The Burden of Darkness Read online

  When she reached the bottom, she decided she had time for one more run on the beginner slope before trying to convince Nathan again to follow her to the intermediate slope. She was ready, but unsure Nathan would join her. She sighed again. As an FBI agent in Atlanta for several years and while consulting for them in St Petersburg where he and Marcie lived, he had seen and done things that would bother anyone. But as far as Marcie knew, he had always brushed them off and carried on, doing his job as a true professional.

  Nathan blamed himself because he was out of the room when the explosion occurred. Flashbacks to the event interrupted his nights if he slept at all. But he couldn’t remember the details. He blocked them, and Marcie was convinced that as long as he did that, he would be unable to get back to normal. He monitored Marcie’s whereabouts and followed her wherever she went. He hadn’t worked since the fire, and although he seemed to remember the events leading up to and following the explosion, he claimed to have no knowledge of the blast itself. That’s what worried Marcie.

  As she skied to the pommel tow area, she recalled how she had hoped that something different would help Nathan get back to normal. One night over dinner, when they were dating, he had told her he liked to ski and that he wanted to introduce her to the sport. She arranged the week-long trip to take Nathan’s mind off his troubles. But she was the only one skiing. Nathan had shown no interest in taking part, other than to ask her if she was okay. Something had to change. It was wearing on them both.

  As the tow neared the top of the beginner slope, she heard a loud, sharp bang near the chalet. A quick glance told her the driver of a garbage truck had lifted a large bin overhead and was emptying its contents into the back. A fleeting thought raced through her mind that it was exactly the kind of noise that set Nathan off. She hoped he was okay. She started down the hill when she noticed something drawing everyone’s attention to the intermediate slope. A crowd gathered around someone who must have taken a tumble. Marcie shuddered, hoping the person was okay. There’s no doubt that skiing can be dangerous, as it is a risk-reward sport. There was nothing she could do as she dismounted, so she started her run when another commotion at the bottom of the hill caught her eye.

  The whine of a snowmobile filled the air as someone raced at breakneck speed up the mountain towards the crowd on a machine pulling a sled. People dressed in ski patrol gear yelled and motioned at the person, but the machine charged up the hill at full throttle, flying over moguls, its track grabbing snow when it landed. The person driving the machine just missed a teenage couple standing at the side looking uphill, and the trailing sled jerked back and forth, threatening to twist itself away from the racing snowmobile. That’s not a qualified ski patrol volunteer driving that machine!

  When Marcie arrived at the bottom, she stared at the activity with dread filling her stomach and forcing a sour taste into her mouth. It can’t be! The driver looked like Nathan, although it was difficult to be certain from this distance. He wore the same ski attire as Nathan’s. He was hatless, his dark hair waving in the wind. Same features. His head was unmoving, locked on the scene unfolding on the mountain as the whine of the machine ricocheted off the rock walls.

  Two ski patrol members jetted away from the bottom of the hill on another snowmobile, pursuing the first machine. They moved fast, but the movements were more controlled. The driver seemed to be experienced, better trained and aware of others on the slopes.

  Marcie shook her head. It can’t be Nathan. He’s not that irresponsible. What could he do at the scene? He’s an FBI agent, not a paramedic.

  She looked back at the scene on the mountain where the crowd gathered, and icy fingers traversed her spine. When a skier moved aside, the sight of the victim lying on the ground sent a shock wave dancing down her spine. She’s wearing a pink jacket, just like mine.

  Chapter Five

  “Can I get you something to drink?” The words came from a curly-haired woman in an orange waitress uniform and white apron. Her eyelids were heavy, and her shoulders drooped as if from exhaustion. Except for the child’s portrait with a story to tell tattooed on her forearm, she was an average looking woman of about fifty.

