Devil's Run (13 page)

“Couple of grand should
see me through.”

He went back to the
safe, pulled out two stacks of wrapped bills. “Here's four.” He tossed them to
me.

I caught both stacks and
tucked them in the side pocket of my bag. The Rolex was in there. I took it out
and threw it to him.

“Use this for
collateral.”

“That's not necessary.”
He gave the Rolex a quick look. “I know this watch. I sold it to her. And I
know you're good for the money.”

“Might not be my call.
I'd feel better knowing at least some of this is covered.”

He nodded his
understanding. “It'll be here when you get back.”

“Good.” I drained my
beer and tossed the bottle in the trash. “Time to go.”

“The one bedroom is
empty right now,” he said. Carl owned the building and rented four apartments.
“You should stay the night and get some rest.”

“No. You're a known
associate. If they cloned my phone they have your info. When they realize I’m
not on that train they’ll start looking elsewhere.” I shook the car keys. “You
sure this thing is in good shape? I need to do some traveling.”

“Nick, are you sure this
is the right play? You’ve been gone a long time.”

“Say what you mean,
Carl.”

“Are you sure you're
still good enough?”

“I guess we'll find
out.”

The drive to Colorado
was uneventful. I avoided motels by sleeping in the truck, wrapped in a very
warm sleeping bag I picked up at the Bass Pro Shop in Harrisburg. My only long
break was a day in Lincoln, Nebraska where I spent a few hours at a public
library researching the town of Purchas, the Spanish Mountain ski resort, and
The Retreat at Diablo Canyon. Remembering Moyshe’s advice, I printed out all my
research.

When I arrived in
Colorado, instead of heading directly to Purchas, I detoured around and
approached from the Northwest, looking for a cheap motel with a vacancy. I
found a rundown motor court that looked like it hadn’t been painted since the
Depression and probably rented rooms by the hour in the off season. The clerk
was suitably shifty, and we negotiated a cash price for four days. I registered
as David Somerset, paying up front, along with a hefty tip to him for not
running my credit card. I fed him a story about hiding out from my ex-wife, and
he pretended to believe it. He did insist on taking an imprint of the American
Express card as protection against room damage, using one of those old sliding
gizmos with the paper slips I didn’t think existed anymore.

The room was sort of
clean and indifferently furnished with a small bureau, a worn easy chair, and a
double bed. Being a New York City resident, I immediately did a bed bug check,
pulling back the sheets to look at each corner of the mattress for signs of
blood, and yanking the faux headboard off the wall to check there as well. The
bathroom looked like a gas station washroom, with the addition of a moldy
shower stall. Well, anonymity has its price. Exhausted, I stretched out on the
bed and was soon fast asleep.

Early the next morning,
before heading into Purchas, I took my research material and spread it out on
the bed. In maps and satellite photos, the town of Purchas was dominated by the
sprawling Spanish Mountain ski resort, just west of downtown. From above, the trails
fanned out from the peak towards the main lodge and town. The Retreat was just
outside the ski area boundary on the remote western shoulder of Spanish
Mountain, perched at the head of Diablo Canyon. Below The Retreat was the ghost
town. Just west of Diablo Canyon’s mouth, in a broad valley, was a small
airfield.

The few photographs I’d
found of The Retreat showed it to be surprisingly retro looking for such a
recent building. I had expected ultramodern architecture, but the ‘L’ shaped
structure owed more to a French chateau, with massive stone walls and a gabled
roof. The side facing away from the canyon had a flagstone patio above a broad
lawn. There were three outlying structures: a helipad, a small A-frame near the
chairlift, and an odd looking structure that, at least in satellite photos,
resembled one of those old Airstream motor homes.

I studied for an hour.
Before I left the room, I hid everything but the Amex and driver’s license
behind a vent in the bathroom. The little voice told me not to have them with
me, just in case. My clothes I kept in the bag and took with me in the truck.
If I had to run, I’d rather have fresh underwear than satellite photos.

I was hoping to get a
first person glimpse of Diablo Canyon and The Retreat on the way into Purchas,
but that goal was thwarted by the foothills. The closest I got to The Retreat
was the entrance, a massive stone arch set back from the main road. A brass
plaque on the green metal gate announced that this was private property and
trespassing would not be tolerated. I pulled up close to the gate long enough
to read the sign. A security camera swiveled to follow me.

