The Spider Thief (3 page)

Ahead, the road forked. One path led up the side of the mountain, along a stream. The other headed downhill, and if he remembered correctly, it eventually led to the highway. Neither was marked, but he knew where the uphill fork led. The ghost town.

Unlike most of the ghost towns that dotted the Rocky Mountains, this one was more or less intact, as far as he remembered. It was also the make-out spot for local kids. He had spent a lot of summer evenings there with Cleo, talking about how one day they’d get out, leave this town behind and never come back.

Moolah climbed up off the floor and sat on the black bench seat next to him, panting. The dog’s alert eyes surveyed the inside of the car. Ash pried one hand off the steering wheel for a moment to pat the dog.

He was about to take the right fork when he saw another cloud of dust coming up behind his. The rusted green pickup appeared in the side-view mirror, closing in fast.

If the truck had four-wheel drive, it would make better time on these roads. There was no way he could beat them to the pavement. They’d catch up first, or he’d slide into a ditch trying to outrun them. Either way, they’d get him.

He cranked the wheel and took the uphill fork, hoping to lose them in the ghost town. Amazingly, the Galaxie’s engine wound up without protest. Ash wondered how long that would last. The rough road followed the meandering stream, whose crystal-clear water flowed over noxious yellow silt, tailings from the old gold mine nearby.

He raced uphill, rounded a corner and bounced onto what was once the main street of the old town. A few windowless, roofless shells of buildings stood on either side, their wooden planks burned silver by the sun in some places and painted black by rot underneath.

Further down, the mostly intact saloon still stood, and far beyond, a wooden tower loomed over the far end of town. A chute ran out of sight behind a rusted chunk of machinery that bristled with rivets. In between, the road made a right-angle turn to a covered bridge that crossed a gulch, twenty feet deep. It was the only other way out of town.

Ash slowed as he rounded the turn. The bridge was anything but solid. As a teenager, he’d walked across it more times than he could count, but he’d never dreamed of taking a car through there. Sunlight shone down through holes in the bridge’s roof, giving a ghostly glow to the weather-beaten floor.

There had to be another way. Maybe he could ditch the car and take off on foot. Maybe hide in the saloon. Traces of painted letters still showed on its one remaining glass window. The boardwalk in front of it was missing half its planks. Trying to hide there would be hopeless, he realized.

The pickup crested the hill behind him, closing in, kicking up rocks from its tires. Salvador leaned out the window of the bouncing truck, pulling the assault weapon tight against his shoulder, aiming at the Galaxie.

Ash nailed the gas and headed for the bridge.

No way it would hold him. If one board gave out, he’d be dead. The car would plummet twenty feet to the rocky floor of the gulch, and that would be the end of it. But he’d rather take his chances with the bridge than with Andres and his tattooed killers.

The dark tunnel of the bridge loomed. Beyond, the dirt road continued through the grass and pine trees. He focused on that and centered the Galaxie’s wide nose between the wooden posts.

The darkness of the bridge swallowed him, punctuated by flashes of sunlight. The rumble of the engine echoed around him. A chorus of creaking wooden beams. Crackles, like firecrackers. The whole car bounced.

Ash’s stomach gave way as the bridge sagged beneath him. Moolah yelped in panic. They were only a car-length away from the far end. But it might as well have been a hundred miles.

He pushed the gas pedal to the floor. The weight of the car shifted back onto its haunches as it leaped forward.

The front tires dropped off the end of the bridge onto the dirt. A screaming sound pierced the air as the rear tires spun. The car tilted back as the bridge splintered beneath them.

He let off the gas. The tires slowed and grabbed, then kicked the car up onto solid ground. The Galaxie traveled a few yards and skidded to a halt diagonally across the dirt road. Behind him, the bridge toppled into the gulch, trailing planks and splintered posts. Dust billowed out around it as it fell.

On the far side of the gulch, the pickup’s wheels locked up. The truck slid toward the edge. The tires stopped just inches from the drop-off. Lazaro stuck his head out of the window, gaping down into the gulch.

Ash didn’t give them time to come to their senses. He kept driving, following the overgrown road through the scattered pine trees, trying to put as much distance as he could between him and the pickup trapped on the other side of the gulch.

