Читать книгу Drago #5 (#2b) - Art Inc. Spinella - Страница 9

His sixth trip to the mine at the end of July, Jolly carried a hammer, pry bar and a double serving of apples, cookies and buttered bread. Hung around his neck, a half-gallon tin of well water, a little cloudy from the minerals in the ground under the homestead. The equivalent of hose-water.

Under yet another cloudless pale blue sky, the 12-year-old had his path up the now well-worn trail seared into his brain. No need for markers. His black high tops knew the way all by themselves.

A north wind, common in summer on the South Oregon coast, moaned in the treetops, but Jolly felt none of it. Ground level was calm, hot and what in the winter was ankle-deep mud had become hardpan.

Country kids do such things without parental hovering. Instead of “Come in when the street lights go on” – the order of suburban parents across the U.S.A. -- “Be back by dinner time,” the rural directive on these long summer days. For starters, there are no street lights.

Jolly couldn’t whistle worth beans, but he did anyway. The only similarity to the songs he pushed out between pursed lips was in his head.

Dropping his blue kerchief to the ground beside the boarded-up mine entrance, Jolly backed away a dozen feet, sat on the ground, knees under his chin, and stared at the splintered wood.

“What next?” he said aloud, already knowing the answer. He was hesitating not because he didn’t know what he planned to do, rather building up the courage to do it.

“What if’n there’s critters in there? Or dead bodies or sumthin’?”

Letting loose with a few bars of “Yankee Doodle,” the whistle sounding more like the trill of a blue jay, Jolly stood, dusted off the back of his jeans, pulled the pry bar from his worn leather scout bag with the fringe that his pops made for him to take books to school and straightened his back.

“Ain’t no time like the present, moms would say.”

Jolly pushed the pry bar into the hole catching the hook on the edge of a board and yanked hard.

He fell backward, the boards, as one, squealed on rusty hinges and the entire wall of dry-rotted lumber pulled away from the mine entrance like a barn door.

“Holy chriminy!” Jolly yelped as he tried to retain his balance as he tipped backward, feet pedaling to keep him upright.

But it was the raspy voice that sent his heart into overdrive.

“Whatcha doin’ here, boy!”

“You Irish?” Amos asked.

“Them’s my roots, so pops says.”

“Could tell by all that red hair. Ain’t no one got red hair like the Irish. Ceptin’ maybe the Albanians. Lots of them have red hair, too.”

Jolly looked at the old man with the leather face, crumbled like note paper. “How ‘bout you, Mister Amos?”

“Don’t rightly know any more. Mind’s goin’. Can’t remember lots of things. Scottish, I think.” The voice was harsh, quivered like a reed in a strong breeze.

Amos sat on a log stump. Jolly on the ground with his back to the mine door.

“You scared the pee out of me, Mister Amos, don’t mind tellin’ you.”

A cackle laugh. “No one’s been up this way fer a long time.” His rheumy eyes squinted in the strong sunlight. “Not fer a long, long time.” Leveling his gaze on Jolly, “What made ja come this way? Why you here?”

Jolly poked the pry bar into the sandy ground and traced a circle then an X. “Just ‘splorin’.” Pointing northeast, “My moms and pops and me live that way.”

“Just ‘splorin’. Your folks don’t worry none about you being up here?”

“Don’t know. I pretty much can go where I like during summer and there ain’t no school, jus’ as long as I’m home by supper.”

Amos mulled that over for a second, “Ain’t you worried ‘bout me? What’s to say I won’t strangle ya and eat ya for dinner?”

Jolly laughed. “Well, no disrespect intended, but I’m pretty sure I can outrun ya, Mister Amos.”

“Ain’t no doubt ‘bout that, boy. ‘Sides, you’re too skinny to eat. I’ve seen squirrels with more meat on their bones. ‘Ceptin’ those feet of yours. You got some pretty big feet, boy. Yep. Could have three, maybe four meals just your feet alone.”

Both laughed, then fell silent.

Amos squeezed his eyes near closed and looked directly at the sun. “Best be gettin’ home, boy. Your moms is probably settin’ the table right about now.”

Looking up. “Yessir, she probably is.”

