Double Blind (2 page)

He scrambled over a massive snow-frosted boulder but slipped and tumbled from its rounded crest, landing hard on his back against a thick, scaly barked pine. Air burst from his lungs. He rolled away from the tree and struggled to his feet, sucking air, trying to ignore the knife-like pain that ripped along his ribs. A crow screeched from the branches above him.

He staggered between two trees and into a small clearing. Before him, large, feathery snowflakes swirled on the wind, seeming reluctant to fall to the ground.

He clutched his damaged ribs as he took several deep breaths and then crossed the clearing and continued upward. Through the trees, he caught a glimpse of a mine. Its black mouth yawned open, waiting. Head down, legs trembling with fatigue, he plowed toward it. His knees buckled and he fell to all fours, but pushed himself up and, with the determination that only fear can generate, pressed forward.

His boots, unable to secure a firm hold, slipped on the icy rocks, loose gravel, and damp pine needles. Like his childhood nightmares, where he struggled against unseen restraints to escape from some horrible, faceless creature of the night, it seemed that the faster he moved the less distance he covered and the more deeply he descended into the depths of panic.

If he only had a gun. Maybe he could ambush them. Get one or even two of them. Better his odds.

Again his legs wobbled and he nearly fell, but clutched a tree trunk and steadied himself. He gulped air and wiped sweat from his face with the sleeve of his shirt. Don’t stop, he told himself. One more push, against the loose soil, against the hill, against gravity and he would find the protective depths of the mine.

The tree bark beside his head exploded. The crack of the rifle reached his ears. Another crack and a searing pain ripped through his chest. Blood, his blood, peppered the tree before him. Then, three quick pop-pop-pops, followed by the hiss of one bullet by his head and two more explosions of bark.

He looked up.

Near the mine, two men leveled rifles at him. Whether he jumped or fell or simply collapsed, he couldn’t be sure, but he found himself on hands and feet crawling into the trees to his right. A volley of rifle fire snapped tree branches and pinged off rocks. He dug the toes of his hiking boots into the soil, rose to his feet, and ran. Fatigue and exhaustion evaporated in an adrenaline-fed race for his life.

He pushed aside spruce and pine branches as he hurtled forward, neither knowing nor caring where he was going so long as it was away from the gunmen. Taking the easiest path, he descended diagonally across the slope’s fall line, allowing gravity to aid his flight.

Hot pain bored through his right chest and increased with each breath. The warmth of his own blood saturated the front of his shirt and a fine red mist escaped his lips with each rattling exhalation.

He stumbled, fell forward, rolled to his feet, and continued running. His heart leaped against his chest as though trying to urge him forward. Needle encrusted spruce fingers whipped against his face. One slapped across his open eye, causing him to spin around, yelp with pain.

Still, he ran.

The forest began to thin and the ground became more rocky and strewn with loose pebbles and weathered pinecones. He could hear the roar of rushing water, echoing through the trees. Above him, the crow continued its scolding, seeming to follow his every move and caw to his pursuers, “Here he is.”

He burst from the trees and came face to face with the rushing, swirling waters of Crystal Falls. Skidding on his heels, he slid to a stop, his racing heart kicking into an even higher gear.

 Crystal Falls, a local landmark and tourist attraction, tumbled down a deep gash in the rocky mountain, plunging in a series of stair step cataracts more than a 1000 feet from the vast snow fields above before taking a final 100-foot leap into a misty cauldron that would become Gold Creek. It was this final segment that faced him.

The burning pain in his chest spread to his back and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He reached beneath his shirt and felt the small, round entry wound just beneath his right collarbone. Sliding his hand over his shoulder, through the hot sticky blood that matted the flannel to his back, his fingers just reached the upper edge of the ragged exit wound. He knew instantly the bullet had passed through his lung, through his entire chest. He wiped his bloody hand on his pant leg.

A fit of coughing doubled him over. Blood peppered the rocks and the tops of his boots. He clutched his chest until the paroxysm subsided.

He looked up the slope, and then down, frantically searching for an escape route. He turned back toward the trees. Among the shadows, he could see the forms of the two men closing fast.