He caught himself breathing so hard it made him dizzy. He fought to get himself under control, calm down, but he didn’t dare pull over. This was the only head start he had.

He tried to roll down the window for some air. The two chrome cranks confused him, until he discovered that the small one rotated the triangular vent window. He got both windows open, letting in a blast of fresh mountain air.

Moolah climbed over the seat into the back, then came up behind him and pressed his snout into the wind. The sheer delight in Moolah’s squinting face made Ash smile. He reached over and rubbed the dog’s head.

“Don’t worry, buddy. It’s all downhill from here.” It would be only a couple of miles to the county road. But beyond that, he had no idea what to do.

As they rattled along the dirt track, he finally started to relax behind the big steering wheel. The car floated along in a way that hypnotized him, as if the Galaxie were steering him, instead of the other way around.

Without warning, the engine stumbled, shooting a cold jolt of panic through him. He looked over the old dashboard, but there was nothing that could tell him what was wrong: no tachometer, no check-engine light, nothing.

Then he spotted the gas gauge, where the needle hovered over the big white E.

Empty

Ash nursed the engine down the long dusty trail to the cracked blacktop road. The Galaxie kept running, but it shuddered and burred at him all the way up the next rise. Once they were over the top, he put it in neutral and coasted down the steep mountain road, eyes wide for any sign of the gunmen.

By the time the welcome red sign of a Conoco station peeked into view, he was pumping the gas pedal to keep the Galaxie from stalling. Just as he started to make a left into the station, the engine finally quit, stranding him in the middle of the road.

As the car slowed on the gentle incline, he hopped out. Pushing, groaning, his back deep into it, he muscled the car across the double yellow lines. It started to pick up speed again on the gradual slope down into the station.

Ash climbed back into the silent car, slammed the door, and realized that he couldn’t steer anymore. The steering wheel that had turned effortlessly while the engine was running was now an immovable rock. The brake pedal, too, felt like it had been welded into place.

The Galaxie rolled straight downhill into the filling station, aimed directly at the corner gas pump.

A flash of fear washed over Ash as he pictured ramming nose-first into the pump with the Galaxie’s giant steel bumper. Teeth gritted, he pulled on the steering wheel with both hands. The car responded as if it bore a grudge, only turning at the last second to whisper past the gas pump. Ash put both feet on the wide brake pedal and stood on it until the massive car ground to a halt.

He sagged back into the seat, breathing hard, and then heaved himself out of the car. “Moolah, stay.”

The dog whined.

Ash reached into his back pocket for his wallet, but found something else there instead. He pulled out a folded stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills, bundled with a rubber band. Pursing his lips, he shoved the bundle back into his pocket as quickly as he’d found it.

A glance around told him that nobody was watching. The only other car at the pumps was a white Honda with a couple of teenagers.

Parked off to the side of the building was a beige four-door sedan with deeply tinted windows and an extra antenna. It practically screamed “unmarked car”. He made sure not to stare directly at it.

He walked the long way around the pumps to avoid the sedan and went in the side door of the convenience store. One look at the newspaper racks confirmed the impossible: it was, in fact, two weeks later than he remembered.

He lost himself between racks of Funyuns and Mountain Dew. As soon as he felt safe, he pulled out the bundle of cash and licked his thumb. As he counted, a jittery energy grew inside him. In all, he had fifty bills. Five grand, all in hundreds.

He hefted the stack in his hand. Only a quarter of an inch thick, it seemed to have a magical weightlessness to it.

Five thousand dollars. He shook his head. Obviously, a lot had happened in the last two weeks.

He stripped one bill off the top, folded the rest, and jammed them back into his pocket where his wallet belonged. In a daze, he grabbed a Snickers bar, then a cold bottle of water for Moolah and another for himself. He slapped the hundred-dollar bill down on the counter and told the cashier to put the rest on the pump.

A moment later, he was back outside again, adrenaline making everything feel hyper-focused and surreal. The white Honda was gone. The unmarked sedan still lurked around the corner. He kept his back to it as he pumped gas into the Galaxie.

Five grand wasn’t really a big deal. He’d scored much more on some jobs. Ash couldn’t pinpoint what it was about this particular wad of cash that was getting to him. Something tugged at him, a memory that lurked maddeningly out of reach. Something about the cash seemed dangerous.

