A Frank Shaw Thriller

1. Runner

FRANK WAS SITTING in the shade and scent of a pine atop a knoll in the desert wilderness of Southern Utah when the man crested the hill on the far side of the dry creek bed. The man was medium height, medium build; he had dark hair, brown skin, and a little goatee. He was probably in his late twenties, early thirties. He glanced back, fearful and wide-eyed, then rushed down through the sparse pinyon pines and junipers on the steep, sunbaked slope.

The man had no smart phone for tunes, no fanny pack, no water. No jogging shoes or shorts. He wore no sunglasses. These were all things you’d want if you were out on a jaunt, enjoying the desert wilds. Instead, he was in long pants and a red-checkered, short-sleeved shirt that was ripped up one side. He was taking desperate strides. He glanced back again, up at the crest of the hill.

Frank’s binoculars rested on top of his pack. A few feet beyond that lay a large collared lizard that had either taken Frank for a rock or assumed it was safe to come join the man party. The lizard was a fabulous specimen with a foot-long turquoise body, a black and white collar, and a sand-colored head.

Frank grabbed his binoculars and glassed the man. He had scrapes and blood on his arm. Scrapes and blood on his face. At least, it looked like blood.

The main predators down in this area were mountain lions. Could have been a lion that had slashed him up. Or maybe the man and a few others had been back in the canyons of the White Cliffs which towered to the north and east of Frank. Maybe they’d had an accident. Maybe someone had fallen from some height. Except the man wasn’t wearing climbing gear either. So maybe there’d been some other kind of accident.

Frank gathered himself to stand and call out when the woman topped the rise. She was medium height, slender, with dark hair pulled into one long braid down her back and brown skin. She too was in her late twenties or early thirties. She was in a short-sleeved shirt, long pants, and sturdy shoes.

Unlike the man, she did not glance back. She marked the man’s path and took off after him. Frank glassed her. She had a face like an angry storm. A face hell-bent on violence.

Something a few hundred feet above the knoll flashed in the sun. Frank looked up. It took him a moment, but then he spotted, of all things, a four-rotor drone, and he realized he’d heard its soft whine earlier, but the breeze through the pine needles had masked it. He squinted and saw a black thing mounted on the bottom, which was probably some type of camera. Frank looked back at the two individuals running down the slope.

The woman ran on a line that would take her a bit to the side of the man, like she was expecting him to turn upstream, and her course would allow her to intercept him at the bottom of the hill.

Then a white pickup rounded the corner of the hill a few hundred yards downstream of the man and woman. It was driving on a scratch of dirt road that sometimes merged with the streambed and sometimes ran to the side. There were two men in the cab, and Frank realized the woman wasn’t trying to cut the running man off—she was trying to herd him, drive him like a deer into those two.

The man didn’t see the pickup. He couldn’t down in the snaky dry river bed because a bend stood between him and the truck. He probably couldn’t hear the truck either over his own labored breath. And he wouldn’t see them. Fear didn’t bring you nuance. Fear brought you only the facts in front of your face. And sometimes not even that.

The woman and man reached the dry, sandy streambed at about the same time, she about ten yards upstream.

The man looked at her, then ran the other way, downstream, toward the white pickup.

He ran ten, twenty, thirty yards, and then he must have finally heard the pickup over his labored breath, heard it coming up the draw, because he stopped, then tried to turn back up the hill. But the woman was there. She was fast and strong and caught up to him before he was three strides up the slope. She launched herself onto his back like a cougar. But instead of biting down on his neck, she took him in a vicious one-armed choke.

Her weight pulled the man up and back. 120 or 130 extra pounds clinging to one’s back tended to do that. The man lost his balance and fell.

She fell with him, but didn’t let go. Her arm was like iron around his neck, strangling him.

The man struggled to rise, but the woman yanked him down. He tried to pull her arm away, failed, then punched his fist up, past his ear, and into her face.

Her head rocked back.

He struck again, and a third time. Three solid blows that dazed her and loosened her grip.

The man struggled free, but before he could take two steps, the woman rolled up and sprang at him again, entangling his legs and causing him to stumble to the ground.

Then the pickup came flying around the bend, a cloud of desert dust billowing up behind it. The truck roared up to the spot of the scuffle. The driver slammed on the brakes, and the truck came to a skidding halt. The doors to the cab flew open, and the two men jumped out. The passenger, a skinny whip of a man, grabbed a shovel from the pickup bed.

