guy for the Backcountry. No one knows Gaia’s Backbone as well as you. Even Phantom Peak.”
“Call Connelly and tell him to have a body bag ready.”
“You’re not even going to try?!?” By this time, Ian was standing face to face with Lankin. “You bastard! You pussy! What? You afraid because Phantom Peak’s where your mommy and daddy disappeared?”
In a flash, Ian found himself hanging above Marrakech Gulch, Lankin’s left hand locked tightly around his throat, his splitting maul slightly raised. His gray eyes were narrowed with predatory intensity. Something that sounded like a growl resounded in the back of his throat.
“The sphinx used to ask travelers a riddle about a creature who walked on different numbers of legs at different times of the day,” Lankin hissed. "Although I always liked the version of the riddle my sister told me; ‘shall I kill you, traveler? Or shall I set you free? What walks on four legs? Then two? Then three?’”
“Lazarus…”Ian wheezed.
“The riddle!” He roared. “What is the fucking answer?”
“Man!” Ian screamed “Man! It’s Man! Okay!?!”
He found himself back on the ground, sputtering for breath. For a brief moment, he considered charging Lankin for assaulting him. The splitting maul coming down into the log, just inches from Ian’s face, shattering the log into two pieces, got him to reconsider.
“Don’t ever mention my parents again!” Lankin growled.
“Sonuvabitch!” Ian wheezed. “You do have a weakness after all.”
“Call Connelly and get a body bag, Deputy,” Lankin said. “Three days missing on Phantom Peak? It’s not going to be a happy ending.”
“He’s still alive!”
“Oh? And you know this?” Lankin mocked. “Are we psychic now, Deputy McAlester?”
“No, but some people think your sister is,” he retorted. “And she says Trace is still alive up there!”
Lankin froze in mid-swing on another log. Slowly, he lowered the splitting maul, his head cocking to the side inquisitively. Perhaps at some other time, Ian would’ve been amused to see Lankin looking almost shocked.
“Really, Lazarus,” Ian began, pulling himself off the ground. “Do you think I’d have come up here to ask you otherwise? The only reason I’m here is because Bast said there’s still a chance.”
“Go grab your gear and be back here in an hour.”
“Now?” It was Ian’s turn to be shocked. The sphinx-like smile returned to Lankin’s face as he once more raised the maul and split the log in one stroke.
“Yes, now,” he replied off-handedly. “Weather’s coming and we don’t want to prove my dear sister wrong, now do we?”
29 January 2013
Siren Song
There was something invigorating about the trail becoming less defined. Between what he was able to get out of Lankin and a topo map of Gaia’s Backbone, it was quite plain there was no real trail to reach Phantom Peak. Of course, the way both he and Grizz talked, it wasn’t like one would really want to go up there. Trace, however, was determined. After all, those were only stories and unfortunate accidents. The mountain wasn’t really cursed or haunted or both.
It was a steady uphill climb. Not a steep grade, but enough to remind him he was gaining elevation. On occasion, he thought back to that night at Magpie Jack’s and the stories he was told. Some smacked of not being prepared or just simple bad luck. There were a few other tales that were not so easy to dismiss logically; like those of hearing a voice or two almost out of range, or seeing something out of the peripheries that was gone in a blink, but left the uneasy feeling of being watched, if not followed. In an attempt to not spook himself, Trace chuckled, thinking of Grizz and Lankin as mountain yokels, backwoods hicks. It was a given they’d be superstitious.
Somewhere close to tree-line he began to get that feeling of being watched. It chilled him and he tried to tell himself he was letting his mind play tricks on him. There was nothing malign on Phantom Peak, despite what the locals might believe. Still, as he walked, the sensation stayed with him, nagging, causing him to subconsciously look over his shoulder once or twice. There would never be anything, which aggravated his self-annoyance. With a curse under his breath, he pushed on.
The summit was just above the krummholtz. Just a little over eleven-thousand feet. It was barren and rock-strewn. He could see the Death’s Head and Hell’s Watchtower in the distance. The sky was remarkably clear and the air was warm. The sensation of being watched slipped to the back of his mind as he took a moment to be satisfied with his accomplishment.
Removing his back, he leaned against a fairly large boulder and pulled out an energy bar. He figured he’d grab his camera and take some pictures to show those rednecks down in Marrakech that there was nothing to be frightened of. They could start telling a new story; the tale of the man who came up and down Phantom Peak one fine September day without the slightest bit of trouble or terror.
The sound of laughter made him jump. It was innocent, carefree, and decidedly feminine. Trace looked around and saw no one. He was about to dismiss it as the wind when it came again. Whoever it was seemed to be having a wonderful time. Stashing his pack in a cut in the boulder, he began to follow the sound.
Coming upon some loose scree, he caught sight of something below him, what looked like perhaps blond hair and pale skin moving in the early autumn breeze. Another giggle, slightly louder this time, echoed in his ears. With a smile, Trace picked his way along the scree to get a better look. At one point, he thought he heard a man’s voice as well. Just a little ways from the blond was some red and slightly darker color. Young lovers, perhaps, having a little tryst out in the backcountry.
