On the Road to Jerome…
Home?
Black hair coiled back snapping behind his head, black wrap-around aviator goggles encased his eyes, black leather covered his body as he sped through the long miles of empty road towards Jerome Az., a town that was more of a ghost village, filled now only with artisans, odd loners, old hippies, and individuals who simply did not want to be found. Once upon a time it was considered the wickedest town in America – back when it was a copper mining camp. It had been the perfect place for a “mad” scientist, his father, to build a home and do his work. Quentin had not been hear for ten years, and it looked no different. The hot merciless sun and the dry red dust colored everything about the place, only the scrubby mesquite differentiating the landscape from something in a photo from a Martian rover. Rt 89 zig-zagged in a lazy hairpin up the hill towards the summit of “Cleopatra Hill” which started at a dusty wooden sign that read “Jerome, Billion Dollar Copper Camp” and ended at a cheesy, giant letter ‘J’ at the top of the hill. Quentin gunned the engine of Absinthe and began the ascent.
Driving past the numerous art galleries, he did not even glance at the locals who stared after him, The sound of motorcycles pipes echoed off the brick buildings lining the street in the main part of town. Don’t Blink, Quentin thought to himself, or you’ll miss it all. He sped past the little town and started in the direction of Prescott National Forest on a seldom used back road. After about a mile he saw the house, and swallowed, his thoughts a jumble of memories and emotions.
The gate had been locked and was overgrown with some crawling vine and mesquite bushes. A paint scrawled sign read: “Warning, Private Property, No Trespassing!” and a large rusted lock was holding a chain across the gates. Smiling to himself, Quentin pulled a short shotgun from a sling that mimicked the front fork of his bike and opened the lock. Extracting the shell that was in the gun, he replaced it with a special round he had in the left saddle-bag. Pointing the gun at the rusted lock, he fired, and the resulting explosive sound echoed several times over the surrounding hills, but the lock was shattered and hung limply from the chain. Quentin got off his bike and kicked the gate open just as a police car rounded the bend and pulled up behind his bike. The door of the squad car few open.
“Drop that weapon boy, you are in a heap of trouble!”
Quentin slid the gun back into the holster on the bike, not looking at the officer.
“I said drop that weapon to the ground!”
“It’s holstered, what’s your beef?”
“Boy, is your ears full of crap or are you doped up? I want you to drop on that ground now or I will…”
“Or you will what? Shoot me? I am, as you can plainly see, unarmed.” Quentin started walking towards the officer with his hands raised. “And you sir, are on private property.”
“Dammit! What the hell! Yes this is private property and you are trespassing!”
“I own this place, so you sir, are the trespasser.”
The trouper stood up and squinted at Quentin, but kept his revolver pointed at him. “I know the owners of this place, and you ain’t them!”
Dropping his hands and turning to look at the house, Quentin replied softly, “The owners you know are dead. ”
“Yes, that’s true, but you…”
“Are the only living relative. Their son.”
The officers mouth dropped open, and then he shut it, and then he started to lower his weapon, but thought better of it, “Show me some ID.”
“Sure.” Quentin slowly pulled his wallet out and extracted his drivers license for the officer.
“Quentin Alfonse Dark. Well I will be stuffed and mounted, that is not a name I expected to ever hear again. How long has it been.”
“It has been ten years since the murder of my parents in this house Sargent…?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, it’s Sargent Fontain.” The officer handed back Quentin’s license. “So, what are your plans here, the house is not in too good condition by now.”
“My plans are simple Sargent Fontain, to find out what I can about the persons who did this to my parents and to… well, let’s not go there.”
“You know I worked that case…I knew your dad. I am sorry…”
“Yeah. Everyone is sorry. Me? I’m just pissed off. Now if you will excuse me.”
“I suppose you have all the deeds and legal stuff…”
“Already sent to your records department, and if you find anything amiss, I am sure you can contact my lawyer, now again, if you will excuse me, I want to go home.”
“I will be watching you Quentin.”
“I am sure of it.” With that Quentin remounted his bike and drove through the gates that had not admitted traffic for a decade.
Officer Fontain watched him for a long moment, and then got back into his squad car.
David T. McKee
|
