CREEPERS (2 page)

Chapter 3

Seven miles from the Fletcher place, down a bad stretch of gravel road, was the Rainsford Ranch—home to a hundred-year-old adobe, a barn that slanted in the direction of the prevailing winds, a water storage tank, and a shiny metal pumping station.

But the thing that got everyone’s attention, the most astonishing feature of the ranch, were the date palms. Twenty acres of them, row after perfect row. Just in case any would-be visitor was unsure of what they were seeing, a hand-painted sign on a plank nailed between two gateposts read: Rainsford Ranch, Future Home of the World’s First Seedless Date.

Sam Rainsford maneuvered the deuce and a half army truck, a 6x6 troop carrier that had been stripped of its benches and converted to a water tanker, through a section of the orchard. Sam loved the date palms—how it felt to be right in the middle of them—like a dream, or being lost in some exotic land. They were Deglet Noor dates, a variety prized for their plentiful, semisweet fruit and newfound antioxidant properties. They were especially well suited to the arid climate of California’s low deserts.

Sam wrestled the wheel, threading the tanker between a row of palms and out onto a dirt siding, letting the truck’s tires drop into two deep ruts that ran down its center. He reached over to the glove box, opened it, and pulled out an old Polaroid snapshot. It was a picture of his family at Lake Tahoe, all of them lined up along a boat dock, ready to dive into the lake on his dad’s signal.

As the truck settled into the twin grooves, he instinctively added a little gas and loosened his grip on the wheel. With the truck guiding itself now, he relaxed and allowed his mind to wander. He began to think about his life—and how he’d come to the desert.

Three years ago during a family vacation, while traveling down a Los Angeles freeway, his parents and baby sister, Alex, were all killed trying to avoid a drunk college student who was going the wrong way. The motor home they were riding in was forced to make an impossible maneuver as it swerved to avoid the kid’s BMW. The motor home skidded sideways, hit a railing, and rolled down a hundred-foot embankment, bursting into flames before it reached the bottom. No one inside had a chance. They were all dead by the time the paramedics arrived.

The student was, of course, completely unscathed—except for the head-splitting hangover that would arrive in the morning. It was made worse by the fact that Sam’s dad had just retired after forty years of guiding commercial jets safely in and out of LAX airspace. This was to have been their first trip in the family’s new motor home.

Besides missing them everyday, the thing he couldn’t get over was how permanent death was. Open and shut. Here… and then suddenly gone forever. All those things left unsaid. And now no chance of ever saying them.

It was going to take a lot more time before he could let them go. To say goodbye. That was why, after the accident, Sam left the construction company he’d help start and came to the desert, to this farm. It was his last connection to his family. His dad had loved the orchard—and now Sam, too, had fallen in love with the place. There was something about the desert… a timelessness. That, and the solitude—no next-door neighbors. All Sam really wanted was to be left alone.

He looked at the photograph one last time, then returned it to the glove box.

Chapter 4

Thirty years ago Sam’s dad, Jack Rainsford, had bought the place from his boss, Bucky White—whose wife, as it turned out, was not a fan of the desert, or of date palms for that matter. After just one visit, she refused to return, making it clear she would have nothing more to do with the place.

Bucky was heartbroken. His private dream of retiring to the desert and growing dates had been dashed forever on the rocks of his wife’s discontent. Actually, his wife had said, “
Fine
,” he could go. Only, as she made it abundantly clear—he’d be going without
her
.

It was a tough choice, touch and go for a short while. But in the end, Bucky capitulated, not wanting to break up the family over a piece of land, and he agreed to sell the place. In fact, Bucky already had a new plan. What he’d do was take the money from the sale and buy a yacht—a big-ass cruiser. And if his wife didn’t want to go to sea, so be it.

After deciding to sell, Bucky created a professional-looking flyer with a color picture of the date palms lit by the morning sun. Below the photograph was a short descriptive paragraph listing the orchard’s assets.

When Jack Rainsford took his morning coffee break and saw the flyer taped to the water cooler, it was all over. It was love at first sight. Something about all those palms lit by that golden desert light, and all that open space surrounding them…

A man could have his own private oasis!

Anyway, as they say, one look was all it took. Jack had to have it. And he couldn’t believe the price! Bucky was almost
giving
the place away. Twenty acres for less than what he’d paid for a small tract home thirty years ago.