The running man kicked free of the woman and began to scramble away. He got to his feet, but he wasn’t fast enough. The passenger flew at him. The shovel’s steel flashed in the sun. Then the passenger struck the running man in the head from behind with the flat of the blade.

The running man stumbled into some loose rock and went down with a heavy crash.

Then the two men from the truck fell on him, punching, then restraining him, but the blow had knocked him unconscious. Or something worse.

Frank’s skin prickled. His heartbeat picked up a notch. He was now on full alert.

The driver, a big guy with a caterpillar brow, hefted the running man over his shoulders, then carried him to the bed of the pickup. In the bed of the truck, the woman laid out a tarp that was silver on one side, blue on the other. The big guy thumped the running man into the middle of it. Then the three of them wrapped him in the tarp and fastened it with bungees.

The running man wasn’t moving.

The woman and shovel man got in the cab on the passenger’s side. The driver slipped his muscular body and caterpillar brow behind the wheel on the other. Then they turned the truck around and gunned it back down the dry draw. When they got to the mouth of the streambed, they headed south.

Frank blew out a tense breath and collected his thoughts. He knew there were a number of troubled-youth rehabilitation programs that operated in the area. But he was pretty sure none of them employed the shovel technique as a means of correction. And the running man hadn’t been exactly a youth.

The spectacular cliffs and canyons in this area would make it a dandy place for an executive team building weekend. But it wasn’t the weekend. And, again, Frank didn’t know of any bonding exercises that included being knocked in the head with tempered steel.

Predator, accident, and wilderness program went off the list. That didn’t leave too many options. None of them were good. And he didn’t think that mob would be all that happy to find out there’d been a witness to their desert crime.

The whine above became louder, and Frank remembered the drone. He slowly looked up. The drone, still high above the knoll, had moved closer to Frank’s position. It was almost directly above him now, hovering, the camera pointing straight down.

 

2. Call

FRANK DIDN’T MOVE. His shorts and brown Cowboy Donut tee-shirt weren’t exactly camo, but the mind saw what it expected to see. And if Frank didn’t move, whoever was on the other end of that video feed could easily see nothing but desert rock in the shade of the pine.

A breeze gusted, and the drone slid a few yards to the side.

Frank held motionless, hoping that camera didn’t zoom in, letting the operator see his red day pack, or the white sock tops coming out of his boots, or the fact that Frank generally didn’t look like a rock or a stick.

The breeze gusted again through the pine. The whine of the drone’s rotors climbed in pitch, and the little machine took off almost straight north to the White Cliffs, the opposite direction the pickup had gone.

Frank watched it, knowing some cameras had great range, and kept still.

He had been on his way to Los Angeles to hook up with his sister Kim and nephew Tony. He thought he’d be able to just drive through this area, taking the sights in from his car. About sixty miles north, he’d stopped in Circleville, the town where the Old West train robber Butch Cassidy had grown up. He figured he’d continue on without stopping, but the majesty of the staircase cliffs of Southern Utah had stopped him dead in his tracks, forcing him out of the Nova again and again to stand and let the power of the views roll over him. Purple and white thunderheads far to the south had only made it more spectacular.

The views had awoken a desire in him that he could not resist. Not after spending six years in a cement box. If he’d learned one thing during his years in the fine penal establishment in Coalinga, California, it was that you appreciated every day you spent outside the box.

Frank had enjoyed a great career in the U.S. Army’s Special Forces as an 18B, a weapon’s sergeant. He’d decided not to re-up so he could come home and save his marriage, but he’d been too late, and Blanca had left him anyway. And then he’d made the dumb decision to fall in with a piece of work called Simon Haas, which had led him to prison. And prison had led him to insight.

And so Frank had found a dirt road leading into the wilderness. He’d found a little trailhead, and after driving a bit, he set out on foot, exploring the desert hills, a slot canyon, and finally this knoll with its stunning view.

The Grand Staircase was a series of cliffs and mesas about ninety miles wide and sixty long. It started just over the Arizona border, miles north of the Grand Canyon, with the Chocolate Cliffs. They were followed by a relatively flat area a few miles wide. Next came the Vermillion Cliffs, followed by another few miles of desert hills dotted with juniper and pinyon and scrub. Then came the White Cliffs follow by another flat piece, which was followed by the steps for the Grays, Pinks, and Blues. It was a multi-colored stairway for giants, with ragged lines of cliffs rising hundreds of feet into the air.

