Justin Stanchfield - Bone Lake.pdf - Justin Stanchfield - margozap

BONE LAKE

Justin Stanchfield

Montana Territory, 1883

Ice melted off the sod roof, fat drops wicking down the icicles hanging from the eaves, split splat, split

splat to the frozen ground. The Chinook was late, February bleeding into March, the dawn outside the

little cabin sullen and cold. Annie Tate poured coffee into a chipped enameled cup, trying not to spill, her

hand shaking despite the smoky heat blazing out the cookstove. Her left eye hurt, the bruise around it

puffy, painful to the touch. A few drops sloshed over the rim, darkening the plank table. For a moment

she thought the man seated in front of her might strike her again, but he did nothing, silent as death. She

set the pot back on the stove.

"Don’t go." She squeezed her eyes shut, biting her lip to keep from crying. She was so tired of tears.

"Isaac... don’t go."

He said nothing, simply drained his cup then pushed away from the table, his shadow large in the coal-oil

flicker. Spurs jangled, sharp rowels dragging the hard dirt floor. Annie watched as he pulled on his long

canvas coat then wound a silk scarf around his throat, the bright red cloth a contrast to his dark nature.

Isaac Tate stared at her, his eyes lost in the gloom. Outside, a horse whickered, hooves sloshing through

the knee-deep snow. He reached for the door handle.

"Isaac?" Annie wrapped her arms around herself. "How long will you be gone?"

"Long as it takes," he said at last. "Why should you care?"

"You’re my husband."

"Fine time to realize it." He pulled the door open, the dank smell of melting snow pouring in. ‘Billy’s here.

I’ve got to go."

"You’re just going to leave me here?"

"The cows are starving. They can’t wait till spring." He reached behind the open door, found his carbine,

the barrel gray in the half-dawn, knuckles white around the stock. Isaac snugged his tattered black hat

down and stepped outside. Annie took a deep breath and followed him as far as the doorway, shivering

in the chill.

"I’m going to have a baby."

Isaac stopped, but didn’t turn, rain-rich wind whipping around him, moaning through the little stand of

pine behind the corrals. His grip tightened around the rifle. "Maybe you ought to talk to Billy about that."

Annie watched through tears as he wandered the muddy path to the barn, icy water spilling down her

back like blood across the killing floor.

***

Dewey’s Flat, Montana, Present Day

Mick Saurbeir pulled off the blacktop and parked his Taurus next to a dented flatbed, a bored heeler

dog laying on it, watching him, head rested on his paws, ears flicking as Mick stepped past. He twisted at

the waist, loosening his stiff back as he studied the little town. Gas station, post office, a tavern on either

side of the highway that served as the town’s single street. He reached back into his car for his scuffed

briefcase, leaning across the seat. The car needed washing. So did he. Mick straightened, not bothering

to lock the door, and walked toward the nearest bar, the screen-door creaking as he stepped inside.

A painfully thin woman behind the bar turned away from the television hung above the shelves of half-full

bottles, and limped toward him. A boozy kid, no more than twenty, the only other person in the room,

barely glanced his way, his eyes not half as bright as the dog outside. The woman leaned her elbows on

the linoleum covered bar and smiled.

"What can I get you?"

"Coke, thanks." Mick fished a wrinkled twenty out of his wallet. She came back from the cooler and set

the familiar red and black can in front of him, beads of condensation sweating on the silk smooth

container.

"Need a glass?"

"No. This is fine." He took a long drink, the too-sweet pop tickling his nose, draining half the can in the

first swallow. He wanted a beer, wanted it desperately. These were the hard times, the lonely days when

just the thought of that first cold rush pouring down his throat sang in his blood, humming him back to the

blur he had wasted too many years inside. He took another sip of Coke, resigned that he would never

again dare sample anything stronger. He was tired. More tired than he wanted to admit, the years and the

miles taking their toll. Slowly, he set the briefcase on the stool beside him and opened it. A notebook and

a micro-recorder sat beside an envelope full of photographs. He slipped one of the photos out, a High

School picture of a pretty, brown-haired girl, and laid it in front of the bartender. "Ever seen this

woman?"

The bartender turned the picture around and studied it, frowning slightly, tapping her left hand against the

bar, the cheap silver ring on her finger clicking softly. Mick thought he saw a glimmer of recognition and

pushed his luck a bit further. "Her name is Jennifer Mitchell, but she might be going by Jenny Hale."

The woman stared at Mick from under her thin, plucked eyebrows, suspicious. The boozy kid at the

other end of the bar slid down and looked over Mick’s shoulder, his breath reeking. He stared at the

picture, his head wobbling.

"You a cop or something?"

"I’m an investigator." Mick pushed the picture closer to the kid. "Her parents hired me to find her. She

left Salt Lake City last February, and they haven’t heard from her since."

"Salt Lake?" The kid glanced at the can of Coca-cola, a look of disgust washing over his face. "You a

God damned Mormon?"

Mick laughed. "Nope. Just thirsty. Do you know her?"

"Looks a little like that Janey who took up with Timmy Garr. What do you think, Vick?"