It didn’t help his state of mind being here, at the edge of the small town where he grew up. Just down the road was the general store where he’d bought Cleo flowers for prom night. It was a pawn shop now.

He pushed that thought away as Moolah lapped up bottled water from his hand. The past was over, even if traces lingered.

He couldn’t afford to think about that. He had to keep moving.

Cleo’s house was just a couple of miles away. It was her mom’s house, actually. Cleo had no doubt moved out years ago. Still, he could stop by, knock on the door.
Hi, Mrs. Garnett. Remember me? I’m the boy who accidentally got your husband killed. Is Cleo around?

No.

He cursed himself for coming back to Colorado. He didn’t belong here, now. Maybe he never did. But there was a reason he’d left, that night of the fire. Left Cleo behind, left the blackened remains of his house, left the flowers from the funerals. It had taken his brother over a year to find him again, and Ash had sworn he’d never return.

As the pump ran, he cleaned off the windows, slopping the squeegee against the glass, making the water run black. At this rate, he was going to get himself killed, and he didn’t even know why. That was the worst part.

Inside the Galaxie, Moolah watched his progress across the windows with worried fascination, head swiveling left and right as he tracked the squeegee. Ash cracked a smile.

The pump dinged. The tank was full.

He hung up the nozzle, got into the Galaxie and started it, only then remembering that he had change left over at the cashier.

Forget it,
he thought. Every instinct told him to get out of there. He pulled away and headed down the road, passing the pawn shop, the old diner, and then a brand-new strip mall with a brightly lit Safeway.

The interstate was only a few miles away. He checked his phone. Three bars of signal. He could have kissed it.

Mauricio answered on the first ring, sounding excited. “Hey. Did you get it? Are we set?”

For a moment, Ash was so overwhelmed at finally hearing his brother’s voice that he didn’t know what to say. His throat choked up.

“Ash? Hello?”

“Mauricio, are you okay?”

“Did you get it?”

“Are you
safe
?” Ash almost shouted it into the phone.

“Yeah. I’m fine.” Mauricio sounded puzzled. “Where are you?”

“In the mountains. In our old hood.”

“Are you headed back to Denver?”

“Sure. Good idea. Where are you?”

“DMT’s place,” Mauricio said. Before Ash could ask who or what DMT was, Mauricio added, “I’ll explain later. Did you get the money?”

“I’ve got five grand in my pocket. But look, after we did the lottery job, we gave that take to the
señora
, right?”

Mauricio didn’t answer at first. “What? That was like two weeks ago.”

Ash could picture him on the other end of the line, sitting there in his khaki Dockers, his black hair carefully combed into place, cleaning the lenses of his blue-rimmed glasses with the edge of his Izod shirt. “Hey, you okay? Are you driving?”

“I can’t remember anything,” Ash said, trying to keep his voice calm. “The last two weeks? They’re a blur. They’re
less
than a blur. They’re gone.”

“Wait, slow down. What happened to Andres?”

“Andres did his best to kill me.” Ash tried to blot out the memory of Andres executing the man in the white shirt. But it looped through his head, over and over. “I don’t even know who he is. Look, I know this sounds crazy, but I don’t remember anything.”

“You called me this morning, said there was something wrong with the money. You remember that?”

That sounded vaguely familiar, but as hard as Ash tried, he couldn’t recall. “What else did I say?”

Mauricio paused, obviously thinking. “Did you get hit on the head?”

“No.”

“Drink something funny? Maybe you shouldn’t be driving.”

“No, I’m fine. I’m fine to drive. Believe me, I don’t have a choice. Is there anything else about the money? Anything at all?”

Mauricio blew out his breath, making a swishing sound. “Well, I don’t think we’re supposed to know this, but the money is from Prez.”

“Wait. This is Prez’s money?” That didn’t make sense. They’d done one job for the man called Prez years ago, delivering an envelope full of cash for some car sealed up in a trailer. Prez had been straight-up to deal with, a skinny wrinkled black guy in a designer suit. A little on edge, maybe, but he had a touch of class to him. Ash couldn’t picture him working with someone like Andres, not for a minute.