Dark Canyon

By Wade Shaddy

Some secrets are better left buried.
A long hot summer is wearing thin when an old diary is discovered in an abandoned hotel. With deceiving promise, it triggers a chain of events that will touch the lives of every single person living in the isolated small town of Decora, Idaho. With the good ole boy network interpreting instructions from beyond the grave, the sanctity of the Amity mine is desecrated, unleashing a terror that will infect the very fabric of life in the picture perfect valley, creating conditions that few will survive. even if they want to.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 21, 2008
• ISBN: 9781462827268

Wade Shaddy

Wade Shaddy has worked as a writer after selling his first article to True West magazine in 1992. Since that time he has sold dozens of articles to varied magazines, and worked two years for Bicycling magazine as a contributing writer. He has been employed as a newspaper reporter, a musician, a woodworker, carpenter, and raced mountain bikes in the Wild Rockies series in the northwest. He lives with his wife in Emmett, Idaho, and takes pleasure in cycling, square and round dancing, and their home on the high mesa. Dark Canyon is his second novel.

Book preview

Chapter One

Tim Marcus wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his gloved wrist. From his vantage point on the bluff he could see his house in the distance, marked by a pair of tall pines. To the east, the twin peaks of Rapture stood like sentinels over the valley, bathed in evening sun.

His bloodstream now swimming with adrenaline, Tim nosed his bike to the edge of the precipice where the trail dropped off sharply. He was watching, waiting, as the western horizon swallowed the sun behind Cottonwood Peak a hundred miles to the west.

The sunlight narrowed. Then, the big orange ball bleeped out with a sudden start. Tim hurled himself off the peak.

The bike responded instantly to gravity, blindly accelerating down the loose dirt—falling, skidding, barely touching the ground. He braced himself against the force, fighting for control of the ride.

Careening recklessly, dust flying in his wake, sage and rocks began to blur. The wind tore tears from his eyes. He chided himself as he began to apply brakes, gradually regaining control of the shuddering bike. He navigated the last hundred yards through sand, slid from the trail onto flat ground where the road home began, and caught his breath.

A clear canal flowed along the other side of the road, delivering water to tall stands of corn and hay that stretched for miles down the valley. He glanced back at the golden bluff rising from the mesa. A ghost line of dust still hung on the ridge where he had been moments ago.

With comfort from exertion, he pedaled the last mile of worn blacktop back home and rolled into his spacious shop, passing the saws and woodworking equipment, and slid up to the opposite wall where he parked his bike under the collection of worn out bike tires.

*     *     *

Not more than seven miles away, the A&W drive-in at the far end of Main Street was humming with activity. Even at nine o’clock, there was no relief from the 100-degree heat that had worn on all summer, a heat that radiated from the concrete, sparking boredom into impatience in Decora’s restless teenagers.

The valley was an oasis in the high desert, with clean, tree-lined streets, shops, churches and a quaint park with large oaks. There were a couple of mom-and-pop groceries, a chain super store and the Pioneer Cinema.

The downtown was mostly built of sturdy turn-of-the-century red brick. Some of the old buildings along Main Street were vacant, but on the outskirts of town, a new convenience store had gone in, and there was a small strip mall along rural Highway 53 that ran through the valley.

Downriver, and thanks to an early railroad, a sawmill and plywood plant kept the small town alive. The railroad and Highway 17 brought lumber down from the high country.

Just east of the business district, stood what had once been the pride of Decora—the opulent Decora Hotel. It had been abandoned for many years. The windows were boarded up on the bottom floor, but on the second floor, when the sun was just right, you could still see through the windows the decaying wallpaper dangling in strips from antique walls.

The high school had graduated seventy-five seniors last spring. Hanging out at the A&W was their common pastime. Most of the kids parked and sat on the tailgates of pickups or at one of the picnic tables in front of the walk-up window. They ate greasy fries, laughed, and flirted. Most had grown up together.

The back end of a small Toyota pickup groaned with the weight of the two boys. Parked nose-first at the A&W, the boys chose to sit and look out onto Main Street, eating from grease-soaked paper trays. It had been a long summer.