Halfway down the scree, the laughing and voices stopped. Something changed with figures Trace had been observing as he scrambled closer. They no longer bore even the slightest resemblance to people. They were trees. Two sets of aspens showing their fall colors in the golden afternoon light.
This was perplexing; Trace had better than twenty-twenty vision. He couldn’t imagine being fooled so easily. Although at first he was willing to think it might have been the wind, there were distinct voices. Human voices. It was all very strange. His mind struggled to make sense of it as he took his next step.
That’s when his foot slipped and all his questions became irrelevant. The world gave out from under him. He was falling, the sound of sliding scree replacing that of laughter in his ears.
It was a steady uphill climb. Not a steep grade, but enough to remind him he was gaining elevation. On occasion, he thought back to that night at Magpie Jack’s and the stories he was told. Some smacked of not being prepared or just simple bad luck. There were a few other tales that were not so easy to dismiss logically; like those of hearing a voice or two almost out of range, or seeing something out of the peripheries that was gone in a blink, but left the uneasy feeling of being watched, if not followed. In an attempt to not spook himself, Trace chuckled, thinking of Grizz and Lankin as mountain yokels, backwoods hicks. It was a given they’d be superstitious.
Somewhere close to tree-line he began to get that feeling of being watched. It chilled him and he tried to tell himself he was letting his mind play tricks on him. There was nothing malign on Phantom Peak, despite what the locals might believe. Still, as he walked, the sensation stayed with him, nagging, causing him to subconsciously look over his shoulder once or twice. There would never be anything, which aggravated his self-annoyance. With a curse under his breath, he pushed on.
The summit was just above the krummholtz. Just a little over eleven-thousand feet. It was barren and rock-strewn. He could see the Death’s Head and Hell’s Watchtower in the distance. The sky was remarkably clear and the air was warm. The sensation of being watched slipped to the back of his mind as he took a moment to be satisfied with his accomplishment.
Removing his back, he leaned against a fairly large boulder and pulled out an energy bar. He figured he’d grab his camera and take some pictures to show those rednecks down in Marrakech that there was nothing to be frightened of. They could start telling a new story; the tale of the man who came up and down Phantom Peak one fine September day without the slightest bit of trouble or terror.
The sound of laughter made him jump. It was innocent, carefree, and decidedly feminine. Trace looked around and saw no one. He was about to dismiss it as the wind when it came again. Whoever it was seemed to be having a wonderful time. Stashing his pack in a cut in the boulder, he began to follow the sound.
Coming upon some loose scree, he caught sight of something below him, what looked like perhaps blond hair and pale skin moving in the early autumn breeze. Another giggle, slightly louder this time, echoed in his ears. With a smile, Trace picked his way along the scree to get a better look. At one point, he thought he heard a man’s voice as well. Just a little ways from the blond was some red and slightly darker color. Young lovers, perhaps, having a little tryst out in the backcountry.
Halfway down the scree, the laughing and voices stopped. Something changed with figures Trace had been observing as he scrambled closer. They no longer bore even the slightest resemblance to people. They were trees. Two sets of aspens showing their fall colors in the golden afternoon light.
This was perplexing; Trace had better than twenty-twenty vision. He couldn’t imagine being fooled so easily. Although at first he was willing to think it might have been the wind, there were distinct voices. Human voices. It was all very strange. His mind struggled to make sense of it as he took his next step.
That’s when his foot slipped and all his questions became irrelevant. The world gave out from under him. He was falling, the sound of sliding scree replacing that of laughter in his ears.
26 January 2013
Prologue; Curiosity and the Cat
It was a quiet night at Magpie Jack’s. The type that would warrant an early close were it not for the scattered silent patrons about the bar. A lone television set showed some scarcely watched program. Someone had put on a few classic rock songs on the jukebox, but no one was really paying attention. The bartender was playing solitaire while Grizz read the paper.
A few stools over was Trace, a young man who had a cousin that lived over in Petra. He would come up to go hiking along Gaia’s Backbone, stopping in at Magpie Jack’s for a beer and the occasional snippet of gossip. In the few years since he moved to Colorado from upstate New York, he’d been able to get a few hiking tips and stories out of the locals of Levant County by virtue of his family ties. If Grzz was in when he came by for a beer, he’d remark that foreigner was in his bar again. Trace never took it as an insult, though sometimes he wondered if he should.
He sipped his beer silently, trying to decide how he was going to he was going to ask the question he had on his mind. Sometimes, people would roll their eyes at him. He figured it was because they were mountain locals and he was this guy who moved from New York to take a job in Denver and came up on the weekends. Sometimes, he wondered if the locals around the county just humored him, as though it didn’t matter that he had a cousin in Petra, he was still an outsider.
“Been sitting there all quiet for a bit,” Grizz said, not even looking up from his paper. “But I can feel your eyes on me.”
“Sorry,” Trace said, taking a swig of beer. “Wanted to ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“Up along Gaia’s Backbone, looks to be south and west of Hell’s Watchtower, I swear there’s this other peak, but I never get a good look at it,” Trace said. “It’s either always hazy or there’s clouds around it. Am I seeing things?”
“No,” Grizz replied curtly.
“So there is a peak there!” Trace felt himself getting excited. “Does it have a name?”
“Phantom Peak.”
“That sounds ominous,” Trace said with a bit of a forced laugh.