  Owen Strand asked for water with ice and watched the waitress shuffle to the opening separating the kitchen from the customer area. What a job! Owen surmised she must be close to the end of her shift. The serving staff in restaurants must walk miles. He checked his surroundings. The diner might have been a set in the old TV sitcom, Happy Days. There was plenty of unoccupied space, so he had a choice between stools at the counter, a red vinyl booth, or chrome-rimmed tables and chairs. He chose a booth. A coin-operated jukebox stood against one wall to complete the ambiance.

  A young couple held hands and whispered in one booth. A lone man with a few strands of gray hair poking out beneath a worn fedora sat on a stool, mumbling to a mug of steaming coffee embraced by both hands. A TV hung in one corner, playing a rerun of a Bonanza episode with the sound muted.

  Strand rolled into the parking lot close to 11 hours after he started the drive. As expected, winter’s last gasp of blowing snow slowed him down along the route, but humid spring-like conditions greeted him when he exited the truck in Sault Ste. Marie. The snow had been mesmerizing, like driving into a diaphanous dancing curtain. Having lived in Arizona his whole life, he had seen similar conditions around Flagstaff, but he had to be cautious because he couldn’t say he was used to driving in it. The headache that had become part of his daily life raged, so he was thankful to reach his destination for the night. The waitress returned with his water, and he downed his medication to keep the worst of the headache at bay.

  After placing his order for a hamburger and fries, he noticed his reflection in the chrome napkin dispenser. He tried to avoid mirrors since his diagnosis and treatment with chemotherapy, but the napkin holder drew him like a magnet. He looked much older than his early fifties. The angles of the dispenser distorted his features, but his thinning hair was visible. He had to admit, it was more than thinning as only a few strands crossed his head. The surface magnified his puffy face giving him a grotesque appearance. He was overweight, and the high-dose steroids he was taking didn’t help. He pulled himself away from the distorted image when his order arrived.

  Onions smothered the burger even though Strand had specifically requested none. He picked them off and chewed with his mouth barely moving.

  He’s probably forgotten, but I never will...

  Doctor Young had carried Owen’s future in his hands. Owen researched the doctor’s credentials online and confirmed him to be a famed surgeon who had performed countless resections. The doctor gave him medication to remove the swelling in his brain before the surgery. Owen was thrilled just to wake up following the procedure. His toes wiggled, and he willed every other movable body part to do its thing. He counted to 20 and recited the alphabet in his head. His spirits soared when everything seemed to work as it should. But he still worried about the dreaded visit from the doctor. Not all operations had positive results, but Owen’s confidence grew that he would be one of the fortunate ones.

  Doctor Young rushed into the room with the tails of the obligatory white smock trailing behind and a gold-plated stethoscope draped around his neck. He was fortyish with dark wavy hair and handsome, chiseled features. The doctor carried the aura of someone who considered himself above everyone else in the room, and his countenance remained as grim as ever. He sat in a chair beside Owen’s bed, and his features never changed as he announced the operation’s lack of success. He couldn’t remove enough of the tumor. The next step was to try chemotherapy and clinical trial drugs that might extend Strand’s life. Owen accepted the chemo but declined the trial drugs. He had no intention of being someone’s guinea pig.

  After several doses of chemo didn’t work, Doctor Young pronounced his death sentence in multi-syllable words Owen didn’t understand. The diagnosis was Stage IV glioblastoma. In layman’s terms, he had 12 months to live.

  The ne
ws devastated Strand. He had accomplished nothing in his life. There was no one to talk to about his plight. He had spent evenings wondering what retirement would be like. Now there would be no time. Some days he cried and others he was just angry. He sank into a dark hole from which there was no return. He would fade from the earth, and no one would notice.

  On one of his darkest days, a news item caught his attention about a mass shooting at a school. The media coverage of the perpetrator fascinated him. Newscasters always said they would not mention the killer’s name, but they always did. He searched the internet for similar incidents and found all kinds of articles, complete with pictures and lurid details. Wikipedia even broke them down by category.