The deal was struck that very day. Bucky allowed that Jack could put twenty percent down and then pay off the rest over the next ten years. Before they shook hands, Bucky wondered if maybe Jack should check with his wife first, telling him it had been his
personal
experience that some women didn’t care for surprises. But Jack quickly pooh-poohed the idea, waving his hand in the air, and said he was positive she’d love it as much as he did.

It was a no-brainer, she loved to garden.

As fate would have it, the curse of the date orchard was paid forward. After just two trips to the Rainsford Ranch, his wife had had enough. Whereas his dad had found living in the primitive adobe quaint and adventurous, his mother had declared the structure, not deigning to use the word house, unsanitary, dangerous—unfit for anything but the lowest of vermin. She pronounced the orchard, and the entire town of Furnace Valley, to be a “
Blasted, godforsaken hellhole!
”

Undeterred by his wife’s rejection, Jack had refused to let the place go. For the next couple of years, he spent much of his free time—weekends, mostly—tending to the orchard and soaking up the stark beauty of Furnace Valley and the surrounding hills. He never tired of it.

* * *

Sam let the truck roll to a stop as he thought about the first time his dad had brought him to the ranch to “camp out.” He was only six years old, but he could still remember his first time running through the palms. The cool, filtered shade. The dry rattle of dusty fronds. And, most of all—the sublime relief from the midday sun.

He lowered his head as tears brimmed in his eyes…

He was never going to stop missing them.

Chapter 5

Curley watched from just inside the barn as Sam rumbled up in the tanker, made a U-turn, and positioned the truck beneath the large water tank.

The truck door kicked open, and Sam let his six-foot-two frame slide out of the cab and drop to the ground. He scanned the compound, then faced the barn, cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Curley!”

Not waiting for a response, Sam moved to the water tank and started up a ladder that was welded to the side.

As he stepped onto a catwalk that ran along the top of the tank, he turned and yelled again. “Curley! Get your butt out here and help me fill the truck.”

A moment later the barn door swung open, and Curley clumped out into the daylight. He was dressed in dust-covered work clothes and a tattered John Deere cap that rode on the back of his bald head. The nickname “Curley” was given to him by the locals on account of the bushy red beard that covered most of his face.

Curley was a thirty-something Furnace Valley mystery. No one seemed to know where he’d come from—or, for that matter, how he’d gotten there. He’d just appeared one day in town, wandered out to Sam’s place, and never left.

He and Sam struck a deal. In exchange for chores around the ranch, Sam let Curley move into the tack room attached to the rear of the barn. Delighted, Curley seized on the offer and now spent most of his free time
upgrading
his new digs. What exactly Curley meant by upgrading, Sam had yet to figure out.

But it was clear Curley loved the place.

And Sam knew why.

All those palms.

“Okay, okay… I’m coming,” Curly waved, moving completely out of the barn’s shadow. “Jeez, Sam, where’s the fire?”

As Curley angled toward the truck, Sam did a double take when he noticed Curley’s boots. “What in the hell, Curley,” Sam said, pointing to the boots. “You been drinking?”

Curley looked down, staring at his scuffed Justin work boots. They had been laced up backwards—right on left, left on right—so the toes pointed comically outward.

After a moment he looked up and said, “Yeah, yeah, I know…” Then he stared down at the ground self-consciously and added, “You seen how I walk, Sam, all pigeon-toed like. Well, it come to me in a dream. A voice says, put them sonsabitches on backwards, Curley. Take a corrective action. Straighten things out.”

“Unbelievable,” Sam said, shaking his head.

“Yeah, pretty smart, huh?”

“No. Unbelievably
stupid
.”

“Oh, don’t say that… don’t say that, Sam.”

And then, without warning, directly behind Curley, a fat Mojave green rattlesnake warped out from beneath the barn and slithered towards his feet.

Chapter 6

Sam couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw the snake zero in on Curley. It was moving directly toward him at a good clip.

“Curley! Behind you! Rattlesnake!”

“Yeah, right Sam.” Curley hooked his thumbs in his pockets, rolled his eyes. “You must really think I’m stupid.”

Sam moved to the edge of the tank and in an urgent voice said, “Behind you, Curley.
Move!
”

Still not buying, Curley said, “You just want to see me jump forward and fall flat on my face.”

“Curley, look down. Look between your legs. Now!”

Sam watched as a little fear crept into Curley’s eyes. And then he saw a look that swept across his face that said,
Maybe Sam’s not joking
.

