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SUMMARY
A thousand feet above timberline on the Colorado Continental Divide, two drug dealers celebrate a successful business trip to Gunnison. High on nothing but mutual overdoses of adrenaline, they race their souped-up four-wheel vehicles over a minimal animal trail through layers of clouds until the older druggy intentionally rams his younger partner off a high cliff into eternity. Weeks later, Gordy Tyler, who is mourning the loss of his wife in a car wreck, decides that alcohol-sodden weekend fishing parties at Lake Texoma are not helping his depression. Gordy drives 900 miles solo to reunite with his childhood and Marine Corps best friend, Charlie Holoman, the Police Chief in Alpine, to dampen his grief. At a restaurant, Charlie and Gordy meet Police Officer Beth Brennan, who is quite beautiful despite her garish hairdo. When introduced, neither Beth nor Gordy are attracted to the other. Late the next night at a basement speakeasy, Beth is duped into competing in a quixotic "I Wish That I Could Shimmy Like My Sister Kate" dance competition. Wildly applauded, Beth is picked up by the wall-to-wall crowd of happy drunks, crowd-surfed overhead, and deposited in front of Gordy and his friend Cecil's table. Later, Beth drives Gordy to her home and apparently they get a lot more chummy than before. What happens in Alpine stays in Alpine. Charlie is stymied by six fatal "accidents" in the mountains around Alpine and pressed by the media to solve these emerging murders quickly. One suspect is Al Brennan, Beth's brother, who is a professional photographer. Evidence found at murder sites implicates a professional photographer, but which one of many. Gordy and Cecil, a hippy bartender, search the surrounding mountains, witness a murder at a great distance in deep shadows at sundown, and chase the unidentified murderer to a ghost town at night under an uncommon "Bad Moon" (i.e., an unusual full moon that appears twice in a single month and is considered by some to be an omen of bad luck). Then this story gets really complex and exciting.
CHAPTER 1
The murderer's victim's life had been stolen from him in a carefully planned, artfully choreographed, but cold-blooded murder. He did not have the chance of a snowball in hell. Face-to-face, celebrating in the exhilarating flush of their greatest mutual triumph, the murderer's intentions were completely masked from his unsuspecting victim. Although he had already triggered the killing mechanism deep within his psyche, he continued to project the warm, fuzzy image of a proud mentor reveling in the superior achievements of a favorite apprentice.The Anatomy Of An Alpine Murder Polished by years of deception, the murderer's expression betrayed no hate, no malice, not even a tiny hint of disapproval. A practiced, boyish grin flashed on demand much like the fixed megawatt smile of a Miss America finalist. Squinting mischievously at his prey over the top rim of his designer sunglasses, the crinkles around the murderer's eyes exuded sly humor as if he had, just at that moment, remembered an exceedingly funny, off-color joke that he could not wait to share. So, he did: four-letter trash talk cascading forth in waves of foul-mouthed barnyard humor. To his future victim, he was hilarious. Breaking the code of a veiled threat would have been exceedingly difficult if not impossible when murderer and victim are laughing together so hard that both are doubled over with tears filling their eyes to overflowing. The apprentice had proven exceptionally adept at his assigned duties within their overall plan. He had perfected his own style and business techniques, and had developed his own contacts until he rivaled the master in so many ways. Through the crucible of intense adversity, these like-minded risk takers had become a well-oiled team. The apprentice was sure that his full partnership was just around the corner, or he would know the reason why. For that foolishly impatient ego trip, among other indiscretions, the apprentice had to pay a price. He had to die. Despite several off-hand assurances, full partnership was never any part of the murderer's lexicon. "Wasting that creep" would be as quick and impersonal as squashing a fuzzy bug on a cement sidewalk. The crime, however, had to look like a too-common alpine road accident. There could be no witnesses, nor any chance of survival. Within that three-pronged framework, the murderer choreographed his end game with the exacting precision of a Radio City Rockettes chorus line. It was show time. Where better to pull the final curtain than Taylor Pass? Set against a backdrop of some of the most spectacular alpine scenery in North America, Taylor Pass has long been every four-wheel enthusiast's fondest dream come true. Little more than a glorified elk path in places, that twisting, axle-bashing roller coaster of a natural test track descends with ear popping élan from the delicate flora of the high tundra, through the grotesquely twisted conifers at timberline, and into the dense stands of stately evergreen and aspen trees that garnish Colorado's San Isabel National Forest. No posted traffic signs mar the unparalleled view. No state or local police lurk in waiting for the unwary. On the unimproved Jeep trails that scar the north slope of the pass, a lead-footed four-wheel enthusiast could seriously test himself and his "ride" in just about any way that he wished, or seriously scuff himself and his equipment