Interpreter for the Dead Read online

  Hoping the backdoor wasn't locked, Dane grabbed the old hammered copper doorknob. It spun freely, the mechanism apparently broken.

  He went inside, calling out as he turned on the light.

  "Hello? Anybody here?"

  In the kitchen, knick-knacks of his mother's still graced the windowsill above the sink. Delicate figurines, a crystal heart shaped dish, and a funny little vase he'd made her when he was six.

  He could almost see her standing there.

  Growing up, he would awaken every morning to the smell of pancakes and eggs, as he made his way down the creaky old stairs to the kitchen where his mother would have breakfast ready for him and his father.

  Sometimes he would just sit there and watch her as she buttered the toast and poured the coffee, watching out the window for her husband. Her face would be bathed in a golden glow as the sun slowly rose. It was in those moments that he loved everything about this place. It hurt to even think about it.

  The house seemed deserted, as he'd expected, a thin layer of dust covering most of the surfaces. Parched, he filled a glass with water, feeling like a trespasser.

  In the bathroom there was no hot water. The pilot light had gone out. He resigned himself to sleeping dirty rather than deal with it; digging a blanket out of the linen closet and shaking it for spiders, he headed to the couch. He stopped at the door to his parents' room, and flipped on the light.

  A neatly folded set of clothes wrapped in plastic lay at the foot of the bed, a pair of worn boots on the floor below. A handwritten inventory from the Pierce Funeral Home listed the last things his father had ever worn. He picked up the bag and looked at the belt coiled up inside motionless, giving no indication of the power it once held over him, of the man who had used it on him.

  He set the bag down and shut the door.

  Chapter 7

  Daryl Spurlitz white-knuckled the steering wheel of his nondescript government issue Chevy Impala.

  Revving the engine as he sat at the stop sign, he cursed the swarms of cyclists spaced just far enough apart to keep him from turning onto the highway. The packs of bikers stretched as far as the eye could see, in both directions.

  Christ.

  It wasn't bad enough they used his tax money to build fucking bike paths all over Boulder for the spandexed assholes; they had to let them run loose on the highways too.

  He had had it. He waited for the next gap and floored it.

  The car slipped between two groups of riders, spraying them with gravel. Fishtailing before he straightened back out, he returned their one-fingered salutes with his own.

  "Fuck you".

  He rolled down his window and flicked out his cigarette butt, pinging one of them in the helmet.

  The young trainee in the passenger seat, Jared Miller, grabbed the handle on the car's ceiling and said a silent prayer he'd make it through the day alive.

  Spurlitz shot him a look. Pansy.

  With all the idiot bicyclists that shouldered the road you'd still think you were inside city limits. Summertime brought the faggots out in droves.

  Miller covertly attempted to lower the power window, but it was locked from the driver's side. He edged closer to the door, hoping for a leak of fresh air. The smoke and heat in the car were stifling.

  In truth, it wasn't much better outside. The wildfires up in the foothills had thrown up enough up soot to turn the sky lemon yellow and the sun blood red. The smell of burnt wood was heavy in the air.

  "Hot? Here."

  Spurlitz flipped on the air conditioner, the freezing air mixing with cigarette smoke until the kid thought he might pass out. He damned himself for whatever great evil he had committed in some past life to deserve Daryl Spurlitz - teeth stained yellow by a two pack a day Marlboro habit, his waxy scalp peeking through thinning gray hair and a high school athlete's body long since gone to fat. Destined to be his constant companion until the three-month training period was over.

  He'd been with Spurlitz on several "house calls" and so far, except for the guy with the pentagram tattooed on his face, he felt most of the people needed help re-entering society more than supervision. He made the mistake of saying this out loud only once.

  Spurlitz cranked the air conditioner up even higher, wiped the sweat off his forehead and lit yet another cigarette. The nicotine hit his system and he was able to calm down a little and think about the task ahead.

  He rifled through the pile of folders next to him. So many losers, so little time.