“’Cause it is,” Grizz snorted.
“Any trails?” Trace asked. “Is it really technical?”
“Got a death wish?” Grizz shot back.
That made Trace swallow a hard lump in his throat. Grizz was a gruff character to begin with, but this was different. There was almost hostility in his voice. Something about that mountain seemed anger him.
“How do you mean?” Trace started. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Don’t matter,” Grizz replied. “You got it in your head to check it out.” He then shot Trace a look out of the corner of his eye. “Not a lot of people go up there, and even less come back. Some people say it’s cursed.”
“Yikes.”
“Thirty years back, one of my sons climbed up there to commit suicide,” Grizz said softly, “It wasn’t until another rescue, a few years ago, that they even found his bones. Almost everyone around here has known someone who has either disappeared or outright died up there.”
“I’m sorry,” Trace wanted to reach out, but the look in Grizz’s eye told him he’d lose a hand doing it.
“You didn’t know.”
“So, I guess you’re the wrong person to ask about it,” Trace mused.
“You guessed right,” Grizz said, his gaze slowly shifting down the bar.
At the end was a man Trace would tell his Denver friends was the wine guy, because he always drank red wine. Although he’d never been formerly introduced, Trace knew the wine guy was someone a lot of people respected. Even as their eyes met, he could feel a strange, feline gaze boring into him. The wine guy’s finger was lazily circling the top of his glass. Without a word, he started over, his gray eyes fixed and intent, his movements, cat-like. Trace extended his hand.
“Trace McAlester,” he began. “Can I get you another glass of wine…?”
“Lazarus Lankin,” his grip was firm. He finished his wine in a single gulp. “If you are so inclined, I’d love another glass.”
“On me, Lazarus,” Grizz put in, which illicited an off-handed smile.
“I’m the one who found his son’s remains,” Lankin said casually. “Thus, he’ll sometimes get me a free glass as a sort of recompense.”
“Oh my god!” Trace exclaimed. “So you know about Phantom Peak then?”
“Intimately,” Lankin said, taking his fresh glass of wine.
“What’s it like? What’s up top?” Trace couldn’t help himself; he was excited and intrigued. His curiosity was getting the better of him. This did not go unnoticed.
“You’d rather not,” Lankin said as he took a long sip of wine. “Phantom Peak is the kind of place your nightmares are scared to go. Trust me.”
A few stools over was Trace, a young man who had a cousin that lived over in Petra. He would come up to go hiking along Gaia’s Backbone, stopping in at Magpie Jack’s for a beer and the occasional snippet of gossip. In the few years since he moved to Colorado from upstate New York, he’d been able to get a few hiking tips and stories out of the locals of Levant County by virtue of his family ties. If Grzz was in when he came by for a beer, he’d remark that foreigner was in his bar again. Trace never took it as an insult, though sometimes he wondered if he should.
He sipped his beer silently, trying to decide how he was going to he was going to ask the question he had on his mind. Sometimes, people would roll their eyes at him. He figured it was because they were mountain locals and he was this guy who moved from New York to take a job in Denver and came up on the weekends. Sometimes, he wondered if the locals around the county just humored him, as though it didn’t matter that he had a cousin in Petra, he was still an outsider.
“Been sitting there all quiet for a bit,” Grizz said, not even looking up from his paper. “But I can feel your eyes on me.”
“Sorry,” Trace said, taking a swig of beer. “Wanted to ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“Up along Gaia’s Backbone, looks to be south and west of Hell’s Watchtower, I swear there’s this other peak, but I never get a good look at it,” Trace said. “It’s either always hazy or there’s clouds around it. Am I seeing things?”
“No,” Grizz replied curtly.
“So there is a peak there!” Trace felt himself getting excited. “Does it have a name?”
“Phantom Peak.”
“That sounds ominous,” Trace said with a bit of a forced laugh.
“’Cause it is,” Grizz snorted.
“Any trails?” Trace asked. “Is it really technical?”
“Got a death wish?” Grizz shot back.
That made Trace swallow a hard lump in his throat. Grizz was a gruff character to begin with, but this was different. There was almost hostility in his voice. Something about that mountain seemed anger him.
“How do you mean?” Trace started. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Don’t matter,” Grizz replied. “You got it in your head to check it out.” He then shot Trace a look out of the corner of his eye. “Not a lot of people go up there, and even less come back. Some people say it’s cursed.”
“Yikes.”
“Thirty years back, one of my sons climbed up there to commit suicide,” Grizz said softly, “It wasn’t until another rescue, a few years ago, that they even found his bones. Almost everyone around here has known someone who has either disappeared or outright died up there.”
“I’m sorry,” Trace wanted to reach out, but the look in Grizz’s eye told him he’d lose a hand doing it.
“You didn’t know.”
“So, I guess you’re the wrong person to ask about it,” Trace mused.
“You guessed right,” Grizz said, his gaze slowly shifting down the bar.
At the end was a man Trace would tell his Denver friends was the wine guy, because he always drank red wine. Although he’d never been formerly introduced, Trace knew the wine guy was someone a lot of people respected. Even as their eyes met, he could feel a strange, feline gaze boring into him. The wine guy’s finger was lazily circling the top of his glass. Without a word, he started over, his gray eyes fixed and intent, his movements, cat-like. Trace extended his hand.
