Spirit Ridge

By James Powell

A successful middle-aged businessman, Mark Landry has not fared so well in his interpersonal relationships. The angry scars of his childhood keep tripping him up. The mountains of New Mexico seem like a great place to escape his past and those aspects of life that have not gone well for him.  

His big yellow dog, Gus, and his App

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sacred Mountain Productions
• Release date: Nov 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781937162177

James Powell

Cover Art by Edie Abnet-Powell, artist/illustrator: EdieAbnet is a well-known Midwest artist. She is an Impressionistwho works primarily in mixed media water color.

Book preview

Chapter One

Minneapolis - October, 1997

Just one little crack

But it let in the light

She escapes to freedom

He digs in to fight

The big man entered the precinct, ignored the receptionist, and walked briskly to Detective Gordon’s office. His huge frame filled the open doorway as he looked down at the officer sitting behind the desk. For several seconds he stood, breathing heavily, and not speaking. When he’d caught his breath, he exhaled loudly and forced his face into a menacing scowl.

What was so damned important that I had to come over here in such a damned hurry?

The officer smiled, walked around the desk and held out his hand. Save the hard-ass routine for somebody who might be impressed by it, Sam, I got over being scared of you when I was six.

The stern look on the big man’s face faded into a broad grin. I can try, can’t I? He warmly took the hand that was offered.

Mike Gordon was thirty, medium sized, with a muscular, athletic build. His hair was light brown and his full beard framed a handsome, almost pretty face. The physical appearance of his visitor was in stark contrast to that of the young officer. Towering over him by a good half a head, he was raw boned and of massive proportions. Nothing about him spoke of refinement. His hair was dark, thick and curly, his features, coarse, and the deep lines in his face bore testimony to the sixty-some years of his existence.

Foregoing any further banter or pleasantries, Gordon went right into his explanation of why he’d summoned his old friend. We thought we’d better get you guys involved in this one, Sam. This is the girl who showed up at the station. He handed the other man a couple of photographs as he spoke.

She’s clearly not from around here. Says she comes from Chihuahua, Mexico. Doesn’t know anything about the people who brought her here, but she says it was Mexicans who tricked her into crossing the border and Americans who took over from there. They forced her to turn tricks when she got here…when she got to Minneapolis. Medical exam would tend to confirm that. And, oh yeah, she claims to have been held captive in the mountains somewhere for a month or so.

The officer forced a smile as he went on. We’d like to handle it, Sam, but it’s got us Minneapolis cops stumped. Obviously, it’s a job for the FBI.

The big man returned the smile. Well, if she was brought in from out of state, it’s our problem alright, but don’t give me that bullshit about wanting to take care of it yourself. You love to hand these deals off to us, Mike. Your old man did the same thing whenever he got the chance. Why in hell would you be any different? It’s in your damned blood.

The young cop nodded and smiled again, but then his face took on a more serious expression. No, I don’t mind handin’ ‘em off, Sam, but this one needs to be done right. That’s why I called for you, personally. I think you’ll see that when you talk to her, and I know you’ll do it right.

The big FBI man made deliberate eye contact with him and nodded. I’ll give it my personal attention, Mike.

Sam Walters took a moment to let things sink in and then got on with his questions. What do you know about her? Any drugs involved?

No, none of that. No needle tracks and nothing in her system at all. Not even alcohol. Nothing fits, Sam. The interpreter says she’s well educated, too. Not the kind of girl to be involved in this kind of shit. She certainly didn’t get into it voluntarily. She says there are another dozen like her in town, right here in Minneapolis, and some still in the mountains… wherever the hell that is. There sure ain’t no mountains around here. The young cop shook his head in disgust as he relayed the information.

The agent was silent again for a bit as he studied the photographs of the young woman. How do they handle the transactions if they’re captives and not real prostitutes? And how did she get away?

They keep them locked up. It sounds like they’re in private homes, maybe three or four girls in a house, but they’re kept separated from each other. The pimps bring the Johns to the house. She claims she just bolted… ran out the door when the John left.

Where are they finding the Johns? Where does the solicitation take place?

We don’t know that, but we’ve had reports of solicitations in some of the city parks. That may or may not be related, though. The girl has no idea where the guys are coming from. Hell, she didn’t even know she was in Minneapolis!

