Devil's Gate: Jack Beckett Book Three

1

Jack Beckett walked to his car parked at Devil’s Gate Monument and lowered his big frame into a ’68 Mustang restored by his late father. He was dressed in his customary blue jeans and flannel shirt along with some hiking boots he had picked up in nearby Casper. Today's hike around the Gate was exploratory; he simply needed to get the lay of the land. He didn't undertake any careful search, organized by grids. He did have a small camera in his backpack so he could document anything worth recording.

He would come back again and begin a more organized search, but at least he now had an idea what this historic area was like. Immigrants on the Oregon/California/Mormon trail once encountered this landmark along the Sweetwater River, where millions of years ago rivers cut through soft sediment and rock and formed a cleft 30 feet wide at its base and 300 feet wide at its top. The cleft was too narrow for wagons to pass through alongside the river, but immigrants would often stop and hike along the rocks, carving names into the sides of sheer cliffs. Rumor had it that twenty men and women died here and were buried along the banks of the Sweetwater.

Beckett was looking for one of them, Sarah E. Boyle, who died in 1847. He was hoping to find some evidence that Sarah had once been here, and perhaps died here or a place nearby. This was strictly a favor for a friend who asked Beckett to take a look once the friend learned that Beckett would be passing through this part of Wyoming. He replied by saying he would spend a day or two and see if something turned up.

The friend went all the way back to high school. Becky lived in Chicago now and Beckett looked her up on his way west. He chuckled when he recalled how this side trip to Casper came to pass.

Where are you heading now? Becky asked.

I’m not sure. Maybe Oregon. One place I haven’t been.

I’d love to travel like you do, she said. But, of course, I still work for a living.

So save some money and take time off, Beckett said. Life is short.

Maybe I will, she said. By the way, are you driving through Wyoming?

I’m sure I will at some point.

I would owe you a huge favor if you could check on something.

He just looked at her with a smile and waited.

I’m working on my family tree and I just found out that my great Grandmother may have died in a place called Devil’s Gate. There’s some reference to that but it seems up in the air. It sure would be nice to know. I could visit her grave one day.

Let me guess. Devil’s Gate is in Wyoming.

Bingo, Jack. It’s outside Casper, not too far from I-80 west.

Beckett said yes. He rarely said no to close friends. And that’s how he came to look for a grave over a hundred years old.

The day was getting late, so Beckett was preparing to drive back to Casper. He would take the narrow state road that offered views of wide empty plains on both sides and on the horizon low jagged peaks that reminded him of miniature mountain ranges. He saw one car on his way here and assumed the return trip to Casper would offer the same. If a man needed to be alone, this would be a good place to start.

The highway ran straight as an arrow, and the berm gave way to a flat expanse to his right so vast that merely running off the road would be an inconvenience, not a major problem. Still, he kept the Mustang at a reasonable 60 mph. He liked the feel of the wind and late afternoon sun pushing in through his open window, and any greater speed would probably cause him to close the window and turn on the air. Sixty was fine.

A flash of color caught his eye, and it came from the rearview mirror. He looked closer and saw a cruiser coming up fast, with its light bar pulsating red. He immediately tapped the brake and began to pull over to the shoulder. He rolled to a stop and the cruiser nestled in behind him. It was white and carried the words Natrona County Sheriff on the doors.

The driver of the cruiser sat for a few seconds. Nothing happened. The air was suddenly still, and the only sound was a faint crackle as the exhaust systems of both cars began to cool. Next came a mechanical click and then a voice from the cruiser that was amplified by a built-in sound system.

Driver, put your hands on the dash where I can see them.

The voice was female.

Beckett complied.

Fifteen seconds passed.

In the mirror, Beckett watched as the driver of the cruiser opened her door. She got out of the car and drew her service handgun and walked up to his door.

Pointing the gun, she said, Exit the car and keep your hands where I can see them at all times. She opened the car door, so he could get out without using the inside handle.

Beckett stepped out of the car with his hands above his head.

Turn around, she said.

First, she grabbed his left wrist and pulled it behind him, snapping a handcuff on it, then she pulled his right wrist back and put the cuff on that wrist. Beckett made note that she was not a rookie. She had done this many times.

She nudged him back toward the cruiser, and once there opened the rear door and guided him into the back seat.