“Trace McAlester,” he began. “Can I get you another glass of wine…?”
“Lazarus Lankin,” his grip was firm. He finished his wine in a single gulp. “If you are so inclined, I’d love another glass.”
“On me, Lazarus,” Grizz put in, which illicited an off-handed smile.
“I’m the one who found his son’s remains,” Lankin said casually. “Thus, he’ll sometimes get me a free glass as a sort of recompense.”
“Oh my god!” Trace exclaimed. “So you know about Phantom Peak then?”
“Intimately,” Lankin said, taking his fresh glass of wine.
“What’s it like? What’s up top?” Trace couldn’t help himself; he was excited and intrigued. His curiosity was getting the better of him. This did not go unnoticed.
“You’d rather not,” Lankin said as he took a long sip of wine. “Phantom Peak is the kind of place your nightmares are scared to go. Trust me.”
26 December 2011
Epilogue; The Last Hot Day in September
Her nightmares began right after she found Bear dead. These were horrible black things, which often involved staring into cold amber eyes before waking, unable to scream. She would lay there in the dark, deafened by the sound of her own heavy breathing. After a few minutes, what felt like far longer than forever, she would realize how utterly alone she was and would cry herself to sleep.
She dreamt of the rocks crashing down and being tied up. This time there was no rescue. Her tormentor came back. The last thing she saw was a triumphant smile and those reptilian eyes just before a rock was brought down upon her skull and it all going into a wet, crunching black.
Her eyes flew open into the darkness of a warm room. She could hear her breathing and feel a thin glaze of sweat upon her brow. At first, it was like waking up from any other nightmare until she realized there were arms around her. There was someone else breathing next to her, and it sounded like the purring of a big cat. With a sigh, and perhaps a smile, she pulled herself in closer to the slumbering embrace allowing for the waking safety she was yet to achieve in her dreams.
***
Of course he would disappear. He was Lazarus Lankin. The first time it happened, despite every story and every fact she was told about him, Sydney found her feelings were hurt. Her grandfather’s barn cat, back when she was a child, was like that; curling up in a bed with her one night, and then disappearing for a week or two before the sun was even up.
“Lazarus is Lazarus,” Bast said to her one afternoon at Ira Milligan’s café. “If you think he might be someone else, or try to make him into somebody else, he will turn on you.” She leaned closer, predatory gray eyes narrowed. “And I think you’ve seen quite well what happens to those he turns upon.”
“I guess I might have to learn a new way,” Sydney mused. “That seems to be what I’ve needed to do since I came to Marrakech.”
“I’m optimistic,” Bast said.
“Your brother said that too,” Sydney quipped and Basted smirked in the manner of a sphinx that knew the answer to the riddle from the time of the dinosaurs.
“Did he now?”
The nursery rhyme of Humpty-Dumpty became a strange mantra for Sydney the rest of that summer, as she worked to pull herself back together again after five years of harassment. She found a newfound sense of freedom living in Marrakech and not all but hiding in her little apartment above Ira Milligan’s. The freedom of being somewhere new and finally really starting anew. There was the freedom of not being followed and tormented, though she still fought back the nightmares and the urge to constantly check over her shoulder. The freedom of knowing Darcy was going away for a very long time.
Sydney found freedom in her acquaintance with Lankin. Sometimes she would find herself at the last house on Lovecraft Lane. There were times they would go for a hike or to shoot pool at Magpie Jack’s and part ways with nothing more than a hug and a peck on the cheek. Sydney joked she never thought of herself as a cat person, but for him, she would try to make an exception.
“My sister observed a defiant streak in you,” he told her one night. “Perhaps it is that, which intrigues me.”
“Or maybe you just actually like me,” she teased.
“You’d find that answer boring, Just Sydney.”
“Only from you.”
***
In Levant County, it was said the inhabitants of Marrakech had an innate sense of when the last truly hot day was before the chill of High Country autumn, and ultimately, winter, was going to set in. It was inevitably a day in September, and, most always, a day when the aspen leaves had hit their peak, turning the mountainsides into tiger-stripped veins of green, gold, orange, and red. On that day, the atmosphere at Magpie Jack’s was that of the most festive of parties, and everyone in town, as well as from nearby, stopped by for at least an hour.
Sydney sat out at a patio table with the warm sun on her face. There were loud voices and the sound of a game of horseshoes being played. Something fun was being sang from the speakers. Her vantage point allowed her a spectacular view of Gaia’s Backbone, including the Death’s Head and Hell’s Watchtower; both mountains she had finally been able to summit.
At the table with her was Desdemona, Bast, and Marty. She was enjoying the company, and the fact she could have friends now and not worry about having them poisoned and stolen away from her. This new life she found herself in, despite the lingering nightmares and occasional old fears, was shaping up to be fairly good.
“I must say you look much better than when I first met you back in June,” Bast observed. “You look more vibrant.”
“I’ve been up on the tundra a few times this summer,” Sydney said. “Someone once told me going up there can be quite cathartic.”
“Sounds like someone rather wise,” Bast said with a smirk.
