Fiction No More Read online

  Prologue

  1: Home Sweet Home

  2: The Past’s Long Reach

  3: Write When You Get Work

  4: Dinner at Eight

  5: Run, Rabbit, Run

  6: What’s Really Happening?

  7: Some Good, Some Bad, Some Crazy

  8: Welcome to Hell, Additional Parking In The Back

  9: Heard It Through the Grapevine

  10: Follow The Bouncing Ball

  11: Blessed Are The Misfits

  12: Cry Me A River

  13: Oh What A Tangled Web We Weave

  14: Some Days Are Worse Than Others

  15: We Are All Sinners, Except For Me

  16: Here Comes Da Judge

  17: Confused And Bewildered

  18: It’s My Story, Not Yours

  19: Paths Of Infamy

  20: Tying Yourself Into Knots

  21: Bribes and Threats

  22: All Aboard For Destiny

  23: Evil Web Two

  24: The Truth Will Set You Free

  25: It Happens All The Time

  26: It’s True, Believe It Or Not

  27: Alice, Don’t Go Down That Hole

  28: Old Man Dream

  29: My Last Wish

  30: Beginnings and Endings

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Books by Ted Clifton

  (For copyright information, ISBN, and other editions, please see Publication Details.)

  1988. Ronald Reagan is president of the United States, serving his final year in office. The candidates in the upcoming presidential election are Vice President George H.W. Bush and Democratic nominee Michael Dukakis. Bush will win a decisive victory. Maverick millionaire Ted Turner starts Turner Network Television. NASA scientist James Hansen warns Congress of the dangers of global warming. Roy Orbison dies, and the record of the year is Graceland by Paul Simon.

  San Mateo, New Mexico

  A large man with an ugly scar on the side of his face walked up to the pumps.

  “Hey, asshole—you work for the goddamn electric company?”

  Vic Miller didn’t need ESP to see this was trouble. He was in the middle of nowhere, at a small, no-name gas station and convenience store, surrounded by eight thuggish-looking Hispanics—or maybe a couple were Indians—who all looked furious about something. He could see their hog motorcycles parked by the side of the station. He continued to pump gas and tried to keep his cool.

  “Yep. I’m an employee of Electric Public Service Company, just like it says on the side of the truck. If you’re upset about your service or your bill, you’ll have to call Albuquerque, I’m just a workin’ man, doin’ a survey.”

  “What the hell you surveyin’ out here?”

  Vic had been in Nam, and he could smell danger. He calculated how quickly he could get his gun out of the glove box, but figured he would probably be dead before he could make it. Then he noticed the main biker was carrying a tire iron, and realized there was no time to calculate jack shit. He pulled the nozzle out and sprayed the big bastard with gasoline.

  The goon panicked. “The motherfucker sprayed me with gasoline! Get his ass!” he bellowed as he ran, just in case the electric man had a match.

  The distraction gave Vic time to get into the cab and grab his Beretta. Now what? Run or fight? There’s no way I can outrun those bikes. I hope to hell someone in the gas station calls the cops.

  He could see the leader at the end of the building splashing water from a rain barrel all over himself, even dunking his head in. Gasoline does not smell good. Vic rolled down his window and pointed his gun at two other bikers who looked the most aggressive.

  “I sure as hell don’t want to kill anybody, but I will. What the fuck is wrong with you guys? It’s just the electric company. Don’t you want electricity out here?”

  One of the bikers hesitated a little, but spoke up. “They want to put through power lines, and we don’t want them to. This is our land, but they gave the damn Public Service company a right-of-way just so the assholes in Albuquerque can have cheap electricity. What about our lands? We’ve got burial sites out there that’ll be destroyed. You just work for the wrong people, asshole.”

  “Look, I’m a nobody. You kill me, they’ll send someone else just like me. They won’t even give a shit I’m dead. It won’t help you at all.”