Brent Marcus was tall and slender, with broad shoulders and a build that would fill out imposingly in a few years. With a head of beach-colored wavy hair complementing a square jaw, he radiated a boyish charm that girls noticed. With a quick wit and comedic banter, he was a natural with people at Venture Video, where he had worked since graduation.

Hey, Wes, Brent said, looking straight at his buddy, remembering something. You want to hear something cool? My dad just downloaded a song last night. I’ve got it on tape.

His friend turned and grinned. Wes was tall and lanky, sunburned and perpetually scraped up from skateboarding accidents. Are you kidding? Old man music?

No, wait. It’s cool.

Brent slid from the tailgate, stepped around to the front of the pickup and swung open the door. He chunked the tape into the cassette tape player that still worked, and the first few bars permeated the air around the truck. The boys leaned back, spellbound by the pulsating sound of Deep Purple.

That’s really good, Wes said in forgiving wonderment. Completely absorbed in the music, he bobbed his head through a drum solo.

Then, suddenly, surprising them both, a feminine voice spoke behind them.

Hey, guys. What are you listening to? Brent turned with a start and looked over his shoulder, right into the gorgeous face of Crystal Simmons.

Oh . . . Hi, Crystal, Brent stammered at the welcome intrusion.

Crystal was stunning in a pair of faded Levi cut-offs, her blond hair hanging loosely about a filled-out white halter top. She had delicate fair skin, and Brent had always thought that her upturned, pointed nose made her look regal. But in spite of her beauty, she was unassuming and warm.

Crystal was popular in school. She had dated popular boys, but only because she felt obligated to do so. She had always had a soft spot for Brent, even though (or maybe because) he shunned preppies and described football as, playing stupid, running and crashing head first into each other.

Brent had edited the high school newspaper, Dominator Dispatch, their junior and senior year. Crystal knew Brent had no use for sports or the social elite. His editorials had given him the reputation of being somewhat of an agitator—something that Crystal deep down respected and would have liked to try herself, but she couldn’t bring herself to cross social barriers.

Standing beside Crystal was Fawn Rose. Tall, with olive skin, Fawn had long straight hair like Crystal’s, but raven black. Fawn’s unpretentious smile reflected an inner serenity, probably handed down to her through a Native American bloodline. She was born Little Fawn, her given Shoshone name, but her parents had taken the surname Rose to better her chance at getting an education. Fawn was also dressed in cut-offs, but was sporting a loose-fitting gauze tunic of tan and brown. She wore a beaded hemp choker around her slender neck.

The girls had known each other since they were three. Their strong friendship gave Fawn some insulation from discrimination. She had grown up proud of her heritage and most of the kids respected her.

Never having dated much, Brent was slightly intimidated by the two girls. He had always had a crush on Crystal and imagined that she had smiled at him at different times. His heart had fluttered every time their eyes briefly danced as they had passed in the high school halls.

Crystal found Brent refreshingly honest and bright. And he could write.

The music from the tape faded out. A brief applause erupted from the couple sitting in a car across from them, the man nodding his approval.

"So, are you still working for the Decora Register?" Crystal asked, trying to get the suddenly shy boy to make conversation. Brent had written several freelance articles for the county weekly.

Yes, I do a piece now and then, Brent said, beaming inside at Crystal’s inquiry.

I just loved that article about the old hotel. I can’t believe they want to tear it down, she said. How did you find out all that stuff about Roosevelt staying there, and those gunfights?

Then, with a sly smile, she added, And who would have known about Big May and what kind of business she ran out of that place?

The four of them laughed and Brent blushed a bit.

Crystal wasn’t about to let him off the hook. You really are an investigative reporter, aren’t you, Brent?

Yes, and that’s just part of our history, Brent defended himself. I traced down tips through microfilm archives. Businesses like Big May’s were common and legitimate in the good old days.

They still are quite common, Brent, Crystal said, evoking giggles.

Wes nudged Brent’s arm. Hey, Brent, you think Big May has any granddaughters still in town?

In an effort to change the subject, Brent recalled something that made his blood run faster. Hey, you should see what I found in there! Sitting straight up on the tailgate and leaning toward the others, he lowered his voice to a whisper, You can’t tell anyone about this, but I sneaked into the hotel.

Brent, do you want to get into trouble? Crystal asked, raising her eyebrows slightly. You know the sheriff has his eye on that place. I heard he wants to tear it down and build a new jail.

