Ghost Canyon (The John Decker Supernatural Thriller Series Book 7) by Anthony Strong (ebooks that read to you .TXT) 📕

copies of the map—he didn’t want to ruin the original—for the men Wagner Mitchell was hopefully rounding up right at this moment.

He felt a surge of optimism.

If all went well, his troubles would be over by day’s end. He stood and went to the living room, poured himself a celebratory drink, which he polished off in one big gulp. He was about to pour a second, when there was a knock at the door.

Wagner Mitchell stood on the other side.

“All done, boss,” he said, stepping into the penthouse. “I found a pair of suitable candidates.”

“Expendable?” Harlan smiled. Everything was falling into place.

“Both here illegally. No family in the US. Came across the border last month in the back of a truck. I bet they’re not even using their real names.”

“Perfect.” Harlan went back to the living room and poured himself another drink.

“You figure out how we’re going to get in, yet?”

Harlan nodded. “There’s a map on my desk. Take it down to the administration office and make copies.”

“Right.” Wagner turned to follow Harlan’s orders.

“And be careful with it. It’s really old. Fragile. I don’t want it damaged.”

“Sure thing.” Wagner turned back to Harlan. “When do you want to go up to the mine?”

“As soon as possible. Make those copies first, and then we’ll leave.”

Wagner nodded.

“When you’re done with the map, bring it straight back up here.”

“Anything else?”

“Make sure the men have tools. Pickaxes would be best. Flashlights too.”

“On it.” Wagner moved to leave, but then stopped. “I hope you’re right about all this, Harlan.”

“Me too,” Wagner replied. “Because I’ve kind of grown attached to my kneecaps, and I’d like to keep them.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Decker was stumped. Robyn’s account of the town’s history, fascinating as it was, did nothing to shed light upon what was killing people inside the mine. When she left after forty-five minutes to check on the construction crew, who had now moved on to the hotel’s third floor, he stayed on in the saloon. He sat on a barstool and stared absentmindedly into the smoky antique mirrors lining the bar back. After a few minutes he caught a movement in the reflection and turned to see Carlton enter clutching a bottle of bourbon.

“What are you doing here?” The old man asked with a scowl. “Shouldn’t you be running around looking for the monster?”

“Bit early in the day for the hard stuff, don’t you think?” Decker shot back, eyeing the liquor bottle clutched in Carlton’s gnarly fingers.

“You try spending a lifetime living alone out here in this godforsaken desert and then we’ll talk about when it’s suitable to start drinking.” Carlton stomped across the bar and climbed onto a stool as far from Decker as possible.

“Your choice to live here, surely?” Decker watched the old man twist the cap off the bottle, then reach over and grab a glass. “You could’ve gone somewhere else.”

“Hardly. Someone had to stay here and look after this place, and it wasn’t going to be either of my brothers. They were too busy with their fancy careers and families.” Carlton poured himself a generous measure of whiskey. “They wouldn’t sell the place either. Said it had sentimental value, even though neither of them ever bothered to come here.”

“And does it?”

“Does it what?” Carlton asked.

“Have sentimental value?”

“Hardly. It’s a big fat mistake, more like.”

“Why do you say that?” Decker asked.

“Didn’t Robyn just tell you the history of the place? I heard the two of you when I came over here. Thought I’d wait outside until you were done.”

“She did.”

“Then you know how the town came to be in our family.”

Decker nodded. “Your grandfather came out here to work on the Hoover Dam back in the 1930s. He came across the place and fell in love with the town, so he bought the land.”

“That’s the romantic version. The reality was different. My grandfather did come to work on the Boulder Dam, as they called it at the time. But he didn’t fall in love with this land. When the Federal Government erected Boulder City to house the workers, he realized this ghost town wasn’t far away. By then, gambling was legalized. He figured he could capitalize by building a town full of casinos and loose women right here where you’re sitting.”

“But he didn’t.”

“Obviously. The Federal Government wasn’t too keen on its workers gambling and carousing and did all they could to curtail it. It was during prohibition after all. My grandfather couldn’t find any backers for his idea, and he didn’t have the money to do it himself. He’d spent every dime buying this dusty scrap of scorched earth. Of course, it didn’t help that the mob had moved in and were putting their money into Fremont Street.”

“What happened after that?”

“What do you think happened?” Carlton sipped his drink and observed Decker with beady eyes. “My grandfather was a failure. Worse than that, he was broke. He ended up going back to Chicago, where he was born, and left the town to rot and ruin. Died without ever stepping foot in the place again.”

“Then how did you end up here?” Decker asked.

“I grew up hearing stories about the town. When I was old enough, I came out to Vegas and got a job in one of the new hotels on the Strip. Figured I’d save my money and build a house out here. As you can see, I didn’t. I ended up fixing one of the old shacks and I’ve been living here ever since. It’ll be going on five decades next year.”

“That’s a long time,” Decker said. “You must know a lot about the area.”

“I know some.” Carlton gulped the last of his whiskey and poured another. He didn’t offer Decker a drink. “More than Robyn, that’s for sure.”

“Great,” Decker said. He took his phone out and pulled up an image of the three mummified prospectors the geologist had found huddled deep in the mine. He stood and approached Carlton, holding the phone out so the old man could see it. “Did you know