in the process. Over the pass to the east, the road led to a pristine trout-stocked lake nestled among the high peaks that form the massive backbone of the Continental Divide. But more significantly, it was the only decent shortcut down the other side to U.S. Highway 50 and the sleepy little town of Gunnison, Colorado, as well as the gateway to a world of unparalleled opportunity for those with the imagination and the intestinal fortitude to step up and seize the golden ring. Reginald Charles Sugarman, Junior, "R.C." to his ever -expanding circle of subculture friends and clients, and "Slick" to those who had known him the longest, had raced his undeclared business mentor over this extremely sporty back road between Alpine and the outside world many times before. Despite honing his dirt track and professional racetrack techniques, he had yet to win this race. From his frequent but never mentioned round trips to Gunnison and points beyond, he knew every rut, pothole and natural speed bump like the more intimate contours of his sweetie's rump. But so did his boss-quite possibly on both counts. Deeply involved in a web of interlocking, extremely sensitive enterprises, especially the kind that demand total secrecy to be successful, R.C. had never even whispered his mentor's name in polite society, particularly in connection with himself. That had been a tall but necessary order in the laid back good-ol'-boys bars and tight-knit shops of a little tourist town as intentionally gregarious as Alpine, Colorado. There, among the almost fairy tale grandeur and the aura of new money well spent, nearly all of the permanent residents, and certainly all of the expanding business community, knew each other at least well enough to say "Howdy" and the person's local nickname or title in passing. Still, no one in town could say for sure that R.C. and his boss had actually met or even knew each other. Certainly, no one knew they were in business together. Normally a touchy, feely, motor-mouthed extrovert, R.C. had been fairly warned: "If you so much as whisper my name, even in your friggin' sleep, you sushi-brained hippie twit, I'll rip off your butt-ugly face and ram it down your scrawny damned throat! You do hear me, don't ya' boy?" R.C. had heard that warning loud and clear. The uncharacteristic intensity of the older man's outburst added untold layers of emphasis to his message. Eyeball to eyeball at that time, R.C. never doubted his boss's resolve for one second. He had been fairly warned, and he fully understood the message. R.C. knew, without a doubt, that he was far better off by being forewarned before he fouled up, rather than not having a clue to the unavoidable consequences until too late. Under the circumstances, he appreciated the older man's candor. In fact, RC. almost respected it, if that had been possible within his hippy dippy frame of reference. In the idiom of the emerging good-ol'-boy that this former California beach bum now pictured himself, RC. had initially called his undeclared boss "good buddy" when touching base anonymously by cell phone or C.B. radio. However, with their ever-increasing success, as their profits expanded exponentially, a natural progression cycled through the colloquial "my bud" to the semi-familial "Uncle Bud." Bingo! That anonymous Dutch Uncle designation for high-country entrepreneurial enterprises and moonlight mountain surfing was just right. Both liked the image, so Uncle Bud it was. Someday, RC. had vowed, there would be an Uncle Reggie cruising the back roads of Taylor Pass and enjoying everything that could come with the respect due to the shibbolethic title of "Uncle." Except for the almost perfunctory but quickly dissipated outbursts aimed his way, soon smothered in an enveloping cloud of chemical contentment, RC. actually liked Uncle Bud after a fashion. He was the quintessential father figure that RC. had never known. With the obvious chasm between his own beach-blanket, yuppie-puppy background, and Uncle Bud's rise to "Top Dog" in their business through his own chutzpah and meticulous attention to even the most minuscule biddy fuzz details, their basic lifestyles were definitely at opposite poles. Multiple ear-rings, body piercings and trouser belt-length pony tail contrasted sharply with Uncle Bud's more buttoned-down establishment wardrobe and protocols. To their mutual amazement, however, in the fullness of time, they had found that despite their divergent life styles, their street-wise business instincts had eventually meshed together quite nicely to forge an efficient, amazingly cohesive team, the total being so much more than just the sum of the various parts. After months of working together, their business contacts were rock solid, and their far-ranging ventures were increasingly profitable and promised even more in the near future. From their nouveau high-roller point of view, their prospects seemed unlimited, depending only on how far they dared to reach out to snatch the American Dream. For Uncle Bud and R.C., the proverbial brass ring had turned to solid gold. They were in "Hog Heaven." It was a pity that no one else could ever know about their great good fortune and incredible skills. Unfortunately, in his carefully veiled rebellion against any and all outside encroachments into his life-long habit of doing or saying whatever the heck he damn well pleased, R.C. Sugarman was eventually sure that he could howl "Uncle Bud" into the echoing peaks at the top of any pass, anywhere, or