Brent nodded, "He’s moving fast on that. It’s like he’s afraid someone will try to protect it or something. I don’t get the urgency. It’s been closed down for over fifty years. Supposedly, it’s dangerous. I had to see for myself. I had to get in there.

Anyway, I figured the worst they could do to me was not that bad. I slipped in there in broad daylight, and went straight to the top floor.

Brent stepped around to the front of the pickup while he explained, There’s junk piled all over in there, and dust a foot deep. I was rummaging in one of the old rooms, just kind of moving things around, seeing what I could find, and way back at the bottom of a closet, I found this old trunk.

His face was buried in the glove compartment. By this time the other three were caught up in his narrative and excited by the tone of his voice.

Right above the trunk there was this old wool coat, hanging on the wall. For some reason, I felt in the pocket and . . . he held an old brass key at eye level between his fingers, look what I found.

Crystal reached out and Brent dropped it into her hand. You mean this is the key to the trunk? she asked.

Well, I’m not exactly sure, but I think so.

Oh, come on, Wes said in exasperation, you never even tried the key?

Well, I did try it. It didn’t work; then, it almost got stuck. It needs oil or something. But that’s not all I found. Come have a look at this.

Brent led them to one of the picnic tables, unfolding an uneven brown piece of paper. Holding it down and lightly smoothing it with the palm of his hand, he explained, This was in the old coat, too.

They all bent over the table. It was a large piece of meat wrapping with lines crudely drawn on it with a broad pencil.

It’s some kind of a chart or a map or something, Brent said, pointing to the pencil markings, This looks like the Rapture peaks, and this must be a creek.

He let them look and digest what they were seeing, then added, See all these rectangles, and names? I think these are graves, and look at these dates. Look how these are all drawn in succession with this same pencil, then numbered.

He turned to look at Crystal, who now wore a stern, questioning expression. All of these rectangles have initials, and there are only a few dates between all of them, he said, trying to convince her.

What are you getting at, Brent?

I think this is a graveyard and all forty-four of these people died within a few days . . . and you know what else?

There’s more? Wes asked.

I think whoever drew this died before it was finished. See these unmarked boxes? And it looks like some of these are children’s graves.

How can you tell? Crystal asked, intently.

Look at how these boxes differ in size.

That’s just horrible, Fawn said, shaking her head.

But there’s one more thing, Brent said, straightening out a fold at the bottom, revealing words that puzzled them even more. What do you think this means?

The childlike scrawling was plain enough, but the language wasn’t. Written at the bottom was a sentence that looked like Spanish.

"Que no fetamos nosotros"

An expensive, four-wheel-drive pickup roared down the soft black asphalt of Main Street, interrupting their examination of the mysterious document. The all-too-familiar truck swung into the drive-in too fast, hit the curb, and stopped with a screech, one tire up on the sidewalk. Two hulking boys were laughing inside the cab, oblivious to the fact that they could have killed anyone who happened to be on the sidewalk.

It was Earl and Casey Holland, the spoiled offspring of the high school football coach. They were stocky, loud, and had been in trouble for a long list of what their father termed just boys fooling around.

Due to the fact that they had presided over a championship season as star football players, the local sheriff had looked the other way when the brothers started fights or got into mischief. Even the occasional beating they handed out never landed them in real trouble.

They think they own the whole town, Crystal said under her breath.

Yeah, Fawn whispered, shrinking behind Wes, Let’s hope they don’t notice us.

Everyone knew there had been conflict between Brent and the Holland boys over an editorial he had written in the Dispatch. The foursome turned their attention back to the map, trying not to make eye contact with the raucous duo.

Inspecting the map, Fawn could no longer stay quiet on the subject of graveyards on the peaks. I know what this is about, she said, There are stories.

We’ve all heard about the gold, Crystal said, Those stories have been around forever.

Yes, they have, Brent agreed, My dad says that’s just what they arestories.

That’s not what I’m talking about, Brent, Fawn retorted.

What are you talking about, then? Wes asked.

Great-grandfather says that there’s bad medicine about those peaks. He says there was a village that died with the people. It was apparent Fawn believed her great-grandfather’s words were true.

