Double Blind (3 page)

Fearful the thief might have seen the light or heard the door snapping shut, he dropped to one knee and waited, but saw no further signs of an intruder. Standing, he reached through the open window, grabbed his gun, stuffed it in his vest pocket, and hurried across the street.

Staying close to the buildings, he moved quietly along the sidewalk, past Mama Rose’s, and peered through the corner of one of the large front windows of his store. The ornate copper street lamps, which lined Main Street, cast only a meager glow through the glass. He looked beyond the checkout counter in front and into the darker recesses of his store.

He saw no one. Nothing appeared out of place. The store seemed to be asleep, which was what he should be doing instead of playing private eye. He was tired and cold and his plan to catch the thief seemed lamer by the minute.

As he stepped back and began to turn toward his truck, the soft ping of metal against metal stopped him. Then, a dark shadow caught his eye. He ducked behind the window frame.

All his doubts evaporated.

Someone was inside, in the back corner, beyond the racks of parkas and rain gear, beyond the display tables stacked with sweaters and work shirts. After 42 years, Lloyd knew every square inch of his business. The thief stood near the back wall where an array of shovels, axes, and walking sticks hung from a peg-board display. Again, he heard a soft metallic ping as the thief lifted something from its perch.

The intruder appeared large. Very large. At least six-two, he would guess. And thick. Definitely not kids. In fact, the only person he knew who was that size was Billy Bear Wingo. But, that made no sense. Why would Billy steal from him? Billy was practically family and could have anything he needed anytime he wanted. Besides, this person’s movements didn’t look like Billy. His shoulders appeared more rounded, more slumped. But then, he couldn’t see him all that well.

Maybe he should call Chief Wade. He glanced to his left, toward the pay phone at the Shell station. Or he could simply walk the block and a half to Wade’s apartment. But, by the time Wade rolled out of bed and got down here, the thief might be gone.

Besides, if it was Billy, better not to drag Wade into it. Wade and Billy didn’t get along as it was.

Lloyd slipped into the dark narrow passage between his store and Mama Rose’s. The pungent aromas of decaying onions and garlic and grease from the cluster of trashcans that sat behind the restaurant greeted him as he peered around the corner into the alley that ran behind the businesses. Seeing no one, he circled behind his store and crept along the far wall to the side door, the entry the thief had used each time.

Deputy Samantha Cody guided her Jeep through the twists and turns of Colorado’s Highway 550, the famous San Juan Skyway. In the darkness, she could see none of the incredible scenery that made this route so popular with tourists. To her, the two-lane blacktop highway seemed to be a serpentine version of old Route 66, which marked the southern edge of her hometown, a California high desert speck on the map called Mercer’s Corner.

Each road was famous, even though interstate highway now replaced most of Route 66. To Sam, both were dangerous stretches of asphalt that Mother Nature had chewed into submission. The murderous heat of summer and the torrential rains of winter continually assaulted the portion of Route 66 that she patrolled on a regular basis, while, for the San Juan Skyway, the rains of summer and the bitter cold and heavy snows of winter did the damage. Pock marked, cracked, and tortuous, 550 proved to be an even more fatiguing drive.

In the halo of the Jeep’s headlights, she could barely see the road’s tattered edge as it wound its way upward between a wall of mountain rock to her right and a 500-foot shear drop to her left. Every sudden hairpin turn and rock outcropping that jumped at her from the darkness gave her a start. More than once, she envisioned a plunge over the edge and into a black void. It was all she could do to concentrate on the centerline that continually slid beneath the left fender. A line so faded that she could not determine if it had originally been yellow or white. It seemed more an apparition than a reality.

She yawned and rubbed one eye with the back of her hand.

Last night’s boxing match in Las Vegas had worn her out. And sitting behind the wheel of her Jeep for the past 12 hours had added its own brand of stiffness to her muscles. Her shoulders, arms, back, and legs ached, a deep burning ache. Flu-like, only worse.

Her face was tender and even in the weak dashboard lights the bruise that had blossomed beneath her left eye was clearly visible. She could still feel the blow. A cobra like overhand right landed by Marta Sanchez in the third round. Damn that woman could hit. She had seen it coming, but couldn’t deflect or slip it quickly enough. Her knees had buckled and she nearly dropped to the canvas.