Frank expected the White Cliffs, the ones to the north and east of his current position, would be spectacular in the slant light of sunset and the distant storm. And so he’d settled down with his pack a few hours early to watch the show. He’d seen a huge golden eagle. Watched two crows harry a hawk. He thought he’d seen some big horn sheep in the distance, but they’d moved too fast, and he couldn’t tell if they’d just been mule deer. A pink paraglider in a trike had flown by. The trike looked like a three-wheeled go-kart with a big fan on the back, hanging from a thin parachute. Happily, the trike soon buzzed away, leaving Frank alone again.

As the time passed, the blue sky, the heat and red rock, and the whisperings of the breeze in the juniper and pine had washed over him, filling him with a quiet glory. But all that was broken now by the man in the tarp.

The drone continued north at a brisk pace, dwindling to nothing more than a speck.

Frank scanned the skies for other vehicles, but saw none, and figured he was safe. He let out a sigh.

The large collared lizard cocked its head, listening.

Frank said to his companion, “Could be that man had it coming.”

The lizard cocked its head farther.

“Maybe he was a fugitive from the law. Maybe those were correctional officers.”

They had used a drone.

Frank said, “Or maybe that was some poor sap that ran across some marijuana grow.”

Frank had come out to commune with his maker and enjoy the show, but that wasn’t going to happen now. Murder kind of messed up the effect. He thought about his options. He could get out on the road and then call 911. But there were a lot of roads out here, and who knew which one the pickup would take? If he really wanted to make sure the authorities hooked up with the Shovel Gang, he’d need to keep them in his sights, which would bring its own dangers. But Frank didn’t see any other way.

He stood with his pack and turned to the lizard. “You with me? Or are you all show?”

The lizard froze. And then it must have finally realized Frank wasn’t a tree because it suddenly shot out down the hill, kicking up bits of leaves and sand. Frank watched it streak its turquoise self down the slope and disappear under some rocks.

“Typical pretty boy,” Frank said and scanned the north sky. The drone was almost to the face of the White Cliffs, but it was so tiny now, Frank lost it as soon as he found it.

He thought about that guy in his blue-tarp shroud. If those three had been correctional officers, he’d soon see a chopper and lots of vehicles with flashing lights. And then he wouldn’t have to call, even though he sure as heck wouldn’t be coming back to this spot.

But the law enforcement angle was a very long bet, and so Frank hustled around the crown of the knoll to the other side. He found no choppers in the distance, no sirens in the desert or flashing lights. There was only the pickup’s dust trail, heading south. And he was fairly sure those three weren’t zooming the guy off to the hospital.

From what Frank could see, that road would lead them past the foothills, then cut west, taking them not too far from where he’d parked his Nova and where his cell phone lay.

They had a more circuitous route. Frank, on the other hand, had a straight line to his car. He drained his water bottle, then began to run down the side of the knoll with big loping strides that took him through a scattering of desert cedar trees and past an outcropping of rock that looked like a rabbit’s head. He loped his way down to the valley floor, then set out in a fast jog.

Highway 89 lay a few miles away. In one direction, it led to the border town of Kanab. In the other direction, it led deeper into Utah. Frank needed to see which way the pickup would go, but it was going to be mighty hard if he was way out here.

He lengthened his stride, ran up and down two more hills, and reached the flat. The southern Utah desert in this area was a world of sandy, pale orange dirt dotted with scrub. He imagined when the wind blew, residents would find the sand drifted on their porches like snow.

He ran over the orange dirt, passing a thorny greasewood, a swath of salt brush, and green rabbit brush with small yellow flowers. The sand kicked up onto his legs and fell into his shoes. He followed an opening through a thirty-yard patch of sparse prickly pear, then crossed a section of bare sandstone as wide as a parking lot.

Frank could do a six minute mile on hard pavement without much trouble at all, but this sandy dirt was slowing him down. In the distance, he could see the dust trail of the pickup. It still hadn’t made its turn. So maybe he’d beat it. Then the direction of the pickup changed. It was now heading toward the Nova.

Frank kept running. He was going all out, streaking through salt brush and juniper, knowing that even though it was sparse, there was enough of it between him and the pickup to keep him hidden. Then he topped a little rise and saw the gray ribbon of Highway 89 in the distance, a little green car motoring along. He saw the pickup and its smoking dust trail.

If he struck out now, they would probably see him hoofing it through the brush. They would see his direction and draw a mental line right back to the knoll. And if that happened, he didn’t think things would turn out well. So he took up a position in the shade of a desert cedar, his lungs working, and watched as the pickup blew past the Nova in a cloud of dust, followed the dirt road to the highway. It slowed, its brake lights illuminating.