Brent’s adrenalin began to surge as the journalist in him kicked in. How old is your great-grandfather, anyway?

Fawn looked skyward, and wrinkled her forehead. I know he’s in his nineties, she said, but, you know, it’s hard to tell. He’s always taken care of himself.

Brent knew something of the history of that village. It was called Rapture. Didn’t it just disappear all at once?

You’re the expert on that, Brent, Wes said, referring to Brent’s expertise at academics and penchant for research.

Yeah, that’s right, Brent. Why don’t you find out for us? Crystal was just giving him a hard time, but Brent accepted the challenge.

"Hey, I can do that, he said enthusiastically, I was on the committee that got the microfilm grant for the library. And my dad was on the historic preservation committee."

Brent loved spending an afternoon looking at microfilm. I have seen some references to the old townsite of Rapture.

The conversation was just getting interesting when Wes gave Brent a subtle elbow to the side. Don’t look . . .

But before Brent could move, a cold, thick wetness splattered his hair and neck. Earl, the younger, but larger of the Holland boys, emptied the remainder of a chocolate milkshake on top of Brent’s head, then threw the cup down with an audible clunk.

Hey, mucus, Earl snarled disdainfully, that’s for writing that story.

For a split second, Brent’s instincts wanted him to whirl around and stand up, but he just sat, letting the situation settle. He remembered what had brought this on. After four years of being forced to sit through pep assemblies where the student body was supposed to worship the Holland boys, Brent had had enough. In an act of defiance, he had written a scathing editorial in the Dominator Dispatch depicting Coach Holland as desperate to relive his youthful failures.

To top it off, Brent had used statistics to illustrate the dismal graduation rates for football players in college, and questionable brushes with the law by the Holland boys. It would have been enough to get him suspended, but the journalism teacher had gone to bat for him, defending freedom of the press.

Brent felt his face turn red. He wanted to disappear. The milkshake was running into his eyes, now. He took the tail of his t-shirt and swiped it across his face. Just as he was hitting it off with the girls, now this.

Earl gave Fawn a sidelong gaze and winked as he swaggered away. She ducked as if he had thrown a rock at her.

What was that about? Crystal asked Fawn, incredulously.

Nothing, Fawn said, in a this conversation is over tone.

But they had been friends too long for Crystal not to notice.

Tim had decided to do a little more work before going in, but just as he picked up his tools to busy himself, he heard an engine and looked up to see the worn silver of Brent’s Toyota.

Hey, Dad! Brent waved from the bend in the long driveway leading up to Tim’s shop.

Still feeling retrospective from his foolhardy hilltop descent, Tim remembered why he chose not to forget about his past. He waved as he saw his son getting out of the pickup. Brent sauntered through the open door into Tim’s shop.

Hey, Dad, whatcha workin’ on?

Oh, I’ve got this pulpit going right now. Tim leaned back and presented the half-finished structure to Brent.

That’s pretty cool, Dad.

Tim reached behind him, grabbed something off the table and held it up. Look at this special crucifix overlay, he said; handing the carved image of Christ on the cross to Brent, I’ve already spent forty-some hours on this thing.

Brent turned the carving over in his hands. Man, how can you just make these things like it was nothing?

Tim smiled, It’s all I’ve ever done. You just have to have patience.

Here, Tim said, as he took the crucifix back, look at Christ’s expression. See how sad he looks? The expression comes from the way the grain of the mahogany streaks down his face in just the right place.

Oh my gosh, you’re right, Dad, Brent said, raising his voice to simulate awe, That’s freaking incredible.

Yeah, I planned it that way all along.

They both knew the grain pattern was a complete accident. Tim wasn’t a religious man and had no illusions that Christ suffered or that he didn’t suffer. But he could speak the lingo and understood the necessity to remain neutral to do business with different denominations.

Tim hated hypocrisy, which he felt was running rampant in most organized religions. There were times when he would ask questions into the sky, like most people do, but a reliance on blind faith to solve problems seemed to be a display of futility to Tim.

The hazy twilight had grown into near darkness as they talked. The peaks in the distance were now silhouettes against the deepening dusk. The vapor light outside the shop came on and moths began to flutter around the doorway.

It’s almost ten o’clock, Tim said, Can you believe how long it stays light around here?

