Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 12 - Murder Among Friends (21 page)

I eased along the rim until it gave way to layers of granite slabs snapped in two as tectonic plates shifted in millennia past, forming a stairway of sorts. I climbed down the
granite to the base of the drop-off, where I discovered a slight
overhang. The ground was covered with dry pine needles
and pinecones.

It wasn’t much, but it was more than I’d had two minutes
earlier.

Quickly, before the light was gone, I scraped a small
clearing at the base of the rocky overhang and laid the beginnings of a small fire using dry needles and pith I’d dug
from some dead branches with my pocket knife.

Then I waited. From time to time, a voice drifted down,
but soon darkness spread over the mountains and the voices
faded away. I removed the fire starter from my zipper tab
and opened it. Shivering against the cold, I waited until it
was pitch black. In the darkness, I hit the striker several
times against the steel rod of the fire starter. Brilliant sparks
flew, and within moments, I had a tiny ember smoldering in
my tiny pile.

I fed it more needles and a couple of pinecones, but they
burned so quickly and so hot, I brushed them from the
small fire, fearful Hymie or one of his goons might smell
the smoke.

Later that night, huddled over my small fire and nibbling
on some dried apples and apricots, I assessed my situation.

I didn’t figure Hymie and his goons were out searching
for me at night. I had no idea if or how badly the vehicles
were damaged from bouncing down the rocky slope. Unfortunately for me, both vehicles appeared to have come to
a halt on the road, which meant, if they were drivable, they
were probably at the cabin at this very moment.

At first, I thought about going back to see, but I knew
that would be impossible. I’d spent cloudy nights in forests
and was well aware that without star- or moonlight, forests
are darker than the inside of a cow.

No, I told myself, opening a package of organic mangoes.
Wait until first light, and then head on down the mountain.

Huddling around the small fire, I slept in bits and pieces
that night. I dozed in those witching hours of early morning, only to jerk awake at a foreign sound. I strained to listen. I
peered up the slope just as the twin beams of headlights
swung over my head and disappeared.

For a moment, I started to shout with joy but then I realized that the road above was the private one, and any vehicles there would belong to Hymie and his goons.

Moments later, car doors slammed and flashlights
punched holes in the darkness on the mountain slope.

Fighting against panic, I started to break up my small
fire, and then hesitated. Instead, I added several branches
and pinecones to the fire. It blazed and, I hoped, would send
enough smoke up the slope to draw Hymie down while I
headed across the slope and attempted to come in behind
the three. With luck, maybe I could steal a car. That was my
only way out.

From high above, a voice shouted,“I smell smoke”

Hymie growled, “Shut up, dummy”

For the next several minutes, hands extended, I had to feel
my way along. Behind and above, I spotted a single flashlight. I crouched behind a Volkswagen-sized boulder as the
light passed almost a hundred yards north of me, heading
for the source of the smoke.

By now, the first vestiges of light filtered through the pine
and fir. Moving silently, I eased up the slope. Far above, I
spotted the road. I grinned. Just another few minutes. I’d
hotwired enough ignitions that I wasn’t worried about
starting either the Cadillac or the Ford. I could do either in
mere seconds and be on my way.

I paused behind a pine just below the edge of the narrow
road. A slow grin played over my lips. Hymie’s Cadillac sat
parked fifty yards up the road. I hesitated momentarily, re membering the Cadillac parked in the Zuider Zee parking
lot. Hymie’s was champagne colored, but the garish neon
lights at the Zuider Zee prevented me from discerning the
color except that the color was light.

Peering over my shoulder into the darkness of the forest
below, I scrambled over the edge of the road and, dropping
into a crouch, scurried to the far side, hoping to stay out of
sight of those below. I hurried to the Cadillac, pausing before I touched it.

Hymie might not be a Rhodes Scholar, but the education
he’d picked up in his line of work was just as comprehensive. There was no question in my mind that he had a PhD
in CYTAAT, Covering Your Tail at All Times. So obviously
he would have locked the Cadillac and set the alarm.

I grinned to myself when I peered through the window,
studying the interior of the plush vehicle. I’d been right.
The vehicle was locked tighter than my old man could hold
on to a beer bottle.

If I’d had an ignition popper, I could smash the window,
yank out the ignition, and wire it in less than fifteen seconds. But I didn’t have the popper, so that meant I had to
take the wiring from below the dash, another forty-five seconds at least.

Overhead a bird circled. I paid it no attention. Instead, I
searched for a rock that would take care of the window. Suddenly, almost in my face, a brown and white bird about a
foot long shot out from under one of the stones and zoomed
past me.

With a startled shout, I jumped back. Seconds later, the
frightened bird slammed into the Cadillac, and the emergency alarm began shrieking.

Shouts came from far below.

Muttering a heartfelt curse, I bolted down the road,
heading for the forest beyond the switchback, hoping to
find some type of alpine topography to camouflage my
footprints.

Once I reached the edge of the field of boulders and
stepped into the forest, I paused and glanced back. None of
the three had appeared yet on the road. Above me to my left
rose a granite ledge forty feet high and extending a few hundred yards straight ahead to where it made a gradual curve
back to the right, ending at the steep slope of an adjoining
ridge.