  He glanced back at the road just in time to correct his fade onto the shoulder and miss another bike. The hippie in the retard helmet raised his fist as they passed.

  The trainee was close to hyperventilating.

  "Do you need some help with those folders?"

  Spurlitz pretended not to hear him.

  He opened the folder on the steering wheel, driving and reading at the same time.

  Glancing up briefly he noticed two cyclists riding side by side. He glared at them as he eased the car around on the left.

  What a bunch of bullshit-

  An air horn blasted, yanking him back to here and now. His eyes went wide as a semi filled the windshield. Miller instinctively grabbed the dash to prepare for impact.

  "God damn it!" Spurlitz yanked the wheel back, almost taking out the pair of cyclists he had crossed the centerline to get around.

  WHAM.

  The truck flattened the side mirror against the car, leaving them rocking in the wake. The rookie turned, heart in his throat, and stared agape at Spurlitz who was too busy wiping ash off his pants to notice.

  "Motherfuckers. Riding side-by-side. Illegal as shit, but hey, who cares so long as they can fondle each other. God, give me a shotgun and nobody watching."

  The kid peeled his fingers from the dash, watching the white fade from his knuckles and telling himself not to kill him, making himself think of Amy and their baby.

  Spurlitz turned back to the folder like nothing had happened.

  Dane, Aaron Michael. AKA Mike Dane. To be released on $50,000 bail July 12 from Vail County.

  Terms of release: Defendant to live at 7654 County Rd. 5, Cottonwood, Colorado under court supervision while awaiting trial.

  What the report didn't say, but he knew, was that Dane had inherited the house while sitting in a holding cell waiting for his lawyer to show. Actually, he'd inherited it as soon as his old man died weeks earlier, but nobody could find the son of a bitch to tell him was rich because he was too busy robbing law abiding citizens.

  Spurlitz wondered what kind of world he lived in that would give someone like Michael Dane so much and him so little.

  Daryl Spurlitz considered himself the legal system's secret weapon.

  The cops would catch them, the judges would sentence them and then the liberals would set them free. He'd see it on the news almost every night. Some rapist or wife killer would do less than half his sentence and like the weather, everybody would bitch about it but do nothing.

  What few realized was that yes, the filth did seep out onto the streets again, but guys like Spurlitz would send them right back in.

  So it didn't really matter how long they did on any particular sentence - they'd screw up and be right back in.

  Spurlitz had his turnaround time down to an average of three months. Three months and somebody would fail a piss test, get nailed for a DUI or simply pull the plug by robbing a liquor store. It was inevitable.

  "We are the legal systems secret weapon," he proudly told the young man as they wound their way out of Boulder.

  Miller kept his gaze on a petite blonde cyclist, her ponytail swinging from side to side as she pumped the bike pedals, well developed leg muscles flexing beneath her sun-bronzed skin.

  "Hmm?" he asked automatically.

  "Look at the news any night of the week. I bet you not a night goes by some candy ass reporter doesn't do a story about some murderer getting out of prison after only doing a few years."

  "Uh-huh." />
  They passed her, but he could still see her in the side mirror, sweat trickling down between her breasts.

  "We're like the flippers on a pinball table. The cons bounce around the courts and prisons for a while then fall between the cracks. They think they're free - they can see the fucking little escape hatch at the bottom of the machine. Then WHAM!" Spurlitz slapped the wheel for emphasis, his eyes twinkling. "We knock 'em right back where they belong."

  Spurlitz handed him the folder.

  "Like this punk."

  Miller took a deep breath, willed himself to keep his mouth shut, and opened the file folder. He was greeted by a mug shot of a muscular white guy in his late twenties, looking more bored than scared considering that the FBI had just arrested him.

  "Michael Aaron Dane," Spurlitz intoned from memory. "Juvie record as long as your arm."

  "I thought juvenile records were sealed."

  "Yeah, right," he replied, laughing out loud. "These guys think they're so fucking smart, but they all chart the same. Fucks up, goes in, gets out, stays clean for a while, fucks up, goes in...yada yada yada. But each time they go in, they go in longer. Each time they come out, it's for less and less time. It's like they're tiptoeing into a fucking life sentence. Well, the water's fine I say, go on in."

