Ghost Canyon (The John Decker Supernatural Thriller Series Book 7) Anthony Strong (popular romance novels .TXT) 📖

“Mercy, Harlan. You don’t want much, do you? I’m not even working right now. My shift ended two hours ago.”

“Like I care about that,” Harlan said. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

“Fine. Lawson sounded like he wanted to reach through the phone and throttle Harlan. “Give me until ten am. My shift starts then, but I’ll go in early.”

“Doesn’t sound like I have much choice.” Harlan stepped away from the window. “Email it to me. You know where.”

“Yeah, I know where,” Lawson said. “Is that it? We done?”

“For now.”

“Great. I’d love to say it was a pleasure talking to you, Harlan, but I don’t like to lie.”

“Just get the damn report.” Harlan jabbed a finger at the screen and cut the call off without waiting for Lawson to reply.

He returned to the counter, and his untouched scotch. He downed it, then went to pour himself another, but thought better of it. Instead, he made his way to the small office adjacent to his bedroom. He went to a bookshelf behind the desk and pulled down an old leather-bound volume. This had belonged to his great-great-grandfather, a man named Travis Biggs. It was his journal. He’d been a prospector in the late 1800s, at least until he went and got himself lost in the Ghost Canyon Mine. He was probably still down there somewhere, his bones laying in the darkness.

Harlan sat at his desk, opened the journal, and flipped through the pages until he found the entry he was looking for. He’d read this journal often as a boy, sneaking into his father’s study when the old man was preoccupied by the casino. He was fascinated by it. Later, as a teenager, he decided it was nothing more than the fevered writings of a crazy old miner. Now he wasn’t so sure. And if the long-dead prospector’s rambling tale was true, Harlan might yet be able to save his casino from Oscar Rossi. With a glimmer of hope, Harlan started to read.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The creature that had lived in darkness for the last hundred and thirty-five years, made its way slowly through the pitch-black tunnels and up the adit toward the outside world. Centuries ago, when the land overflowed with bison, elk, and mountain sheep, and decades before the white man showed up, the collection of taut dry skin and creaking bones that now shambled through the mine had been the mighty warrior, Shilah.

Now it was something entirely different.

To the Ojibwe people who inhabited the Great Lakes region, it was the Baykok, or Bakaak, which meant bones draped in skin. The algonquin called it the Pakak. To the men who collected the disgraced warrior’s bones, and summoned the creature to guard their gold, it was a means to an end. But to all who encountered it, the creature was death.

Now, having tasted flesh for the first time in over a century, it wanted more. Which was why the creature ventured closer to the surface than it ever had, exploring the periphery of its domain, and looking for a way out.

It reached the gates set into the mine’s entrance and left unlocked so the two missing geologists, if they somehow survived, could find their way out. But instead, something much worse stepped out into the darkness and looked up toward the night sky, full of glittering bright stars. It was a sight that would have been familiar to Shilah, had the creature he became still possessed the ability to comprehend such things.

It stood there a while, unsure of this unfamiliar world. Then, realizing it was confined no more, the creature lifted its arms and unfurled flaps of leathery translucent skin, much like the wings of a bat.

Somewhere in the mountains, coyotes were barking and howling, ignorant of the unnatural predator that had entered their midst. But not for long.

The creature drew breath into desiccated lungs and let forth a shrill cry the likes of which the Mojave Desert had never heard. Then it hopped once, twice, and took to the air, beating its wings in swooping, graceful arcs, as it soared above the landscape, looking for its next meal.

Chapter Twenty-Six

An hour after being shown to his room, Decker was back downstairs and on the hunt for a meal. His host, Robyn, had instructed him to come find her in the kitchen, but Decker didn’t know where that was, so he wandered the first floor hoping to find it.

The first door he tried led into the bar, which looked just as an Old West saloon should. He could imagine old time cowboys sauntering in to quench their thirst. Except it wasn’t a cowboy sitting at the bar nursing a bottle of bourbon right now. It was a grizzled old man with wiry white hair and sandpaper stubble covering his chin. He turned to greet Decker with an irritated tut.

“Who are you?” The old-timer asked.

“Name’s John Decker. I’m looking for Robyn. She told me to meet her in the kitchen.”

“Does this look like the kitchen to you?”

“No, sir, it doesn’t.”

The old man sighed. “Turn left, go past the stairs, and hang a right. You’ll see a white door in front of you marked private. That’s the kitchen.”

“Thank you.” Decker backed up. He was about to close the door when the old man spoke again.

“You one of them Feds?”

“I’m here at their request, but I don’t actually work for the FBI.”

“Who do you work for?” The old man’s eyes narrowed. “NSA? CIA? Some other bunch of initials?”

“Definitely some other bunch of initials.” Decker suppressed a smile. This must be Carlton Miller. His reputation preceded him, at least if you listened to Special Agents Fowler and Barnes. Not to mention Robyn herself.

“You one of the good guys?” Carlton asked. He picked up the bottle of bourbon and poured himself a large drink, then threw it back in one and smacked his lips with satisfaction.

“I can assure you I’m one of the good guys.”

“Well, that settles it then. You aren’t FBI.”

Decker almost asked him what possible