Valley of the Shadows

By Christopher Ant

Frank McCoy was on the verge of pocketing a fortune in silver bullion. All he had to do was keep a lid on the tricks his mind was playing on him. But at the last minute his past had reached out and grabbed him by the throat. Everything he had worked for was hanging by a thread. If he played it right he could walk away rich. If he lost his nerve he would lose everything. Including his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher Ant
• Release date: Jun 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005445942

Book preview

Valley of the Shadows

Christopher Ant

Copyright Christopher Ant 2022. All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition.

Any similarity to people, places, or things in the real world is purely coincidental.

1.

Special Agent Hawthorne watched the fat little hotel owner working his way around the empty room as he cleared plates and piled them at the far end of the counter running the length of one side. When they had come down to breakfast, the place had been full with travelling salesmen and store clerks shoveling food into their faces. Being cramped it had seemed small, but now it was just the two of them it felt like a barn. As the only place in town to get a hot meal the dining room was oversize for the twelve-bed hotel, but in truth it wasn’t big or small. It was all a trick of the mind, was only this or that depending on how you looked at it.

He stirred his coffee and studied the kid opposite methodically cutting up his bacon and forking it into his mouth and felt old. It didn’t bother him as much as he had expected. In fact it didn’t bother him very much at all. The wheel had turned. This smooth faced boy was actually a man, had slogged through the Pacific knee-deep in blood and come home with the Congressional Medal of Honor around his neck. And if the boy was a man, then he himself was now an old man. For a moment his vanity tried half-heartedly to convince him it was like the size of the room, a matter of perspective, and then, knowing it was futile, gave up.

No, there was no arguing with the facts. He was history, a museum piece. He didn’t care. The kid could keep it. He had enjoyed the work in the early days. Even the messy stuff after they had sidelined him hadn’t been too bad. (He had been in his natural element and it had given him the freedom to operate as he saw fit.) But all the chasing shadows in recent years bored him. Truth be told he was glad to be out of it, was glad to be getting out healthy and in one piece.

He looked out the window at the hayseeds drifting by in the sun and imagined the bustle of the city, imagined being home again after twenty-five years on the road with the Bureau, most of it in one shit-berg or another. He had no complaints. Sure, almost an entire career spent in the boondocks felt like being buried alive, but they didn’t realize they were throwing Br’er Rabbit in the briar patch by giving him the tough dirty jobs nobody else wanted to touch. And knowing they were trying to grind him down, that they thought he would give up and quit, just made him dig his heels in harder.

If they had wanted rid of him they would have had to outright sack him. And they would have if he had ever given them an excuse. But he hadn’t. Not like all the guys that little prick Hoover purged when he took over. Okay, his tests had gotten rid of some dead wood, but most had been good guys and were dumped overboard just because they weren’t the type he wanted in an organization he was remaking in his own image. The new people he brought in, though they all thought themselves very upright, were, like him, twisted: The unhealthy fascination they all had with prying and poking into the dark corners of other people’s private lives gave away their own inner darkness.

Bill had been a straight arrow, for sure, but he was no puritan zealot, just a good honest guy, and he took to the new bunch no better than he himself had. He thought about the bawling out he would have to take for helping the kid with Bill’s white-whale hunt and smiled. The kid was alright, wound way too tight, but alright. He had only gotten in to the Bureau on his war record and because of whose brother he was.

But none of it was his problem anymore. He would set himself up as a silent partner in some bustling little beer and sandwich joint. Nothing fancy, just something to make his savings work for him, something to keep him in bread and butter. And whatever the sweat of his brow earned him on top would be all jam.

The sleek lines of their long black Plymouth shining in the sun opposite cut into his daydream and he realized just how little the hunt meant to him. It had been a thrill in the old days but hadn’t been that for a long time. When he was the boy’s age he had thought he would never retire, that he would die in the saddle, but now it was less than a month away he headed toward it as if into a lover’s arms.

Something on your mind?

He turned back to the kid, pushed his plate away from him, and said, Let’s get moving. We leave it much longer we’ll still be in the desert at midday.

The boy nodded and returned his attention to his food. He watched him eating for a few moments and then stood and said, You finish up and deal with the bill. I’ll wait in the car.

Taking the portable typewriter with him, he left.