From this height he could see into the pickup bed. The man in the tarp was still there.

Then the truck pulled onto the asphalt, turned north, and accelerated.

Frank sprinted for his car, his pack smacking his back, the sand flying, the scrub scratching at his bare legs below his shorts.

A minute or so later, he broke out onto the dirt road and hoofed it to the Nova, which, thanks to the pickup, had a fine coating of dust on it. He pulled his keys out, wishing the doors had remote entry, but he hadn’t installed it on the old gal, and remote entry was nothing more than a Star Trek dream back in the ‘70s.

He inserted the key, unlocked the door, and threw himself and his pack in. He closed the door, turned her over, and the Nova roared to life. It roared extra loud because the muffler was shot. He’d been hoping to get a quick repair in Kanab. No time for repairs now.

Frank threw her into gear, cranked the wheel, and floored it. The Nova made a nice spinning U-turn in a cloud of dust and noise, then shot out along the dirt road. He shifted up and said to her, “You’re doing great.”

He’d been working on her. Frank and this car were on a journey together. And her new 350 aluminum LS horses that he’d pulled out of a wrecked Corvette were performing just fine.

The car rumbled along the dirt road, dust billowing behind it. Then Frank came to the highway. He slowed, looked left and right, geared down, turned the direction the pickup had gone, then punched it.

The Nova accelerated, the rpms climbing high. He shifted again, and the Nova roared up the road, shedding dust.

The white pickup was nowhere to be seen.

Frank pushed his speed higher, far above the legal limit, and cranked his window down, letting the wind rush in to cool off the hot interior.

He followed the highway along a straight stretch for about two miles, and then it began to curve and bend through and over a number of rocky hills. He passed three vehicles coming the other direction, skirted some guy pedaling along with his bicycle fitted with saddle-bags on the front and back for long-distance trekking, then roared around a bend and saw the pickup far ahead. It disappeared over a rise.

Frank pulled out his cell phone, glanced down, dialed 911, then looked up again. He gave the Nova more gas.

The dispatcher answered.

Frank said, “I need to report an aggravated assault. Maybe murder. I don’t know the victim’s condition. He was hit in the head with a shovel.”

Frank topped the rise, saw the pickup go around a bend.

“Where are you, sir?”

“I’m on Highway 89, going north. I just passed milepost number seventy-five. The victim is wrapped in a blue tarp in the bed of a white Ford F-series pickup, which I am following and have in my visual.”

Frank raced around the bend and saw the pickup a short distance ahead, cruising at good-citizen speed, just three folks out on a pleasure drive, keeping the laws of the land and transporting a corpse in the back.

Frank slowed to match their speed.

The dispatcher said, “Are you hurt?”

“I am fine,” Frank said.

“Is the victim hurt?”

“He’s wrapped in a tarp. He might be dead.”

“The closest hospital is in Kanab. You need to turn around.”

“I am not in the pickup carrying the man in the tarp. There are two men and a woman in the pickup. They are the ones that assaulted the victim. I don’t know where they are taking him. That’s why I’m following.”

“Hold on,” the dispatcher said. There was a pause, in which he assumed she was putting out a call on the police radio.

She came back on. “Sir, where are you now?”

“I just passed milepost seventy-six.”

“What is your name?”

He hesitated a moment. This was it. A name would lead to an address, and that would lead to his stellar record, and there would be all sorts of questions about what relationship an ex-con would have with the folks in the white pickup.

“Frank Shaw,” he said.

“Mr. Shaw, you said you witnessed the assault?”

“Yes, I did.” And with those words he knew he was going to be asked to give a statement, in person, and that the officer would take one look at him and his tattoos and figure he was part of the murder club.

If it came to court, those three in the pickup could feed their defense lawyer a line of bull claiming Frank had done the deed. That they were actually fleeing him. Storms had been washing over the area. More summer rain was forecast, which meant all of the nice footprints that told the story clearly could easily be washed away. And that would leave one of him against three of them. Frank had no motive to brain that man, but with Frank’s history and the six degrees of Kevin Bacon crap, who knew what kind of connection a prosecuting attorney might devise?

He could hang up right now. He could say it was all a big mistake. He could turn off his cell phone and turn around and drive, without a care, to L.A.

“Mr. Shaw, can you see the license plate number?”

Frank could turn a blind eye to lots of things. Jaywalking, running stop signs, wearing socks with Crocs. But some things you just couldn’t let slide.

“Mr. Shaw?”

“Not yet,” he said. “But I soon will.”

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