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Synopsis
In 1993 an armored truck along with the guards and $500,000, mysteriously disappear outside Flagstaff, Arizona. Ten years later, pieces of the puzzle begin to unfold when Clayton Fairchild inherits his uncle's estate sequestered in the mountains outside of Rainbow, Arizona. While Clayton finds managing the large ranch, fulfilling, he discovers new love in the person of Abby Whitefeather, a beautiful native Indian, quite appealing and never dreams as he settles into his new life, that the skeletons from his uncle's past are about to resurface.
When a white SUV is found wrecked at the bottom of a steep mountain close to his property with the driver missing, the FBI begins looking for clues at Clayton's hunting cabin, suspecting that Wally Cross, the crippled war veteran that stays there, may know more than he's saying about the man's disappearance.
Although Wally's mind is still disoriented from the war, he confesses to Clayton that he killed the man after he badgered and threatened him, thinking he knew the whereabouts of the heist money. After revealing a riddle that the uncle had told him with clues to the money, Clayton has to determine if the story is true or a figment of his imagination.
Prologue
January 1993
At 7 p.m., it was pitch black, and the violent wind that had blown throughout northern Arizona all day, had finally died down. The lake was now calm, looking like a fine sheet of glass, glinting from the brilliant glow of the Milky Way, spraying its magnificent rays from the heavens above.
On the bank of the water, four men: Roger Dunlap, Virgil Fairchild and the two McGruder brothers, Nick and Bob, were preparing to ditch the armored truck and the two dead guards inside, to the depths of the frigid water. It had only been two hours before when it had all gone down, and to Virgil, a living nightmare, that he would never come to terms with. Thirty miles outside of Flagstaff the men had hidden their blue car and stayed secluded behind dense foliage and trees, watching catatonically as the armored truck, made its way up the little county road to the sawmill, their last stop of the day. Then they had gone to work cutting down a small tree and dragging it to block the road, carefully placing it on an angle and covering it with brush, so when the drivers came back, it would merely appear that Mother Nature had uprooted it and thrown it there. Still out of sight, the men heard the engine of the truck getting closer and then peeked through the brush, seeing the dust created by the vehicle moving towards the downed tree. They watched the truck came to an abrupt stop and waited until the two guards got out and removed the barricade, before taking them by surprise at gunpoint.
The guards were petrified, putting up no resistance. Just don t kill us! they had pleaded. It had all gone according to plan: the first guard was ordered into the truck at gunpoint to drive while the other one was told to sit quietly in the passenger s seat. Aiming their guns at their heads, the McGruder bothers climbed in the back of the armored vehicle while Roger Dunlap and Virgil Fairchild led the way in his car to sniff out trouble. Virgil knew the county roads inside and out, having been an avid hunter and fisherman in that area for years. The plan was to drive to one of the secluded lakes in the Mogollon Rim, where they would confiscate the money, kill the guards and submerge the truck to the bottom of the water, where it would never be found.
But at the last minute, Virgil Fairchild got cold feet. He told the others he wanted out, couldn't deal with the killing end of it. Bob McGruder had laughed and gave the signal to Roger Dunlap, who pumped the fatal bullets into the guards, still sitting in the front seats of the truck with their seatbelts on. There was no turning back now. Virgil was in it up to his neck. But he couldn't escape the guilt that gripped him as he helped Bob and Roger place the vehicle on a downward angle facing the water, his hands shaking, feeling sick to his stomach for his participation and what he had allowed to happen. But now, it really didn't matter about his feelings. He wiped sweat from his brow even though the temperatures had dipped into the low thirties. "Ready?" he called out from behind the vehicle, set to push.
"Yeah," Nick McGruder answered, after he moved the dead guard out of his way and changed the shifter from park to neutral.
"Okay," Bob called out. "Let's do it." They shoved the truck and it rolled down the hill over the half-buried lava rocks and into the lake, watching silently as it submerged to the depths of the water, the circular ripples finally slowing and stopping. After a few moments of silence, they rushed to the car parked about twenty yards away, got in and sped off into the night.
Chapter One
May 30, 2003 Ten years later
Clayton Fairchild awoke with a start. Sitting up on the fully-made queen-sized bed, he shook his head for a few seconds, trying to get his bearings, forgetting for a minute that he was in a motel room in Paxon, Arizona. He had made the drive from Truth or Consequences, New Mexico early that morning to attend his uncle's funeral services at six o clock that evening. His little nap had turned into a two-hour deep sleep. He rubbed his eyes and looked at his watch - five o clock. Walking across the dark room, he pulled the curtains back letting the afternoon sunlight filter in, realizing there was probably several hours left before sunset, and an hour before the services started. From his view on the second floor, he watched the traffic buzzing up and down the highway, already taking a liking to the quaint little town with its laid back, friendly residents and easygoing feel no gang bangers, mostly young men in western hats with their four-wheel drive trucks, cruising Main Street. He also liked the area, filled with so many majestic trees, that the mountains appeared to be covered in wall-to-wall greenery. The ride from Phoenix to Paxon had some of the most picturesque scenery he'd ever witnessed, going from rugged desert terrain filled with cactus and spindly desert trees, rock and sand, to huge rust-colored bluffs sitting close to the highway, to where he was now, amidst the tall pines, where the layered mountains in the distance in multiple shades of gray, went on as far as the eye could see. Suddenly it dawned on him; he'd have to hustle if he was going to make the service on time. He needed to eat; his stomach was growling.
After taking a hot shower, he stood with a towel around him while he shaved and blew his hair dry, then dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt and lightweight gray summer suit, brown leather shoes no tie. Clayton was an extremely good-looking man of five-eleven with a lean, muscular build. His light blonde hair was thick and hung in natural waves above his shoulders. He would have let it grow longer, but not wanting to rock the boat at the forest service, had settled for it shorter. But his hair wasn't the only thing going for him. The combination of large blue eyes, thick dark eyebrows that contrasted with his light hair and his full, perfectly-shaped lips and strong jaw line, made him a striking individual. He seldom dressed up, always feeling comfortable in jeans and casual shirts, but tonight he wanted to look his best, to pay his respects to his uncle.
It all seemed so surreal, the letter he had received two weeks before from the attorney here notifying him of the funeral and that he had inherited his Uncle Virgil's estate - the reading of the will set for the next day. He didn't know much about his uncle so he didn't have much to go on - only that he was a loner and had grown up in Flagstaff, along with his father...
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