  “Maybe, but it’ll get someone’s attention. You’re in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Nobody’s going to do anything.” Standing on the front porch of the gas station was a man who looked to be ninety years old, holding a double-barrel, 12-gauge shotgun—the backwoods equivalent of a cannon. “I’m not going to let you boys kill this man. I let you do most anything you want around here, just because it’s easier than fightin’ you—but not murder. You better just get back on those bikes and get the hell out of here before I get so nervous I start to unload this blunderbuss.”

  The leader came back, dripping water.

  “This is not a good idea, Jake. We live here, you live here. You should just go back into your little hut and shut the fuck up.”

  Jake pulled back the hammers and pointed the massive weapon at the stunned leader. “Too damn old to care much what happens to me, but you’re not goin’ kill this man unless you kill me first.”

  The leader stared at Jake for some time. “Let’s get the hell out of here. I need a drink.” They all got on their bikes and roared out of the parking lot, spewing dirt and rocks. Soon they were gone, and all was quiet.

  “Thanks, mister,” Vic said. “But I think you just made some badass enemies. Maybe you should leave with me.”

  “Nah. This is where I live. They might kill me, but the leader—his name is Santiago— knows that if they do, then this store and this station will close, and that’ll piss off everybody within a hundred miles of here. Plus, this is where he buys his beer and whisky. I’ll be okay. But you’re in trouble. They headed north, toward where they live, so you need to head back south and get on I-25. You don’t want to see those guys again today. And you tell your company what happened. Those boys are not completely wrong. The electric company bosses have been all high and mighty, wouldn’t work at all with these people about the route of that power line. Last time they had a county meeting, the electric guys showed up and treated these people like shit. That don’t give them no right to kill you, but your bosses are not very smart.”

  Vic wasn’t about to argue. This was his last month with EPSCO. He’d been offered a job in Kansas, and he and his family were moving. Both of his kids wanted to stay, but his wife was ready to leave, and the decision had been made. New Mexico had been a good place to live until he began to hate his bosses.

  “Well, thanks, old man. If you hadn’t been here, I think somebody would have died today.”

  Vic paid Jake for the gas, thanked him again, and let out a deep breath. Been a long time since he’d had that kind of adrenaline rush. He smiled. He had about a fifteen-minute drive north to finish his readings—or he could head back south as Jake had suggested, and piss off his supervisor. Maybe he’d overreacted. Those guys had seen a company truck and had wanted to scare him a little, maybe knock him around some. But, kill someone? That was pretty far-fetched. He headed north. The old man didn’t see his decision, he had already gone back inside.

  Vic had taken sightings in the area before, so he knew where he was headed. Only a few more miles. The road was lightly traveled, and he hadn’t seen any other vehicles. He entered more mountainous terrain with switchbacks and steep drop-offs. The scenery was magnificent. It was strange that people traveled to crowded national parks to see nature that was available for free, with almost no tourists, if you just looked. He was pretty sure Kansas wouldn’t have
this kind of postcard scenery. He was approaching his turnoff when he heard the sound.

  Motorcycles. He looked in his rearview mirror and saw his tormentors, immediately regretting his decision not to take the old man’s advice. He reached down and pulled his gun closer. At the first opportunity he was going to make a quick U-turn and head back south, but at this point the road was too narrow.

  The entire group was behind him, and he could see the leader’s face. Santiago was furious, and looking for revenge. This was not going to end well. Vic sped up as much as he could on the twisting road, then slammed on the brakes, causing panic behind him. At least two of the riders went down, and it looked like one might have gone over the side. He was able to get the truck turned around enough that he could go back south. He pressed the accelerator to the floor, his heart pounding.

  He looked in the mirror and saw three bikes closing in. He couldn’t go any faster and still keep the truck on the highway. He reached for his gun, just as he heard a glass-shattering blast. A bullet entered through the back window, grazing his head and exploding out the front windshield. The last of his frayed nerves snapped. With the windshield now a spider web of cracks and breaks, he could no longer see the road ahead. The truck glanced off a guard rail and went airborne. He crashed with a thunderous, violent crushing of metal, tumbling down the side of a ravine.