The FBI man nodded. Where is she now? I’d like to interview her.

She’s waitin’ for you in there. Officer Gordon motioned in the direction of a closed door.

You need an interpreter?

No, I can handle the language. I just need to have a woman officer present.

OK Amigo. We’ve more or less got a woman in there now. She’s the best we can do at the moment. That’s kind of a warning. But I’m gonna warn you about something else, Sam; that young senorita…she’s gonna tug at your heart a little bit…even the heart of a big tough Jewish sumbitch like you.

Walters shook his head and laughed at the remark. Gordon gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. I learned all I know about political correctness from you, Sam.

The agent entered the room and saw the girl sitting at the table with her head bowed. Her long black hair was tangled, and her eyes were red and wet with tears. She looked small and broken. Probably weighed no more than a hundred pounds, and she was very young and very pretty. The pretty part was not a distraction to Walters, and it registered with him only in that he realized beauty had become a curse and not a blessing for her.

He was unprepared, though, for just how young, innocent, fragile, and damaged she looked, and it hit him hard. What hit him hardest was how closely she resembled his own daughter when she was a teenager. It was a picture that gave him a sick feeling in his stomach. A picture that brought memories of a turbulent, failed marriage and guilt feelings related to having been a largely absentee father. Sam forced himself to shake off those memories for the moment and turn his attention back to the situation at hand. The scene was completed by a rough looking female officer standing over the girl with a cup of coffee in her hand and a disinterested look on her face.

He sat across the table and took a few moments to collect his thoughts before greeting the girl in Spanish. She responded softly and raised her eyes just enough to see who was speaking to her. He asked questions for ten minutes or so, and she answered each one in the same soft and defeated voice. The girl gave basically the same story Gordon had relayed to him earlier, except she kept saying how ashamed she was, and she kept apologizing for what she had done.

When he finished the interview, he assured her that she would be safe now. He told her that none of what happened was her fault, knowing, before the words were out of his mouth, how empty and canned they sounded, and how useless they probably were.

She thanked him, looked into his eyes, and asked if she could please go home to her family. Yes, he said, we’ll get you home as soon as we can. It was sad, he thought, that getting her home was all he could offer. This shouldn’t have happened to her…especially not in this country… guys like him were supposed to keep it from happening.

The female officer had said nothing to this point. Sam looked in her direction. We’ll get the guys who are doin’ this.

Yeah, she responded. You’d better stop ‘em. Next thing ya know they’ll be doin’ it to white girls.

He sucked in a deep breath and glared at her for several seconds. With all the self-control he could muster, he left without saying anything more.

When he emerged from the room, he was breathing heavily again and shaking his head. He walked straight to Gordon’s office. His voice wavered slightly when he spoke to his friend. That woman…that uniformed officer…put that fuckin’ bitch on traffic control, or something, but keep her away from anything that involves a victim.

Gordon nodded. I know what you’re sayin’ Sam, I’ll see what I can do.

When he’d calmed down some, the big man spoke again. She’s somebody’s little girl, Mike; only nineteen years old! Only eighteen when they started with her! How could they do that to somebody’s little girl? This is the end of the twentieth century and they’re doing that kind of shit, and we’ve got cops who evidently think it’s not so bad as long as the girls aren’t quite white.

The young officer’s jaw tightened as he responded. Some of us don’t see it that way, pardner. You and I don’t, and the old man didn’t either. That’s what’s going to make the difference in the long run.

I’ll get some good men on it Mike. We’ll take care of it. He nodded his head to underscore his resolve and was still nodding as he left the precinct.

As he walked along the sidewalk toward his office, he thought about the girl and the tragic turn her life had taken. And he thought about how unfair it was and how it could happen to any innocent young girl anywhere and he thought again about his own daughter. He shook his head in disgust. Then he thought about the calloused female officer who had no sympathy for her.

Finally, he thought about Gordon’s final remarks, and that brought the hint of a smile to his lips. It reminded him of the years when he’d worked with the young cop’s father, and how the Old Colonel, as he’d been called, had taken him under his wing. How he’d said the mark of a good cop was taking responsibility for seeing that the right thing was done. He remembered how he’d told him how the real good cops were real good men first, and it wasn’t a hell of a lot more complicated than that.

