CHANCEY DOUBLE-BACK by Pam Ingebritson
Prologue

Springtime in the high-desert southwest rivals anything the rest of the country
can brag on. Though foliage and flowering are more muted than the explosions of
blossoms cropping up across the Corn Belt, the brilliant azure sky and glowing ball
of fire that serve as the backdrop for the desert flowerings and pink tulles will brand
one’s mind forever with its intense, simmering beauty. That is, if one is inclined to
notice…

Warm rays sifted through the branches of a huge cottonwood, traveling up the
backsides of two bodies lying side-by-side under its shelter. They were too busy at
their task to pay mind to something as mundane as just another glorious New Mexico
morning.

Two pairs of eyes stared intently at a distant scene. “Do you see the old
buzzard? Let’s sneak down there. What’s he gonna do, call the cops? Anyway, we
could outrun that ol geezer, easy. Lemee look.” Twelve year-old Jesse Hernandez
plucked at his friend’s sleeve, who shrugged him off.

“Cool it. I gotta check this out. There’s no outrunning a bullet, y’know.
Doncha remember last time?!”

“You’re paranoid, Bri.” complained Jesse, but didn’t argue. His older
compadre’s Army Ranger-type behavior was standard operational procedure for
Brian Barton. Likely, he would one day follow his deputy sheriff father’s lead into law
enforcement or some other authorities-type profession. Jesse respected and
admired his friend for his coolness, caution, and meticulous planning skills. These
qualities had kept their butts out of a sling on several occasions. Mostly, Jesse was a
follower. In Jesse’s eyes, Brian was worthy.

Brian sharpened the images scrolling through the lenses of his ancient field
binoculars. His practiced scan of the property picked up on something. Lowering
the glasses, he swept his eyes over the terrain but was unable to pinpoint what he
sensed. “It’s too quiet…” They lay flat on a rise of land, several hundred yards
above the old Sullivan place, on neighboring property. A slight ridge in the ground,
created by the protruding roots of the giant cottonwood tree, gave them cover.
Brian looked sharp through the glasses once more. The windows of the
weathered frame farmhouse had remained dark, displaying no movement within.
“Maybe he’s passed out in there,” speculated Jesse. “Probably gets wasted
on Friday nights. Check out his junkheap.”

Sullivan’s battered, rust-eaten green Dodge pickup truck was parked
haphazardly alongside the house. The passenger-side tires were planted on the
gravel driveway while the driver-side tires were buried in the deeply rutted ground
flanking it. The driver-side door was ajar, and its window slightly open. It appeared
to teeter.

“Yeah, no doubt,” agreed Brian. “Sally Higgins says he closes up the Antler
every weekend. Let’s scope it out just another minute, in case the sneaky slime is
hunkered down someplace weird, laying for us.”

The boys waited and watched. Except for a whispery singing of wind through
the cottonwood branches, no other sound was heard. A doorless tool shed partially
obscured their view of the back porch. A decrepit smokehouse, corroded metal
farm equipment shelter, and dilapidated well housing surrounded the house in a
meandering half circle. Nearby, a dozen grazing Brahma and Brangus cattle eyed
the boys curiously, while their crop of spring calves romped around their legs.
Shortly, they went back to their grazing, offering no opinion on the nearby
subterfuge.

The huge gray barn, by far, the most impressive structure gracing the Sullivan
property, was the boys’ target destination, beckoning from its position atop a slight
hill. The barn’s sinister countenance promised a place of intriguing exploration.
Dan Sullivan did not keep livestock, had no farm vehicles or equipment. He
didn’t farm at all, judging from appearance. Sullivan’s means of supporting himself
had been a major topic of discreet discussion amongst locals for years at Sara’s
Place, the Antler Bar, and wherever inquiring minds gathered. Only a reluctant few
actually associated with Dan, those being business people with goods or services he
required. His aura of evil and repugnance invited only those of a like feather to
approach him. Brian had been within eyeshot of the guy a couple of times in Sara’s,
with his father, and the memory made Brian shiver.