A round of cheers erupted from inside. It was the type of ruckus that was made when an important point was scored during a game. Bast leaned back in her wheelchair and Sydney stood up to peer in the open patio door. By the bar was a familiar angular figure sipping a glass of red wine.
“Well, well, we will need another chair,” Bast chuckled. “Look who’s coming to dinner…”
“Natty Dreadlocks,” Sydney finished with a smile that might be described as either excited or expectant.
24 December 2011
A Question of Safety
“I have a cousin who lives out on the plains and a brother down in Texas,” Connelly mused. “Both of them are ranchers. Cowboys. With cowboys, the last thing you ever want to do is mess with their horses.” He then leaned forward to lock eyes with the Darcy, swaying side to side in her handcuffs across from him. “Up here, well, anywhere you got people who enjoy the outdoors, the last thing you want to do is fuck with their dogs.”
“You shouldn’t have killed the dog,” Lankin echoed coldly, his gray eyes narrowed.
Sydney sighed heavily at those statements and leaned her head on Lankin’s shoulder. Darcy, seated between two Levant County sheriff’s deputies, would glare daggers, but, for the first time in five years, it didn’t matter. This was the beginning of the end, although it wasn’t the end Darcy had envisioned. The thought got Sydney to smile. It was as though a weight was lifted. She closed her eyes and relaxed, subconsciously rubbing Lankin’s rope-burned hands.
Word travels fast in rural counties with small communities. It was joked in Levant County that rule was doubly so. Upon entering Magpie Jack’s that night Lankin and Sydney were greeted by a tide of cheers and pats on the backs and shoulders. Someone, as a joke, put on Queen’s We are the Champions. Grizz showed them to dimly lit table just past the pool table. There was a bottle of beer and bottle of wine already waiting for them.
“On me,” Grizz said. “So’s your dinners, in case you were wondering. And, Lazarus, if you don’t start another bottle tonight, I’ll be insulted.”
“Then I’ll endeavor to get half-drunk, Grizz,” he replied with a respectful inclination of his head.
Sydney found that Lankin was not exaggerating when he said Grizz made the best elk steaks. They ate well and shot a few games of pool. Every so often, she would allow herself to get closer to Lankin. Although he maintained his usual feline aloofness, it also seemed he was receptive to her advances.
“You certainly more relaxed, Just Sydney,” he said at one point. “I told you going up on the tundra would work wonders.”
“Cute. Although I’m a little leery now of your definition of ‘cathartic’” she snickered. “It’s strange, though, knowing that Darcy’s being taken care of after so long. I don’t know if I can explain it, but in a way I think I’m safe now.” She took his hands and pulled closer. The look in her dark eyes bordered between fear, relief, and simple desperation. “I am safe, aren’t I?”
Lankin reached up, cupping her face in one hand. She squeezed it and nuzzled his palm, planting a few light kisses along the red marks he’d acquired from the rope earlier. The look on his face was pensive.
“Not completely,” he said, a single finger tapping her temple. “She’s still in there, and she probably will be for a very long time. It’s something I can neither protect nor save you from. You’ll have to face that down and make peace with it on your own.” He then leaned forward and gently placed his lips on her brow. As he pulled back there was a compassionate smile on his face. “I am, however, optimistic.”
Sydney found there was nothing she could say. Instead, she merely nodded, and with a smile, she squeezed his hand once more and planted another kiss along his palm.
22 December 2011
Crime and Punishment
Just beyond the rockslide was a drop-off overlooking mounds of scree just above the Abyss. There were several crevasses in which a body could easily be swallowed, never to be seen again. Darcy liked to believe if An Interested Party had not been crushed by the rocks, he had fallen, to either be dashed upon the scree, or devoured by the mountain itself.
Still, she wanted proof. In her encounter with him in Leeds it was obvious he was possessed of some cunning. She found this both intriguing and intimidating. Most of the men she dealt with, even those who looked after her when she was locked away, no matter how intelligent, could be manipulated after some time. It was a matter of figuring them and out and knowing how to play the games necessary to achieve her ends.
An Interested Party, upon first impression, seemed impervious to such things. In fact, Darcy felt the only reason she came away from their initial encounter was because he allowed it. That he was quite dangerous in his own rite. The very thought of which, no matter how likely, was sickening.
As she scrambled about the crevasses, she thought she heard the distant thwok of a helicopter. At one point she thought she heard the jackrabbit speaking in a raised voice. This got her attention. It occurred to her she wasn’t going to find a body, because there was no body to be found. With a frustrated hiss, she turned herself around to finish what she started five years ago.
She was nearly back to rockslide when movement along the Abyss caught her eye. At first, Darcy could only stare in disbelief at the sight of the jackrabbit heading back down the trail at a brisk pace. She almost screamed in rage as she moved closer to edge for a better look.
At the edge, she felt her balance wane for the briefest of seconds, as if something behind her moved her ever so slightly forward. The lower tiers of mountain seemed to reach up for her momentarily as she struggled to right herself. Then, she felt something, someone, gripping her very tightly about the waist.
“It’s all right. You’re okay,” Lankin whispered into her ear. “I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”
Darcy watched her prey disappear down the trail with a scowl. When she tried to struggle, his grip merely tightened. The turned her head to be face to face with Lankin and spat at him. He regarded the action with feline detachment.