Hmm… Walters spoke aloud. You were a good man, Colonel, and the best cop I ever knew. I know how you’d handle this. He took a couple more strides in the direction of FBI headquarters and then turned around and headed back to the precinct.

His voice boomed as he entered Gordon’s office. He said his piece without allowing time for a single word in response. Have the girl brought over to FBI, Mike. We’re gonna get her on a plane and get her home no later than tomorrow. And I’m not handin’ this off. I’m gonna get on this fuckin’ deal myself, Mike. I’m gonna work on it myself. I’ve been pilotin’ a desk for too long, anyway. Yeah, I’ll get on this sumbitchin’ case myself.

Chapter Two

Stillwater, Minnesota - July 1952

Took most of a lifetime

Before I could understand

How the pain of a boy

Shapes the life of a man

The day was about as hot as it ever gets in Minnesota. A big black and white mongrel dog tried to beat the heat by lying in a shallow pocket he’d scratched out of the cool earth. He ignored the gray squirrel that was no more than a dozen feet from his nose. Much nearer to the end of his life than the beginning, the day when he’d give chase to such critters was long gone. His broad head was grey at the muzzle, and he lifted it only to occasionally gaze at the two small boys who played under the branches of the huge elm tree that shaded the unpaved street. Unlike the old dog, their lives were just beginning.

One of the kids, Andy, was tall and thin with sandy blonde hair and blue eyes. He came from one of the many Johnson families in town. The kind with a mom and a dad and all the happy stuff. His buddy was short and sturdy, with slightly curly brown hair and large brown eyes. His round face was freckled, tanned, and partly hidden by an over-sized cowboy hat. Sweat had run from under the hat and made muddy streaks that went all the way to his chin. His name was Mark and he’d been through a lot of crap in his short life…too much for an eight-year-old…too much to have a fair chance at growing up completely right.

In spite of the differences in their lives, the boys did have a few things in common. They were best buddies, they were all excited about riding Andy’s new two-wheeler, and neither of them gave a rip about the heat.

Andy’s parents had given him the bicycle for his birthday. It was a red Schwinn, with balloon tires, twenty-four-inch wheels, and a New Departure coaster brake. Them’s the best brakes made. You got a bike with the best damn brakes made. Little Mark Landry spoke with authority as he squinted and nodded his head. He kicked some gravel for emphasis, and they both stared at the rear wheel of the bicycle and nodded some more. Young Mark had no clue as to what he was talking about, but he’d heard his brother and his buddies say the same thing the other day. They were eleven, and he figured they ought to know a thing or two about brakes.

Yup I know, said Andy, watch this! He rode the bike for twenty-five or thirty feet and then reversed the pedals as hard as he could. The rear tire skidded, stirred up a cloud of dust, and left a crease in the gravel road about four feet long. They were still admiring the skid mark when the two bigger boys showed up.

Whose little baby bike? Willard Schneider sneered.

Mine. Said Andy, Got it for my birthday.

You got a bike Landry?

Nope, the brown-haired boy replied.

Willard’s brother, Pete, joined the conversation. You ain’t got much, do ya? Heard yer momma died, too. You a orphan now? Pete laughed.

The little boy was staring at the ground. He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes and he hoped the others couldn’t see them. Nope, my new dad come home from the army, he muttered.

Well, I think yer a orphan, Willard said, a little baby orphan.

Don’t call me that! the boy shouted and took a step forward, but Willard pushed him back as his brother stuck a foot behind his legs. Mark went down and the back of his head hit hard on the gravel. The Schneider boys laughed.

They turned away from Mark and focused their attention on Andy. Maybe we should just take that little bike for a test ride, Pete said. He grabbed the handlebars with both hands, while Willard took Andy by the arm, and started to pull him away from the bicycle. He didn’t see Mark get back to his feet, and he was taken by surprise when a small fist caught him squarely in his left eye. Temporarily blinded, Willard released his grip on Andy, and stood bent over in pain.

Pete let go of the bike and started for Mark. Yer gonna be sorry you did that, Landry, he growled.

Andy took advantage of the opportunity, and rode away as fast as he could, leaving his friend to face the Schneider brothers alone. The only help he offered was to shout some rather obvious advice over his shoulder. Run Markie.

