The Shadow of the Valley of Death
Title: The Shadow of the Valley of Death
Words: 1067
Character: Damian Spinelli
Rating: T
He kicked at the sand, watching the puff he generated be caught up by the steady wind and blown away to join the multitude of similar particles lining either side of the track. Listlessly, he stared off into an endless horizon. No matter which way he looked there was little to encourage the act-no houses, no trees, no vehicles, no sign of human occupancy of any sort disrupted his sight line.
The sky was an inverted bowl of pale blue over his head. Its only occupants were the blazing disc of the sun and the distant plume of a con tail signifying a jet flying almost seven miles up in the atmosphere. All that was visible everywhere else he gazed was the dun colored sand stretching off until it reached the distant feet of dry, desiccated mountain ranges.
To his right, to the east, there was an exception where he could see a reflective, white surface. It was the remnants of a shallow lake formed by streams of water coming down from the enclosing mountain canyons during the run-off season and creating a borderless sheen of water which quickly evaporated. Proof of its existence was solely dependent on the evidence provided by salt deposits left behind by years of repetition.
Biting his lip, he looked for the countless time back along the dirt road he’d traveled earlier in the day. Road was a too grandiose title. It was more like an indentation in the endless surrounding desert with only the vague impressions of prior tire tracks indicating that any other vehicle had ever traversed its uninviting surface. Certainly, at this precise moment, it was empty and his own fresh tracks mocked his inexperience in coming into this hostile place entirely unprepared.
“You should’ve have bought a clue from the name,” he chided himself under his breath. He didn’t know why he was whispering. He could have shouted his woes to the heavens and not disturbed a living thing as far as he could tell. “Death fucking Valley,” despite the burning heat, he shivered.
Like most decisions this one had a twisted tail of causation, something that could be unraveled only with concentration. First, he inadvertently eavesdropped on a conversation between Brenda and Robin where the former laughed about his overtly displayed devotion for her. Until then he thought perhaps she was truly the model of womanly grace he forever sought but in that moment his infatuation curdled like sour milk. When next he saw Brenda and called her “Ms. Barrett” he relished the shadow of uncertainty that accompanied her nervous laugh.
Then, even through the sequestering door of his temporary refuge, he heard Sam and Jason arguing, one voice sharp and shrill, the other deep and obstinate. “It’s too crowded in your life, Jason,” Spinelli had to admit Sam had a point.
“What do you want me to do about it?” Jason’s voice was a growl of frustration, “Kick Brenda out so the Balkan can get her, buy a camp bed for Spinelli to put up at McCall and Jackal so that he can be even more uncomfortable than he is in the weight room?”
That was the moment something inside Spinelli’s chest fractured. Blindly reaching for a backpack, he started to stuff and fill it with all manner of things, without the slightest inkling of what they were. He ran down the stairs, past the arguing combatants, ignoring, the splintered call of “Spinelli!” coming from Jason and brushing by a bemused Brenda.
He couldn’t go to his usual refuges of the office, Kelly’s or even the docks on the off-chance they would come looking for him. He owned no sanctuary to offset the ever buffeting waves of insecurity and lack of true belonging.
It was the phone call which decided him. At the time he thought it was his salvation.
“Mr. Spinelli?” The feminine voice was shyly hesitant.
“Speaking,” he replied brusquely, his usual good manners having apparently evaporated along with his place of residence.
“This is Jasmine Little, Rose’s sister.” She tactfully nudged his memory.
“Yes, Ms. Little,” Spinelli moderated his tone, happy to be talking to a client, to have the chance to immerse himself in a case. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve heard from Rose!” The excited lilt in her voice eased Spinelli’s depression. It was good to know that some people still possessed concerned family members.
“Where is she?” He asked the fateful question.
“Not here,” he grunted at the uncaring sky, staring uneasily at a bird flying in large effortless circles as it rode the currents of an air column. He wondered if it were a harmless hawk or a vigilant vulture.
He squinted up at the sun and then down at his cell phone. He didn’t trust the time registering on its faceplate. Technology in all it’s myriad forms had failed him on this journey, from the GPS directions which guided him to this nonexistent spot to the car which apparently had a leaky radiator. Spinelli hadn’t gleaned that fact until it was too late and he was stranded. There was no signal for either his cell phone or his trusty laptop. For all intents and purposes, he was stranded back in the nineteenth century which was pretty much the same as saying he was looking directly into the visage of this valley’s namesake.
Damian Millhouse Spinelli was no stalwart pioneer but rather a very frightened, worried young man who regretted his precipitate decision to embark upon a rescue mission for a damsel in distress. Jasmine Little knew where he was bound but not where he truly was. Only the intrigued bird above and an indifferent satellite orbiting in space could answer that query with exactitude.
Spinelli pulled open the back door of the car. He was going to crawl inside away from the merciless heat and sun and attempt to rest. When it came close to sunset, he would walk back out the way he came. He, who was so precise with knowledge, didn’t know how many miles it was but it was the only option. It was what his erstwhile mentor and friend would do. So, for this final, desperate gamble the Jackal would once again follow the Stone Cold way and let fate decide the outcome.
“Luck be a lady tonight,” he mumbled as he drifted to sleep.