Just above him, the waterfall crashed into and cascaded over a rocky ledge before reforming into the thick ribbon that plunged downward. Along the ledge, three large ice encrusted rocks nosed through the cataract, each ten feet apart, each bearded by fifteen-foot long stalactites of ice. Maybe he could use the rocks to cross the fall.

He scrambled up the hill along the edge carved by centuries of snow melt. When he reached the ledge, his escape route looked less inviting. The rocks were domed and slicked with ice. The graceful beards of ice he had seen from below now looked like cold, hard fangs. The force of the water’s impact vibrated the ground beneath his feet; its cold spray lacquered his face.

This isn’t possible, he thought. He would have to leap over ten feet of churning water to an icy dome-shaped rock and not slip off. Then, repeat that feat three more times to reach the other side.

Another wave of coughing gripped him. He leaned his hands on his knees, bracing himself against the fiery pain, and expelled long strands of crimson mucous.

“There he is.”

He turned toward the voice. The three men stood below him. One raised his rifle and directed the muzzle toward him.

Without hesitation, without further internal debate on the wisdom of such a move, he took one step and leaped. He seemed to float in slow motion over the roaring water, arms flapping, legs churning against nothing but air, as if by these efforts he could somehow extend his flight. He slammed into the first boulder. His fingers and the toes of his boots clawed the hard ice, but could not prevent his slide over the face of the rock and down the tapering stalactite. Just when he thought he would plunge into the icy water below, one toe caught in a crevice in the ice. He hugged the giant icicle and dug his aching fingers into its unforgiving coldness.

He looked up. An un-scalable cylinder of ice. Right and left offered no escape, only columns of rampaging water. Downward, his only apparent option, a 100-foot drop into a frigid pool and sure death.

His foothold slipped, but he quickly jammed the toe of his boot back into the crevice.

He looked over his shoulder, toward his pursuers, just in time to see the muzzle flash. The bullet struck inches from his head. Ice shards stung his face and neck.

The ice creaked and groaned. A fissure, jagged, deep, erupted before his face. Another creak, a groan, a sharp crack, and, with a rush, he fell.

The ice, no longer his savior, was now his enemy. An enemy that would crush him in matter of seconds if he didn’t break free. With what strength remained in his arms and legs, he shoved himself away from the icy mass as both accelerated toward the water below.

Must be 35 out Lloyd Varney thought as he sat behind the wheel of his pick-up truck. Rather cold for June but the past week had been one of those cloudy, drizzly spells that frequently visited these mountains, even in summer. An hour and a half earlier, he had parked on Fourth Avenue, inching up to its intersection with Main Street. From this vantage point, he possessed a clear view of the front of his store, a half block away and across the street.

He considered cranking up the windows to knock back some of the chill, but decided against it. He needed his ears as well as his eyes if he was going to catch the thief.

He took another bite of the ham he had layered inside a tall, fluffy biscuit. Crumbs tumbled across the front of his down vest and fell onto the wrinkled, grease-stained waxed paper on his lap. A lick and a jab collected the larger tidbits on his fingertip. He shoved them into his mouth and continued to chew.

God, he loved Louise’s biscuits.

That’s why he married her. Or so his standard tease went. To which, Louise would reply, “You married me because nobody else would have you.” Their banter always brought chuckles from anyone who knew them.

He took another bite, tearing the ham with his teeth, showering more biscuit crumbs onto his lap.

Louise would fuss at him tomorrow for taking the biscuits and ham rather than the apples and oranges she kept in the wooden bowl on the kitchen counter, easily seen, easily reached. She would poke a finger at the roll that lapped over his belt and call him “Doughboy.” Yet secretly, he knew she loved that he relished her cooking.

He washed down the last of the biscuit with a slug of the coffee he had poured from his thermos. The hot liquid, bolstered by a shot of Jack Daniel's from the pint bottle he had slipped into his pocket before leaving home, warmed his belly. Louise would fuss about that, too. Not, the coffee, the whiskey. But, if he had to sit here on a cold vinyl seat half the night, he deserved a little nip. Or two.

Hunching forward in the seat, he cradled the coffee cup with both hands, his breath momentarily fogging the windshield.

