By Scott Hays
“I am of the Cahuilla tribe. I was born when beavertail cacti bloom magenta.”
–From the book, ONE HORSE SPEAKS 1951
On an Indian reservation just east of Palm Springs, California, a local casino boss is bludgeoned to death by a force far more sinister than The Ghost of Tahquitz, a much feared supernatural creature thought to possess demonic power. The legend of Tahquitz serves as backdrop to murder by a very real villian, as sheriff’s investigators Geo McCracken and Monica Cielo confront their own personal demons.
Published by Writers Club Press
ISBN: 0-595-19950-X
Book Sample:
Dawn. East of Palm Springs, California.
From inside his Pathfinder, and for the umpteenth time, Indio County Sheriff’s Investigator Geo McCracken studied the fine print of a racing form by the dull white glow of an interior lamp.
He wiped the lack of sleep from his eyes, took another sip of coffee, then rolled his racing form into a tight scroll and stepped outside, deep into dust. A tumbleweed skittered across the desert floor, a malevolent weedball with thorny arms that took a stab at his leg and caused him to spill coffee on his jeans and boots; more jarring than the shot of caffeine. He had been so wrapped up in his picks he damn near forgot his reason for coming at all. Then it hit him—from what he had been told, the crime scene would be more shocking than any he had seen before.
“It’s the ghost of Tahquitz,” came a woman’s voice.
Out of darkness stepped sheriff’s investigator Monica Cielo, nearly twenty-eight, a Cahuilla descendent with a body built for gymnastics, skin and hair the color of sun tea, and a nose so tiny Geo often wondered how she managed to breathe. Normally she had that spit-and-polish twinkle in her eyes, but this morning she looked thin, her blue sheriff’s parka bunched around her waist.
“The ghost of Tahquitz,” she repeated. “They say he lives here in these hills.”
“Unless this ghost has money, I’d rather sue the bastards who make the plastic tops to these Styrofoam® cups. Coroner’s office been called?”
“Already here. Expected you thirty minutes ago.”
She led him down unpaved roads that crisscrossed the desert like roadrunner tracks. A heavy rope stretched over berm helped guide them in the darkness to where sheriff’s investigators and photographers worked the crime scene, paparazzi style. Wind kicked up and sent a whirlwind of dust. Geo could barely make out the tiny magenta blossoms on beavertail cacti as he slipped underneath colored police ribbon.
Cut into the mountain’s edge on the valley’s southern side was a grotto about the size of a child’s playhouse. In the strobe of a photographer’s flash, Geo noticed the body laid out flat on its stomach, multiple blows to the head by a heavy object, a baseball bat or rifle butt, and splattered brain tissue on the ground. A long, deep slice began behind the knee, extending out to the side and up, ending near its stomach.
“How long has he been here?” Geo rubbed his racing form across the stubble on his chin.
“Not long but he’s ice cold to the touch,” Cielo said. “Like a meat box up here.”
“Turn him over.”
“Don’t know if you can see it in this light but there’s something stuck down his throat,” Cielo said. “Looks like a poker chip.”
A silent scream ripped through Geo’s head as he looked at the face of Joshua Tree Casino boss Jimmy Nichols, the man he owed thirty grand in gambling debts. He cleared his throat, tapped the racing form on his thigh, prayed that no one noticed him sweating.
Margins along the cut edges were clean, indicating a sharp weapon and a steady hand. Extreme coldness would be expected to slow postmortem changes, but the ground was still wet with vomit, pooled blood. The bruising indicated the victim had been alive or recently killed when placed here on Tahquitz Mountain.
“Another day and coyotes would have had a feast,” Geo said. “I saw a cigarette butt on the ground over there. Someone make sure we bag it.”
He scanned the perimeter—dirt, dry and hard. No depressions. He tried to reconstruct the crime scene, understand where to look for evidence, all possible scenarios of how and why this could have happened, but his mind couldn’t stop thinking about the thirty grand he owed the murder victim.
“Who found the body?”
“Some old guy and his dog,” Cielo said. “They call him ‘Eagle Eye,’ a Cahuilla descendant.”
“Let’s get it done,” he said, then followed Cielo through sagebrush and back up the dirt path.
Published by Writers Club Press
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All of the events and characters depicted in this book are fictional. Characters, corporations, institutions, and organizations in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe their actual conduct.
ISBN: 0-595-19950-X
Printed in the United States of America
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