Standing, brushing his pants, Jolly stuffed the pry bar and hammer back in the book sack, balled up the blue kerchief and shoved it down next to the hammer.

“Is that what I think it is?” Sal asked.

“Sure looks like.”

Lightfoot was puzzled. “Okay, let me see.” He walked to the desk and eyed the photo. “Mean something to you?”

Turning the photo back toward me, I traced the symbol.

“We saw these a year ago. It’s one of the symbols found in a clay egg hanging around the neck of what we called Tree Men.” To Sal, “Can you call up the rest of the symbols and especially those definitions of what they all mean?”

Sal pulled out his iPhone, punched up some numbers that I assumed was the link to his computer server and within a minute had the entire tree astrology. Just as quickly, he connected to the computer on the hutch behind the desk and printed it out.

Ogham Symbol	Letter	Ogham Name	Tree Name	Tree Symbolic Meaning
	B	Beithe	Birch	Beginning, Renewal, Youth
	L	Luis	Rowan	Protection, Expression, Connection
	F	Fern	Alder	Endurance, Strength, Passion
	S	Sail	Willow	Imagination, Intuition, Vision
	N	Nion	Ash	Connection, Wisdom, Surrender
	H	Huath	Hawthorn	Contradiction, Consequence, Relationships
	D	Duir	Oak	Strength, Stability, Nobility
	T	Tinne	Holly	Action, Assertion, Objectivity
	C	Coll	Hazel	Creativity, Purity, Honesty
	Q	Quert	Apple	Beauty, Love, Generosity
	M	Muin	Vine	Introspection, Relaxation, Depth
	G	Gort	Ivy	Determination, Change, Patience
	NG	Ngetal	Reed	Harmony, Health, Growth
	STR	Straif	Blackthorn	Discipline, Control, Perspective
	R	Ruis	Elder	Transition, Evolution, Continuation
	A	Ailm	Fir	Clarity, Achievement, Energy
	O	Onn	Gorse	Transmutation, Resourcefulness, Exposure
	U	Ur	Heather	Dreams, Romance, Feelings
	E	Edad	Poplar/Aspen	Victory, Transformation, Vision
	I	Idad	Yew	Transference, Passage, Illusion

He scanned the room, saw a Minolta printer, wirelessly conntected and printed out the definition for Holly as given to us by Angus McFarland, the Celtic symbol expert from Eugene. I gave the sheet a quick read and passed it on to Lightfoot.

Holly - The Ruler

July 8 – August 4

Among the Celtic tree astrology signs the Holly is one of regal status. Noble, and high-minded, those born during the Holly era easily take on positions of leadership and power. If you are a Holly sign you take on challenges easily, and you overcome obstacles with rare skill and tact. When you encounter setbacks, you simply redouble your efforts and remain ever vigilant to obtain your end goals. Very seldom are you defeated.

Holding up the two keys, “If what I’m thinking is right, we’re going to find some interesting stuff in the safe deposit box these belong to.”

Lightfoot still wasn’t up to speed. Sal explained the Tree Man saga, then, “I’m guessing that Holly, Colorado, named for the rancher, had another meaning, one he kept hidden; something that brought him to Colorado, or, at least, caused him to leave wherever he came from originally.”

Again, Sal tapped into a biography database and came up with background on Mr. Holly.

“Says here he was into quartz mining before settling here. Born in Connecticut, 1843. No mention of his parents…”

“Why’s that important?” Lightfoot asked.

“The surname Holly isn’t very common,” I answered. “To better understand…”

Sal cut me off. “You’re not going to believe this, Nicky.” He had tapped into another database and was reading from the iPhone screen. “Holly is derived from the primitive Gaelic word cuilleain. Which later became O’Collins or Collins in English. And is also the root word for Celtic. Is this all beginning to paint a picture?”

“Too much info right now, Sallie. The Chief is gonna go blind until we can put this into that picture for him. Let’s go see what’s in these deposit boxes, ‘kay?”

As we climbed into Lightfoot’s Jeep, the chief said, “So the Holly family is, what, Irish?”

“Technically, yes, but really Celtic,” I said.

“And the fact it’s Gaelic or Celtic means something?”

Sal nodded. “It’s likely and we’ll see at the bank.”