Special Agent Johnson washed down his last mouthful with a swig of coffee and lit a cigarette. He didn’t want to settle the bill, would have much rather avoided speaking to the old man fussily clearing up in the corner of his eye, making his jaw clench as, like them all, he toiled away just to gouge a little more from the other guy. It made him sick, all the blood spilled to protect this dirty rat’s nest. It wasn’t even honestly evil, just the ceaseless soulless pursuit of gold. He needed to get away and get clean. And he would if and when he ever got to the bottom of the damn dirty little present Bill had left for him. Then the sweaty old man was at his elbow with a pie on a plate. Would you like a slice? My wife baked it fresh this morning. Maybe you’d like me to wrap one up. For your trip.

Always buzzing around you like a fat mosquito looking to suck some more blood, the bastard was relentless. He looked up into the greasy mug leering over him and it was all he could do to stop himself planting a fist in it. No thank you.

The guy went off and he stubbed his cigarette, swilled his coffee around, and saw he was down to gritty sludge. He put the cup down and wallowed in his boiling blood: The dirty old cheat knew it was all on expenses and was laying it on for them, giving them oversize portions, the best of everything, thinking they would look the other way as he padded the bill. Chiseling little bastard.

He looked down. As always Hawthorne had left him the leather case bursting at the seams with files, his damned inheritance. He heaved it up, made his way to the counter, lowered it to the floor, and rang the bell. As he waited he looked with distaste at the wrapped piece of pie on a plate sitting next to the cash register.

Wiping his hands on a cloth, the old man appeared from the door behind the counter, came over, hung the cloth on a hook, and said, Yes, son?

How much?

It’s covered.

What?

On the house. No charge.

He couldn’t see his game, but whatever it was he wasn’t playing. I can’t do that.

The guy looked down and said, You seen action. I can tell. You got the look. He swallowed hard and looked up. My boy’d be about your age. If he’d come back. But he didn’t and there ain’t a damn thing I can do for him now. So just let me do this, okay?

He carefully picked up the paper wrapped slice of pie and held it out.

I…uh…I…Thank you.

He took the pie and slipped it into a coat pocket, picked up the case, and turned and headed for the door.

Hey, kid.

He turned back and the old man fixed him with a serious look and said, You take care of yourself, okay?

Johnson nodded and attempted a smile and knew he had failed by the pained expression on the old guy’s face. He tried again and said, Japs couldn’t get me. Guess I’m pretty much bulletproof.

The old man smiled and nodded to himself. All young men are bulletproof. Till they’re not. All I’m asking is be careful, okay?

Sure thing, pops.

The old man beamed and Johnson turned and left.

He crossed the street, opened the rear door of the Plymouth, and swung the case onto the seat, and then opened the front door and slid behind the wheel. Hawthorne opened the glove compartment, took out the map, and as he unfolded it said, You know something, I’ve already forgotten the name of this place.

It’s number fourteen.

Oh yeah. Good old number fourteen.

He took a stub of pencil and crossed off number fourteen and then followed the heavy lead line to number fifteen and circled it. Johnson started the engine, got her in gear, and they rolled out of town in a cloud of dust.

Hey, pal, you got a match?

Mickey opened his eyes, registered the judder of ancient springs on dirt road, and, remembering where he was, took his hat from his face, sat up, and twisted to face his interrogator. What’s that, buddy?

You got a match?

Bracing himself against the movement of the bus, he dug out a matchbook, handed it to the man, and watched as he lit his cigarette and then shook out the match and dropped it on the floor. He took the matches from the man’s outstretched hand, pocketed them, and turned to the dusty window. They had left the desert behind as he slept and were now deep in the mountains. It was cool up here. Not as suffocating at least, anyway.

He watched the trees rushing by and thought they looked desperate to get where he had just come from, as if what he had left behind was priceless to them, or as if they were…fleeing something. As crazy as the idea was, it unsettled him. Searching for something solid to cling to, his gaze moved from the enveloping forest to the mountain peaks above. The massive piles of stone offered reassurance, and then took it away. In spite of their sedate pace, they were still travelling in the same direction as the trees: Away from where he was headed.

He told himself it was ridiculous to see dark meaning in such ordinary things, that the thin air up here must be getting to him. All the same, he wished he were someplace else. The whole trip was a complete waste of time anyway. This corner of the state, hell the whole damn state, was a dusty and worthless backwater. He thought about getting the guys organized and demanding a wage as well as a cut and laughed. He had never liked chasing wild geese, but liked the thought of going up against the professor even less. It was a sap move anyway. The boss knew what he was doing, knew things, found things out somehow. If he thought it was worth the time and effort for God-knew-what (all he had given him to go on was the statement: ‘There is something of immense value there. You will know it when you see it.’) then it was. He was nobody’s fool and could sniff out an opportunity like nobody else. That, after all, was why he was the boss. That and the way he had of looking deep inside you like a human X-ray machine, the way his words burrowed into your brain. Word upon word till he had tangled you so tight in his web it wasn’t a matter of doing what he wanted; what you wanted to do was what he wanted you to do. Nobody ever broke away. Well one guy had once years ago, but that was the exception that proved it.

