Holliday's Gold Read online

  Her second peculiarity was her hair. It was a shade of brown that was quite common and nothing to write home about, but had been done up in no less than seven pony tails that stuck up in random points atop her head, the rest hanging to just above her shoulders.

  The little girl looked upon John’s lifeless form with sadness as she placed a hand to his brow.

  A tear rolled slowly down her cheek and landed upon the star on her chest.

  The little girl removed her hand from John’s brow and placed it upon his still chest, resting there for only a moment before she let it drop back to her side.

  “Don’t worry, John,” she said, her voice a whisper. “I’m not ready to give up on you just yet.”

  She turned her back on John’s body and made her way back across the room to the door, moving in an effortless manner, virtually floating across the wooden floor.

  She stopped at the threshold and smiled, turning to look back at John once more from over her shoulder.

  “It’s never too late, John. It’s never too late.”

  And with that, she was gone.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ONCE UPON A TIME, in the small town of Grimmelton, Kansas, there lived three bears.

  These were no ordinary bears, mind you. They didn’t live in caves, they didn’t stand about by great North American rivers, idly swiping salmon from the churning waters as the poor fish struggled upstream in hopes of perpetuating their species, and they most certainly did not spend the greater part of their day trying to steal honey from bees.

  No, these bears were different.

  These bears walked upright, used tools with opposable thumbs, spoke English with ease, wore the most fashionable clothing, and drove only the finest of automobiles. They attended high society functions and ate at the most expensive restaurants.

  But these bears, despite their discernable tastes, were no snobs. They gave great swaths of money to varying charities and volunteered most nights at the local soup kitchen where they laughed and made merry with all who walked through the doors. They were well loved and respected by many in the community, and the three bears reciprocated in kind, regardless of station or financial standing.

  Burt Abraham Griswold, patriarch of this family of bears, crept silently across the freshly mown grass of his front lawn with a rifle in his hand. Burt was worried and fearful. Only one round remained in the rifle. One round, and no spares in his pack. He tried to remain optimistic. One round and the right opportunity was all Burt needed to take his son out and end what the boy had started once and for all.

  Burt crouched behind a hedgerow. He checked to make sure the gun was loaded properly. The hedges stretched out on either side of him, making a wall that lined the graveled walk which led to the front door of his house. Burt figured that it was just a matter of time before his son, Danny, came up the walk. Then, he would strike.

  The position of the sun in the sky had changed slightly from when he began, which told Burt that this little campaign had gone on for over an hour now. Too long. He knew that he had to end it. He just needed to be patient.

  A few minutes passed. The only sounds Burt could hear were the calls of birds, cars speeding down Walter Road, and a lawn mower somewhere in the distance. He checked the rifle once again.

  Burt knew about guns from his tour in the war, but this one was strange to his hands. It didn’t fit quite right, but it was all he had. He would have to make due.

  Soon Burt heard the distinct sound of gravel crunching under foot. It was time. He tensed as the footsteps drew near. Burt didn’t dare to look over the top of the hedge, but he knew the sound could only mean one thing. Danny, walking up the gravel path toward the house, just as Burt knew he would.

  Burt tensed, ready to spring when the moment came. He rested a finger on the trigger and pressed the rifle’s stock back against his shoulder. As the footsteps came to a point just on the other side of the hedgerow where Burt waited, he popped up like a jack-in-the-box, and squeezed the trigger.

  Burt hit his target, but it wasn’t his son. It wasn’t Danny. It was a woman.

  Burt had to stifle a laugh at the sight of Mrs. Sugarbaker with a suction cup dart sticking dead center to her forehead.

  “It looks like you got me, Mr. Griswold,” Henrietta Sugarbaker said, her voice the essence of restrained fury.

  “I’m so sorry about that, Henrietta,” Burt said, still fighting to hold back his laughter. “I thought you were Danny.”

  “Do I look like your son?” She asked, her eyes narrowing at the familiar use of her first name.

  Burt knew better then to answer. He could spot a rhetorical question at three hundred yards.

  “Have you, maybe, seen Danny at all this morning, Mrs. Sugarbaker? You know, while you were out taking care of things?”

  “No, Mr. Griswold,” said Mrs. Sugarbaker, head of groundskeeping for Griswold House, and all around sour pickle. “I have not seen young Danny. I have a feeling, however,” she continued, pulling the dart from her forehead with an audible pop before handing it over to Burt, “that he will see you, before you see him.”

  That’s when Burt heard a faint click and felt something small hit him in the back of the head. Something like a suction cup dart.

  “Gotcha!” a voice shouted from behind him.

  Mrs. Sugarbaker gave Burt a sly wink and walked on up the path toward the house. Burt turned to find a large tooth-filled smile with his son, Danny, standing behind it.