  After a minute or so there was mostly silence.

  “Take that, you son-of-a-bitch!” Santiago was angry and terrified at the same time. What the hell had he done? He stared down into the ravine as the dust and debris settled onto the crumpled truck, steam escaping from its engine compartment.

  One of his scrawny companions looked on, wide-eyed. “What the fuck do we do?”

  “Give me that whisky.” Santiago grabbed the bottle and slid down the side of the ravine. He could see the electric company man hanging out of the driver door, his head smashed. There was no doubt he was dead. He got closer and poured whisky on the body and inside the cab. When he saw that the guy’s left foot had been severed, he shivered and felt like he might puke. He clawed his way back up.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  Lights from a group of five emergency vehicles flashed onto the ravine from above the crash site. It was a large number for Cibola County. One was an ambulance from Grants, and the rest were from the Sheriff’s Department. As the emergency personnel were huddled together discussing their next move, a state police vehicle pulled up and stopped, though it didn’t add its lights to the show.

  “Hey, Sheriff, what’s goin’ on?”

  “EPSCO truck ran off of the road down that ravine. Sent a deputy down, and he said the guy’s most definitely dead. Smashed his head on something and busted it open. Said it smells like whisky in the cab, and he spotted a gun in there, too. Haven’t moved the guy yet, but at this point it looks like a bored electric company employee was drinking on the job, missed his turn, and went sailing off the road to the happy hereafter.” The sheriff arced a hand through the air, mimicking the truck’s trajectory off the road and into the ravine.

  “Yeah. Most likely. But you know, several of your citizens have made some stupid threats to EPSCO. You need to make damn sure this is an accident.”

  “What the fuck does that mean, Larry? Do my damned job, or the state patrol will have my ass? Look, I know about the threats, and I know some muckety-muck high up in the government will want to know if the out-of-control natives of Cibola County killed some poor bastard because he worked for EPSCO. That’s why we’re all still standing around here. I’ve sent word to the state police to send a crime scene crew to do forensics. Chances are ninety percent this guy missed his turn because he was drunk, but I know how to cover my ass. So, don’t be tellin’ me what to do.”

  “Okay calm down. I’m not your enemy. But look, you guys have already screwed up the scene here on top with all of your vehicles and people walking around. You need to get those vehicles out of the area around where the truck went off, and secure it as a crime scene. You and I both know EPSCO has a lot of clout in this state, and they’re not going to be happy having a dead employee, so you better cover your backside.”

  The sheriff nodded and directed his people to move their vehicles and tape off the area above the crash site. It was too late to make much difference, but it would look better this way.

  Year 1599, Spanish Settlement of San Juan de los Caballeros

  After the Spanish had exploited the Native Americans in the area for cheap labor, turning many of them into slaves, the Natives revolted, but were brutally suppressed, with hundreds killed. Juan de Oñate, the Spanish leader, lost just eleven soldiers and two servants, but took exorbitant revenge, anyway. Every Native man over twenty-five years old had his left foot amputated. (Florence Hawley Ellis, “An Outline of Laguna Pueblo History and Social Organization” Southwestern Journal of Anthropology Vol. 15, No. 4, Winter 1959, pp. 325–347)

  It was late summer in Santa Fe, New Mexico, bringing cool mornings and mild afternoons to the high-altitude, bustling tourist town. There was a promise of snow in the morning air, but that would come in the future. Today, it was glorious.

  Vincent Malone had become a resident of this capital city with its unique international charm, more or less by accident. He’d wanted to escape the high housing costs of Denver, and had been looking for a place to hide on a more reasonable budget as he crawled toward Social Security, retirement, and old age. He’d been confronted with declining health, and an inability to meet the needs of the small client base he had as a private investigator, due to lack of mobility after several bouts of painful gout. After his last client unceremoniously fired him, he’d decided to head south for the warmth, and maybe take a low-key job that would provide a meager living until those Social Security checks started rolling in.