Frank stopped at the bottom of the flight of rock-cut steps that spiraled around the peak to the dead flat, six-yard-wide circular summit, took out a handkerchief, took off his cap, and wiped the sweat from his face, brow, and neck. No matter how many times you did it, it was still one helluva climb up here. After taking a moment to catch his breath, he pocketed the handkerchief and jammed his cap back on his head, unslung the canvas bag containing his rifle and laid it down, and took off his pack and laid it next to the rifle. He pulled his deck jacket from his pack, put it on, and zipped and buttoned it up and then turned up the collar and buttoned it in place. Finally he took the field-glasses from the pack and hung them around his neck. Tall and lean and square shouldered, he looked like he had been sent by central casting.

He steeled himself for the final ascent. He had never much liked coming up here but vague unease had given way to icy dread since he had gotten back. The place still looked the same, still commanded every approach to town, still provided the soaring bird’s eye view that gave you a sense of being above the world, beyond the world, but it felt different. Maybe it was him that had changed. Maybe the survival instinct that had kept him alive overseas was just jumpiness when you brought it back home. Whatever the reason, the place made him shiver no matter how much he wrapped up. Shiver deep inside.

He got his pack on, shouldered the rifle, and started up the steps. They rose sharply as they wound around and in three turns he was at the top. Either side of the last step, bored into the flat rock, was one of the almost a foot wide and more than a yard-and-a-half deep, perfectly round holes that stood in a circle around the edge of the small plateau. He hesitated a moment then stepped through, and, like always, felt he was stepping across someone’s threshold uninvited.

He went to the middle, the center of the circle of holes, and the burning itch between his shoulder blades, the feeling of eyes drilling into his back that would build and build till he would have to leave and pretend to himself he wasn’t running away, turned him full circle on the spot. His eyes, his rational brain, told him he was alone. His primitive brain, however, told him he was being watched, that he was in danger. And whatever you said, his primitive brain had saved his neck enough times to get a hearing when it spoke.

He kept his senses taught as he looked around again and took in the immense blue dome of sky above him, the towering and snowy peaks in the distance, the tree-clad mountain sides, the deep ravines between them, and then faced town and put the glasses to his eyes. A turn of the wheel and it all came into focus: Old Mr. Perkins shooting the breeze with Mrs. Stockwell on the boardwalk outside the general store, the Harper’s idiot boy cavorting lopsidedly with his scrawny hound in the middle of the street, Alec Robertson in his shirtsleeves buffing the shine on his beloved fire truck.

He dropped the glasses enough to take a fresh bearing then lifted them and placed them on the old man’s house, on the stone first floor growing out of the bedrock and supporting the timber upper floors, on the wooden deck taking up half the third floor, on the scattered outbuildings. All quiet. He examined the dirt around the house and as always was amazed it looked perfectly ordinary, showed no visible sign that deep beneath it lay his future, his way out.

He dropped the glasses again and scanned the approaches to town. Empty. Then movement on the very edge of his vision made him look up. In the distance, a long way off, a moving black speck. He put the glasses on it and watched it slowly grow and move leftward. It wasn’t going to get anywhere near overhead but if it maintained course would get steadily closer and closer, coming up the valley into the deep mountains.

Trying to ignore the itch between his shoulder blades demanding to be scratched, he unslung his rifle and pack again, stowed the glasses in the pack, took out the small scope-pouch, and laid the pack down in the direction of the approaching speck. He sat on his heels, unbuckled the rifle bag, and slid out the rifle. Unbidden his right hand stroked it. The Great War kraut weapon with its ivory stock incised with one man’s crazy impressions of his war always gave him pause to think, to wonder.

Yanking his mind back to the task at hand he took the scope from its pouch, fit it in place, got down on the cold stone, and, with the pack supporting the rifle’s forestock, took a bearing on the speck. He put the scope where he thought it was and saw nothing but sky and tried again and this time got it almost dead center. He watched it and, though it was still no more than a dot, was aware of the steady sinuous effortless rise and fall, the languid but powerful wingbeats that drove it relentlessly forward.

He tried to relax, to focus on his quarry, but his mind was drawn to the unseen danger behind