Sullivan’s farm, such as it was, must be a base of operation for some dubious
enterprise, surmised Brian. Surely, the key to what Sullivan had been doing all these
years lay within the barn. Its enticement was too strong to ignore, despite potential
hazards. The chained, padlocked barn doors confirmed something. The barn’s
weathered, slotted old sides seemed penetrateable. In spite of the danger of
Sullivan discovering them, the possibilities of what the barn hid motivated the boys
more than any horror story could deter them.

Someone had to ferret out what was going on with Sullivan and his freakshow,
even if their methods might be a bit chancy. If the authorities didn’t have the brass,
somebody less concerned about petty details like properly processed paperwork
was called for to get the job done. Someone more undercover-like. Someone like
me and Jesse. A previous attempt to penetrate the structure had to be aborted when
the old man got wind of their presence, and had come belligerently after them.
Their adrenaline-fueled flight had taken them swiftly out of there. But not before
several shotgun rounds were discharged their way. This time, their path,
penetration, and presence must go unnoticed; detection could spell doom.

Sullivan was a mean hombre when sober, and nastier if drunk. Brian was
privy to the knowledge that the deputies got nervous any time they got a drunk and
disorderly call involving Sullivan. The hotheaded Irish hillbilly was always on the
verge of lighting off, growing testier by the year, since he didn’t have his old lady or
kids around anymore. Tawnya Sullivan had vamoosed years ago, leaving
everything behind, including their three little girls. Sullivan’s fury had gone
unrestrained at the time. “That harlot jes’ up and ran off. Probably shacking up
somewheres with a piece of work like herself. Too bad she didn’t cotton to takin
care of babies much as she liked makin em. I gar-own-tee ya she’ll never show her
face around here again, if she knows what’s good fer her. Me and my girls ain’t got
no need fer the likes a her.”

Talk around Chancey went on for months, mostly about the existence the
Sullivan girls were likely experiencing. Gina, the oldest, was 8 years old at the time
of her mother’s leave-taking. Berry was 7, and Melanie, the youngest, almost 5.

Reckon those young-uns are old enough to take care of theirselves, the
consensus was voiced around town uneasily, but with a silent sigh of relief. Nobody
believed a word of what Dan said about Tawnya. The fair-skinned, blonde beauty
had been well-liked and pitied. It was whispered about that she was a European
who had answered one of those “wife wanted for American rancher” ads that ran in
various publications. Things must have been bad for her to desert her children.
Surely she’d come back for them later? But she didn’t. Most figured she knew if she
ever showed up on that farm again, she’d have no chance of getting those children
from him before he used one of his pieces of artillery on her, and maybe them too.
You didn’t cross Dan Sullivan, if you wanted to keep all your parts. He’d explode in
an instant when he was drinking. Nope, not a soul in town blamed poor Tawnya for
running for her life. Nobody in their right mind would have come back, leastways
not without a regimen of cops or mercenaries behind em. And what chance did a
foreigner have of drumming up the help of American authorities anyway.

It had been a tribute to Tawnya that her girls, in spite of their fate, had always
been clean, polite, and quiet. Their loyalty to each was fierce. They stood together
against the monster they had been condemned to endure. All three eventually split
from home and hometown. The Sullivan family saga had been monitored and
gossiped about in Chancey forever, kept alive by old man Sullivan’s malevolent
presence in the community. Samantha Harlow, only daughter of Gina and Lester
Harlow, and a classmate of Brian and Jesse’s, also served as a sad reminder. Brian
visualized a fawn whenever he thought of Sam with her long legs, big green eyes,
and red-haired coloring.

Hard to believe, thought Brian idly, that a delicate-lookinggirl like Sam could
be related to swampthing.

