Totem

1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 979-8-3509-5500-2
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 100 Seiten

Reihe: Totem

The Sleeping Dead A golden hawk fell from the sky, ushering in a storm of terror as the sleeping dead began to stir beneath the earth. Deaf to the hawk's strangled cry of warning, the workmen continued to uncover the ancient evil that lay within the Indian burial ground, unwittingly unleashing an unholy force on an unsuspecting world. They had angered the Ancient One, and his appetite for revenge could only be satisfied with the souls of those who had awakened him from his eternal rest. Only one woman could stop him, one woman rich in the knowledge of the old ways, one woman prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice at the bloodied base of the Totem.

b044>

Autoren/Hrsg.

Leseproben

Chapter One
Later, when everything was mercifully over, Joe Richardson would remember the day it all began. Funny, really. There had been nothing special or out of the ordinary to mark the day as noteworthy. Not at first, that is. It was just another hot one in sunny Cal. Nothing unusual about that, either. It’s always sunny in Southern California, at least nine times out of ten. Warm, mellow days stretch out forever, with no beginning and no end. It seems almost a crime to go to work. He remembered thinking something along those lines on that very fateful day. But that had been before . . . Joe Richardson didn’t look his age, which happened to be as close to 40 as made no difference. A little bit stocky and very tan, his sun-bleached hair never had a chance to get back to its original brown. Anger could turn his grey eyes almost black, making his yellowed hair seem lighter by contrast, but that didn’t happen often. Most things that happened weren’t worth getting upset about when you came right down to it. If the California sunshine didn’t keep him sufficiently laid back, a drink or two or three could always smooth out the wrinkles, not that he could be called a drunk by any means. No way, Jose. He could take it or leave it any day—most days, anyway. He had a pleasing way of looking at people as though he really gave a damn about them and a come easy smile. Girls liked that—a lot. If some of the younger ones thought that he was closer to their own generation in age, he wasn’t going to be the one to enlighten them. Shit, no. Why bother? Life’s too short. He woke early that day. Ground was being broken for the new job on Alta Laguna, and he’d told the crew to be out at the site by 6 a.m. There was something fine about starting a new job. A feeling of excitement. A beginning. Ever since he got his contractor’s license, he’d dreamed of building homes on spec, being his own boss and answering to no one—except, of course, a prospective buyer and his partner, Bill Hennessy, a good ole country boy from the Texas Panhandle with a hair-trigger temper that flared up at the drop of a hat. Bill’s temper had got him into trouble more than once. Ugly rumors had followed him from Texas, something to do with him throwing a Mexican plasterer off the second floor of a half-built house. The man’s neck had snapped on impact with the ground, but no one claimed to have seen what really happened. In the end, the other construction workers took up a collection for the dead man’s family back in Juarez, and nothing more was said about the “accident.” Still, the rumors persisted. Not that Joe ever listened to rumors. In one ear and out the next. That’s what happened whenever some guy tried to tell him that Bill Hennessy was nothing but trouble. “Don’t know anything about that,” Joe would say with a slight smile. “Hennessy and I are just partners, nothing more. I don’t live in his back pocket, and he sure as hell doesn’t live in mine.” When arguments erupted between Bill and one of the construction workers, Joe would be there to smooth things out. A goddamn peacemaker, he would think ruefully, wondering for the umpteenth time why he didn’t just walk away from it all and knowing, in the very next instant, why he couldn’t. Bill Hennessy was a grade A pain in the ass, but there wasn’t a better independent contractor in all of Orange County, California. He and Bill had already closed escrow on their last deal, and now it was time for the big one. This time there’d be more than one house, no more penny ante cottages by the sea. He had gone into the deal for a bundle, but what a profit margin! Four—count ’em, folks-four custom houses, high above Laguna Beach, with views that would blow your mind. No wonder the loan officer at Bank of America smiled at him when he came in. For the first time in his life, Joe began to feel rich. Finishing up his early morning coffee, Joe climbed into his Ford pickup and headed for the four lots on Alta Laguna. Park Avenue, not to be confused with that other one back east, was a steep, winding road that sliced through the hills behind Laguna Beach all the way up to Alta Laguna. Side streets with names like Skyline, Hidden Valley