  “I gotcha, Dad!” he shouted as he started to dance in place right there on the grass.

  “What are you doing?” Burt laughed.

  “I’m doing my ‘I Beat My Dad Happy Dance’,” Danny replied, still dancing.

  “That looks a lot like your ‘Macaroni and Cheese Happy Dance’,” Burt said, walking over to this son and putting an arm around his shoulder.

  “Well yeah,” Danny said, “It’s the only dance I know.”

  Danny was nine years old and, for the moment, an only child. Burt was often amazed at how his life had changed once Danny was born. Everything he had once thought important in life took a back seat once the child had entered his life.

  A small beep sounded from the watch on Danny’s right wrist and the boy took a quick look at the numbers on the face.

  “It’s twelve o’clock, Dad,” Danny started to rock back and forth while bouncing slightly. “Mom said we had to be back in by twelve. We gotta go. We gotta go!” His voice had raised in pitch as he tugged on Burt’s hand.

  “Okay, pal. Okay,” Burt let himself be pulled along behind the cub.

  * * * * * * * * *

  Burt Griswold often liked to joke that he had made all of his money by investing in salmon futures. One particular salmon, actually. Simon the Salmon had more talent in his dorsal fin than most folks had in their entire bloodline.

  Burt liked to think that God had been smiling down upon him that day at the county fair. Burt had been wandering among the tents and carnival barkers – on a quest to find the funnel cake stand – when he had come across the strangest site he’d ever seen. In an out of the way place, on the very outskirts of the fair, was a small stage. Standing atop the stage was an even smaller salmon. Simon the Salmon.

  Simon’s entire body was covered by a special suit that allowed him to breathe out of water. In the center of the suit, over what would have been the fish’s chest, if fishes were said to have chests, was a small speaker. Perched on the stage, directly in front of the speaker, was a microphone on a stand.<
br />
  Burt watched in awe as Simon the Salmon performed his standup comedy routine for a small group of onlookers, most of whom were fairgoers on their way from the parking area to the main fairgrounds. Burt noticed right away that those who had stopped to see this little fish were laughing, rather hysterically. Furthermore, in just moments, what had been nothing more than a small gathering of rubberneckers, quickly turned into a respectable mass of laughing fans.

  Burt had never laughed so hard in his entire life, and so he had found himself doing something he’d never thought he’d do. He sought out Simon the Salmon and signed him up for a management contract right there on the spot. It was a standard management agreement. Burt would set up the appearances and get ten percent of everything Simon made.

  Using a bit of luck and a few contacts from his time in the military, Burt managed to get Simon booked into comedy clubs all across the country. It wasn’t long before the nation saw what Burt had known deep in his gut. Simon the Salmon was funny. It was soon after that Simon had been offered a supporting role in a television sitcom.

  The show had been a critical success. However, as it had aired on Fox, it was cancelled after just four episodes. Neither Burt nor Simon were dismayed. Burt kept booking gigs and Simon kept traveling the country, making people laugh.

  Then Burt landed Simon a two picture deal with a major movie studio. The first movie featured Simon as the comic relief in a Kurt Steel action flick. It had bombed, but of course, most Kurt Steel movies did. The studio however, had loved Simon in the role and took a chance on his next picture, which Simon wrote himself. That summer, Simon the Salmon and the Slippery Seal of Salisbury broke box office records all across the world. Simon the Salmon quickly became a household name and went on to make seven consecutive box office smashes in a row. The Griswold family was set for life, all thanks to Burt’s keen sense of humor.

  Simon’s success brought about financial independence for Burt and his lovely bride Beatrice, especially as the two looked to add a child to the family, the child that would be Danny. With financial independence came the Griswold’s desire to build, to lay down some roots, and to help others.

  With that in mind, Burt had hired as many out of work builders, carpenters, plumbers, electricians, and general laborers as he could find, and set them to the task of building his family a house. The work soon became such an immense task that it had revitalized Grimmelton’s floundering economy and helped save more than one family from starvation and ruin.

  When the last nailed had been pounded, the paint dried, and the dust all but settled, what stood was an architectural marvel, a sprawling mansion covering over 180,000 square feet and boasting no less than 260 rooms. The people of Grimmelton dubbed the building, Griswold House, though to label such a structure as nothing more than a mere house would be like referring to the Sistine Chapel as just another church.

  With construction complete, the Griswolds were free to hire housekeepers, groundskeepers, cooks, security personnel, and pretty much anyone else who could help maintain the palatial estate and keep things running smoothly.

  The Griswolds were kind and generous employers. They gave every employee a chance to make something more out of their lives. Working for the Griswold’s didn’t just mean a steady paycheck. It meant health benefits, a retirement plan, paid vacations and holidays, even a tuition reimbursement plan for employees who wanted to get their degree. Working for the Griswold Family soon became the most sought after job in town.