“You should let me go!” She snapped, and he merely shrugged, as if unsurprised.
“Perhaps.”
And she was flying, hurtling toward the rock a few hundred feet below her at incredible speed. At first, it didn’t seem real; that he would let her fall. But, there she was; cold air screaming in her ears as the ground rushed up. The scree yawned before her in the manner of broken teeth and jagged talons, ready to embrace her.
Then, suddenly, she stopped. Something jerked tightly about her waist. Darcy looked down to see it was the very climbing rope she had used to bind the jackrabbit. She was suspended just above the scree. First, she started to laugh manically and she found herself crying at the realization of what happened. Her bladder and bowels loosened and she was only partially successful in restraining the urge to vomit.
The thwok sound seemed to be closer. Something about that worried her. She felt the rope pulling on her waist and realized she was being pulled back up.
“I am afraid it’s not going to be that easy for you,” Lankin called down to her.
“I hate you!” Darcy screamed.
“If I was here solely for you to like than we’d both be disappointed.”
“Just let me fall!” Then her voice became plaintive; “Please!”
“No,” he said softly.
“No?!?”
By this time she was dangling just a few feet from the edge once more. Lankin stood firmly, his wiry arms as knotted as the rope around her waist. His gray eyes were narrowed in predatory concentration, but there was a slight look of amusement playing across his lips, like that of a barn cat with an especially fat mouse.
“You’ve been building up to this for years,” Lankin said off-handedly. “Torment, torture, and ultimately murder someone you decided was the source of all your misery, then kill yourself so you could be with the fantasy of someone who left you fifteen years ago.” He pulled her closer to the edge, a smirk forming. “But you’ve been a naughty, naughty girl, and naughty girls need to be punished.”
With that, he gave a mighty tug, sending Darcy hurtling past him, onto the bare rock of the Death’s Head. It took her a moment to realize she was back on solid ground. Even before she could move, Lankin’s booted foot was jammed into the small of her back. He was using the rest of the rope to tie her hands behind her back. His trek pole ran behind her, making her feel as though she was being trussed.
“And your punishment is you get to live!” Lankin growled as he pulled her to her feet forcefully. Then he whispered in ear in a voice that was far removed from anything human; “Now, you see you’re not the only one capable of abject cruelty.”
Darcy felt defeated tears begin to flow as she was made to start walking along the trail. The thwok sound of the helicopter was very close now. Both of them turned to see the vehicle coming down along side them. There were official markings on it and men in uniforms could be seen riding in it.
“Lankin! We’re here!” Connelly’s voice was amplified by a loudspeaker. “We’ll land at the usual place and wait for you.”
“Dammit, Connelly!” He shouted back, although there was a smirk on his face. “We were going to be down by tonight! Did my sister ask about me?”
20 December 2011
Nine Lives
This was what true defeat felt like. Sydney was convinced of it. No matter where she went, what she had, or who she met, Darcy was there to ruin it and then take it all away. It was an inescapable as the sun rising in the morning and setting in the evening. This was what it was like to truly be broken, to be utterly powerless. A lump formed in Sydney’s throat and she could feel the tears welling up in her eyes.
With a deep breath, she fought back the urge to weep. She might be defeated. This might be the end. But she wasn’t going to make it easy. She resolved to kick and spit and fight until the very end. Darcy saw her only as prey and Sydney was going to prove that was not the case.
From behind, she felt someone working with bonds on her wrists. She was being pulled to her feet, slowly, and gently, which puzzled her. Darcy had gone on to inspect the rockslide more thoroughly. Her other quarry was a wily one, she said, and she wanted to make sure he was properly dealt with. She hadn’t come back yet.
“This is good rope,” Lankin said softly. Sydney’s head whipped around in surprise to see him, not even dusty from the rockslide, working on untying her. “It’s climbing grade. I can always use something like this myself.”
The tears almost sprang up again. She started to shake. As she started to open her mouth, Lankin pressed a single finger to his lips.
“Remember that little tall tale I told you that the old-timers say about me and this hill?” He whispered with smirk. “Even if it’s not true, this is the Death’s Head, and it’s not my first rodeo.”
The rope was pulled away and Sydney turned to regard him fully. It occurred to her that there was only one way Darcy might’ve known where they were. Her cheeks flushed with anger at the thought. Once more, she started to open her mouth, and, once more, Lankin, anticipating her words placed a finger on his lips.
“If you do not like how I’m dealing with this, then you should’ve handled it back in Prague,” he growled, his eyes narrowing, his face suddenly screwing into predatory harshness. “But instead, you brought this misery into my backyard.”
“What now?” Sydney asked finally. She hated how small her voice sounded.
“I am afraid we’ll have to take a rain check on the rest of our trek,” Lankin replied with a disappointed sigh. “It’s too bad, really. I wanted to at least show you the summit of the Death’s Head. But there are some people who cannot understand good advice when it’s given, and I must speak with someone to that point.”
“Lazarus!” Sydney’s voice raised a little louder than it should have. “No! Please! Let’s just get out of here! We can go where she’ll never find us!”
