No Going Back (11 page)
The going was easy on the road, but soon I veered off and entered the twisting canyons between the towering columns of rock. They weren’t the labyrinth I had assumed, and I could regularly view the sun so kept on track. Here, though, the ground was littered with boulders and drifts of red dirt stripped from the mountainsides and I had to be more careful. Twisting an ankle didn’t concern me, but making a noise did. Out here in the still desert, a falling rock would sound like a gunshot and alert anyone within a mile of my presence. Shaded by an overhang of rock, I chugged down an eighth of my water. It came nowhere near replenishing what had already soaked through my clothing and then evaporated into the overheated air. While there, I took out the Smith and Wesson revolver and checked it and each of the .357 shells thoroughly, for any grit or dirt that could cause it to misfire. Everything was in good order, but I was conscious that the firepower was limited. My usual guns, either a SIG Sauer P226 or 228, were automatics and could – depending on the magazine – lay down up to seventeen rounds without the need to reload. When I’d purchased this old-time gun from the rednecks at the truck stop it hadn’t occurred to me to check for a rapid loader. I was going to have to feed each bullet into the six chambers manually every time I depleted the ammo.
Hell, it was as though I was preparing for a war. There were only three Logans, and two bullets aimed at the right places were enough for any man. Of course, the opportunities for perfect shooting were few and far between in a real conflict, so maybe I’d need to reload many times before they were finished. Then again, that was assuming that the Logan family had anything to do with the missing women. With luck there wouldn’t be any shooting, but I couldn’t deny the old Boy Scout in me.
I chugged down another eighth of the water, and then took a leak against the rock overhang. I wasn’t marking territory, just detoxifying. When the container was back in the rucksack on my shoulder, I set off again. Passing beyond the ravines, I came on to a wide boulder-strewn plain dotted with mesquite and ironwood shrubs. Scott Blackstock had told me to watch out for a huge mushroom-shaped mountain that marked the head of the trail before entering the Logan property. There was a likely contender about half a mile ahead, though through the dust I could only make out the upper cap that shimmered through the haze like an alien Mother Ship. Using it as a landmark, I followed the northern edge of the plain, staying close to the ragged mesas in case I had to go to ground in a hurry. When I was parallel to the giant mushroom I turned south, using the towering boulders as cover. The land was parched, but judging by the way the mountains had been weathered and the proliferation of boulders deposited on the plain, I guessed that in some dim prehistoric time flood waters had regularly teemed through here.
The sun was a milky disc in the heavens, high cirrus giving it an indistinct appearance, but none of its heat was diminished. Having lived in the subtropics of Florida for the past couple of years I’d earned a decent tan, but it was no defence out in the desert. My exposed skin prickled, and the constant trickling of perspiration down the small of my back caused me to move my gun from my usual carrying position to the front of my jeans.
More water went into my gut; it didn’t surprise me how much I’d consumed already. I’d fought in deserts before and knew that it was a constant necessity to replace lost fluids. What was sometimes neglected was the need to also replenish essential nutrients and salts, and I hadn’t given that much thought before setting off. Already I could detect the first buzz of a headache behind my ears; as a result of dehydration it could progress to migraine proportions. Not that I foresaw a problem, because I’d no intention of wandering round in a furnace all day. I set off again, intent on reconnoitring the area, to determine if my hunch was right and then decide how I was going to play things after that.
The military are planners. Before a mission is launched every detail is analysed to the nth degree. It is then conducted with strict purpose with each problematic facet taken into account beforehand. Yet missions often fail due to the intrusion of a previously unidentified snag, usually the enemy responding in an unpredictable way. For that reason I wasn’t a firm believer in forward planning: I’m not talking about going into a hazardous situation with my eyes closed, but with the knowledge that if something could go wrong it probably would. I was often in conflict with my commanders, but it was my arse, and often those of my friends, that were on the line, so I preferred to prepare for the unexpected by entering a mission firmly in the red zone. Expect to kill or be killed: that was the ethos I subscribed to. Therefore I only had one objective in mind: if the Logan family were holding the women, I would go in and rescue them whatever it took.
