The Conviction (4 page)

Sloane didn’t want to turn Molia down, but he also didn’t have the time. “I’m heading out for a few days with Jake, Tom. But I could have Tom Pendergrass handle it for you if that would be okay.”

“That would be fine. I’m betting they’re bluffing and will fold quicker than a shirt in a Chinese Laundromat.”

“I’ll call the office and have Tom get in touch with you directly.”

“Much obliged. Where are you and Jake headed?”

“Don’t know,” Sloane said. “Haven’t made any plans yet.”

“You feel like doing a little hiking?”

Sloane sat up straighter. “Maybe.”

“I brought T.J. with me. After I get things settled with the estate we’re heading up into the Sierras above the gold country to do a little hiking and fishing. I used to go with my dad. He said sleeping in a tent and breathing fresh air cleared the soul and the body. T.J. and I pick different spots around the country every year. This year we had the choice made for us when Mom died.”

The offer was tempting, but Sloane was reluctant to get anyone else involved in Jake’s problems. “It’s not that simple, Tom. Jake’s having some real issues.”

“Tell me about it. What boy his age doesn’t?”

“This goes beyond the normal problems, I’m afraid.”

“So shoot, what’s going on?”

“I don’t want to burden you with this while you’re handling your mother’s affairs.”

“Now you’re just insulting me.”

Sloane took a breath and started. For the next several minutes he laid out the situation as best he could.

“Okay,” Molia said when Sloane had finished. “So it sounds like hiking and camping are just what you both need, get him away from there and give you two a chance to spend some time together.”

Sloane was tempted. “He’s unpredictable. I’m worried he could be volatile.”

“Like I said, what boy his age isn’t? Listen, the invitation is extended. If you change your mind just call and we’ll pick you up at the airport. We’re planning on heading out Wednesday and spending the night in a town my dad and I used to stay at, get a wilderness permit, and start out early Thursday morning. You’re welcome to join us, and I know having another boy his age would thrill T.J.”

“Thanks, Tom. I’ll think about it.” Sloane disconnected and looked out again at the mountain range. Maybe it was fate Tom Molia had called. Maybe the mountains were just the thing he and Jake needed. They’d be miles from other people and from temptation and in an environment over which Sloane would have complete control.

FOUR

M
ULE
D
EER
L
ODGE
T
RULUCK
, C
ALIFORNIA

S
loane didn’t know if the unusual spelling had been deliberate, or just a mistake by settlers delirious with gold fever. Truluck’s block-long Main Street sprang up as suddenly and unexpectedly as the other small towns through which they had driven. Sloane guessed no more than two dozen buildings bordered a county road a mile or so off the highway, itself nothing more than two lanes of black asphalt winding through barren hills of sunburned grass and gnarled oak trees.

They drove past the Truluck Hotel, E. E. Werner’s Drugstore, Milt’s General Store, a tannery, and a bakery, with Molia providing commentary of how the town sprang to life in 1848 and swelled to a population of nearly eighteen thousand during the gold rush peak. While the other towns they had driven through appeared worn and tired, Truluck looked and felt like one of those tourist towns in a wild west theme park with the freshly painted storefront facades, fake cowboys staging shoot-outs in the streets, and stuntmen tumbling off roofs into hidden cushions to the delight of audiences. But Truluck wasn’t a Hollywood re-creation. Molia explained that the fresh paint and otherwise well-kept appearance was likely the result of the town being named a California Historical Landmark.

“After we get settled we’ll have dinner at Whistling Pete’s Saloon. How’s that sound?” Molia asked.

T.J. had the window down, head sticking out like a dog, delighted by it all. “Is that the place with the bullet holes in the ceiling?”

“Came from the gun of none other than Billy the Kid, they say.” Molia gave Sloane a shrug. “And I’ll show you the table at which President Theodore Roosevelt ate dinner.”

“Cool,” T.J. said.

Jake offered no response. He’d abided by Sloane’s request that he not listen to his headphones in the car, but that didn’t mean he’d participate in the conversation. He had largely ignored T.J. who, at fourteen, was significantly smaller and maintained a boyish appearance and enthusiasm. T.J.’s attempts to engage Jake in conversation had been met with either snide remarks or silence, much to Sloane’s embarrassment.