Her first two professional fights had been easy, both first round KOs. But last night, before an unruly crowd at Caesar’s Palace, the scheduled four rounder nearly went the distance and she could have suffered her first loss. The fight was too close to call.

And last night, for the first time, she questioned the wisdom of choosing boxing as an avocational pursuit.

She and Marta had waged a war of jabs and hooks and body shots and pain, with neither gaining the upper hand. Then late in the fourth round, Sam caught the stocky, rock hard Marta with a clean left-right-left combination and staggered her. Mustering what little strength she still possessed, Sam attacked furiously and finally put Marta down and out with a wide left hook.

Though she ached all over, her swollen and bruised knuckles were the worst. It became increasingly difficult to grip the steering wheel. She alternated hands, allowing one to rest in her lap, while the other throbbed through each turn. She fidgeted and shifted in her seat more and more with each passing mile, seeking a position that would ease the knots in her back and shoulders.

The road slipped away from the shear cliff and flattened as it snaked across a forested mesa. Ahead, Sam could faintly make out snow-capped peaks that seemed to hang above the trees in the black sky.

Alyss had said Gold Creek was a little over 20 miles south of Montrose. It seemed to her that she had passed through the flat, featureless town long ago. The dashboard clock indicated it had only been a half hour. Finally, her headlights caught the road sign:

GOLD CREEK 2 MILES

She slowed. Alyss had also said the road to Gold Creek was about a half mile past the sign and that the marker indicating the turn-off had long since disappeared and had not been replaced.

Of course, she should have arrived hours ago. She had intended to leave Las Vegas early, but by the time she and Nathan struggled out of bed, ate breakfast, packed, and checked out of Caesar’s Palace, it was noon. She called Alyss to tell her she would be late, and then saw her trainer Jimmy Ryker off on his way back to Mercer’s Corner. After dropping Nathan at the airport so he could fly to New York to cover an alien abduction, or a three-headed baby, or whatever story he was chasing for his tabloid, “Straight Story,” she climbed on I-15 and headed east.

She spotted the turn and wheeled on to the two-lane blacktop that led to Gold Creek. An audible sigh of relief escaped.

It would be good to see Alyss. How long had it been? Three years? Seemed longer. They talked on the phone occasionally and even though Mercer’s Corner was only a couple of hours from Alyss’ former home in LA, they never seemed to find the time to get together. That’s what happens when making a living gets in the way of living. The 9 to 5, or in the case of a cop the 24/7 eats up your life, saps your energy, dulls your senses. Add to that the Richard Earl Garrett case, her blossoming boxing career, and the gorgeous Nathan Klimek and a trip to LA moved down her list of priorities. Now, that Alyss had moved three states away, Sam finally decided to visit.

The narrow, two-lane road wound downward through a deep notch in the mountains. As she rounded a curve, the steep slopes seemed to melt away and a narrow valley opened before her. The soft lights of the town came into view. The road descended into the mouth of the valley and became Main Street, which carried her into the heart of downtown Gold Creek. A sign of dark wood with yellow block lettering peeked from beneath a large spruce tree and announced: “Welcome to Gold Creek, Population 821, Elevation 6243 Feet.”

The town appeared to be about six blocks long with well-preserved buildings, standing shoulder to shoulder along each side of the wide street. It was exactly as Alyss had described. Quaint, rustic, clean.

Ornate, oxidized copper lamps lined the sidewalks and cast more mood than light from their perches on black wrought iron poles. Though electric, their soft golden glow created the illusion that they might be gas lamps. No traffic signals disturbed the serenity. To Sam, the scene looked like a hundred year old sepia print. She half expected to see a horse drawn carriage come down the street.

But, the town slept. That peaceful slumber reserved for small isolated communities, which like sated cats curled up early and dozed unmolested.

Lloyd eased up to the door, which stood slightly ajar, and carefully pushed it open. Its ancient hinges released a soft groan. He froze. The shuffling of feet and the scraping of metal hangers on racks came at him from the far back corner of the store where the darkness thickened.

