The Cost of Secrets by Tyson Abaroa

Author:Tyson Abaroa
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: museum;supersition;mountain;treasure hunters;mine;winter;desert;Phoenix;vigilantes;jeeps;dirt bikes;secrets;mystery;murder;clean
Publisher: Covenant Communications, Inc.
Published: 2021-05-11T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

Clancy just gave me a nod when Mike loaded my kayak that I kept at the ranch into Lorelai’s bed. I took out the emergency hiking boots that I kept behind my driver’s seat for this type of scenario. Though he couldn’t have known the details, he knew that it meant something to do with my mother and being out there.

The thick plastic kayak bounced and rattled in the back of the truck as I sped down the Apache trail. The road was empty but for a few cars headed out to the lake. They were probably old folks looking to do some fishing along the shores. I could tell Mike wanted to speak. He’d open his mouth but then close it, and I had nothing to say, so I let him sit in the awkward silence.

After we parked and portaged the small craft to the lake, we stood at the edge of the water. It was cold enough that mist hovered low over the ripples of the lake. My desert-sand-colored sit-on-top kayak bobbed in the water. I squeezed the paddle like it was trying to fly away.

The cold wasn’t much to me, and once we really started hiking, I’d take off anything else I put on anyway. So I was fine in my long-sleeve polo.

“Take off everything but your boxers and your shoes. I mean, you can keep your shoes. You don’t want those getting wet. So you might as well take them off and put them in the boat.”

He only looked at the water.

“Did you hear me?”

He nodded. Still looking at the water, he began with his shirt, and then he pulled off his pants. While he shivered in just his boxers, I stuffed his clothes into a tan backpack, where they would stay for the rest of the ceremony. I tied the laces of his hiking boots together, then tied them to the pack.

“Follow the canyon upstream. I’ll be there waiting.”

Without seeing if he acknowledged, I pulled the vessel close and plopped down into the seat. I dipped one blade into the water and pulled, moving forward an inch or two. Then I repeated with the other side of the paddle. After I began gliding through the water, there was a splash behind me. I shivered, not from the cold (and it was cold) but from what was going to happen.

On one side, I dug in hard to turn the kayak. Mike splashed forward into the water. Moments before, the birds had been chirping to the rising sun. The water reflected the tall cliffs that surrounded it through the mist. Now the birds were silent, and the water rippled in the chaos of Mike splashing through the water.

I turned the kayak back upstream and dipped from side to side, gliding to the true beginning of our trek. At the very southeast corner of Canyon Lake was a paddle-only area that started at an old red metal bridge and stretched down an old creek, where it dead-ended at where the creek turned into a sandy wash.

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