Chasing the Tumbleweed

  Casey Dawes

  Chasing the Tumbleweed

  A Books to Go Now Publication

  Copyright © Casey Dawes 2013

  Books to Go Now

  For information on the cover illustration and design, contact bookstogonow@gmail.com

  First eBook Edition –March 2013

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.

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  Chapter One

  The hot August wind blew the tumbleweed across the two-lane highway. Laurie Bevin eased off the gas to avoid the rootless bush, though even that small movement increased the pressure in her bladder. There had to be a rest stop. The barren Nevada countryside didn’t have a decent bush to hide behind to do her business.

  What had possessed her to take this road? The interstate would have gotten her from Salt Lake to LA faster than this podunk highway through the heart of basin and range country.

  But that was the problem. She didn’t want to go faster. Moving faster meant pulling up at her parents’ door, a failure at the ripe old age of twenty-four.

  There! Black pipes rose from two squat non-descript buildings that blended in with the rest of the brown landscape. Only the gray thunderclouds to the east provided relief from the unrelenting drabness.

  She drove her ancient Celica onto the dirt parking lot and pulled to a stop. As she got out of the car she noticed a bright red plastic ice chest positioned exactly between the two buildings.

  Odd.

  Holding her nose, she ran into the brick outhouse, using every ounce of willpower to keep from peeing in her pants. She sighed with relief when she finished and stood to zip up her jeans.

  Something rustled behind the building.

  Probably some form of rodent. Time to get out of here.

  She glanced around the small space. Not even a hand sanitizer.

  Turning the doorknob with distaste, she tried not to think of who or what lingered on its cool metal surface. She scurried back to her car, giving the ice chest another glance.

  She’d be better off not knowing what was in it.

  The disinfectant wipes left her hands with a medicinal smell, but it was a vast improvement over lingering germs. Laurie gave another glance at the ice chest.

  No good could come from opening it, but if she didn’t, her unfulfilled curiosity would haunt her for the rest of the trip. She pulled out another wipe to protect her fingers, walked slowly back to the chest and circled it as if it was a snake. Finally, she lunged toward it and yanked it open.

  Books. Dozens of Louis L’Amour books.

  She had one more motel night before she made it home. May as well take one.

  Cautiously moving the top few aside to consider her options, her wipe-wrapped fingers touched metal. She whipped her hand back, dropped the lid and stood, the white square fluttering to the ground, stark against the gritty concrete.

  What the hell?

  She should get back in her car and head south.

  Should.

  She picked up the wipe, lifted the lid again and moved the rest of the books aside. A Bowie knife. From the looks of it, an antique full of rust spots. Gingerly, she removed it from the ice chest to look closer.

  Those weren’t rust spots.

  Blood.

  Gravel crunched on the side of the building.

  “A little lady like you shouldn’t be holding such a big knife.” The voice was bland.

  Pasty hands unwrapped her fingers from the knife and took it from her.

  Laurie took a step backward.

  A middle-aged man stood in front of her, the cowboy hat on his head matching the rest of the outfit: faded Western-style snap shirt, dirty jeans and scruffy cowboy boots, but the outfit didn’t suit his pale skin and middle-aged flab. His smile chilled her spine in spite of the hundred degree temperature.

  “My name is Eli--Eli Crenshaw,” he said, holding out the hand without the knife.

  She took another step back. “Uh...that’s nice.”

  Eli moved back to the building and she let out a breath.

  “Uh...bye.” She turned and walked toward her car. When she tried to unlock the door, her hands fumbled with the keys. She looked over her shoulder.

  Eli walked toward her, the smile gone from his face.

  Unlock...quick. Her breath came fast. She glanced down the road.

  Empty, like the rest of Nevada.

  “Where are you rushing off to?” He was beside her.

  How did he move so fast and quietly?

  She kept her shaking hands working the lock. Click. Open. She pulled up the door handle.

  The sharp point of the knife dug into her ribs. “Car died a few miles back. I need a lift.”

  Could she get into the car and away before he stabbed her? Or maybe only stabbed a little?

  The point pressed into the soft flesh of her waist. “Uh...sure. Where do you need to go?”

  “South.” The knife moved away. “Get in the car, but don’t start it.”

  Right. She opened the door and heard the click of a rifle safety.

  Had he turned it on or off?

  “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Off.

  She sat in the driver’s seat and looked in the rear-view mirror, hoping to see a car— preferably a police car—coming rapidly down the road. Nothing but swirling dust devils. In the reflection, her gray eyes stood out in her wan face, limp blonde hair plastered to her head.

  Her life would end before she had a chance to live it. Typical. She’d be buried in a shallow grave in nowhere Nevada, dug up by coyotes…

  The rear door squealed open. Eli tossed a faded blue backpack in the back seat and closed the door. His movements were measured, deliberate. The car settled as he lowered himself onto the passenger seat and placed the rifle next to his right leg, the Bowie knife on his lap.