Mushroom Mountain loomed overhead as I approached the pass on to the Logan property. Up close it reminded me more of a petrified thick-trunked oak, only a hundred times as large. The road actually passed to the south of the mountain, but I took the path under the northern bulge. It abutted another lower line of rock that made a ridge in the desert floor. I considered clambering up to the ridgeline as it would offer me a better vantage point for viewing the homestead in the valley beyond, but didn’t trust the ridge to extend as far as I needed it to. More than likely it would be split into fissures and separate rock formations as the fold petered out on to the Logans’ land. I stayed close to the wall of stone instead and made steady progress. My assumption proved correct when in little under a hundred yards I saw that the ridge broke up into a series of rocks jutting from the orange sand like teeth in a crone’s jawbone. The Logan land didn’t benefit from fencing or any other boundary except from the rock formations that offered a natural crescent around them. The mountain range bordered a huge dust bowl many miles across and disappeared into the far heat haze. I wondered who had originally built their home there, and how they managed to exist in such an inhospitable place. There was no grass for grazing, certainly no crops, so how they had made a living seemed a mystery. In this modern era, the Logans would have other opportunities for revenue, but their forebears?
The answer presented itself soon enough. The ranch-style buildings were clustered on the northern shore of a shallow watering hole. From the desert floor bubbled an underground spring, a remnant of the time when this place was lush and vibrant, which must have offered life to people traversing the desert. Water was probably worth its weight in gold during the pioneering days. Whoever had lucked upon this spot and laid claim to it would have charged other travellers and their beasts to drink. Maybe they had also raised crops along the shoreline, but not now, because these days it was the home of tangled patches of prickly pear. The Logans didn’t have to grow their own food when their pick-up truck could take them to civilisation in no time. They weren’t farmers and neither were they the type interested in manual labour. At least, judging by the state of the buildings they had no interest in maintaining their property. Even their truck, a lifeline way out here, was scabrous and missing parts.
The pick-up should have been the least of my concerns, but I found my gaze straying to it again. It looked familiar, although I couldn’t at first place where I’d seen the damn thing. Then it came back to me, how I’d been leaving the truck stop last night and was almost sideswiped by a pick-up missing a wing mirror. The jackass who was driving it had levelled a hail of foul language my way. I was certain that it was the same vehicle, and thought that even if they had nothing to do with Jay and the others’ disappearance then maybe I’d be having words with the Logans after all. It was a ridiculous thought, but it was there, and it helped get my blood up.
What was the driver’s purpose for visiting the truck stop?
There were many mundane possibilities but I wondered if he’d been there to check up on the local gossip, to determine if his family was being mentioned in connection with the murderous hold-up at Peachy’s gas station only a few miles distant, or the subsequent disappearance of the three girls. Whatever his purpose was, it made me wonder again if there was such a thing as coincidence or if some unknown power was at work conniving to bring us into conflict. Maybe it wasn’t chance that three missing females bore such similarities, or that a random visit to a truck stop in the middle of nowhere led me to make that link, not to mention placing one of the possible culprits in my sights at much the same time. Then again, it could all prove a pile of crap if my recce turned up nothing untoward.
The Logan family.
At first I’d assumed that they were brothers, but Scott had put me right. Carson was the elder, and father to Brent. The other, Samuel, was a cousin. Once there had been a couple of women living at the homestead: Brent’s mother Arlene, and also Carla, Samuel’s younger sister, but I was glad to hear that neither woman was there now. Arlene had passed away from throat cancer fifteen years back, while it was believed that Carla had headed for the West Coast and a new life just over a year ago. That, at least, was the story told to anyone who asked about the young woman. No one had heard from her since, but then most people tried to stay out of the Logans’ business and didn’t raise the subject very often.
