Page 55 of Red Mountain Burning
Someone Is Bound to Get Hurt
Still standing over the hole he’d mostly filled, Otis saw taillights creeping up Sunset Road. With an uneasy feeling, he looked down. Even if the vineyard workers weren’t paying attention, the loose dirt might give him away, but he didn’t have time to hide the hole properly. He patted down the hockey puck antenna so that it was flat against the dirt, and then began to move his equipment to the fence and toss it back under. It took him three fast trips as he watched the car moving his way.It could be anyone, he thought. After tossing over the shovel, he crawled out of the hole and through the cutout in the fence. But as he started to stand, the door he’d cut out dropped and caught his pants.
“Ah, dammit to hell.”
Otis reached for the snag but couldn’t free himself. He looked up the road. Was that Bellflour’s gold Lexus? He cursed as it turned into the drive.
Scrambling now, he tugged at the snag as his adrenalin pumped. He couldn’t be caught right now. Bellflour would press charges for breaking and entering, trespassing, vandalism, and who knew what else if they found the smart valve he’d installed.
With complete frustration, Otis gave up trying to untangle himself, and he pushed up and pulled away from the fence. His trousers tore down his leg with a loud rip, and Otis collapsed onto his side.
The headlights shone over the vines and the fence line, very close to Otis. He pressed himself hard against the earth, tasting the dust. He glanced at the wheelbarrow.
A car door shut.
Otis stayed down and listened.
Footsteps.
Fifty feet away.
* * *
Bellflour steppedout of his Lexus and opened the gate to the front entrance. He stared at the unfinished building, the one he’d promised would be open by the end of September. Making a mental note to once again jump all over his contractor in the morning, he looked left and right, wondering if someone was out there.
He listened for any movement. Nothing but the sounds of the desert. The far-off cry of a wild dog. The rustling of the leaves in the night breeze.
Climbing onto a stack of concrete blocks, he lifted himself up and slipped in between the framing of the building. He climbed the steps to the second floor and worked his way past the future offices and wine club space to the back of the building, where he could see over the pool to his vineyard. Putting a hand on the frame, staying a few feet back so as not to fall, he ran his eyes from fence to fence. It looked quiet out there.
Damn it, he wished he could fast-forward and get these vines bearing fruit. The sooner, the better. That was one big problem with the wine industry. Nothing happened quickly. If you wanted to make a change to the business plan, you’d have to project what would happen a year or two down the line. There was all that wasted time waiting for the vines to bear fruit, the wine to ferment, and then for it to age in barrel and bottle.
Firing up a cigar, he looked down to the pool area and let his imagination come alive. He could see himself next summer on a bright-pink float—a perfect tan, an aged Cuban cigar, and a shit-eating grin—surrounded by a harem of scantily clad women drinking his Fro-grias. Dollar bills would fall from the sky as the women danced to house music that shook the entire mountain.
Bellflour looked up from this lovely Vegas dream and fixed his eyes on Till Vineyards. In his imagination, he could see Otis Till with his stupid tweed cap standing in the middle of a very elaborate gold chessboard. Bellflour flicked the night air and watched the grumpy bastard tumble off the board.
“Who’s the grapefather now?” Bellflour whispered.
* * *
As quietly as he could,Otis pressed up to his knees and moved the shovel, the bag of parts, and the other items into the wheelbarrow.
Another sound—boots on wood. Bellflour was walking through the McMansion that still didn’t have walls. What the hell was he doing there this time of night?
Otis saw him standing, perhaps swaying, on the second floor, looking out over the vines. He dropped back down to the ground.
Bellflour’s watch and gold bracelet shone brightly in the spotlights, and he spent a long time watching over the property.
When his nemesis finally turned away, Otis stood and grabbed the handles of the wheelbarrow. His heart was still kicking at his chest. Praying Bellflour wouldn’t hear him, he pushed the wheelbarrow as quickly as he could through the sagebrush of the neighboring property, disappearing into the safety of the desert.
He moved so quickly that he lost control of the wheelbarrow when it hit a root, and he and the wheelbarrow tumbled onto the ground with a loud thud and metal clang. The contents spilled out in the darkness. Otis stayed low and peered up to the winery. Surely Bellflour had heard him. Otis didn’t see him, though.
Once he’d caught his breath, Otis searched through the black to find his belongings and return them to the wheelbarrow. After glancing up the hill, he moved at a much slower pace south, only cutting back to his property at the westernmost point. His dog met him as he slipped into the gate. Otis was sweating like a madman, and he sat on the ground and coughed for a while. Jonathan rested his head in his owner’s lap.
“I’m way too old for these games, ol’ boy,” he said, petting him. “That might be the last time I ever run.”
Jonathan licked his hand.
Before going back inside his house, Otis gave one last long look toward the Drink Flamingo property. Up on the second floor, he could see Bellflour’s silhouette and the red glow of the man’s cigar. An unbearable tension rose in his jaws. Never had he despised a man more in his life.