The bartender said nothing, but Mick was certain she agreed, her cheeks sucked in, looking steadfastly

away. He turned back to the kid. "You wouldn’t have an address for her, would you? They told me in

Butte she might have moved out here." The kid swung his head, the movement exaggerated and slow.

Mick sighed and took a business card out of his case and laid it on the bar. He finished the pop and

stood up. "Well, thanks anyhow. Mind if I leave the picture here? My cell number’s on the back if

anyone recognizes her."

"Ain’t no coverage out here," the kid slurred, turning back to the television, the encounter already

forgotten. The bartender smiled apologetically as Mick shut his briefcase. He swept up his change,

leaving a couple dollars on the bar, and walked back outside. The air was cool, tinged by the scent of

sagebrush and diesel fuel, the mountains ringing the deep valley framed by slate gray clouds. A gust of

wind sent a plastic cup skipping across the road. He stood a moment, wondering if he should try the post

office or the other tavern next, or just say to hell with it all and drive on. The screen-door banged open

behind him.

The bartender walked toward him, her limp more pronounced on the uneven gravel, the photo in hand.

She gave it back to him. "Look, mister..."

"Saurbier. Mick Saurbier."

"Okay, Mr. Saurbier. I didn’t want to say nothing around Donny. He can’t keep his mouth shut." She

took a deep breath. "I know that girl. ‘Cept she goes by the name Janey Hall, now."

"Know where I can find her?"

She stared at Mick, holding his eye. "You really working for her folks?"

"Yes, I am."

"She’s living with a guy named Timmy Garr up by Bone Lake. She isn’t quite right in the head, if you ask

me." She waited while Mick scribbled the information down. "And, Mr. Saurbier?"

"Yeah?" Something in her voice made him edgy.

"Be careful. Tim Garr is an asshole. But he’s a tough asshole." She hobbled away while. Mick waited

until she was gone, then turned the ignition, rolling up the windows, suddenly cold for no reason.

***

Montana Territory, 1883

The wind was stronger, shifting to the North, the warm, damp Chinook finished. The rain was turning to

snow, tiny flakes stinging Annie’s cheeks as she heaved against the sagging corral gate. The horses inside

ran past her, tails high, smelling the storm, kicking up wet clumps of crap-stained snow. Annie ducked,

avoiding the dangerous hooves. She didn’t like horses. They frightened her, the sheer power in their sleek

bodies a force untamed. Around her they ran, finally settling down to sniff the grain bucket in her hand.

She wrapped a soft rope around a dun mare’s neck and led her out of the muddy corral. Her feet

already cold, Annie saddled the mare, fumbling with the cinch, dreading what lay ahead.

Snow fell heavier, the wind rising, trees swaying as she stepped into the saddle, settling uncomfortably

into the stiff leather. The mare danced, pawing the ground with her front feet, angry at being cut away

from the others. Annie struggled with the reigns, dragging the mare’s head around and kicking her

uselessly in the ribs. She kicked harder, digging with her heels. The mare snorted but stepped out,

following the wide swath the hungry cattle had left in the snow, heading toward the low, timbered gap

leading to the lake and the trail beyond. Annie wrapped one hand around the saddle horn as the mare

broke into a trot, slipping now and then on the icy path.

She had been a fool for falling in love with Billy Conlin. She’d been a bigger fool for letting Isaac find out.

It was one thing for a man to lose a wife, far another to lose his partner. Isaac had lost both. Shivering

and sick, she spurred the mare faster, afraid she was already too late. Snow swirled past, blinding her as

she topped the stony ridge, a few boulders peeking up from sickle-shaped drifts. Annie waited as the

gust settled down, trying to find her bearings, the trail rapidly vanishing under the falling whiteness. It

disoriented her, turning her sense of direction around. Were it not for the broad trail the cattle had

stomped as they followed the sleigh load of moldy hay off the ridge she would have been lost. The mare

danced nervously, trying to turn her rump to the storm. Annie kicked her and started down.

Ahead, through a narrow gap in the scrub pine, she caught a glimpse of the sleigh, the little herd strung

out behind, moving slowly toward a broad, perfectly flat expanse of snow. At the lead rode a single rider,

breaking trail a hundred paces in front. Annie’s stomach lurched as she realized Isaac was leading Billy

and the heavy, horse drawn sled straight across the frozen lake.

From far below she heard a crack, rifle sharp, muffled softly by the swirling snow.

***

Mick Saurbier drove the Taurus as far as he dared, the dirt road more suited for a four wheel drive than

a highway car. He pulled off in a small meadow, the tires bouncing across the deep ruts, trying to avoid

the rocks poking up, then started on foot, huffing in the thin air, the road steep and uneven. Sweat ran

down his back by the time he topped the ridge, his windbreaker hanging open as he stopped to catch his

breath. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and started off again, the .357 Smith strapped

under his left arm chaffing. He had thought about leaving it behind, but the bartenders warning made him

think twice. The road leveled, twisting through boulder patches and stands of lodgepole, mistletoe

choking the trunks, leaving misshapen growths bulging from their scaly bark.