Continuing on, I saw
signs of recent and sustained prosperity, most prominently a housing tract that
was just a year or two old, judging from the height of the saplings on snow
covered lawns. A billboard announced a second phase beginning in the spring.
Closer to town, I passed the sprawling warehouse of a beer distributor and
another residential area that was older and less tidy looking than the first
one. Near the town center the streets widened and straightened, and there was
an increasing similarity in signage and decor. Fluttering triangular flags
beckoned passersby to new restaurants and stores. The prosperity was most
noticeable at Dave’s Hardware, no doubt a prime beneficiary of the construction
boom. A massive new addition dwarfed the original building.

The center of town was
essentially an upscale mall disguised as a municipality. Every street was lined
with high end chain stores and what I am sure were billed as “unique
boutiques”. In case you forgot you were Out West, the sidewalks were raised
wooden platforms and the storefronts Hollywood western, right down to the faux
weathered wood. Business signage was apparently required to be a stylized
riding boot, cowboy hat, or some other prairie icon. I assumed a stuntman show
happened on the half hour.

Main Street swept uphill
towards the Spanish Mountain ski area and was actually a pedestrian mall. A
pair of trolleys ran along a park like strip in the center, shuttling tourists
and shoppers between the resort at one end and a four story parking structure
at the other. Looking up the mountain I could see the roofs of big vacation
homes poking up here and there above the trees to the right of the main lodge.

It took me nearly
fifteen minutes to navigate the choked network of car friendly streets
surrounding the pedestrian only area. I left my truck in the parking structure
and, after a brief look around, headed for the town library. It was a small
building that looked like an old stone jail house. In front was a plaque
commemorating trapper and Indian scout Sam Purchas, the town’s namesake.

Inside the look was
institutional modern with no personality. Five computers sat side by side on a
table against the wall, each one paired with a swivel stool. Only two were
occupied.

An older woman with a
pinched, wind worn face was scanning a pile of returned books at the checkout
desk, bending and scanning, bending and scanning, the half frame glasses dangling
from her neck beating the frolicking reindeer on her sweater. She paused to
look at me suspiciously.

“Good morning.” I said,
in my most pleasant voice.

“Morning. How can I help
you?”

“I’m looking for back
issues of the local paper.”

“Shhhh.” She put her
finger to her lips.

“Sorry,” I said, close
to a whisper. “I’m looking for back issues of the local paper.”

“Why?”

We stared at each other
for a moment. “So I can read them.”

“No call to be a
smartass.” She pointed. “We don’t keep them, too much paper. They’re scanned.
You’ll find them on the computer.” She returned to her task.

I went to an unused
computer and jiggled the mouse. When it woke up it asked for a password. I went
back to the desk.

“It’s asking for a
password.”

“So?”

“So what is the password?”

“Ain’t you a member?”

“No, I ain’t.”

“Gotta be a member to
use the computer.”

“This is a public
library, isn’t it?”

“Don’t make the rules.
You want to use the computer, you need a member card.”

“Okay. How do I get
one?”

She yanked a piece of paper
from a nearby tray and slapped it on the counter. “Fill it out, bring it back.
Pens over there.” She pointed at a table near the door.

“Thank you.”

I went to the table as
directed and filled out the form, using the Somerset name and the address of the
Spanish Mountain resort. When I returned to the counter, it was as if she had
never seen me before.

“May I help you?”

I handed her the form.
“I wanted to complete my registration.”

After a long and careful
examination, she looked up at me. “Identification?”

“Certainly.” I handed
her the Somerset driver’s license.

She looked back and
forth from the picture to me. Finally, she handed it back.

“I’ll input the
information in a few minutes. Your card will be ready in about a half hour.”
She pointed at a squat little printer sitting next to her computer.

“Wonderful. In the
meantime, may I use a computer?”

Despite the use of my
nicest voice, she looked as if I’d asked her to shovel my driveway. She
snatched a pink Post It and scribbled a number on it.

“Here’s a temporary
password.” She handed it to me. “Use any one that’s open.” She fixed me with a
stern look. “No porn!”

I knew I should have
shaved that morning. “Yes, Ma’am. Thank you.”

There were only three
stories about the fire and I learned less than I already knew. Indeed, after a
day of speculation and conflicting eyewitness reports, the stories took on a
certainty that toed the party line of an industrial accident. On the fourth
day, the fire had ceased to be newsworthy.