Curley swallowed, then slowly lowered his head until his eyes were staring at the toes of his boots. Then he carefully lifted his right foot—and there, only inches from the back of his legs, was a four-foot-long rattlesnake. Its tongue flicked in and out as it sized up one of Curley’s ankles.

Curley’s head snapped up. His mouth fell open. And, saucer-eyed, he leapt forward, took a few steps, but with the toes of his boots going in opposite directions, all he managed to do was fall and land flat on his face.

“Curley!” Sam yelled just as Blossom, a three-hundred-pound sow, came trotting around the side of the barn, shot over to the unsuspecting snake—and, with a couple of fancy moves, did a pig’s version of the Mexican hat dance, killing the snake and severing its head with her sharp hooves.

Blossom gave a victorious snort. She grabbed the snake in her mouth, violently shaking it back and forth—and then, with a flick of her head, sent it sailing through the air, landing in a ruined heap next to one of the tanker truck’s tires. Blossom snorted with delight, trotted over to Curley, and began slurping his face up one side and down the other.

“Blossom, no!” Curley protested, pushing up into a sitting position. “Blossom, now cut that out!”

“That pig hates snakes,” Sam said, breaking into laughter.

Curley shooed Blossom away, then climbed to his feet and dusted himself off. But it made little difference in his appearance. A cloud of dust just seemed to follow Curley around.

“Jeez, Sam, I thought you was kidding,” Curley said as he made his way to the truck.

“Yeah…” Sam answered flatly, then he lowered a pipe from the top of the water tank. “Now, if you think you can handle it, how about swinging that fill pipe over to the truck?”

“I can handle it, Jeez…” Curley protested. He grabbed a rope that hung from the end of the pipe and swung it towards the truck, positioning it directly over an open hatch at the top of the tank.

“Okay, let her rip.”

Sam spun a valve and water rumbled through the pipe, a moment later flooding out the end with a loud
whoosh
.

Curley, still clutching the rope, instinctively took a step back to avoid being splashed and tripped over his ill-fitting boots. As he fell to the ground, the fill pipe swung out from the truck and poured its contents directly across his face.

Chapter 7

A wedge of water kicked into the desert sky. There was a loud roar, and a speedboat towing a water skier shot down the center of the California Aqueduct, a four hundred and forty-four mile long, cement-lined river that runs north to south, supplying water to the thirsty metropolis of Los Angeles.

The water skier screamed with delight as he illegally skied along the aqueduct, carving its glassy surface at over forty miles per hour.

* * *

A couple of miles away, just out of view, a Honda Civic drove through the nothingness of California’s interior desert.

A hundred and five degrees on the asphalt.

Not a cloud in the sky.

The jumping off spot for
flyover country
, the elite’s name for anything other than the two coasts.

Behind the wheel of the Honda was 33-year-old Dr. Laura Beecham. She was on unpaid leave from her job heading up the botany department of the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles.

Not her dream job.

Not by a long shot.

What she really wanted to be doing was field work. Tramping around a Venezuelan rainforest, maybe. Or exploring some exotic volcanic crater in East Africa.

Before she went on leave, she had promised herself to redouble her efforts and start shopping her resume. She needed to find work in the private sector. That was where the juiciest overseas research opportunities existed—the chance for real achievement and advancement. She was going bonkers at the museum, and besides, there was nothing
divine
to her about living in the
City of Angels
.

As the midday sun hammered down, Laura let her eyes drift up to the horizon.
Wall-to-wall silica out there. And hot enough to make glass
. Her mind leapt right past the common term,
sand
, and spit out the scientific classification,
silica
She laughed and thought to herself,
What a nerd
.

But she sure didn’t look like one.

Laura reached up, pulled back her hair, then released it. A waterfall of thick chestnut locks spilled down around model-perfect cheekbones. She was tall and fit and had a swimmer’s body.

Only she didn’t swim.

Women that looked like her were born that way, the recipients of a genetic windfall. A bitter reality for the envious.

Other women of course.

Just another thing to overcome
, was how Laura thought about her looks.

Yes, it was nice to be attractive—but in her line of work, women that looked like her were usually married.

To the CEO.

They weren’t whip-smart botanists who dreamed of unlocking nature’s secrets, or maybe finding a cure for lymphoma in an undiscovered plant hidden in some remote rift valley.

Her unpaid leave was about taking some personal time. About tying up loose ends. About mending fences. About forgiveness—making some family peace—or at least trying to.

Family peace.

What a concept.