I know, Brent said as he looked out the big door toward the peaks, I was just down at the A&W eating and it was almost nine.

Brent turned to his father, Hey, you know what, Dad? I saw your tracks way out in the desert yesterday.

So you found one of my private trails, huh?

What do you mean, private trails? Your tracks are all over the place out there.

Brent reached out and lightly touched his father’s bare back. You know how far out there you were? He was scolding Tim with raised eyebrows. When I checked the odometer on my Honda, it was at twenty-four miles from the house.

And your point is? Tim asked, defensively.

That’s almost a fifty-mile round trip. Are you crazy, Dad? It took me an hour just to get out there on my motorcycle, it’s so rough. I tried to follow your tracks back home, but you went down Sheep Creek. You moron! I couldn’t follow you down that! No one could; no one sane, that is. Brent shook his head, Are you trying to kill yourself?

I . . . just . . . love the desert.

I know you do, Dad, but what if you got hurt out there? We’d never find you.

Tim had thought about that many times, but was not willing to sacrifice the high. Then, in an attempt to cover up his foolishness, he replied, Yeah, well, you’re just a wienie if you have to take that thing into the desert, swaying his head in the direction of Brent’s Honda parked next to Tim’s mountain bike. The motorcycle’s spidery-looking frame and beefy tires dwarfed the human-powered vehicle.

Hey, Brent said, why don’t we go hit some golf balls at the driving range on Sunday, okay, old man? Remember last time, when I kicked your ass?

That was just plain luck. You just got lucky, your balls caught air.

Sure, Dad, my balls catch air . . . right.

Quiet overtook them as the evening drew to a close, but something was nagging at Tim again—the thing that had been bothering him daily for three years.

Tim always subscribed to the notion that a person shouldn’t ask questions that they didn’t want to know the answers to, but sometimes, he just couldn’t help himself.

So . . . have you seen your mother lately, Son?

Brent knew what his father meant and didn’t want to play the game. Yeah, I guess I have. He looked away, knowing what his father was fishing for. Decora was a small town and his mother’s upscale condo was easily viewed from the second stoplight. She hadn’t bothered to be too careful when they were married, and now she showed even less concern as Rick Donley’s jacked-up half-ton truck with fat tires was often seen parked in front of her place.

Yeah? Tim pressed for more information.

Brent knew his father had also seen Donley’s truck frequenting Shelly’s condo. And Tim’s own words, big truck, small prick came to mind. Okay, Dad . . . I saw his truck there today on my way to work. That’s what you wanted to hear, isn’t it?

Anger shot through Tim. Somebody needs to tell his stupid wife.

Dad, Dad, just knock it off, okay? You divorced her, remember?

I know, Son. I know it’s stupid. She’s . . . I mean . . . She can do whatever she wants.

Tim wanted to change the subject and eyed Brent’s bare chest. What’s with the no-shirt look? You been driving around like that all day?

Hey, you don’t have a shirt on, either. No, actually, my shirt is full of ice cream.

Tim looked at him quizzically.

Had a little discussion with Earl Holland.

Tim shook his head. Oh, shit. Not that old ‘mucus’ thing again.

Tim recalled an incident twenty-five years earlier. The senior Holland had branded him with the name after Tim had outrun him in a mile race around the track. Those animals need to be locked up.

It’s more likely that the city will declare a holiday in their honor.

Both of them burst out laughing, not at the absurdity of the statement, but in the realization that the city council might actually do something like that.

Well, it’s getting late. I haven’t had dinner yet, Tim said, I’ll grab a few tomatoes from the garden and whip us up a chef salad. How’s that sound to you?

Most excellent, Dad. It had been nearly two hours since Brent had taken nourishment.

As though it were an afterthought, Brent added, Oh, I almost forgot. You know the old Decora Hotel?

Sure, I love that old building.

Well, wait till you see what I found in there, today. Brent’s voice was edged with enthusiasm. This is just the kind of thing you love, Dad.

Tim hit the switch that started the shop door rattling down as they walked out to Brent’s Toyota, bathed in the iridescent light of the bug zapper.

You went in there? Tim asked, apprehensively. Then, thinking about the adventure, he added, I’ve been wanting to get in there forever.