The story on Madigan’s
accident was more detailed. LOCAL ENTREPRENEUR MOURNED read the headline.
Patrick Madigan, age 29, was killed when his SUV skidded off a narrow, winding
road and plunged fifty feet into something called Jasper Creek Gorge. A
Colorado State Patrol spokesperson said he apparently fell asleep at the wheel.
That hypothesis was bolstered by the absence of skid marks and a clean tox
screen.

Madigan was well-known
in Purchas, more for his sunny disposition and boundless energy than for any
particular business success. His string of failures included a comic book
store, a wedding video service, and a DVD rental shop. His final venture had
been a coffee shop and internet cafe. I pictured him as one of those eternally
optimistic, would-be entrepreneurs riding the crest of each new craze, certain
theirs is a surefire business idea. Few of them make it, though. If it really
is a viable business idea, the boys with the hard eyes and MBAs roll over the
pioneers to the big payday. Several years back a place where you could buy a
cup of coffee and rent a computer for a few minutes must have sounded like a
sure winner, but now even McDonalds offered free wifi and everyone carried a
computer in their pocket. Not to mention every fifth store out on Main Street
was a Starbucks.

Two photographs
accompanied the story. One showed some state police officers and a local cop in
deep discussion. The caption read: Purchas PD Officer Myron Schecter confers
with Sheriff’s investigators at the scene of the tragedy. The second picture
was a shot of Madigan’s SUV, half submerged in the fast moving water of a
boulder strewn creek. The portion of the bank visible in the background was
steep and rocky, rising beyond the confines of the picture.

The funeral was a front
page story two days later. There was a photo of the widow, her face wet with
tears and strained with grief. I wondered if they had kids and went back to the
story. Two children, it said, ages seven and five. That was shitty. And things
just went downhill from there. While half the town was at the funeral, their
home was burglarized.

Just for shits and
giggles, I searched for other stories about suspicious deaths. Nothing fit what
I was looking for. The only odd note was a suspected illegal alien found frozen
to death by some teenagers on a snowshoe hike, not the sort of thing I was
looking for.

I went over to the desk.
The woman looked up, annoyed.

“Card’s not ready yet.”

“Oh, that’s fine. I’ll
come back for it.” Her eyes narrowed in disbelief. “I need a cup of coffee,” I
said, by way of explanation. “Can you tell me where the Log Inn Coffee Shop
is?”

“That place is just
about closed. Got a Starbucks across the street.”

“I’d like to try it.”

She sighed and reached
beneath the desk, producing a cartoonish, placemat-sized map of the town,
festooned with advertisements. She pointed out the location. “Here, at B6.”

“Thank you, you’ve been
a tremendous help.”

The map took me to a
narrow side street two blocks off Main that almost qualified as an alley. Things
were more normal looking here, but not too normal. The tentacles of the
building code were clearly working their way through the entire town, no doubt
rigidly enforced by the same sort of people who worked the front desk at the
local library.

The Log Inn – get it? –
Internet Café and Coffee Shop was squirreled away under a gallery of Native
American art that was probably painted by inmates in a Chinese prison. A series
of rough hewn stone steps in a brick lined stairwell led down to the entrance.
Taped to the door, just above the standard blue and white ‘Open’ sign, was a
larger ‘Space Available’ sign that provided a phone number and web address for
interested parties.

A bell tinkled
cheerfully as I entered, completely at odds with the somber mood of the place.
The rough wooden floor needed a sweeping, and the air had the stale smell of
impending failure. A tired looking coffee bar stood to my right. On my left
were three rows of rectangular folding tables, all empty. Discarded wires and
unused surge protectors sat on the floor at regular intervals in front of the
tables.

I recognized Mrs.
Madigan from the newspaper photo. She was behind the coffee bar looking tired
and careworn, but she managed a fairly bright smile.

 “Hi, can I help
you?”

“Sure. Large black
coffee if you don’t mind.”

“Kenyan okay? I just
finished brewing it.”

“Perfect.”

“Coming right up.”

I wandered around the
shop while she fetched the coffee. Near the abandoned computer tables was a
slightly crumpled cardboard box filled with magazines and flyers. I stiffened
when I recognized one of them. It was an old copy of Earth First! Journal. I
knelt down and fished around, finding a couple of more issues, mixed in with
copies of Outside and Men’s Fitness.

Mrs. Madigan set a
porcelain mug on the counter. “Don’t get much business anymore, so we only brew
one kind at a time.”