He did not take his friend’s advice. Covered with dust, his cowboy hat hanging by the string around his neck, and with a big, bleeding knot on the back of his head, young Mark Landry stood his ground and faced his enemies. He took a swing when Pete got within range, but the blow just glanced off the bigger boy’s shoulder. Though he continued to swing blindly, none of his punches landed. Next thing he knew, Pete had him in a headlock and was hitting him. He could feel a dull sting each time Pete’s fist connected with his face. The blows kept coming and coming. It seemed like they would never stop.

Finally, Pete got tired and released him. The dazed boy slumped to the ground. Willard, having regained his vision, picked up Mark’s feet while Pete grabbed his arms. Together they stretched him out, about three feet off the ground, and swung him like a hammock. On the count of three, they sent him flying onto the gravel road. This time he landed face down.

The fall knocked the wind out of Mark, and he got a horrible panicky feeling as he gasped, without success, for air. The few seconds it took to get that first breath seemed like an hour. Even after he began to breathe normally, he lay there without trying to get up. He was crying softly and wishing he could go home to his mother.

Eventually he got to his feet, wiped his nose on his shirt sleeve, and spit the dirt out of his mouth. Slowly he began to walk toward the house where he and his stepfather and brother lived. He would find no comfort there, but he was only eight years old and there was nowhere else to go.

Earl Frank Landry had a cool and arrogant way about him. He was thin, with sharp features, a skinny mustache, and when he dangled his ever-present cigarette from the corner of his mouth, he looked a little like a young Frank Sinatra. Maybe it was for that reason he insisted on being called E. Frank. He had a certain swagger about him…still saw himself as a military man, even though he’d been discharged from the army some six months earlier when his wife, Loretta, died of cancer.

E. Frank was the cousin of Paul Landry Sr., the boys’ father. Drafted in ‘43 after the U.S. involvement in the war was well underway, Paul Sr. became a sailor in the U.S. Navy. His son, Paul, was two years old at the time. Loretta became pregnant with Mark between her husband’s boot camp and the day he shipped out. A week before Mark was born, a Japanese suicide pilot crashed his fighter plane into the gun station that Paul manned on the aircraft carrier, USS Suwanee. He was buried at sea.

E. Frank returned to Minneapolis after the war in Europe was over and his hitch in the Army was up. After a short time, he got into a fracas with a jealous husband in Minneapolis and was badly beaten. He talked his cousin’s widow into letting him stay with her until he recovered. Within six months, he’d convinced her to marry him. Almost immediately he became abusive toward his new wife and the two boys. Less than a year after the marriage, he re-enlisted in the Army and was stationed in Kansas. Loretta and the boys stayed in Minnesota.

After losing her husband and finding herself in a miserable second marriage, Loretta dealt with her pain by dedicating her life to her sons. Sadly, her life was far too short.

Mark was a sorry sight when he got home that afternoon. He was covered with dust and dried blood was caked in his nostrils and on the back of his head. His hands and forehead were scraped from the gravel, and the muddy streaks from his tears still showed on his cheeks. He walked through the kitchen door and saw his stepfather sitting at the table with a can of beer in his hand and a cigarette in his mouth. His face was covered with beads of sweat and his army-green t-shirt had big wet patches under the arms. A pack of Lucky’s was rolled up in one of the sleeves. He muttered some cuss words when the man on the radio said something about the Brooklyn Dodgers.

Mark stood across the room from E. Frank for several seconds. He had no idea what to say or do, or what to expect from this man. He would have been less afraid if he’d walked in on the Schneider boys.

What happened to you, runt? E. Frank snapped. He rarely called Mark by his given name. The boy stared at his feet as he tried to speak. Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you boy and answer my question!

I got...Willard and Pete got me and Andy. They tried to take his bike, an’ they called me a orphan an’ punched me an’ threw me in the dirt. Flooded with sadness and feeling his fear and anger toward his stepfather growing, he sobbed, and his voice shook a little more with each word he spoke.

Well, it sounds like you should’a stood up for yerself a little better, doesn’t it? You wouldn’t last a day in the army if you didn’t show more... uh...backbone than that. Now go clean yerself up and don’t ever let me see you cryin’ like that again. Not ever! E. Frank’s tone was heavy with disgust and contempt as he barked the order.