Yes, I did, Brent said proudly as he pulled a folder out of his truck. We can look at it together. This is awesome.

Tim detoured behind the house and selected several large ripe tomatoes from the patch. Walking into the house, the two men were met by the overwhelming aroma of French bread, still baking.

Oh, man, Brent breathed, that smells good.

Yeah, it does. Tim inhaled the rich aroma. I put that in the machine this afternoon. Wait till I get these tomatoes cut up and we’ll have some.

The two men sat down at the gleaming glass and wood table and enjoyed a meal of salad with cold-cuts, hot bread and iced tea, feeling secure in the house high on the mesa.

The Marcus home was a remodeled lodge. It had been originally built by Tim’s grandfather, who homesteaded there. Modest and comfortable, the main floor consisted of a great room with a vaulted ceiling. One wall was completely covered by natural rock, floor to ceiling, surrounding a fireplace. The room was furnished like most bachelors would have it with huge overstuffed chairs, magazines strewn about. A large computer center along another wall was positioned to see out a wide picture window toward the Rapture front. Tim had arranged it to command a view of the mountains as he worked at the desk.

Opposite the window, near the counter that divided the kitchen area from the rest of the room, was a giant five-sided, burled walnut china cabinet, a hand-built piece of art that had taken Tim all of one winter to complete. Shelly announced that she must have it when she left, but decided against it when the lawyers had valued the cabinet at five-thousand dollars. She was unwilling to pay Tim that much for it in restitution, and what really burned her most was the fact that Tim had built it out of scrap wood for nothing.

In a corner, a tall grandfather’s clock, also handmade, chimed eleven.

As much as Tim and Brent were fans of tradition, they were both extremely computer literate and could expertly navigate the Internet. A common curiosity had led them to learn how to hack into almost anything they wished. It was an uncanny talent they shared. The computer center and the state-of-the-art kitchen were the heart and soul of the otherwise rustic cabin.

The pair finished their dinner, listening to the new band, Halle Asher. Brent knew all the new music. Tim was open to anything good, and he liked new wave, too, even though most his age considered it offensive.

Brent pushed himself back and stood up. Tim cleared the table as Brent ceremoniously spread out his recent find.

Okay, Dad, now check this out. Brent skittered a small key across the table with a clinking noise.

Tim grabbed it as it bounced off the other side and smiled. You collected keys of all kinds when you were little, he said. We never knew what a single one of them went to.

Well, I know what this one goes to. And that’s not all. Brent stood over the table and surveyed the crackling paper. You know a little something about Rapture, don’t you?

Tim was excited. He could tell that the paper was old, and the Rapture townsite had always been an enticing mystery. Six years ago, Tim had been appointed to a seat on the local historic preservation committee. It was a cause dear to his heart. Behind the scenes, he had fought for historic register nominations for several old buildings in town, and other things such as reclaiming a frontier cemetery.

Tim also knew a secret. Documents about Rapture did exist. But they revealed so little as to only deepen the mystery of the mountain village. Tim wished they would remain secret. He felt strongly against exploitation of antiquity.

He had quit the committee three years ago. Somehow his enthusiasm for just about everything had waned at that time. However, Brent’s find piqued his curiosity.

Look at this, Dad, Brent touched the map with his finger, See these little rectangles? I think they’re graves.

Tim was now stooped over the table, studying the paper intently. He could see Brent was right. He had seen plots like these doing research for reclamation of the Ore City gravesites, a forgotten old cemetery thirty miles upriver.

What’s this down here? Tim unfolded the bottom of the map, revealing the words, "Que no fetamos nosotros" and the date, 1902. He knew the words were Spanish, but was unsure of the meaning.

I’m wondering about that myself, Brent said.

You’re right. This is quite a find. I think we need to do some investigating. Anticipation coursed through him as he began to see a pattern.

Dad, look at these dates, Brent pointed, They are . . .

I see it. It looks like these people died within a few days of each other.

That’s what I thought, too.

The men studied silently for a few minutes under the glow of the light panel, pondering the ramifications of the simple map. It looked as though it could have been drawn by a child, but there was too much feeling coming from it. They began to notice stains on the brown, wrinkled paper. A place where the unfortunate mapmaker might have broken the pencil. Smudges and what could have been drops of water. The more they looked at the map, the more of an enigma it became. It was almost as if it were drawing them into it. The map seemed to cry. A chill descended between them.