  Spurlitz snort laughs at his remarkable insight.

  "Do they always go back in?"

  "Always."

  "Every one?"

  Spurlitz angrily thumps his fingers on the car dash.

  "Let me tell you something, you could hand a fuck-up a new life on a silver platter and he would still fuck it up. Why? Because he's a fuck-up. You think he's suddenly going to open a flower shop and do the nine-to-five thing? "

  There was no arguing with that logic.

  "Take this numbnuts. This guy just won the lottery. His old man just died. He's the only kid. Guess what he gets? See the tract mansions over here?"

  Off to the left were massive houses, giant beige boxes with oversize windows. Some were probably 10,000 square feet sitting on postage stamp size yards. McMansions.

  "Guess how much property around here goes for? G'head." The rookie had no time to respond. "A million and a fucking half at least. Those are ones with zero land. This kid just inherited two thousand acres."

  Miller was shocked.

  "And lucky Michael Dane, he's gonna get a visit from us before he has a chance to get too comfy."

  Spurlitz brought the car to an abrupt halt and swung right onto a gravel road.

  Chapter 8

  Dane stood in the kitchen in his boxer shorts and stared into the empty void of the cupboard, stomach rumbling. Something rustled behind him, raising the hair on the back of his neck. Nearly jumping out of his skin, a surprised shout escaped him as he spun around to find a young woman standing just inside the back door. Looking just as shocked as he was, her face went red and she began signing at lightspeed.

  "Sorry. Did not know someone was here. My daughter needs to use the restroom," she explained. "We are with the market."

  She pointed out the back door behind her, and Dane could see people erecting tents and tables on the opposite of the driveway.

  A tiny girl popped her head out from behind her mother's skirt, and giggled at the sight of Dane in his underwear.

  Not getting a response, the woman signed again.

  "Can we use it?"

  Completely perplexed as to what was going on, Dane shook off his confusion long enough to shake his head 'yes'.

  Sprinting into the bedroom after they were out of sight, he tossed on his clothes and headed out the back door, not bothering to tame his wicked case of bedhead.

  People scurried around his property, speaking to each other in sign as they set up tables piled high with fruits and vegetables. There were even tables laden with pastries, and one with honey. Roasted chilies hung from a wire, near a large roaster that already had a fire roaring.

  A full-fledged clown was making balloon animals for a pair of twin boys.

  He had entered the Twilight Zone. He almost expected a mime to appear.

  How ironic would that be?

  A weathered plywood sign rested against a battered Cottonwood by the road, it read:

  Farmer's Market Today 8 - 2

  Vehicles had started to trickle onto the property, using a field off the driveway as a makeshift parking lot.

  With the haze from the fires descending on everything the farm had a surreal quality. It was nothing like the place he'd left years ago. In the dark last night he hadn't noticed all the changes.

  An apple orchard stood where barren fields used to be. Each row perfectly aligned, it stood like a platoon in formation. Further out an amazing patchwork of crops graced the gently rolling hills.

  Off kilter and agitated, Dane stepped off the porch into the growing crowd.

  Being out of the loop had recently become Michael Dane's forte and it really pissed him off. He was determined to get back in the loop ASAP.

  "Time to find the Ring Master of this three-ring circus."

  He strode towards the nearest stand, the stench of the distant fires combined with the aroma of roasted chilies making him nauseous.

  An old man in a straw hat and overalls smiled warily as he approached. He signed hello and waited for Dane's reply. Dane grimaced. He hadn't signed in years, and it took everything he had to bring his hands up to form the words.

  In a split second a thousand memories flooded his mind. His hands remembered things his mind had long ago buried. Dane shut out the thoughts, concentrating on here and now.

  "Who is in charge?"

  The old man was surprisingly nimble despite his years and his wrinkled hands answered quickly.

  "McConnell." He pointed to the barn.