“Thank you,” I said. I
stood up, still holding the copy of Epstein’s magazine.

“You can have any of
those you want. Just going to throw them out.”

“Thank you.” I walked
over to the counter.

“You sure you don’t want
any cream or sugar?”

“No, I like it black.”

She smiled wanly. “Never
understood how someone could drink coffee black.”

“It’s because I was
raised a Catholic.”

That threw her. “I never
heard Catholics can’t use cream and sugar.”

“Of course they can. I
meant me specifically.” I took a sip. “When I was in college I gave up cream
and sugar for Lent. Started out hating it, but forty days later cream and sugar
just didn’t taste right anymore.”

“Guess a person can get
used to anything,” she said, more to herself than me. A thought struck her.
“What do you give up for Lent these days?”

“Lent.” I raised my
coffee cup. “Excellent coffee. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she
said.

“What do I owe?”

“Two fifty.”

I felt for this woman,
who’d lost a husband and now a business. She had probably supported Madigan in
every losing endeavor, cheering him on while silently praying for the day he’d
grow up and get a steady job. Now he was dead, and she was tidying up the
unintended wreckage. I fished a hundred dollar bill out of the dwindling roll
in my pocket and put it on the counter.

She looked at it and
shook her head. “I’m sorry, I can’t break that.”

“You don’t have to.
We’re all sorry about Patrick, and about you losing the business.”

“Thank you.” She
searched my face, trying to place me. Then she looked back at the bill. “You
really don’t have to,” she said, without much conviction.

“I want to. For the
boys.”

She looked at my face
intently before giving up, deciding she must have forgotten me. “Okay.” She
slid it along the counter top and slipped it into her apron.

 “What are you
going to do now?” I said. “I mean, now that the business is closing.”

She crossed her arms and
leaned them on the counter. “The boys and I are moving in with my parents in
San Diego. My Dad thinks he can get me a job in the Navy Exchange.”

“Nice town. It will be
good for the boys.” I looked around. “What are you going to do with the
equipment?”

She shrugged. “As you
can see, I sold the computers. For the rest of this, that depends. I’ll
probably consign it. In Denver, I guess. Some of it I’ve already put up on
eBay. Rent’s paid up through the month; I’m just working because I don’t know
what else to do.”

“How much time to go on
the lease.”

“Seven months, but don’t
worry. If no one takes the place, landlord says he’ll forgive the balance.”

“That’s mighty nice of
him.”

“It’s not him. Mr. Kohl
stopped by when he heard.”

“Mr. Kohl?”

“Very nice old man, runs
the private resort.”

“The Retreat?”

“Yes, that’s right. I
saw him talking to Mr. Runyon, my landlord.” She nodded towards the door.
“Outside, after he visited.” She looked at me oddly. “You don’t know about
him?”

“I don’t mix much with
the wealthy. Hey,” I said, as if suddenly remembering, “what about the cameras
and stuff from the wedding business? Do you still have that? I might be
interested.”

“Sorry,” she said,
“everything was taken in the robbery.”

“Oh, God! I’m so sorry.
I forgot about that.” I shook my head. “He was so proud of that camera.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling.
“It cost a fortune. HD hard drive or something like that.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Great
camera.”

“More than we could
afford.”

I sipped some more
coffee. “What was he doing over in Jasper Creek anyway?”

“I don’t know. He was
running all sorts of errands that week.” She sighed. “Patrick had so many
interests, and he was so preoccupied that week.”

I leaned in and lowered
my voice. “Did it have anything to do with Roger?”

She looked at me
surprised and I held up the magazine.

“Oh,” she said, “oh,” as
if in sudden understanding. “You’re…?” When I nodded she said “Roger was here
the week before.”

“Do you know why?”

“No. Patrick was very
secretive about his activism.”

“Did Patrick seem
different after the fire?”

“Yes,” she leaned on the
counter. “He was very skittish. How did you know?”

“Did you see Roger that
day?”

“No,” she said, shaking
her head. “Patrick said he was gone.”

“Was there anyone else
in town Roger might have stayed with?”

“No, he always stayed
with us when he was in town.” Her eyes welled up, and her hand went to her
mouth.

Nice job, Nick. Make the
widow cry. “Look,” I said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dredge it all up.” I
drained my coffee and set the empty cup on the counter. “Thank you for your
time.”

“Oh, no, thank you,
Mister..?”

“You are more than
welcome. I wish you and the boys all the best.”