Brent spoke first, breaking the spell, This is starting to give me the creeps.

Tim’s heart was thumping. He felt the way he had when he hurled himself over the edge of the bluff, challenging Fate to make her move. The map sparked something inside.

Son, he said with determination, we’ve got to find out about this. You’ve heard those old-timers talk about the town that disappeared and the lost mine. I’ve tried to dispel rumors about it, myselfgold coming out of there and the like . . . . But this . . . this is . . . seems like real proof of some of the stories about Rapture. I never believed them much. Now I just don’t know what to believe.

What are you saying, Pa? Brent asked, half joking.

I think I need to break into the hotel and try to find where this key fits.

Look, Dad, just because I did it, doesn’t mean that you have to. Geez!

Brent’s sarcasm went nowhere. Okay, then, what about the sheriff?

He can go screw himself, Tim said bluntly.

Brent laughed at the out-of-character remark. Then he saw the determination on Tim’s face as he stared out the window into the darkness. Brent could see the wheels turning in his father’s head, analyzing, discerning.

Chapter Two

Tim couldn’t sleep that night. Words bothered him. Words in Spanish. Were they a plea for help? A warning? He wished he had paid more attention in his high school Spanish class. He turned over in bed and stared wide-eyed, at the clock: 2:45 a.m.

"Well, lack of sleep never killed anyone." He thought to himself.

Dressed only in his jockey shorts, Tim climbed the steps from the cool basement, where the three bedrooms were located, to the great room and stepped over to his command center. He pushed the button and the computer hummed to life, greeting Tim with its familiar presence.

He got onto the Internet and keyed up a Spanish language program. Pulling out the map, he copied the ominous sentence into the interpretation form. "Que no fetamos nosotros."

The translation came back immediately. He was wide-awake at the words on the screen. "To be never forgotten . . . That we never forget."

Tim made coffee and sat down in the Lazy Boy to wait for dawn.

Dad . . . DAD . . . What the heck are you doing?

Tim opened his eyes with a start. Brent had him by the shoulder. His tousled hair indicated he had just woke up.

Nice work; you drooled all over the chair. Brent was grinning now, Am I going to have to put you in an old folks’ home or what?

What time is it?

The clock just chimed eight. Do I need to get your glasses, and your hearing aid now, old man?

Some coffee will do for now, Grasshopper. Tim popped the Lazy Boy into its upright position. "I think I made some last night, but I’m not holding a cup, so it must still be in the pot.

Stop, you’re scaring me.

Tim knew Brent was joking. His absentmindedness was legendary. He slid forward, raking his fingers through his own rumpled hair, messing it even worse.

The morning sun was streaming into the window full force now and it was already hot. The mountains had turned a light blue color outside the big window.

So, are you going to make a habit of sleeping in the living room in your underwear, Dad?

Naw, sometimes I sleep nekkid.

Gee, maybe that’s why the neighbor lady keeps riding her horse around here, huh?

Yeah. She wants my body.

Right.

Is this Friday?

Alzheimer’s now? Yes, this is Friday. Rememberyour bingo night.

Oh yeah, how could I ever forget that, my bingo night . . . Just get me my coffee, okay?

Right-O, Dad. Coffee coming up, Brent warbled, taking two monster-sized cups out of the microwave.

As the caffeine began to do its job, the men’s thoughts returned to the map, and what they might do about it.

So, you think we should just walk in there in broad daylight? Brent asked his father, knowing that had worked for him, but wanting his father to think so himself.

"The way I see it, it’s the only way we can go in. We can’t risk getting the cops down on us. If we went in at night, they would be sure to see a light. We’ll just walk down Fourth Avenue, slip around and force the back door just like you did. If we get noticed, we’ll just say . . . Well, I don’t know exactly what we’ll say."

"Yeah, I can see the headlines, Father/son burglary duo caught breaking into condemned hotel"

That has a nice ring to it, Tim said, smiling.

But inside he knew he wouldn’t let Brent take another risk like that. He didn’t want him mixed up with the law at his age. Tim would go alone on Saturday. Time was running out. Only last week the