  Dane slipped through the crowd, making his way to the barn.

  He heard a muffled voice as he got closer. The voice was female, and pissed.

  "We can do it easy or we can do it hard, it's up to you. No? Okay, have it your way."

  He could hear the clinking of metal chain.

  "Now who's your mama?"

  Dane stopped at the edge of the barn and peered around the corner. A young woman was leading a blue roan colt out of a stall on the far end, a length of chain wrapped around the horse's upper lip doing wonders to calm him down.

  "You're going to thank me when we're done," she said, tying him to a post and rubbing his body with gentle, circular motions. The horse immediately relaxed, and his head dropped down to hip level.

  She slid on a pair of worn leather chaps over her jeans, and rolled up her sleeves. She moved around the horse gracefully. Her braided hair fell from the back of a baseball cap that hid her face.

  Running her hand down the colt's right leg, she grasped the fetlock just above the hoof. She lifted the leg and wedged it between her knees, then used the tang of a file to dig mud out of the area around the soft pad in the center of the hoof.

  Dane stepped into the stable and cleared his throat.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  Something big and red and hairy leapt up at him from the nearest stall, teeth gnashing and spit flying. Dane barely had time to register it as a dog before falling against the wall, and yelling in pain as it sank its fangs into his leg.

  "Brandy!" The woman rushed to grab the dog, forgetting the horse and immediately regretting it.

  Eyes large with fear, the roan reared back and yanked the board it was tied to off the post. It whipped it around and knocked the woman to the ground in a cloud of dust. The horse just missed her as it bolted for the door, still dragging the one-by-four.

  The dog skittered away, which left plenty of room for the board to come flying around and smack Dane's leg right where he'd been bitten. He yelped in pain, which got the dog's attention again.

  He jumped backwards into a stall. Landing on his bad leg, he kicked the stall door shut with his good one before the dog got in. He curled up into a painful ball, blood soaking his pants as
he clutched his leg. The dog growled and barked, the sound deafening as it echoed in the barn.

  "Brandy, shut up!"

  The dog gave him a final growl then reluctantly retreated. Dane pushed himself up against the back wall, spitting straw from his mouth, his heart pumping blood through the two brand new holes in his thigh.

  "Good girl. Stay."

  The woman appeared over the top of the stall door, green eyes flashing behind loose strands of strawberry blonde hair, breathing hard.

  Looking him up and down, she took in the mud and blood and horseshit then wrinkled her lightly freckled nose in disdain - leaving him feeling more embarrassed than hurt.

  "Michael. I should've guessed."

  She reached down and pulled him up to his feet, her grip strong and firm. He looked closer, his synapses finally making the connection.

  "Twiggy?"

  She pointed to the truck parked next to the corral, and he took in the lettering and the caduceus painted on the side.

  "It's Dr. McConnell to you. AJ to my friends."

  The dog took a stance between them, just to let him know she was still on duty.

  "Last person that called me Twiggy was Caleb, sophomore year in high school. I'm sure he doesn't remember it fondly." She grinned widely, plopping her trampled baseball cap back on her head.

  Dane couldn't believe it was the same girl he'd grown up with. She'd been skinny as a rail, all elbows and knees. To say she filled out well was an understatement.

  When they were kids she'd been especially creative, getting even with her deaf brothers every chance she had. Nothing she had loved better than using the TTY to fake phone calls. She'd pretend to be everything from girls they liked at school to teachers they were scared to death of.

  He chuckled at the memory, despite the pain.

  "As ornery as ever I see. You OK?"

  She winked and knelt down to get a closer look at the bite. Grabbing her by the elbow, he brought her back up, almost falling over in the process.

  "Don't worry about it. I'll get some peroxide on it."

  "Same stubborn bastard," she said, exasperated. She walked to the nearby colt, unsnapping the lead rope off his halter so he was no longer lashed to the board. A snort of thanks, and he trotted away. "Sorry about the dog. She's never bitten anybody before, but it's nice to know she cares," AJ told him.