The wind shifted, carrying the dank wet kiss of deep water with it. Mick pulled a folded map out of his

back pocket, trying to make sense of the tangled skeins of abandoned logging roads and trails. He had

stopped at the local Forest Service long enough to buy the map and ask the girl behind the front desk for

directions. She had painstakingly traced the route to Bone Lake in red felt-tip marker, no doubt dying to

ask why he wanted to go there. From the scattered reactions he had gotten around the little town it was

clear most people held the same opinion of Tim Garr as the bartender. He stuffed the map back in his

pocket, wishing the encounter was already over.

The road steepened once more, then abruptly ended on top of a small, wooded bench, a locked metal

gate barring his path. A faded ‘No Trespassing’ sign hung on the wooden brace post, slapping in the

breeze against the barb wire beneath it. Mick climbed over the gate, his weight dragging it down,

swinging it wildly. He jumped to the ground on the other side, his ankle twisting painfully as he lit.

"Shit." He stood a moment, letting the pain subside. "Hell of a missing persons case this is."

He walked on, the hair along the base of his neck rising. Mick had never been a cop, never even been a

fan of mystery novels or thrillers. Why he had become a private investigator remained the biggest

unsolved mystery of his life. It was hard, dangerous work, and were it not for a certain talent in finding

lost things, he would have given it up ages ago. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was already past four

o’clock. He glanced up at the sky, the clouds darker, twisted and gray, writhing around the jagged

peaks. Ahead, the road broke into a small, hilly meadow.

Once it had been a hay field, traces of ditches hidden beneath clumps of dry, yellowed grass. Sagebrush

and gopher holes dominated the meadow now, prickly stands of gooseberry poking up through the piles

of rotted fence poles and rocks. A forlorn plow lay tipped on its side, rusting into oblivion, while further

below, nestled beside a marshy spring, stood a handful of tumbled buildings, the roofs collapsed, an

ancient corral lying in broken heaps behind it. Not far away stood a camp trailer, the aluminum sides

faded and dull. Mick squinted, looking for signs of life, but found nothing. More nervous than before, he

trudged toward the trailer, glad now he had brought the pistol.

A faint chemical whiff clung to the trailer. Mick shook his head, disgusted. He had never been a cop but

he recognized a meth lab when he found one.

"Well, well, Jennie," he muttered, "Aren’t your parents going to be proud when I tell them where I found

their little girl." He rapped against the door, trying not to act as nervous. He was about to rap again when

he heard footsteps behind him.

A girl in a long, gray coat rode past the ruined barn, seated high on a dun colored mare. Mick waved at

her, trying to catch her attention. If she saw him, she paid no attention. He waved harder, shouting. "Hey?

Hello?"

The woman ignored him, kicking the horse hard in the sides, taking off at a canter toward a low saddle in

the hills behind the abandoned homestead. Mick stood, angry at his luck, and started in the direction she

had gone, his ankle throbbing. He paused a moment to check his watch. Madder than before, he looked

back toward the girl on horseback, but already she was gone.

***

Montana Territory, 1883

Annie clung to the saddle horn, praying the mare kept her footing as they skidded down the icy trail. The

timber closed in tighter, towering sentinels shrouded in snow, deep shadows blocking her vision as they

descended. Scared as she was, Annie urged the mare faster, desperate to reach the lake. Through the

storm, she heard the cattle bawling at each other, their nervous voices dampened by the swirling snow. It

pressed against the air, loud as a freight train, a surging, liquid wall of sound, the distance impossible to

gauge.

"Please, let me be in time," Annie whispered, understanding all too well what Isaac was doing, leading

Billy, the herd behind him, across the frozen lake. Billy, poor trusting Billy, would follow Isaac across the

lake, never realizing until it was too late that he was being lead to his death. Another crack split the air,

the sound of thick ice snapping. Annie kicked the mare harder.

The frightened animal lurched sideways, her balance lost. Annie leaned out of the saddle, trying to get

clear before the horse went down. Together, they slammed into a tall lodgepole, dislodging a brief

avalanche of snow from the boughs above. Annie yelped in pain as the horse fell, catching her beneath

the saddle, her foot snared in the stirrup. The mare leapt back to her feet, Annie struggling to free her leg,

her left hand wrapped around the reigns. The mare shied, dragging her a few paces before stopping.

Soaked and cold, pain spreading up her hip, Annie struggled to her feet, patting the sweating horse on

the neck, calming her. She was shaking, the idea of climbing back on the skittish animal almost beyond

her. She took a tight hold of the reigns then swung aboard, the mare dancing in tight circles before she

managed to get her pointed once more down the uneven trail. Faster they moved, the ground leveling, the

trees thinning at the base of the hill. The mare whickered, a dark, indistinct parade resolving out of the

flurries, the herd already moving across the snow-covered ice, following the sleigh, a lone rider far in the

lead.

"Stop! Oh, God, please stop!" Annie let the mare have her head, lunging toward the lake, the smell of

black water swelling in the cold air.

***

Bone Lake, Present Day

The sun clung a moment to the rocky lip, then fell away, shadows swallowing the last drops of gold, the

Justin Stanchfield - Bone Lake.pdf

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