What’s this about? Beckett asked.

We need to ask you a few questions downtown.

About what?

About the man who was killed by someone that looks a lot like you.

That’s news to me. Hard to believe there’s someone out there that looks like me.

The deputy then said, You have the right to remain silent. She continued with the Miranda from memory.

Are you arresting me for something? Beckett asked.

AC will decide that, she said. AC is Alex Cornelius, sheriff of Natrona County, by the way. You’ll meet him soon enough. I just gave you your rights, which if I were sitting where you are at the moment, I’d take seriously.

Thanks, deputy. I can assure you that I had nothing to do with a crime that I know nothing about, but I’m sure you’ve heard that one before.

The cruiser was now moving down St Rt. 220, which would end up in Casper, twenty-five miles away. Deputy Janie Sherman was a veteran of the sheriff’s department and had brought plenty of criminals in for questioning. At the moment the evidence tying Beckett to the crime was entirely circumstantial, but she would keep that to herself. It started early this morning when a rancher had gone into his barn and found a neighbor hanging by his feet from a beam. His throat had been cut, and the dead man had bled out, hanging in the upside down position. He was gagged, and it wasn’t known if that happened before or after his throat was cut.

Upon seeing some emergency vehicles at the ranch, a woman visiting a neighbor had called the sheriff to say that she saw a very large man leave the ranch in an older car, possibly from the 1960s. Natrona County has a fair number of very large men, but few if any who drove a car from the 1960s. Beckett was driving a 1968 Mustang GT 390; the same car made popular by the Steve McQueen movie. He was also a large man at six feet four inches and 230 pounds, mostly muscle. By sheer coincidence, a resident who owned a police scanner on a regular basis by listening in on police calls happened to drive by the Devil’s Gate monument in the early afternoon, and there it was, a 1960s car in mint condition, parked in the visitor’s lot. So she called it into the sheriff. Deputy Sherman was the closest unit to Devil's Gate, so she took the call. And that’s how Beckett came to be a passenger in the back seat of Deputy Sherman’s cruiser heading for Casper, Wyoming.

Beckett wasn’t particularly worried. He knew he had done nothing wrong. Beckett seldom worried about events that had yet to unfold. It took him a long time to arrive at that Zen place in his life. His former life as a professional boxer helped him train his mind to live in the here and now. When he was in the ring all that mattered was what had happened in the past few seconds but more importantly what action he needed to take with the information that was happening now, in real time. He began to apply that to his life outside the ring and discovered that he was much happier. He began to see it as a simple principle. Energy spent thinking about what had yet to occur was almost always wasted energy.

He relaxed and watched the countryside roll by. Maybe he would engage the deputy in some small talk. It would help pass the time, and maybe he would gather some useful information.

What’s your name, deputy? Beckett asked.

Last name Sherman. First name Janie. What’s yours? We’ll find out when we get to the department, but you can tell me now if you want.

Last name Beckett. First name Jack.

So you go by Jack?

No, I go by Beckett. Just call me Beckett. I’m used to it.

Ok, Beckett. Nice to meet you, but you are in a world of trouble.

I don’t think so, deputy. I know something you don’t.

What’s that?

I didn’t do whatever it is you think I did. That’s an absolute fact.

Don’t you want to know what we think you did?

Not really. You wouldn’t tell me even if I asked nicely. I know how this works.

You have a good point, Beckett. You will find out in due time, but not now. I’m not authorized to discuss the case.

I knew that. Now you know that I know, so we can relax until we get to Casper.

You can relax with a pair of cuffs on?

Sure, why not? I’m just talking with you and watching the scenery go by.

Thanks for not asking.

Asking what?

If I’m married or not. Nine out of ten guys that sit back there ask that question.

That must get old.

It comes with being a woman of a certain age who happens to be in good shape. Guys never stop thinking about sex, even when they’re in trouble. So, you’re not going to make a pass at me?

I could, but I won’t, not when I can’t do anything about it.

What if you could do something about it?

He smiled. I think you know the answer to that question.

2

The last ten miles into Casper was a sprint downhill. It was as if deputy Sherman’s cruiser was chasing the day’s magic hour. The sun hung low in the sky and skipped sideways across a vast landscape of rising buttes and endless sky. Shadows grew longer as the sky went from gold to ordinary red, and then, in a dying gasp, a fiery red exploded across the sky so intense that it looked as if the world was on fire.