Between me and the ridge lay a blanket of pristine snow
covering a small valley almost three hundred yards wide. In
the middle, there appeared to be a narrow depression running the length of the valley and disappearing into the forest below. I started across, and then hesitated, realizing my
tracks would be obvious.

Picking my way around patches of snow, I angled back
to the almost perpendicular walls of the ledge and, using
fissures and chimneys in the face of the rock, scrambled to
the top, where I quickly made my way to the far ridge, leaving no tracks on the windblown granite.

Pausing on the far ridge to gather my sense of direction,
I guessed the main road was beyond and below the far side
of the ridge on which I stood.

Suddenly, a distant voice jerked me around.

There, just emerging from the forest below, some three
hundred yards distant, stood Maury Erickson, shaking a bony fist and, in his other hand, waving that .44 magnum at
me.

I bolted for the crest of the ridge. At the same time, a distant pop echoed through the cold, frigid air, and off to my
right, twenty yards or so, a small boulder exploded as a 240
grain slug impacted. I didn’t even try to imagine what one
of those slugs would do to me.

Hastily, I ducked behind a thick pine and peered around
the side, the scaly bark scratching my face. Alex had appeared and seemed to be trying to hold Maury back. I
couldn’t help noticing they still wore their lightweight
clothing. Stupid, I muttered to myself. Of course, why
should they have worried? They figured they’d take care of
me posthaste and then beat it out of here.

As I watched, the sepulcher figure jerked away from Alex
and started across the snow-covered basin toward me.

Glancing over my shoulder, I searched for a larger tree.
Although he was three hundred yards away, and handguns
are notorious for inaccuracy at such a distance, there was always the possibility of chance, and lately, my chances had
seemed to be running downhill.

On the slope about thirty feet above me was a thick-boled
pine, thick enough to stop the seven or eight hundred
foot-pounds of energy of the .44 slug. I glanced back at
Maury.

He was bounding across the untouched snow in great
leaps, and then one moment he was there, and the next,
he’d vanished, deep into the snow.

All I heard was a drawn-out scream of terror.

Alex and Hymie rushed to him.

I didn’t hang around. Five minutes later, I paused on
the crest of the ridge and looked back down. Hymie, whose
vehement cursing echoed through the jagged ridges of the Sangre de Cristos, was peering down the hole while Alex
struggled through the snow back to the Cadillac.

Without hesitation, I scrambled down the far side of the
slope. At the base of the ridge, I came upon the crumbling
cabin that marked the turnoff from the secondary road onto
the private drive to the log house.

I thought about holing up inside, but quickly dismissed
the idea. Not even those three were so stupid they wouldn’t
search it. I studied the cabin a few moments longer, thinking perhaps there might be something inside I could use.

I peered into the shadows of the long-deserted cabin. In
every corner, I spotted pack rat nests. Half a dozen bunks
lined the log walls, each long since ripped apart, but the
one thing that remained were the ropes that supported the
double-blanket mattresses the old-timers had used.

The ropes were tied in a checkerboard pattern, and I realized I could put them to use without a great deal of trouble or time, one of which I had too much of, and the other
not enough.

Every Louisiana boy from the bayou prairies carries a
pocketknife from the time he can walk. Mine was a threeblade Case given to me by my grand-pere when I was eight.
Of course, over thirty years of use had diminished the size of
the blades. Mine weren’t as thick as they had once been, but
I kept them sharp enough to shave.

Quickly, I slashed the ropes free, threw them over my
shoulder, and then vanished back into the forest, a crazy,
insane idea in my head, which, if it succeeded, just might
help me steal one of the cars. I shook my head and cautioned myself. The smart thing to do, Tony, is to forget all
this. Head down the road. You hear a car coming, hide!

But I couldn’t help remembering how Maury and the
others were dressed, still in their lightweight clothes. They couldn’t stay out in this weather too long without suffering
frostbite. Me, I was dressed for it.

So, I convinced myself that if my zany idea worked, then
I might live to prove that Carl Edwards was innocent and
that he had been murdered by Frank Cooper and his thugs.

Well before the light faded from the forest, I’d found a
cozy little niche deep in a fissure in the granite slabs comprising the great mountains.

Building a small torch, I explored several feet back into
the opening, and to my surprise, stumbled onto a small
chamber with the remnants of an ancient fire in one corner.
For a moment, an eerie feeling swept over me as if somehow
I had been caught up in a time warp primeval as the ages.

I built my fire in the same spot and later, from time to time
as I cut and pieced the rope, I’d glance at the fire and wonder
who might have sat exactly in my spot centuries earlier.

It was midnight by the time I finished. I sat back, nibbled
on some dried apples, retrieved a couple of handfuls of
snow from outside to wash it down, and leaned back, enjoying the warmth and security the fire offered.

While I wasn’t exactly sure of my plans, I knew I was
going to carry the fight to them. After all, Maury might be
out of it. I had no idea what had happened to him. He had
been there one moment, and the next he was gone. With
any luck, I told myself, he’d dropped down into a tenthousand-foot crevice.

I chuckled. My luck should be so good.

As soon as I could see enough to move through the forest
the next morning, I shouldered my ropes and headed in the
general direction of the log house at the top of the mountain.