He stepped through the door, his heart hammering an incessant rhythm. The odor of Mama Rose’s trashcans followed him from the alleyway, except now, inside, it was even stronger. And it took on a different character. Mustier, more unpleasant.

Sweat erupted on his forehead and he wiped moisture from his hand on his pant leg. He grasped the .38, but as he attempted to pull it from his pocket, the hammer caught on the edge. He yanked but it wouldn’t come free. Fear gripped him as he envisioned the intruder, leaping from the shadows to attack him. Heat swelled in his chest. Again, he tugged on the weapon and mercifully it slipped free.

His breath came in heavy gasps as he waved the .38 toward the dense shadows.

“Who’s there?” he said, his voice cracking. Attempting to sound more forceful, more in control, he repeated, “Who’s there?”

Again he heard shuffling footsteps and saw the top of the intruder’s head, moving toward the front of the store, staying low behind a table piled with woolen sweaters and corduroy pants.

“Billy?” Lloyd said. “Is that you?”

The man stopped, dropped from sight behind a rack of jackets.

“Billy?”

No response. No movement.

“Who are you?”

The intruder remained silent.

“I’m armed,” Lloyd said.

He peered into the shadows, looking for any movement but saw nothing. In the darkness, the thief’s raspy breathing seemed to come from every direction.

He needed more light. The overhead light switch was near the front door. Too far away and too near where the thief was now hidden. But, to his left along the wall a brass lamp sat on the desk where he kept books, ordered supplies, and chatted with friends and customers.

He sidestepped toward it, keeping his eyes and the gun trained on where he had last seen the intruder. His fingers found and yanked the pull chain. The cavernous darkness easily consumed the weak glow from the 60-watt bulb. Some shadows dissolved, others intensified.

“Look, I don’t want to hurt you,” Lloyd said. “Come out where I can see you.”

Nothing. Only the sound of his own sibilant breathing and the whooshing of his heart beat in his ears.

“Billy? If that’s you, come on out. I don’t want to call Wade and get you in trouble again.”

Holding the gun before him, Lloyd crept toward the table that concealed the intruder. Skirting it, he expected to see him huddled in the shadows, but no one was there. Lloyd spun around looking in every direction. Where did he go?

Then, he heard movement and turned. Slipping through the shadows, weaving around the tables and racks of merchandise, a form moved toward the side door.

He’s going to get away, Lloyd thought. He rushed back toward the door to block any escape, but the quick movements of the intruder easily won the race. But rather than escape through the door, the thief stopped, rose up so that the lamp backlit him, making him appear even more massive. Only a dozen feet separated them. The intruder’s coarse breathing was almost a grunt. The musty odor, now stronger, seemed sour, sweaty, feral.

Lloyd realized this wasn’t going as he had planned. The thief did not appear intimidated by the gun. Sweat trickled down Lloyd’s forehead, into his eyes. He swiped his shirtsleeve across his face and raised the weapon. He squinted, attempting to make out the thief’s face. He had thick hair that hung to his shoulders and a dark unruly beard, but he could make out few details.

“Billy? Is that you?”

No response.

“What’s wrong with you?” Lloyd took a step back. “Take anything you want.” Panic cracked his voice.

With a sweat-soaked, shaking hand, Lloyd pointed the gun toward the thief and squeezed the trigger. The sound was deafening, the recoil surprising.

The intruder came at him with quick predatory strides.

He fired again, but the swipe of a huge hand deflected the gun away. The weapon fell from Lloyd’s grasp and banged against the hard wood floor.

The intruder towered over him, extending a folding shovel above his head.

Lloyd looked up into two dark eyes. A scream swelled in his throat as he raised his arms for protection. Too late. Pain and a flash of light erupted in his head. Reeling, he reached out toward his attacker, searching for any support, closing his fist around the intruder’s wiry beard. Consciousness escaped him as he slumped to the floor.

As Sam drove along Main Street, several antique shops, a 1950’s style gas station, and a pharmacy that appeared to have a soda counter caught her eye. Near the center of town, she saw Mama Rose’s Bistro, a faded redwood structure with French doors and windows, framed by floral curtains. Next door loomed a two-story wooden building. Lettering on its expansive front windows indicated it was Varney’s General Merchandise.