even in his often-crowded bare-as-you-dare hot tub parties, and no one would be the wiser. So eventually, he did that with ever-increasing abandon. And true to form, no one seemed to care one whit. R.C.'s oft-repeated mantra: "resist all but temptation" masked a multitude of sins, great and small. However, if he had checked out the man lurking behind his patio fence the previous Friday night, he probably would have cut his profits and left town for good before morning. Uncle Bud had gotten an ear full. It was time to turn off the lights. R.C.'s party was over, but he just did not know it yet. At their first and last roadside meeting of their grueling 20-hour business trip over Taylor Pass and back again, the heady taste and smell of the thin, pure air at 12,000 feet above sea level worked its magic to mask their mutual exhaustion amid the surrealistic golden glow to the west just before sunset. Added to the heady exhilaration of looking down several thousand feet at eagles soaring between fat, puffy little cumulous cloud formations, the pure satisfaction of having successfully completed a challenging, highly profitable business venture made that an evening well worth celebrating. A little off-color humor is the glue of many male-bonding rituals. Finally, able to give as well as he received, R.C. figured that he had taken a big step toward parity at last. Out in front after a friendly but barbed challenge and an unfair foot race to their vehicles near the crest of the pass, R.C. accelerated into a relatively broad, descending switchback turn in a full but controlled four-wheel drift. A split second behind, Uncle Bud pressed him for the lead. High from nothing but a little weed and a lot of adrenaline, R.C.'s elation from the added power and smooth handling he commanded with his new 1986 V8 Vogue Range Rover matched anything he had ever smoked, shot-up or snorted through his often-abused nasal passages. That exoteric symbol of British automotive craftsmanship had cost him a small fortune, even with the cash and loyalty discounts. But the boxy beauty was worth every single penny if it would change his status quo. In some cases, money can, indeed, buy happiness. R.C. knew that he was the poster boy for that premise. Reflecting on their previous outings over Taylor Pass, R.C. chuckled giddily while mumbling reassurances to himself. "You damn betcha', no more hind teat for me, you nit-pickin', penny pinchin' old pain in my ass. Not only no, but HELL NO!" Then he keyed his microphone and blurted another of his rhyming one-liners, an irritating affectation almost exclusively reserved for his signature C.B. banter. "Tally ho, El Supremo. Catch me if you can, my good man." R.C. took inordinate pride in his rhymed C.B. transmissions. He was convinced deep within his heart of hearts that no one else could play that game as well as he, at least not in his fast-paced league. Seeing R.C.'s new Range Rover tracking considerably more conservatively than usual through the middle of the first tight switchback in the descending roadway, rather than initially cutting the decreasing radius from the inside of the curve upon entry, and then adding power as momentum turned into controlled drift to the outside at the apex of the turn as he usually did, Uncle Bud gunned his older but custom-made, superbly tuned and supercharged engine. He was curious to see if he could have passed on the inside of R.C.'s outer arc if he had really wanted to do so. Actually, he really did not want to pass R.C. at that time. Uncle Bud needed to stay right where he was and collect information for the onrushing future. Then, at the next but less challenging switchback, Uncle Bud again tested the new man/machine combination just in front of him. Uncle Bud attempted that standard, but still fairly hairy passing maneuver despite the chasm of uninterrupted, rarefied air where road shoulders are normally found at lower altitudes. But that time the dirt track tricks that had always worked before were no longer good enough to overcome the new power-ratio imbalance from R.C.'s latest and most conspicuous extravagance. "Nice try, big guy," the C.B. crackled "But no cigar. Not by far." Having anticipated Uncle Bud's attempt to pass at that particular place, R.C. quickly downshifted, then jammed his accelerator pedal flat to the floor, holding off his pursuer in a burst of surprisingly smooth power and a vortex-like cloud of blinding dust that rapidly blew over the side of the road into space to dissipate in the brisk mountain breezes. Uncle Bud logged another data point to solve his dirt-track racing equation. Visibility would be no problem, not until their mano-a-mano contest descended into the layer of scattered clouds and fog-like scud below them. "Look out, sunshine," Uncle Bud goaded R.C. in a flat, laconic monotone, "cuz here I come again." Grinning broadly, extremely pleased with himself and his latest purchase, R.C. entered one of the few long, straightaway sections of the road that they would see that evening. Excited, he twisted partially around in his six-way, goat-leather seat to glare back over his shoulder triumphantly. Too busy for C.B. trash-talk, he pointed his forefinger back at Uncle Bud. Shaking it with sharp, jerky wrist strokes as if chiding a rowdy high-school kid, he seemed to be saying: "No, no. There would be none of that nonsense today, if ever again." The good life was getting even better by the minute.
CHAPTER 1
The Story Continues Click Here |