Canyon, and Hillview, gave a hint of what was to come when the top of the hill was finally reached. Deer roamed amongst the chaparral, and birds built their secret nests in the wild holly bushes. On warm days, the air turned sweet with the perfume of sage and dill. Joe drove up the winding canyon road, lush hills looming up ahead and the Pacific Ocean spread out behind him, almost silver in the early morning light. Coming up to the building site, he saw that most of the crew had already arrived and were gathered around Tom Mason, the foreman, waiting for instructions. Pete Rankins, the bulldozer operator, waved to Joe from the cab of the huge vehicle. Old Pete’s greying hair straggled out from under his hardhat, and a pair of plastic goggles reflected the first rays of the sun. “Hey, Joe, Hennessy’s looking for you,” the old man said. “What’s he want?” “Shit, I dunno. He’s madder’n hell, I can tell you that much.” Old Pete shifted his chew, shooting a thin brown stream of juice out the cab window. “I’ll take care of it,” muttered Joe. Same old bullshit, he thought irritably. Hennessy lived mad, and it didn’t take much to set him off. Tom Mason, the crew foreman, came up to Joe just then, closely followed by a thin, dark-eyed kid wearing a torn Maui & Son T-shirt. “This here’s Clay MacDonald,” said the foreman. “l had to hire him, Joe. We don’t have enough men as it is.” His Adam’s apple jiggled nervously in his scrawny throat. “Can you square it with Hennessy?” “Yeah, OK, Tom. But come to me first, next time. Things are going to be a little tight for a while.” Joe nodded at the kid. “Welcome aboard, Clay. Have you worked in construction before?” “Sure.” The dark kid looked eager. “I’m a roofer.” “Well, better get to work.” Joe exchanged a word or two with some of the other men, then went into the trailer parked alongside the lot. His partner wasn’t there. Coffee perked in the electric pot on the counter, and he frowned as he filled his mug with the strong black brew. Hennessy wouldn’t like the idea of the foreman hiring someone without checking with him first, and according to Old Pete, Hennessy was already mad about something. What the hell could be bugging him now? The day had only just begun, for Chrissake. Joe sipped the coffee slowly, carrying the steaming mug out of the trailer. The rest of the crew had arrived now, and the rumbling sound of heavy equipment indicated that work had begun in earnest. Joe started across the lot to oversee the digging of a foundation, when something happened to jar him momentarily. A bird, some kind of small hawk by the look of it, hovered in the sky over his head. Wings beating fiercely, it hung in the air, resisting the slight wind that blew against it. Joe stopped, eyes squinting as he watched the beauty of the bird’s mottled, golden wings in the early sunlight. Suddenly, without warning, it plummeted to earth at his feet, stunning itself on the dried-out surface of the lot. “Jesus! Did you see that?” The new kid, Clay MacDonald, had come up to stare at the bird. “What happened, Joe?” “I don’t know.” Joe frowned slightly and knelt down beside the hawk. He touched it hesitantly with his fingers, then gingerly picked it up. Under the ruffled feathers he could feel its heart beating wildly against his thumb, and for a terrifying instant, the bird’s heartbeat became his own pulse, throbbing through every vein in his body. An uncontrollable feeling of revulsion swept over him. Without thinking, he pulled back his arm and threw the bird high into the air. “Shit, you didn’t have to do that,” Clay muttered. But as they both stared up into the sky, the bird seemed to revive, sweeping off down towards the canyon. “No harm done,” said Joe. He felt uneasy, troubled by something he couldn’t pin down, couldn’t get a focus on—the bird’s wild heart, for one thing. The racing pulse had conveyed a sense of intimacy, a bond. He shrugged off the fading shred of uneasiness and walked back to the trailer. Most of the coffee in his mug had slopped out when he had hurled the bird back into the wind, and he carefully poured a refill. His partner had stressed the tightness of the money situation. Everything had been figured down to the last penny, including minor expenses like coffee and gas. Joe didn’t like working so close to the bone, but even the grinning officer at the bank probably wouldn’t lend them a wooden nickel until they’d shown some results. No doubt about it. Building four custom houses on spec was a risky enterprise for a couple of minor league contractors. But if everything came off all right, if Bill Hennessy got his act together, and if the September rains didn’t decide to come in August, the eventual profits would more than make up for the sleepless nights. Joe took another sip of coffee. He leaned over the desk strewn with plans, a soundless whistle pursing his lips. The trailer door slammed shut, and Joe glanced back to see Bill Hennessy cross over to the survey table. Joe started to speak, but the other man cut him off with an angry gesture. “Where...