  “Okay, drive south,” he said almost pleasantly. “Don’t do anything stupid or I’ll gut you like a pig.”

  She swallowed, nodded and started the car, the image of the hilt of the Bowie knife sticking from her stomach firmly implanted in her mind. The macadam hummed under the wheels of the car as she increased her speed on the highway, her thoughts churning as fast as the engine.

  How the hell had she wound up in this predicament? Was there any chance she would get out of it alive?

  Not with her luck.

  She flicked her eyes at the man sitting next to her. He was staring at the road, humming a tuneless series of notes. What were his intentions?

  Not good.

  Brent had been right to break up with her. She was just a dumb blonde with a useless degree in American History.

  “Is that your knife?” she blurted out.

  “Is now.”

  “Why is it bloody? I mean…did you kill an animal or something?”

  “More like the ‘or something.’” He tapped it on his leg.

  “It looks old. Must be pretty valuable.” Maybe she could distract him with her superior arcane knowledge.

  Then what?

  The sun glinted on the clean parts of the blade when he held it up. “One of my wife’s favorite possessions. She swore it was made by old Jim Bowie himself.”

  Laurie looked over at her passenger. The expression on his face chilled her.

  Eli must have felt her glance. “Oh, no need to worry about my wife anymore. She’s dead to me now.” He placed his hand on Laurie’s thigh. “But a man has certain needs, you know. And with you being such a pretty young thing, I’m sure you’ll do nicely.”

  Laurie was going to throw up.

  A few hours later Eli said, “Turn here.”

  Laurie took the turn. How long before they reached their destination? She was exhausted from the unrelenting sun and hot wind, Eli’s disgusting hand on her leg, and the tension of not knowing when or how she would die.

  The condition of the roads they’d traveled had deteriorated and now they were down to dirt.

  “I’m not sure this car will make it,” she said as they followed the road up to a ridge.

  “Longer to walk if it doesn’t.” He tapped the knife on his leg.

  He’d probably rape her before he killed her.

  Unless a miracle occurred.

  If only this had been a script from one of her father’s television westerns. The hero would arrive in the nick of time and carry her off in the sunset.

  But she’d never really liked the heroes on her father’s sets. They’d never had time for the producer’s little girl.

  Instead, the stunt men had been her playmates, teaching her to ride, lasso a wooden cow, and shoot cans off a fence rail.

  A clunk took her out of her reverie.

  “Damn it! Watch what you’re doing! We need this car.” Eli’s snarl forc

ed her to look over at him.

  The face of a killer.

  Her chest tightened.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’m tired, that’s all.”

  He rubbed her leg and his voice oozed false concern. “I forgot you did all that driving before you picked me up. Where’d you say you started?”

  “Salt Lake.”

  “When are they expecting you back?”

  “Never,” she said before realizing her mistake. “Never” meant no one would be looking for her. “My parents in LA are expecting me tomorrow.” Not that they’d know that she’d taken this cockamamie road through Nevada instead of the interstate like a sensible daughter would have.

  ”I think you’re going to be late.” Eli chuckled and she shivered.

  “Cold? I’ve got just the thing to warm you.” He grabbed his crotch. “But we have to wait until we get home first.”

  Home?

  The hardscrabble Nevada wilderness surrounded them. Juniper trees fought for existence with vast tracts of sagebrush. No life stirred.

  They descended into a valley where other dirt roads intersected with the one they were on. “Go right,” Eli instructed.

  Laurie’s spirits bottomed out as they headed deeper into the back country.

  Another hour of nothingness passed before Eli told her to make another turn. The road narrowed and scrub brush scratched the sides of the Celica. “Pull in here,” he said, indicating a cleared patch.

  Once she’d stopped and turned off the car, he said, “There’s nowhere to run, so don’t try it. If I don’t get you—and I will—a coyote will. Or you’ll die of starvation.” He shrugged. “Your best bet is to stay with me.”

  And you’re crazy.

  Laurie got out of the car and helped Eli cover it with brush that was stacked nearby. She watched him gather his pack, sling the rifle over his back with an attached strap, and stuff the knife into its scabbard.

  “Get some things from your suitcase—change of clothes—that kind of stuff.” She opened her suitcase, grabbed her toiletries, disinfectant wipes, and some clean underwear, and stuffed them into her tote.

  “That way,” he said, and pushed her down a narrow trail.

  Chapter Two

  Tuesday began the same as all his other days had for the past eight years. By seven, Forest Ranger Jeff Dawson was seated at the Toiyabe Café in Austin, Nevada, drinking his morning coffee and wolfing down a stack of pancakes. Only the flavor of the pancakes changed. Today’s special was mango.

  It was a flavor he could live without.

  “What’s up Dawson?” The state trooper’s belt creaked as he slid onto the stool next to Jeff.

