Desolation (Zack Tolliver, FBI Book 11)

DESOLATION A Novel by R Lawson Gamble This is a work of fiction. Although the author describes many actual locations, events, organizations, and historical figures, any resemblance to other persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. DESOLATION by R Lawson Gamble All Rights Reserved © 2023 R LAWSON GAMBLE BOOKS Cover by KRYSTALYNN DESIGNS No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including information storage and retrieval systems without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. -TABLE OF CONTENTS Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight Chapter Thirty-Nine Chapter Forty Chapter Forty-One Chapter Forty-Two Chapter Forty-Three Chapter Forty-Four Chapter Forty-Five Epilogue DESOLATION desolation: a state of complete emptiness or destruction TOMESHA "ground afire" Timbisha Shoshone name for Death Valley CHAPTER ONE The body was deep in the debris-ladened sand that washed over it and solidified like a frozen ocean wave. The surface had then eroded as the flood waters drained, just enough to reveal the top of a head and the fingers of one hand projecting above the surface conglomerate baked hard by the sun. The fingers appeared strangely disassociated from the head, like four pale tubers from some rare desert plant that gestated for decades until brought to life by the once-in-a-century rainfall event. The top of the head was completely bald and might have gone unnoticed as one of many rounded stones dislodged by the flow but for its unusual texture and the strange manner in which it reflected the sun. Ranger Jim McDowell wasn't there looking for bodies. He was there to assess the damage to the Desolation Canyon Trail from the rushing waters and to calculate the time and resources necessary to reconstruct it. The ranger had just scrambled up the eight-foot fall, less precipitous now thanks to the debris collected there, and was approaching the six-foot fall when the stark white rounded stone caught his eye. Curious, he leaned down to pick it up when something about its surface held him back. Then he noticed the four pale, slender shoots growing out of the sand nearby and, in a flash of horror and nausea, realized they were fingers. His mind numb, he radioed the office and reported his find. Then he sat down to wait. As he crunched on a nutrition bar, he tried not to think about the body entombed next to him. The heat and silence conspired to effect drowsiness, and despite the circumstances, his head had begun to droop when the distant chainsaw growl of a quad alerted him. He remained seated, fanning his sweaty face with his hat. He knew the vehicle could come no further than the eight-foot fall, and it would take another ten minutes to pack tools and hike up to his position. When, at last, they strode into view around a bend in the arroyo, he identified the tall figure of Superintendent Mike Scala. As they came closer, he recognized Melissa Mongrin, a fellow ranger whose expertise was archaeology and anthropology. With a shudder, he realized why the superintendent had chosen to bring her along. What they must do amounted to an archaeological dig. Mike Scala was the twin of the ATV he had ridden in on; rugged, capable, and loud. His conversation began while he was still twenty yards away. "A dead man, Mac? Really? I've got ten million in damages from this storm already, and now you say I got a dead man?" McDowell waited until his grim-faced boss had come close before responding. "All I can tell you for sure is you have a head and a hand," he said. Scala surveyed the rock-studded terrain. "Where? Where's the dead man, Mac?" McDowell pointed. "There." Scala's eyes widened as they focused on the white pate. "Holy shit!" Melissa shrugged off her pack and peered down at the submerged head. She pushed a finger down on the hardened sand. "It won't be easy digging him out. It'll take time." She sounded grim, but McDowell noticed her eyes gleamed at the prospect. Scala was studying the arroyo upstream where it led into the deepening canyon. The dry bed was littered with debris flushed out by the raging waters. Displaced boulders the size of small cars gave witness to the power of the flood. "The poor bastard never stood a chance," he said. "I'm wondering what he was doing here," McDowell said. "All the trails were closed, and the warning signs were up. I can't think of a worse place to take a walk during a storm." Scala sounded defensive. "That's all we can do, you know; warn people and put up signs. After that, it's up to them." He raised a bushy brow, looking at McDowell. "You've been at this job long enough to know people just do what they want to do." The sound of scraping drew their attention back to the immediate situation. Melissa had her trowel in hand and was tentatively scratching away the sand layer near the gleaming cranium. "Waddaya think?" Scala asked. Melissa responded over her shoulder without stopping work. "This upper layer is like concrete, but it should soften as I work deeper." A moment later, she stood and stretched. "I think he's lying on his back at a forty-five-degree angle, legs three feet below where I'm standing, unless they are doubled back under him. We can use the shovels down at this end to take away the first foot or so." She scraped out a semi-circular groove in the sand. "Dig in here, but go easy;