“You need to get back down the mountain, Just Sydney” he continued as though she hadn’t said anything. “Back down to Marrakech. In fact, meet me down at Magpie Jack’s for dinner tonight. If memory serves, Grizz just got in two cases of my wine and he’s grilling up elk steaks. He makes the best elk steaks. Probably because he hunts and carves them up himself.”
“I’m not going to leave you up here alone with her!” She snapped.
Lankin reached out, grabbed her shoulders firmly, and shook her. His manner was that of a big cat on the hunt. For a brief moment, she became worried for her own safety, and Darcy had very little to do with it.
“You will get your ass the fuck down the mountain and back to Marrakech, or I will forget that I ever wanted to do anything to help you!” he growled. “And you will do it right fucking now!”
He released her and stepped back. Sydney realized she was seeing the Lazarus Lankin that rescued hikers from mountainsides and recovered bodies from avalanches. Here was the barely human creature she would here about in stories. Someone who carried themselves like a big cat ready to eviscerate its prey, but not before having a little fun and games first.
Before she realized what she was consciously doing, she threw herself at him. Something very primal told her she needed to kiss him at least once. At first, he reciprocated, drawing her in so close it seemed as though he would consume her. Then, in the same moment, he pushed her away. When she opened her eyes to see him once more he was standing with his arms folded across his chest and his feet planted firmly on the rocky ground.
“Now go,” he said harshly.
“You better be at Magpie Jack’s tonight,” Sydney whispered. “Promise me!”
“Of course,” Lankin said, cocking his head to the side inquisitively. Slowly, he licked his lips. “After all, it seems we have something to…discuss.”
Sydney caught herself blushing slightly, but found there were no words. All she could do was nod before turning and heading back down the trail. Lankin watched her disappear down the slope toward the Abyss with a sigh, grateful she was leaving. He reached down to grab the climbing rope and start gathering it up. Despite himself, he found himself softly singing a mock-song he would sing with his sister when they were children;
“I’m looking over
My dead dog Rover,
That I overlooked before…”
17 December 2011
Snake, Rattle, and Roll
The Death’s Head, outside of Marrakech, Colorado…
Sydney drew a sharp breath as she took in the view of Gaia’s Backbone from just above a place Lankin referred to as the Abyss. She noticed a sadness in his eyes at mentioning the place, and knew there was perhaps a story behind it. She opted to hold back on inquiring. There would be time. It felt as though there was all the time in the world.
She really was enjoying herself. Remembering back to the afternoon in Glasgow, Lankin did make a wonderful outdoor companion. Although, as they climbed up the Death’s Head, she would notice him disappearing either ahead or behind her. He seemed simultaneously distracted and deep in monk-like concentration. Sydney dismissed this as how he must get when climbing a mountain. The same mountain, he mentioned the old-timers were convinced he was born on, and was the only thing in the whole creation that would decide when it was his time to die.
The bright sun was finally beginning to warm mid-morning air. The occasional chirp of a pika would interrupt the otherwise profound Backcountry silence. Below them, the tundra spread out like a patchwork quilt before meeting the Krumholz sentinels of tree-line once more. The Death’s Head itself was bald rock, which shot up imposingly across Gaia’s Backbone, to only be dwarfed by its neighbor, Hell’s Watchtower. Lankin mentioned some hikers would climb both mountains in a day, daring the Abyss to do so.
He had just reappeared and was nonchalantly sipping water from his bottle and hooking his trek-pole to his pack. Sydney wanted to make a remark about how much she was enjoying herself. She found there were a lot of things she wanted to say to him. There was a combination of fear and his detached manner, which caused her to hold her tongue. Perhaps, she felt there would be time to say all those things too. Up along the Death’s Head, it was as if there was all the time in the world.
“We’ll break here for a minute,” Lankin said finally. “You probably need to catch your breath.”
“You’ll notice I’m doing a fair job of keeping up with you,” Sydney remarked. She caught herself smiling playfully.
“I have,” he said with a smirk. “Impressive.”
There was the sound of movement. Sydney noticed how Lankin cocked his head to the side inquisitively. She couldn’t quite read his expression as he began to walk, almost unconcerned, in the direction of the noise. Part of her wondered if it was a marmot or maybe even a mountain goat. It was only as he got further away, closer to the edge, that she found herself feeling anxious.
Rocks, small at first, began to come down, scattering around his feet. Dust began to rise up, making Lankin’s angular figure hard to distinguish. It did look like he turned to look up just as large boulder came crashing down.
Sydney was running toward the rockslide frantically. Her voice caught in her throat, but she wanted to call out. She wanted to cry for help. She wanted to call out for Lankin, hoping against hope he would answer back.
Before she reached the slide, something landed on top of her. She was being pushed to ground. It took her only a heartbeat to realize this was not a rock landing on her. She felt her arms being pulled savagely behind her and her wrists being bound. Shock, fear, anger, and betrayal played across her face as she turned her head to see a set of familiar cold amber eyes.
“End of the line, jackrabbit,” Darcy hissed triumphantly. “End of everything.”
***
Levant County Courthouse, Leeds, Colorado…
Bast slowly opened her eyes and noticed her hands were shaking. This was understandable. With a deep breath, she worked toward steadying herself. Trembling would do no good right now.