As it would tend to do for most of the rest of his life, Mark’s anger overrode his fear. He clenched his teeth, turned back toward the man and looked squarely into his eyes. I ain’t in the army and I ain’t never gonna be. And I ain’t never gonna be like you.

E. Frank’s face flushed red. He got out of his chair and rushed across the room. Shoving his right hand under the boy’s chin, he pushed him hard against the wall. You need to show me more respect than that, boy. As he said the words, he slammed Mark against the wall a couple more times.

The boy’s eyes narrowed, he set his jaw, and he stopped crying. When his stepfather released him, he walked to the bathroom. As he washed off the blood and the dirt, he thought of his mom and remembered her gently tending to his little scrapes and cuts...listening to him if he were afraid or sad about something. Now he felt so bad, so alone, and so hopeless. And he was angry with how his life had changed. And he hated E. Frank so much he wished he was dead.

He stood there with his arms folded across his chest and trembled. If only he could talk to his mom right now. What he really wanted was to bring her back. Surely, she would be able to fix this, but, even at eight years old, he understood there was no way that could happen.

Often at night he would dream that his mother was still there only to awaken in the morning to the cruel reality that she was gone. More than anything he felt helpless. How could things be so wrong and yet there was nothing he could do about it?

In all the years that followed, Mark never came to understand why his stepdad was so different from the way his mom had been, or why he would ridicule him for being afraid or for making a mistake. E. Frank was the only father he’d ever known, and he got little from him other than harsh and cruel treatment. He hated him for that, but he still tried his best to be as tough as the little soldier he was expected to be, and he made sure that E. Frank never saw him ‘cry like that’ again. In fact, nearly fifty years would pass before anyone would see him cry.

Chapter Three

Buffalo, South Dakota – 1954-59

I learned do unto others

Back when I was a kid

Then one day I found him

And that’s what I did

Westerns were all over the TV in the fifties, and Mark and his brother, Paul, spent a lot of time watching Hopalong Cassidy, Roy Rogers and the rest. Like the song that would come years later, they grew up dreaming of being cowboys. When Mark was ten, and Paul was thirteen, they got their chance. That summer E. Frank took them to visit their Aunt Catherine and Uncle George at their ranch in the northwestern corner of South Dakota.

E. Frank stayed for a weekend, and, when he returned to Minnesota, the boys stayed behind at the ranch. You two are going to stay here for a while. Don’t give Catherine and George any shit. That was all their stepfather had to say before he left, and it was all the boys expected. Paul said good-bye, and Mark nodded.

Paul was a little confused over being left like that. If Mark felt anything at all, he kept it to himself. It’ll be alright Paul, he said, and it was.

A while turned out to be five years, and they were the best years of their young lives. Catherine and George treated them like their own sons. The boys had their own horses, rodeoed, played sports in school, and became part of the small ranching community of Buffalo, South Dakota. The kindness and love shown to him by his aunt and uncle had begun to soften the hard shell that had encased Mark for most of his life. The emotional thawing would prove to be short lived, however.

Early in the summer, after Paul graduated from Buffalo High School and Mark completed ninth grade, their lives took an unfortunate turn; a turn that would make the wall around Mark grow taller and more impervious than ever before.

Catherine and George had gone to Rapid City the morning before and told the boys they would probably be staying overnight.

The boys got up early and found that their aunt and uncle had not returned. When they completed chores, they saddled up their horses.

Rain had fallen most of the night and into the morning. The sun came out around ten, and the day turned warm and humid. Things were slow to dry out, and the footing in the outdoor riding arena was wet and sloppy. Mark thought it would be fun to see who could do the longest sliding stop on his horse. Paul shook his head but didn’t turn down the challenge.

The plan was to start fifty feet or so outside of the arena, come through the gate, side by side at a gallop, and then hit the brakes. There were two barrels set up at about the halfway point of the arena, and they defined the line where the skid was supposed to start. The boy whose horse slid the furthest would be the winner, as long as the slide started at or before the line between the barrels.