Beckett was speechless, if not for nature’s grand performance, then for Deputy Sherman’s nuanced sexual tease which was at once both innocent and provocative. Suddenly he felt warm and wished he could lower the window, but of course, that was not an option. So he closed his eyes and smiled, and visualized a little sexual foreplay with Deputy Janie Sherman, whom he had known for less than an hour. Brief escapes into fantasy were another way to a Zen-like experience for Beckett. He always kept those moments private. They were as rare as that spectacular sunset and disappeared almost as fast as they arrived, but they were vivid reminders that he was very much alive and the world was in order.

The Ford Crown Vic driven by Deputy Sherman entered the outskirts of Casper. It was a small city, not a town. Tall buildings dotted the downtown area. Traffic was not heavy, but it was still steady as dusk took over and headlights came on. After a few right turns and several traffic lights, the Crown Vic pulled into a parking lot, and Sherman swiped a magnetic card to raise the gate. This was a government building, and it housed the county sheriff's department and jail. Sherman pulled up near a double door at the back of the building. Two other deputies came out and waited for her to shut down the engine and move around to the back door, which she opened. The two new deputies stood waiting about twenty feet away.

Beckett worked his way out of the back seat without help.

You’re a good driver, deputy.

I’m just careful with who I pick up.

Beckett smiled. Where did you learn that?

The school of hard knocks, just like you did.

Am I that easy to read?

You’re a book I’ve read before, Sherman said grinning.

Maybe you shouldn't judge a book by its cover.

Sherman ignored the comment and waived to the other deputies to come and get Beckett.

I’m giving him to you without any marks. I expect to get him back in the same condition.

She smiled and gave Beckett a quick wink.

I hope you’re right about not being involved in this mess. By the way, I know a good book when I see one.

I’ll be out before you know it, Deputy Sherman, Beckett said with a casual smile.

The waiting deputies grabbed Beckett by his arms and led him through the double doors. Sherman watched as they disappeared, then she got back into her cruiser and drove away.

Five miles away on the outskirts of Casper three men stood facing one another in an empty warehouse that hadn’t been used in years. Two men were ordinary-sized, just shy of six feet. The last man was huge, over six feet eight inches. They were arguing. One of the ordinary-sized men nodded to the big guy, who moved much faster than his size would suggest. He grabbed the other guy in a bear hug and held his arms tight. The other man stuffed a gag in his mouth, then pulled out a six-inch Bowie knife from a sheaf attached to his belt. The man struggled, trying to kick the man holding him, but to no avail. The big man had simply overpowered him.

With no warning or words spoken, the man with the knife slashed the throat of the struggling man. He quickly passed out from shock and grew limp. The big man dropped the dying man, and bound his feet together, then hoisted him upside down and hung his body from a nearby beam. The rope was tied off, and the two men walked a short distance to a car parked near the warehouse's roll-up doors. The car was a blue 1979 Buick LeSabre, approximately the same color as Beckett’s Mustang. Not exactly a 1960s car, but reasonably close to anyone who had never been a car buff. The Buick was big, and the trunk was huge.

The two men stripped off their bloody clothes and placed them in black plastic bags inside the Buick’s big trunk. They then put on fresh clothes after wiping their hands and faces clean with alcohol wipes and water from a plastic bottle. Those rags were added to the trash bags.

Thirty minutes after the argument the lights in the warehouse were shut off, and the big roll-up door was opened just long enough for the Buick to roll out of the building. The night was still young, and the stars were filling the night sky. The men slowly drove out of the warehouse complex and disappeared into the night.

3

Bobby and Simon Prinzio drove their grandmother’s ’79 Buick two miles after leaving the warehouse. They drove to the outskirts of Casper and into an area that was dotted with large tracts of land. Each track had from two to four small frame homes off a long dirt road starting from the highway and moving uphill to the end of the track. The brothers took a road that was unmarked other than a large mailbox with three smaller doors, one for each address on that road. Their mailbox was number three, placing them at the top of the road.

When they arrived at the home, they dumped the contents of the black plastic bags into a dumpster that was picked up on a weekly basis. They were totally silent on their drive home, and after dumping the clothes and closing the garage, they went inside and got high.

It was their grandmother’s home, along with