  “Mango,” Jeff said. “How the hell did he find mangos in the middle of Nevada?”

  “I ordered ‘em, same as everything else,” the counterman interjected. “They were on sale. You don’t think we actually grow anything in this town—do you? Except tumbleweed. I can get you that for your pancakes if you want.”

  Jeff stuffed another bite into his mouth. After he finished swallowing, he turned to the state trooper. “What brings you down from Butte Mountain?”

  “Abandoned car. We found it about twenty miles south of the interstate on Three-oh-five. Ran the license plates. Stolen. Ran the prints.” The counterman plunked a mug of coffee in front of the trooper, who picked it up, blew, and sipped. “Prints are from a guy who escaped from Lovelock a while back. Bad dude. Sliced up his wife with a Bowie knife.”

  “He wasn’t nearby the car?”

  The trooper shook his head. “We had the choppers up, but didn’t see anything. But this guy, Eli Crenshaw, he could’ve carjacked someone.”

  Jeff ate the last of his pancakes. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

  “Do that. Where you off to today?”

  “Got to file some reports, then run up to Grantsville this afternoon. We have reports of vandalism, maybe a fire started in one of the old houses up there.”

  “Bad news, fires, this time of year. The whole state could go up. Never seen it so dry.”

  Jeff threw a ten dollar bill on the counter. “See ya.”

  He stuffed his hat on his head as he walked out the door. Even at seven-thirty the sun was already making itself felt in the high desert. He pulled himself into his Jeep, cranked up the air conditioning and the satellite radio opera station, and left Austin.

  The reports took longer than he’d anticipated. Damn paperwork.

  It was almost four by the time he climbed the dusty trail to the scattered ruins of Grantsville. Not many people made the trek—there were better ghost towns in Nevada, but this ghost town was one of several that fell under his jurisdiction.

  A cabin in a gully yielded some evidence of habitation. An old bed-roll stuffed in a corner gave him pause. How long had it been there? The trooper’s words came back to him. Was Crenshaw living here? If so, how come no one ever saw him?

  The spot between his shoulder blades itched.

  He tossed the bedroll in the back of the Jeep and drove to another section of the old town. Here he found what he’d been looking for—charred remains where someone had tried to start a fire. Fortunately, they hadn’t been any good at it.

  Jeff shrugged his shoulders. Not much he could do. The perpetrators were long gone. That was the nature of his job— to keep a lid on things so they didn’t get out of hand. He rarely dealt with any real trouble, for which he was grateful. His life was good the way it was—peaceful and virtually people-free.

  Maybe I’m getting too soft. If real trouble ever hit, could I handle it?

  He made a mental note to get back to the target range as he climbed back into the Jeep. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Maybe he should go down some of the back roads to check things out. He doubted Crenshaw would pick this out-of-the-way place, but Jeff had the time.

  And the itch.

  An hour later he spotted a vehicle’s tracks. It looked like a car had come into the forest from the east side and turned north. He stopped the Jeep and stared at the tracks ascending the fire road. From the wheel base, the car looked like a small foreign job. The wrong thing to have on these roads. They’d be lucky if they didn’t bottom out.

  Why had they gone that way? It was a dead end.

  He turned to follow the tracks. Most locals had trucks or four- wheel-drive vans. The occasional tourist off the beaten track didn’t come up here.

  That left Crenshaw.

  And the itch between Jeff’s shoulder blades.

  A few miles up, he reached the dead end. No sign of the car. It must have turned off one of the side roads and he’d missed it.

  Jeff turned the Jeep around, inched it back down the hill, and kept a sharp eye out for any possible turnoff.

  There. Faint tracks on the hardpan led from the main fire road. He pulled to the side, not wanting the noise of the engine to alert anyone to his presence.

  Clambering from the Jeep, he unsnapped his holster and followed the tracks, hugging the slight brush at the edge of the road.

  Not much cover, but if it worked for the mule deer...

  He spotted the rear tire of the parked car about a mile from the turnoff. The brush used to hide it was old and brittle; a branch easily snapped off in his hand.

  How long had the car been there?

  He put his hand on the hood. Warm. Pulling down the brim of his hat to shade his eyes from the western sun, he studied the area around him. A white square stood out from the duff surrounding the car. He picked it up with a glove and sniffed it. Disinfectant.

  After putting it in an evidence bag, he scanned the area again and saw two sets of footprints, one smaller than the other, heading down a trail.

  They couldn’t be far ahead.

  He took his walkie-talkie from the loop on the back of his belt and walked a bit back down the road before he made the call.

  “Dawson checking in.”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s a hidden car up here just off One-oh-eight near Richmond Hill. Looks like two people took a trail. I’m going to follow them.”

  “You alone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wait for backup.”

  “How long?”

  The dispatcher covered the mike, but Jeff could hear the chatter in the background.

 

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