It’s shameful, I know, but there have been times in my life when I’ve hurt women. Not out of choice, but during the wild firefights I’d been involved in during my military days there had to have been some women injured if not killed. I wasn’t proud of the fact, and had never intentionally targeted a woman or, God forbid, a child, and for that reason I was happy that neither Arlene nor Carla could fall into my sights if things did come unstuck with their menfolk.
From my position I could see a ramshackle dwelling of sun-bleached boards and shingles, and beyond it further barn-like structures in equal disrepair. There was a stockade at the back, empty of animals, and then a mound of junk and debris comprised mainly of deteriorating mechanical implements, empty plastic sacks and steel drums. An ancient wagon rested up on blocks, but now it was little more than a disintegrating feature of the landscape. The Dodge pick-up was drawn up at the front of the house, telling me that at least one of the Logans was at home, but there was no movement or sound to give them away.
Crouching behind a boulder that reminded me of a lion’s head, albeit ten times the size, I downed some more water. Then, with half of it now gone, I replaced the container in my rucksack, but propped it in the shade in the lee of the rock. I’d made myself a promise earlier that I wasn’t going to spend all day in this furnace but if I just stayed put and watched for an obvious sign that my suspicions about the family were true I could be in for a long vigil. For all I knew they were sleeping through the hottest part of the day, and I wasn’t prepared to wait them out. Before setting off, I made another inspection of my weapon. Having already loaded my pockets with spare ammo, I was good to go.
That wasn’t exactly true. I should let someone know where I was, because with the exception of Scott and his buddies, no one did, and I didn’t trust them to race to my rescue if anything bad happened. I took out my cellphone, intent on dropping Rink a text message, but true to form there was no signal. At least I tried. I pocketed the phone again.
I was on my own but it wasn’t the first time. Having Rink or Harvey at my back would have been a bonus if indeed this was a hot zone, but I hadn’t confirmed that yet. I slipped out of concealment, and staying low and utilising the natural hiding places that the landscape offered, I headed for the homestead and into another desperate chapter of my life.
13
Long before the rope gave way, the sharp burr of tin plate blunted, caught in the strands and snapped off. Frustrated, Jay screamed into the ground, but would only allow an almost silent exclamation by pinching the sound in her throat. Though she rocked back and forth, straining against her ropes, she could not snap them. It was a pointless waste of energy, as was the way of anger. Better that she concentrate on finding some other protrusion to snag the rope on. It was a difficult search to undertake, bound the way she was, but by twisting and contorting and throwing one scapula almost out of joint, she discovered the protruding head of a bolt where the planks had been bolted together. No sharp point, but the threads were abrasive against her thumb. She had to lie on her side, hook the rope over the bolt then hurl all her weight towards the head of the grave. Not once, but over and over again. Jay set to a rhythm, jack-knifing open and closed, pulling at the strands of the rope with each jerk of her body. It was tortuous, but she felt a sense of impending success and set to the task with new fervour. If her captors suddenly threw back the lid of the coffin they’d probably think she was having a fit.
Exhaustion beat her.
Jay collapsed on her chest, sucking in air that felt as thick as oil. Pain flooded her arms and shoulders, burning like fire as her muscles cramped. She sobbed as she writhed against the agony.
This was hell.
Yet compared with the terror and humiliation and God knows what else Nicole and the girl were enduring it was nothing.
Ignoring the pain and the rebellion fronted by her cramping muscles, she went at the bolt again, ripping harder and harder. When she halted this time, gasping and sweating bucketfuls, she could feel that the rope had frayed and was almost eaten through. With a surge of energy she yanked her hands wider and felt the rope weaken. There was no sudden loosening, but she could feel each strand pulling free. She uttered a wordless groan, snatched at the free lengths of rope and applied concentrated effort on one point. Her arms sprang apart, the knuckles of one hand tearing as they struck the old bolt, but she didn’t care. She was free!