Slowly, she turned her wheelchair back around. Connelly was standing on the other side of her desk, waiting. No words passed between them as their eyes met, just a mutual nod. With that, Connelly spun his heel and moved purposely out of the archival office, the whole time, furiously dialing into his phone.
15 December 2011
Parlay of the Predators
Darcy watched the tow truck pull into the post office parking lot with a jaded fascination. Something was happening. Something, which was quite curious. The driver, a young man with straw-blond hair began hooking up a familiar jeep to the tow chains. The owner of the jeep was not there. In fact, she had seemed to disappear into thin air just a few hours before from the Leeds library.
Most likely, the jackrabbit had help. As Darcy followed her through the afternoon streets, she noticed the panic in her prey’s eyes. Something, which she found exhilarating. She enjoyed the levels of fear she caused. The jackrabbit deserved every bit of it and more.
But she had been eluded, and this would not do. It didn’t take long to figure out her prey did not actually reside in Leeds. There were other places nearby to start checking. The jackrabbit’s five month respite was going to come to a very abrupt end.
Darcy decided she would start with the tow truck driver. He might be willing to tell her something. Men liked to do things for her at first, getting lost in her eyes, if not her cleavage. Such simple, predictable, creatures. It was only after some time passed that her male prey items became uneasy around her, her hypnosis not working quite as well.
It was what happened with her Jacob. If she had just a little more time, she might have been able to seduce him once more. But she was locked in that cage for a few years, before she convinced those who needed convincing she was perfectly well. By then, Jacob had been stolen by the jackrabbit and had gotten sick and died.
These thoughts passed through her head in lightning flashes of rage as she started to walk toward the post office parking lot. The tow truck driver would give her some answers, she was sure of it. Adjusting her top and adopting playful smile, she began to walk toward him.
“The owner of that jeep isn’t going to be coming back any time soon,” a voice behind her said casually. “And Curtis there doesn’t really like girls that much.”
Darcy spun around, barely concealing the scowl on her face. He was perched on the hood of her car in the lengthening shadows of a mountain dusk. His head cocked to the side inquisitively and an amused smirk played across his lips. She felt a shudder pass through her, recognizing his manner as predatory, having seen cats with similar bearing just before they pounced.
“Who are you?” Darcy inquired coldly.
“An interested party,” Lankin said simply, his grey eyes not wavering as he pulled himself from the hood of her car.
“’An Interested Party’ is a rather odd name,” Darcy mocked.
“I believe it’s Swahili, but it might be Diné,” Lankin remarked. “And you’re Darcy McCellan. Come all the way up from Prague, New Mexico.”
“You apparently know things.”
“I’m a likable sort, so people tell me things.”
“You’re the one who helped her at the library.”
“Indubitably.”
Darcy walked closer, swaying side to side. Lankin stood firm, his arms folded across his chest. Their eyes remained fixed on one another, neither willing to break their gaze. Such an action would spell defeat.
“You should stay away from her. She is not what she seems.”
“Which makes her all the more interesting.”
“She’ll break your heart.”
“Preposterous! My heart has no bones.”
“She’s a whore and a thief,” Darcy whispered, her voice almost sweet, despite the venom carried upon her words. She placed a hand on Lankin’s arm.
“You are a stalker and a dog-killer,” he said coolly. “So far, you New Mexico girls seem to be anything but virtuous.”
Darcy’s gaze hardened and she withdrew her hand as she backed away. Normally, her charms would have achieved their ends by now. This one was more of a challenge than most men. In fact, the only interest he seemed to have in her was that of an adversary.
“Then I am dangerous,” Darcy stated, adopting a colder tact. “If I could kill a dog than I could be considering killing you right now.”
“You most likely are,” Lankin said dismissively. “But it would be rather embarrassing for you to try.”
“You seem to think I would fail.”
“It’s a given.”
She began to walk closer once more. This time, there was more of a predatory stride in her movement. Lankin let out a heavy and disappointed sigh as he uncrossed his arms. His gray eyes narrowed and something that sounded like the growl of a mountain lion rattled in the back of his throat.
“I promise it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”
Darcy stopped cold. For the first time she could ever remember, she found herself standing completely still. She found herself looking down at her feet, ceding the primal and predatory challenge that had existed between them since they started speaking.
“Why are you here, An Interested Party?” She asked.
“I came to make you an offer.”
“Of what sort?”
“Sydney Pollack is no longer in New Mexico. She’s nowhere near the places your mutual dead x’s remains lie. In a sense, you’re victorious.”
“So?”
“I’m offering you a chance to walk away now,” Lankin said plainly. “Go back to New Mexico happily knowing you won.”
Darcy started to laugh. It was a twisted, mocking, hateful sound, which had gotten those hearing it to shiver in the past. Lankin listened impassively, simply folding his arms across his chest once more.
“You don’t understand!” She spat.
“You’re the second girl from New Mexico to say that to me today,” Lankin shot back. “Are the boys down there a little less bright?”
“It’s you who should walk away,” Darcy hissed. “You should run.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“We’re going for a wander,” Lankin said. “The Backcountry around Gaia’s Backbone. Up the Death’s Head, to be specific.” It was then he turned and began to walk away, melting into the gathering shadows, but added over his shoulder; “Don’t be here when I get back.”
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