Just outside of town, past the White Oak Cemetery, Molia turned onto a dirt and gravel lot and parked in front of a horse hitching post. The Mule Deer Lodge was a single-story log structure, the rooms accessed off a wood porch shaded by an overhang likely added after the original construction. Several rocking chairs sat motionless on the porch.

“This looks great,” Sloane said, stepping out to a dry heat and the sound of water trickling over rocks. A bank behind the lodge looked down on a creek so clear the water ran nearly invisible.

“Seemed a lot bigger when I was a boy,” Molia said, admiring the lodge. “And the creek seemed a lot smaller. It’s running high this summer from the snowmelt. I caught a trout right off that bank.”

“Can we fish, Dad?” T.J. asked.

“We can try,” he said before turning to Sloane to add, “But I’m not convinced my dad didn’t buy the fish and hook it to my line when I wasn’t looking.”

Inside the lodge, antlered deer heads hung beside gold leaf paintings on red wallpaper. A glass bead chandelier dangled over red velour couches and wingback chairs. Molia tapped the bell on a wood counter, a single
ting
and a man appeared from a doorway behind the counter, still chewing what he’d bit into and wiping the corners of his mouth with a dish towel.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Molia asked.

“Just finishing up; how can I help you?”

“Looking for a place to rest the dogs,” Molia said.

The man shook his head. “We don’t allow pets.”

“That would be my feet.” Molia gave Sloane a sideways glance. “Reservation is under Molia. Two rooms.”

The clerk considered an old-fashioned hotel register. Sloane didn’t see a computer screen anywhere on the desk. Behind the man, on shelves above mailbox slots labeled for each of the twelve rooms, Sloane read the spines for registers dating as far back as 1847. “Wow. Are those authentic?” he asked.

The clerk didn’t bother to look up. “That’s what they tell me.”

Sloane heard the bells above the door jingle and turned in time to watch Jake leave.

“Why don’t you help Jake get the stuff out of the car,” Molia said to T.J., though Sloane doubted Jake had left to be of help.

“Sorry about Jake.”

“No worries. I explained to T.J. that Jake’s going through a rough patch. He’ll loosen up when we get on the trail. Give him time.”

“I appreciate this, Tom. I know we’re intruding on some fond memories.”

Molia sighed. “The thing about memories is they’re rarely as good as you remember them. We’ll make our own this week.”

The clerk handed them old-fashioned keys attached to wooden doorknobs. “Put that in your pocket and the whole town will think you’re happy to see them,” Molia said.

The clerk didn’t smile. “It keeps people from wandering off with them.”

Outside Molia said, “The man has the sense of humor of a turnip.”

T.J. unloaded their backpacks from the rental and Jake picked up his and started up the porch.

“Can Jake and I share a room?” T.J. asked.

Molia looked to Sloane. “That okay with you?”

Sloane wasn’t so sure. “I don’t want to take you away from your dad,” he said.

But T.J. persisted. “Is it okay, Dad? It’s only for the night; we’ll be hiking tomorrow.”

Molia nodded. “It’s okay with me.”

“That all right with you, Jake?” Sloane asked.

Jake shrugged. “Whatever.”

T.J. stepped onto the porch. “We’ll take seven. That’s my lucky number.”

They dined at Whistling Pete’s, and the ambiance was everything Molia said it would be with barmaids in low-cut hoop dresses and a man in a bowler hat and bow tie banging the keys of an upright piano. Afterward Molia led the way back to the Mule Deer Lodge, and Sloane thought they resembled four outlaws walking the deserted streets of Tombstone in the blue light of a spectacular full moon, the music from the stand-up piano competing with crickets.

“Can T.J. and I go to the general store?” Jake asked. It was the first complete sentence he’d uttered all day.

They stopped in the road. “What do you need?” Sloane asked.

“I just want to get some candy… for me and T.J. to eat in our room while we’re watching TV.” Jake didn’t wait for a response. “We can meet you back at the lodge.”

“We’ll go with you,” Sloane said.

Molia grabbed his arm. “Don’t be long. We have an early start in the morning.”

“No, we won’t be,” Jake said. “Come on, T.J.”

T.J. looked thrilled at the invitation, which Jake had expected. He was like one of those annoying little dogs bouncing around every time someone tossed a stick. “Can we go fishing?” “Can we see the bullet holes?” “Can we have our own room? Huh? Can we? Can we?”