Mark rode a small but sturdy grey gelding that was a cross between a Mustang and a Quarter Horse. Paul had a big sorrel mare that wasn’t quite as quick and handy as Mark’s gelding, but she was a good, steady, stock horse. On the first go round, both boys loped their horses fairly slowly across the slippery footing, and neither sliding stop was very impressive. The second time Mark threw caution aside, spurred the little gelding, and was a good ten yards ahead of his brother when he hit the line. He sat down in the saddle, said whoa, and picked up the reins. An instant later Paul did the same on the big mare. Both horses tucked their rear ends under them and sat down on their hocks as they slid through the soft ground.

Hey brother, Mark said with a big grin, You know I ain’t one to brag, but I beat your sorry ass by at least ten feet.

Bullshit, Paul came back, you’re disqualified. Your marks don’t start until almost a foot past the line.

What in the hell are you talkin’ about Paul? You’re dreamin’. I started before you did. Look at the marks for Crise sake!

Both boys dismounted and walked to the line. They were splitting hairs over where the marks started, when they heard a car approach. They looked up to see a Harding County Sheriff’s squad car pull into the driveway.

Two deputies emerged from the vehicle and walked slowly toward the brothers. Recognizing the officers, Paul greeted them. Hey there, Will, Rob, what brings you out this way?

Yeah, Mark chipped in, Uncle George shut down the still last week. This is a real clean operation now. We got nothin’ to hide. The remark got no reaction as the grim-faced deputies walked through the gate and approached the Landry brothers.

Rob Painter was the first to speak up. Got some real bad news on the radio, boys. Don’t know any other way but to just tell you how it is. Catherine and George are dead. They were in a head on collision on the way back from Rapid late last night.

We’re really sorry, boys. Deputy Will Richardson now offered his condolences. Yeah, it’s a real bad deal, boys. The son of a bitch drivin’ the other outfit was drunk, and he’s the only one that made it.

For a minute or more, Paul just stood there with a blank look on his face, and then he broke down and cried. When the deputies left, he went into the house and called his girlfriend. She came to the ranch and talked with him through the day and into the night.

Mark didn’t look up from the ground for some time, nor did he speak to Paul or the officers. He kicked some mud around for a while, and then mounted the little grey and rode out of the arena at a gallop. He rode through the hills and across the buttes and through the creek bottoms, stopping only occasionally to rest and water his horse. On one of his stops he spent a whole hour throwing stones at an old, galvanized steel water tank and swearing at it. He rode through much of the long, rainy night and part of the next day. When he returned to the ranch his eyes were dry. At the funeral he showed no outward emotion. More than one person commented on what a brave young man he was.

Soon after the funeral, Paul joined the Army and Mark returned to Minnesota. He lived with E. Frank until the day after he graduated from Stillwater High School. The past five years hadn’t changed his stepfather one bit and Mark planned to get free of him at his first opportunity.

His first few days in his new school were some he would remember for the rest of his life.

Mr. Landry?

Yes sir.

"I’m Mr. Olson, sophomore guidance counselor. Classes started here nearly two weeks ago, so we’re going to have to fit you in where we can. It looks like you did pretty well at your last school...uh...Buffalo, where’s that?

South Dakota.

Yes, I can see that. I meant what part of South Dakota?

Northwest part…almost to Montana.

And I see you played football and ran track there. On the junior high team?

No sir, on the varsity.

You must have been pretty good if they moved you up to varsity as a freshman.

Well, I reckon they needed guys as much as anything. We didn’t have enough guys for a junior high team and a varsity.

How many students were there?

Bout ninety I think.

Ninety, in the freshman class?

No sir, in the school. Ninety kids in the school.

I can see how it would have been difficult to find enough players. How did your football team do?

We won the state nine-man championship.

And what position did you play?

Halfback.

Played halfback and ran track, huh. Are you a fast runner?

Yes sir, I guess I am...pretty fast anyway.

You weigh...what, one fifty-five, one sixty?

Yes sir, right about there.

Well, I’m also the varsity football coach, Mr. Landry, and if you’d like to try out for the sophomore team, we can let you do that, even though you’ll be three weeks behind the rest. But I must warn you that this is not nine-man football in Buffalo, South Dakota. This is the St. Paul Suburban Athletic Conference, and the competition here is at a very high level.

OK.

"Well, if you decide to try