Free Hold of the Bone by Baxter Clare Trautman Page A

points. “That’s her dust up there.”
    Gomez turns left, taking a right at another junction, then left again.
    â€œYou’re right, Country. I probably would have gotten lost.”
    Gomez grins.
    â€œHope you’re charging for this.”
    â€œAre you kidding? I don’t even get overtime on my regular shift.”
    She stops at a gate and Frank hops out. But for the rumble of the V-8 engine, the landscape is quiet. An open lock hangs through a hole in the latch. Frank removes it and slides the bolt back. The gate swings without a sound. Gomez drives through and Frank closes it. Getting back in she remarks, “It’s spooky out here.”
    â€œHow do you figure?”
    â€œIt’s so quiet. Even the gate didn’t make noise.”
    Rounding a bend with a huge oak on the shoulder, Frank is certain she’s been here before, which is impossible, but the feeling persists. They pass the oak and Frank searches the mountain behind it. About a third of the way up a sheer granite cliff, she sees the oval shadow she expected. She sits back abruptly. “Are there a lot of caves around here?”
    Gomez shrugs. “You’d have to ask Sal that.”
    â€œDoes she live by a creek?”
    â€œI don’t know. I’ve only been to the main house. Why?”
    Frank shakes her head. She would bet even money that Sal lives near a creek, a shaded creek where fish wait out the heat of the day in cool pools under gnarled tree roots. She shivers and rubs her arms. The visions seem more frequent here, but at least they’re not as intimidating as the ones she had with Mother Love. If anything, they are almost peaceful.
    Frank wants to ask how much longer, but as they top a hill Gomez says, “That’s the main house.”
    Frank doesn’t know much about architecture but the dormered house looks old—Victorian, she thinks. Orchards range to one side, on the other sprawl weathered outbuildings and a corral. The faded pickup is parked at the barn.
    â€œWe have to get out here and go the rest of the way on quad.”
    â€œSeriously?”
    Gomez parks near the truck and points toward a far line of trees. “Yeah, I think she lives back there somewhere.”
    â€œAnd you’re okay with that? Leaving your car?”
    â€œWhy not? I want to see where she lives.”
    Frank gets out. She searches warily for snakes as Sal drives up in a four-seater ATV. “Get in,” she tells the cops.
    Gomez takes the back while Frank lifts a brow at the ripped front bench and rusted metal frame. The women stare at her. Against her better judgment, Frank gingerly climbs on.
    Nodding at the plastic bags beside Gomez, Sal asks, “Could you hold onto those?”
    â€œSure thing,” Gomez answers, laying a plump arm over them.
    Frank gropes for a seatbelt as the machine bucks and lurches. She gives up looking and holds tight to the frame. The quad crunches over late summer grass and Frank worries it will catch fire, then decides if Sal isn’t concerned, she shouldn’t be either.
    They drive across a yellow valley guarded west and north by the broody Santa Lucias. Ahead of them a line of trees emerges from the toe of the mountains and meanders east. That will be the creek, Frank thinks, and the cabin is on the other side.
    The quad hits a bump and they all lift from their seats. Frank clings to the frame, glancing at Sal driving like grim death. She thinks it was a bad decision to come out here, though she doubts Sal will try anything funny with two cops in tow. Besides, Gomez seems unconcerned. Plus she has to admit the whole place has her intrigued.
    Yet as they approach the crooked line of trees, she feels the uneasiness she felt before entering the store. The quad grinds closer, and Frank is sure that the trees and the certain creek flowing beneath them delineate another point of no return. For a panicky second she thinks to tell Sal to turn around, to