Lightfoot took the keys, thumbed the number and name. “Colorado East. The one in Granada, though. Local branch doesn’t have safe deposit boxes.”

“How far?”

“15 minutes.”

We pulled into the parking lot of a small freshly painted building with a small glass front and Colorado East Bank and Trust signage.

When banks build new branches, they always want to project security and safety. A place you can put your hard earned dollars without fear it will leak out the back door or be stolen in a heist. With FDIC insurance, there is little worry about bank robberies, actually, but perceptions die hard. A glance around this particular branch, and it was obvious any ill-intentioned hombre with a Red Ryder air rifle could stick the place up and get clear out of town before being noticed.

Lightfoot approached the manager, a woman in her early 40s, pale blue blouse, dark blue skirt and flat-heel shoes. Nice looking.

“Good morning, Miss Sarah. Don’t know if you’ve heard about Clarise Holly…”

“Awful. Just terrible. She was such a nice girl.”

“Well, as part of the investigation, we found safe deposit box keys and would like to take a peek at the content.”

“Of course, chief. Come with me.”

Small towns are like that. In Bandon, you’re not likely to be asked for photo ID when you use a credit card or write a check. In Granada’s Colorado East Bank and Trust, Miss Sarah knows the police chief and that he could get a court order in 90 seconds if he wanted one so why stand in the way of a murder investigation?

She led us to a small room, through a vault door to a windowless cavern with old style, double-key deposit boxes. She walked directly to the back wall where the numbers were lowest clearly indicating they were rented by the oldest families in the area, pulled out her master key and inserted it in one of the key holes. The chief looked at the two keys in his hand, selected the matching number and inserted it in the second keyhole. Miss Sarah pulled opened the door and pulled the lidded box out, resting it on a table.

“Pretty heavy, chief,” she said.

The two followed the same procedure for the second deposit box.

It was clear Miss Sarah wanted to stick around to see what hidden secrets were enclosed, but Littlefoot gave her a small smile and a “Thank you” dismissal. Miss Sarah walked back into the bank, closing the door behind her.

I backed away from the table with the boxes. “Chief, to maintain the chain of evidence, if you would do the honors, please.”

Lightfoot gave a quick nod and lifted the lid on the first box. Sal and I were pretty sure what we’d find and we were partially right. The Chief wasn’t prepared.

The two gold balls, resting on a foam matt, glistened even in the subdued light of the deposit box room.

“Holy Christmas. Is that what I think it is?”

Sal stepped closer and with the back of a fingernail rolled one of the balls. As with those found in Bandon, the surface was a flawless mirror.

“Gold of the purest kind,” I said.

“Is this how Clarise paid for everything?”

“Certainly the Holly family fortune came from something other than quartz mining.”

Lightfoot, following Sal’s lead, touched one of the balls and whistled. “That’s quite a sight, by God.” Looking at me, “Now the other one?”

“Go for it, Chief.”

Lightfoot’s hand had a small tremor. Anticipation turns to adrenalin turns to shaky fingers. He lifted the lid. Inside, another gold ball, but this one had been dissected into small nuggets. They sat in a 3-by-6 lidless box on top of a stack of papers and what appeared to be a diary type book.

Lightfoot lifted the box, set it on the table and removed the papers.

That’s as far as he got.

The deposit room door slammed open. Miss Sarah, eyes wide, mouth forming an oblong circle you could fit an apple in, fell into the room, shoved by a tall man in a ski mask, plaid shirt and jeans.

“On the floor! NOW!” The .50 caliber flat-black Desert Eagle swinging from the Chief to me to Sal and back.

Lightfoot began to reach for his Colt, thought better of it, “Okay, relax. Take what you want, but don’t be hurtin’ anyone.”

“FLOOR!”

He shoved Miss Sarah to her knees who quickly went face down with a whimper. Sal, the Chief and I followed, without the whimper. I could see Sal turn crimson. He hates being told what to do and he dislikes laying on the floor even more.

In three quick motions, the gunman threw the papers back into their deposit box, slammed the lid on the second and stacked them. He slid them under his arm and backed out of the room without another word, slamming the door behind him.

I made a deep, long sigh.

“Well, that sucks.”