Lloyd owned and operated Varney’s General Merchandise in the heart of downtown Gold Creek, Colorado. He had done so since he opened the doors 42 years earlier, three months before he and Louise were married. He had been 22, Louise 18.

He was proud of what they had created together. Their store sat wedged between Mama Rose’s Bistro and the Gold Creek Bank and was the second tallest building in town, not counting the steeple of the hundred-year-old church, a block behind him, on Church Street. The three-story Begley Hotel was taller by four feet.

 Varney’s possessed two levels. The upper floor housed a storage area and a makeshift, free-to-the-public mining museum. Hard hats, lanterns, pick-axes, and the like filled shelves and glass cases. Each piece had seen service in one or more of the thousands of mines that wormed into the surrounding San Juan Mountains and had been donated by miners forced to find other work when the last of the mines closed a decade earlier. Each dark, damp shaft an ode to the government’s interference in the gold and silver trade.

Lloyd and Louise had carefully cataloged every piece on the off chance the mines, still rich in gold, silver, and uranium, might reopen. In which case, each item would be returned to its original owner for the asking.

The business occupied the first floor. Tools, clothes, camping gear, canned goods, tourist trinkets, and hundreds of other items filled shelves, racks, and tables. Two large picture windows faced Main Street.

In 42 years, he had had a few minor thefts. Kids pocketing candy or soda or cigarettes. Maybe a tee shirt or a cap. He always scolded the ones he caught, but could never bring himself to tell their parents. After all, he too had done such things as a boy.

But, over the past six weeks, someone had broken in three times and taken expensive items. Camping gear, down jackets, boots, tools, and food items. Always on a Saturday night when the thefts would not likely be discovered until Sunday afternoon. Typically he opened for business at 8 a.m., but on Sundays not until after church.

Changing the locks hadn’t helped. The thief managed to pick his way in anyway. The alarm system he had ordered from Denver wouldn’t be delivered for another two weeks.

So, here he sat, freezing his butt off, waiting for a thief that might or might not show. He rubbed his sleepy eyes with the heels of his hands and stifled a yawn.

His old nickel-plated Smith and Wesson snub-nosed .38, which he hadn’t fired in over 20 years, was wedged against his right thigh. He knew he wouldn’t need to use it. Just waving it around would get the thief’s attention. He had considered not loading it, but had anyway. Just in case.

Of course, Police Chief Forrest Wade knew about the thefts and had promised “to keep an eye on things,” but Lloyd didn’t believe that. Wade was nice enough, just not overly enthusiastic about law enforcement, which was fine since Gold Creek rarely needed any laws enforced. By this time of night, Wade would have already knocked back a couple of bourbons and be sound asleep in his city-paid apartment above the police station two blocks up the street.

Besides, Varney’s General Merchandise wasn’t successful because Lloyd waited for someone else to work the counter, stock the shelves, or sweep the sidewalk out front. Except for Louise that is. And if his store needed protecting, then he was the one to do it.

Louise wouldn’t join him on this adventure, however. “You’re not a cop, you old fool,” she told him as he buttoned his flannel shirt and tugged on his down vest. “You’ve been watching too much TV. Let Wade take care of this. That’s what he gets paid for.” She let him go anyway, but only if he promised to call at midnight and be home by 2 a.m., regardless.

She didn’t know about the gun.

He refilled his cup from the thermos. After adding a shot of Jack Daniel's, he blew across the steaming brew and took a careful sip.

He glanced at the dash clock. Ten till midnight. Time to stroll over to the pay phone at the Shell station and check in with Louise. He placed the cup on the truck’s dash, but as he reached for the door handle he saw something. A shadow, moving in the alley that ran between his store and the bank. He froze, his gaze locked on the dark gap. One minute, two minutes. Nothing.

Was it his imagination? The bourbon? He’d only had one shot and as cold as it was felt absolutely no effect from it. Better check it out, he thought, rather than sit here and have someone rob him right under his nose.

The truck’s dome light startled him when he pushed open the door. He jumped out and eased it closed, the latch catching with a soft click. In the night air, it sounded to him like a whip cracking. He ducked behind the truck and peeked over the hood.