The bullet holes turned out to be two holes in the ceiling. Big freaking deal. You couldn’t even tell a bullet made them. And T.J. made an even bigger deal about the table and chair where Roosevelt supposedly got drunk. The saloon hung a black-and-white picture on the wall of Roosevelt sitting with a group of people and strung a red rope around the table and chairs like it was in some museum. Who gave a shit? It was just a freaking table and chair.

And look here, the toilet that Roosevelt sat on!

The general store smelled like a basement cellar, and the pickings on the shelves were slim, mostly fishing tackle and the stupid souvenirs tourists buy, like refrigerator magnets and hats and T-shirts with
TRULUCK
on them. Jake made his way to a standing freezer at the back of the store.

“Jake, the candy’s over here,” T.J. said.

“Yippee,” Jake muttered. He found what he wanted: beer. He chose two cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon, which was the cheapest. The key was not to hesitate, but when T.J. caught sight of what Jake held, his eyes grew to the size of saucers, totally blowing it.

“What are you doing?”

“Shut up.” Jake looked over his shoulder. Luckily the cashier was waiting on other customers.

“You can’t buy that; you’re not old enough.”

“Why don’t you broadcast it,” Jake said. “Just shut up. Don’t say anything.” Jake turned toward the counter and spoke in a normal tone. “Come on, T.J., make up your mind. Dad wants me to get you home before it gets too late.” He made his way to the register and put the two cans of beer on the counter. “My brother can never decide what candy he wants. Takes him forever. Pack of Marlboro Gold please.”

He fished his money out of his front pocket and peeled off a twenty, putting it on the counter. The cashier had one of those thin and craggy faces, like the freaks they find to play the undertaker in horror movies. Bells chimed. Jake looked over his shoulder at another couple walking into the store. T.J. put a single candy bar on the counter.

“Is that all?” Jake chuckled. “You were whining about getting candy all evening. Go get some more.”

“I don’t want any more.”

The cashier picked up the candy bar and pressed the keys on an old-fashioned cash register. “Dollar fifty,” he said.

Jake looked up at him. “You didn’t ring up my beer and cigarettes.”

“No I didn’t.”

Jake opened his wallet and slapped his fake ID on the counter. “It’s okay. I know I look young, but I’m twenty-one.”

The man picked up the license and studied it. Then he put it down and slid it back across the counter. “Maybe in Washington. Not in California.”

“What are you talking about? That’s an official Washington license.”

“You want the candy bar or you want me to call the police? If you’re twenty-one, I’ll buy you the damn beer myself.”

Jake glared at him. Ordinarily he’d have called the man’s bluff. If he actually called the police Jake could run and be long gone before they arrived, but there wasn’t anyplace to run in this shithole of a town, and Jake was already on parole. Better to cut his losses and just leave. Then the man took back the license.

“On second thought, I think I’ll hold on to this and call first thing tomorrow morning to see if the Washington DMV has any record of a Jim Peterson.”

“Hey, give me it back; you have no right to take it.”

“I do if I suspect it’s a fake. And I suspect it’s a fake.” He hit the cash register. Bells rang and the tray door popped open. The man slid the license in the drawer and slammed it closed. “Now get out of my store, punk.”

“What did you call me?”

“I said get out. We don’t like your type here in Truluck.”

“What type is that, someone with a brain?”

The man started from behind the counter. “Get out.”

“Not until you give me back my license.”

“Forget it, Jake, let’s just leave,” T.J. said.

“Not without my license,” Jake said. Others in the store stood watching. “It’s mine and I want it back.”

The man stepped up to him. “Get out, or I’m going to throw your ass out into the street.”

Jake took a step back. “You touch me and my father will sue the shit out of you and I’ll own this store and the whole crappy town.”

The man took another step toward them. “Why don’t you go and get him and we can discuss that license of yours.”

T.J. grabbed his sleeve. “Jake, let’s go.”

Jake pulled his arm free. “Maybe I will get him.”

“I’d listen to your friend.”

“He’s not my friend and I’m not leaving until you give me back my license.”

“Last warning, kid.”

“Jake, come on.”

“You’re walking out of here or you’re flying out. Take your choice.”