  Then serendipity intervened. He’d taken a job as a van driver for a new bed-and-breakfast in the foothills of Santa Fe, The Blue Door Inn. The owners, Jerry and Cindy Oliver, were just about the nicest people he’d ever met, and they’d become friends while Vincent helped them deal with some challenges that had come up when the Inn took in its first guests, including two murders—not quite the usual new-business snags.

  Vincent had spent over thirty years as a PI after a life-changing fall from grace precipitated by too much booze and too little good judgment. He’d lost a promising career as a Dallas lawyer, the most gorgeous blonde wife Texas had to offer, his reputation, all his assets, and his law license. While he climbed up out of a pile of shit of his own making, he’d sought a new beginning in Denver, helping attorneys by finding facts or dirt as needed so they could better serve their clients. He proved to be a natural at this kind of sleazy work, and he’d prospered until his poor health took him down.

  Now, at what he’d thought would be the point when his life would begin to wind down, he’d found new adventures, friends, employment, and romance, proving that even the most cynical person can sometimes make a new beginning.

  “Appreciate you helping us out today.” Jerry was smiling.

  “Sure, not a problem. Where’s Rick?”

  Rick was the son of Hector and Mary Flores, the Inn’s first employees. Hector took care of maintenance and gardening, while Mary was the resident chef and housekeeper, although she also mentored Jerry in the culinary arts. More recently, Rick had taken over Vincent’s previous role as the Inn’s van driver while he and his new wife explored other employment options, mostly in Albuquerque.

  “He had an interview this morning. Sounded like a good opportunity, so I didn’t want him to miss out on it just to drive some guests around.”

  Vincent nodded. “Yup, got to keep your priorities straight. I’m sure he’ll find something soon. Who are the guests?”

  “We’ve got five, all coming in on the same Southwest flight out of Chicago. Decided to offer them the van service instead of the shuttle, since all are arriving at the same time. They’re part of two writers’ conferences that are goin
g on at the convention center. They’re being put on by an independent publishers’ group. One is for mystery writers and one’s for romance novel writers. Cindy says they’re going to have almost a thousand authors and publishers attending, which is a lot for Santa Fe. The group putting it on called all over town looking for available rooms. Seems the response was more than they expected. So, we’ll be full for almost a whole week, with romance and mystery authors.”

  “That’s great, Jerry. You guys are really starting to make a success of this place.”

  “Yeah, it’s getting better. Mostly trial and error, but we’re getting there. Cindy is really excited about the authors. She said it’ll be much better to have people who make up stories about murders than having real people killing one another.” Jerry chuckled, but looked thoughtful.

  “Yeah, make-believe is way better than reality when it comes to dead bodies.”

  Vincent got the list of guests from Jerry and then inspected the van, confirming it was ready to travel to the Albuquerque airport. It was a trip Vincent had made many times before he’d decided to take on private investigation clients, and turned most of his duties at the Inn over to Rick. When Vincent had started at the Inn, he’d stayed in a tiny extra room that wasn’t really suitable for guests, and had found a great deal of solace in those first weeks while helping prepare the Inn to open, almost as if Jerry and Cindy had adopted him as part of the family. Now he was staying with Nancy McAllen, his very recent fiancé.

  My, how the world had changed in only a short time. Vincent grinned at the thought. He secured his cardboard Blue Door Inn sign, and headed out.

  By the time the passengers were deplaning, he was in the arrival area holding the sign, which read “Blue Door Inn Guests.” Soon he had four, all women who seemed to have known each other or made friends on the plane. It seemed they might also have enjoyed a few drinks on the flight. They were in a very cheerful mood, compared to other passengers.

  “Wow, you’re the van driver? You’re quite a hunk.” The comment brought a wake of giggles and some admiring stares from the writers, and since it had been said in a loud voice, also a few chuckles from other passengers.