“What was that you said, about Sam?” asked Jesse.
“Nothin. Just thinkin out loud,” mumbled Brian.
“Enough observation, commando boy, let’s violate this creep’s perimeter.”
asserted Jesse.

Brian’s return smile was grim.

They darted fast and low down the slope, from tree to bush, now legally
trespassing. A frightening thrill shot through Jesse at the knowledge. He was glad
Brian was the leader and cautiously followed him now, watching his hands and face
as they silently signaled cautions and commands. They had flattened themselves
against the equipment shelter.

Brian whispered, “We stay together, unless he makes us. If that happens, we
split, create more confusion, then head back to base, jagged-like. Got it?” Jesse
nodded, and Brian proceeded, erratically scampering for the tool shed. There, he
dropped to a crouch. There was no response from within the house.
He signaled Jesse to join him, who promptly did. “Where now, Brian? We’re
gettin mighty close to the business end of whatever,” Jesse stuttered.
Brian shook his head, “He’s either dead to the world, or it’s a trap. But that’s
not his style…” Brian’s voice trailed off. They were close now and his mind was
racing and clicking. Everything looked sharp and intensely colorful. “I’ll head for
the smokehouse. Wait 30 seconds then come right behind. Then we’ll make a hop
to the truck and hold there til we get a slant on the situation before the last leg to the
barn. Let’s move.”

Brian scuttled crab-like, quickly covering the distance between the tool shed
and smokehouse. Jesse joined him shortly. They remained squatted down.
Brian gave Jesse his last directive, “We’re almost home-free, but just in case,
I’m gonna take cover under the truck. If he hasn’t shown by now, I don’t think he’s
gonna. If it looks safe, I’ll signal you, then come on fast and dive under the truck
beside me. Got it?” Jesse nodded, holding his breath in awe as he watched Brian
launch from his crouch, make a swift pass, and cleanly dive, feet first, under the bed
of the truck. A slight puff of dirt swirled up to mark his entry. Easy as stealing a
base, Jesse thought in disgusted envy. He waited for Brian’s signal, vowing to live
up to his friend’s prowess. The signal came. Jesse’s sneakered feet dug in for
takeoff. Up and off he went at a semi-fast stumble, his squat-numbed legs not fully
cooperating.

Transfixed, Brian watched his friend’s performance. The entire episode
appeared in slow-play before Brian’s incredulous view. Intending to leap over the
driveway ruts, Jesse instead landed in the nearest rut. His foot turned and he
crumbled helplessly, momentum slamming him up against the truck. He bounced
off and hit the ground flatly, with a whoosh-like sound of air leaving lungs.

A roaring filled Jesse’s ears. Then a bell ringing, and ringing… Staring
skyward, dazed, he couldn’t remember how he ended up down, but the pain in his
ribs told him it hadn’t been pretty. Brian remained immobile under the truck bed,
watching. Why didn’t Brian help him? Why did neither of them speak?

Jesse’s body-slam into the truck had caused the old rustbucket to lean even
more, its door creaking slowly open as the truck continued to teeter. Jesse feebly
reached up and grabbed hold of the running board. Some slick, oil-like drippings
on its edge hindered his hand’s grip. Then, something more organic hindered his
mind’s grip. Overhead, peeking out of the truck’s cab, old man Sullivan’s blankly
staring, bloated face slid slowly toward Jesse, followed by shoulders, arms… The
blood-crusted body spilled out onto the ground where, milliseconds before, Jesse
had sprawled helpless. Swiftly, he rolled under the truck, crashed into his friend, his
terrified eyes burning into Brian’s unbelieving ones, inches away. Crazy images of
Indiana Jones movies shot through his mind. Shock and confusion blurred the line
between the horrifying reality just shoved in his face and the fabricated gore of
Hollywood. What Do We Do Now? screamed a voice inside. “How should I know,”
he mumbled, “I’m making it up as I go…”

Light dissolved to dingy gray and swirled around his head, finally enveloping
Jesse completely as consciousness sputtered out.