  Owen decided he would be someone after all. He didn’t blame himself for his miserable existence. Life dealt him a bad hand from start to finish. His parents died in a car accident when he was eight, after which his spinster aunt raised him, if he could call it that. Even though an outcast in school and college, he finished a degree in electrical engineering. He started a business with a partner, but that fell apart when the jerk said Owen’s personality cost them clients. Dissolving the business had cost him a fortune because his partner successfully sued him for lost revenue. That brought him to the electronics firm where, after twenty-two years, security cameras caught him stealing parts. He only stole small things to upgrade the drones he flew as a hobby. The theft was so petty he assumed he would get a slap on the wrist. But they fired him. And now this! Doctor Jonas Young must have botched the surgery.

  People would pay for his miserable life. His spinster aunt would qualify, but she had already died. Owen concocted a short list and researched social media, identifying where they lived. His research confirmed his first victim had moved from the U.S. to Calgary, Alberta, Canada. He listed three people on the paper. He almost added a fourth, but he needed to do more research first. The number “4” and a blank space remained at the bottom of his list. That would come in time.

  He needed to do something spectacular to make the headlines. So many shootings these days only garnered a few words of type and as many minutes on social media. The media’s focus often concentrated on gun control. Then, the universe delivered a message to him on a platter when the newspapers lit up with stories about flight delays in the U.K. because of drone activity. That’s it! It was as if the gods smiled on him for once in his miserable life. He hatched a plan that would incorporate his hobby of flying drones, give him an opportunity to experience another country, put him on the front pages, and all before his brain tumor got him.

  He spent a few days refining his plan. This would be fun and bring him notoriety, although he may not be around to see it. He had money saved for retirement. Ha! What a laugh. My permanent retirement will place me in the cold ground, and I won’t need money for that to happen.

  The doctor assured him the prescribed medication would stave off the worst of the headaches for a short time. After that, they would worsen, and he would lose muscle function and experience seizures. The doctor told him they would admit him to a hospital when that happened, and he would not walk out. But it wouldn’t get that far. He would go down in a blaze of glory and appear on the front pages of every major newspaper before it did.

  Even though his time was short, Owen pondered long and hard about how he would accomplish his goal. He hadn’t set many goals in his personal life before, so this was new to him. He sat down at his kitchen table and made notes of things he needed and wanted to do. The first thing he wrote on his list was “move.” He would augment his money supply by selling his house in Tucson so he could enjoy his life to the end of the year. Or, THE END, whichever comes first.

  He always loved the area around Sedona with its red rock. He wondered if there was truth to what they said about the earth having more energy around the vortices near Sedona. They were renowned for their healing powers, but Owen laughed at the notion. Even their healing powers won’t help me with what I have.

  If his projected lifespan was longer, he thought, he would move to Sedona, but he rejected it as a landing spot. Too expensive for what he needed. Moving further north intrigued him. Past the Grand Canyon. Up toward Page. It was quiet up there among the hills. Secluded. That’s what he was looking for. He wanted to make his last stand somewhere secluded.

  He missed his little house in Tucson. When he shopped for a house, the asymmetrical design typical of so many areas of the city appealed to him. It screamed “Arizona” with its flat roof, smooth wall surfaces, and wrap-around corners. The house was unpretentious, with nothing ornamental etched into the walls. The architects designed these houses for functionality. To top it off, a saguaro cactus and an orange tree rose from the desert-red gravel in the backyard.

  The speedy sale occurred at close to the asking price, allowing him to continue with his plan. He thought about obscuring his trail as he went. Withdrawing all his money from the bank and carrying what he needed in a money belt was an option, but it would be too thick to carry. He could attempt to cover his tracks–brush his trail with a stick, so to speak. But why bother? He would stay on the run until the end. And he would carry enough cash to cover his tracks when it was necessary and leave the rest in the bank. He stored a few stacks of bills in a duffel bag.

  After scouring newspaper ads for housing in the desert north of Flagstaff and the Grand Canyon, he found something that would suit his purpose. His GPS took him north on Highway 89A to a desert area speckled with single-wide trailers and beaten down shacks. A weather-beaten sign with faded printing caught his attention too late. As he sailed past, he confirmed this was a private sale as there was no agent’s name on the sign, and anyway, no self-respecting agent would allow their sign to deteriorate the way this one had. He hit the brakes, drove to the side, waited for the traffic to clear, and pulled a U-turn on the highway.

  Owen remembered an article about the cowboys in the 1880s riding to the top of a hill and searching the desert for their cattle for miles in all directions, but encroaching scrub brush now dotted the brown landscape, which allowed the cows to hide. The only evidence of life besides the scrub brush was a dusty trail snaking behind some dunes.

  To call it a road would be an affront to roads everywhere. Dodging all the potholes was impossible. Owen pulled onto the dirt trail, his car rocking as it navigated the peaks and valleys, leaving a rooster tail of dust in its wake despite his slow speed. He rounded a corner behind a dune to see a rusted single trailer with two dilapidated cars resting on cinder blocks and a sparkling four-wheeler parked beside it. At least they have their priorities straight. A cheap green and white awning covered a makeshift patio beside the door where a charcoal barbecue and two aluminum lawn chairs sat. The awning featured substantial rips, and the sitting area was constructed of haphazardly placed patio stones. Owen smiled at the sight. He loved to barbecue, and the thought occurred to him he might never do it again. A large shed, newer and shinier than the mobile home, loomed on the other side of the yard.

  He pulled up behind one of the cars as the trailing dust cloud enveloped his vehicle like a shroud. He pushed tall grass aside with the door and got out, waving the dust cloud from the front of his face. A woman with salt and pepper red hair and wearing an apron over her flowered dress approached. When she got closer, he judged her to be in her late thirties. Flour dust crossed her nose where she must have rubbed it while baking, and an unlit cigarette dangled from between the fingers on her right hand. A baby’s cry rose from the trailer, and Owen noticed two little faces peering through the window, their tiny hands leaving imprints in the dust on the glass.

  He offered his hand and introduced himself to the woman who said her name was Sadie Brackendish. Owen said, “I called about your property.”

  Sadie brushed windblown strands of hair aside, and as she took his outstretched hand, she cocked her head to one side and said incredulously, “You mean you’re still interested?”

  “Yes, I am. Is it still available?” He glanced to
ward the front door as the baby’s cry grew louder.

  “Ah, don’t worry about him. He’s getting a little hungry, but he’ll live ‘til we get this over with. Most people see the place and run. S’been for sale for two, no, three years now. My old man left me two kids with a bunch of bills, and then I got knocked up. Met a new guy who has money. Look at that four-wheeler. Cool, ain’t it? That’s his. We’re movin’ to Page soon as I can get this place sold.” She flicked a silver lighter and cupped the flame with her other hand while she touched it to the end of the cigarette. She inhaled the smoke deep into her lungs before turning her head to exhale a blue cloud that the wind blew back into Owen’s face.

  They walked in silence toward the door until she asked, “You married?”

  “Never was,” Strand answered.

  “You’re lucky. A wife wouldn’t appreciate this place much. Probably for the better that you ain’t married. They don’t always work out. Mine sure as hell didn’t. Better days ahead for me, though. It’s worth it if you find the right one.”

  It’s a little late for that now, Strand thought, but he said, “Well, I’m glad you did.”

  She inhaled a few more drags and coughed before tossing her cigarette on the ground, grinding it with her shoe. Nathan glanced at the barbecue as they mounted the three wobbly steps beside the patio into the kitchen. A rolling pin lay beside flattened dough on a sheet of wax paper on the table. Empty beer cases sat stacked by the fridge. Two boys barely a year apart kneeled on one of the kitchen chairs and giggled as they passed through. Owen made a quick tour of the trailer past toys and assorted junk. Sadie leaned over a crib in one of the two bedrooms and popped a soother into the mouth of the disgruntled baby.

  As they returned to the kitchen, Strand asked, “What’s in the shed?”