  To the community, Griswold House was an industry. For the Griswolds, it was home.

  * * * * * * * * *

  Burt and Danny found Beatrice in her office on the second floor. She was at her desk, glasses perched atop her head, typing away furiously at her laptop.

  “How’s the book coming?” Burt asked as Danny leaped into his mother’s arms with wild abandon, nearly knocking her from the chair.

  “You’re getting too big to keep doing that,” Beatrice said to the boy with a laugh in her voice. She pulled Danny to her, returning the fierce love that he had put into his hug.

  “What?” she asked, smiling up at Burt as Danny attempted to burrow his way through her chest and into her heart with the top of his head.

  “What?” Burt asked back.

  “You said something. I missed it because your son was using me as a tackling dummy.”

  “You’re not a dummy,” Danny said, his voice muffled by the crook of his mother’s neck.

  “I just asked how the book was coming,” Burt said, sitting on a couch along the wall.

  “Oh it’s coming, you know, one-”

  “Word at a time,” Burt finished the line for her and laughed.

  “Yeah,” Beatrice laughed with him. “I guess I’ve used that little chestnut a few times.”

  “Just a couple times,” Burt smiled.

  “Mom, it’s after Noon,” Danny began to bounce in her lap. “It’s after Noon, Mom. After Noon.”

  Beatrice checked her watch. “It sure is. I guess we better hit the road.”

  Danny giggled. “Hit the road.”

  Burt smiled again. He knew that Danny had formed a picture in his head, imagining for a moment all three of them standing out on the road in front of the house, pounding their fists into the pavement.

  “Hit the road,” Danny repeated. “We gotta hit the road. It’s after Noon.”

  Each afternoon, as the chef prepared lunch, the Griswolds went for a walk around town. This was all part of their daily routine and they stuck to it for Danny’s sake. Danny didn’t do well with interruptions in his routine. The destination varied each day. It didn’t matter much to Danny exactly where they walked to, as long as they didn’t miss the walk itself.

  The smell of boiling lobster meat rolled slowly around them, causing their collective mouths to water as the three bears made their way through the house and out the front door. Today the chef, Mr. Greengrass, had prepared for them his famous lobster bisque, a meal the Griswold family adored almost as much as they adored Chef Greengrass.

  “Can we get some gum?” Danny asked as they set out for their walk.

  “Of course, pal,” Burt said, ruffling the fur at the top of Danny’s head. “We ’ ll walk on down to the store. What do you say, Bea?”

  "I think that ’ s a great idea," Beatrice said, taking Danny's hand.

  "I think it ’ s a great idea too," Danny said, smiling and hopping.

  And so, as the Griswold family set out on that sunny day, with temperatures in the mid-seventies and a gentle breeze blowing from the north, they had no clue, not one iota of an idea that the day would end in anguish, tragedy, destruction, and death.

  But then, not all days can be winners.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A DRIFTER APPEARED IN town.

  This wasn’t your typical dust-caked, dead-in-the-eyes, home-on-their-back drifter either. No, this drifter looked like she might be more at home dancing the night away in some trendy New York club rather than hoofing it through the back roads of America. But here she was, walking into town with nothing more than a backpack and a mischievous glint in her eyes.

  She was dressed appropriately for someone walking the Earth: One pair of black sunglasses, one pair of comfortable black hiking boots, one pair of durable – yet fashionable – khaki cargo pants, one military green canvas backpack flung casually over her right shoulder, and one low cut spaghetti strap black t-shirt. Everything that today ’ s woman needs when drifting across the country.

 
Yet, despite her somewhat plain appearance, she wore her attire like a diva – nay, a queen. She was the star of the show and all eyes were on her.

  The drifter arrived in town with an air of indifference. Nothing impressed her; nothing could when she looked so good. The fact was, compared to her, everything else was vanilla.

  She made her way through downtown Grimmelton, turning heads as she strolled through the busy town square. She was a stranger in a strange place, but she held herself as though she owned it all.

  The scene was like something out of a big name shampoo commercial. She might as well have been walking in slow motion. Men couldn’t keep their eyes off of her. If she dropped her backpack, she knew the area would turn into a cartoon as men fought one another to pick it up for her. They would kill to be the one lucky enough to return to her that which she had lost (and possibly gain her favor).

  The knowledge of that made her smile. Her smile made an old main faint, a lecherous grin on his face.

  The drifter’s name was Lucy, though most folks called her Goldilocks, on account of her hair. Her golden tresses were the admiration of any who saw them. What most folks didn’t know however, was that her hair color had come out of a bottle.

  Goldilocks had been on the road for over a year, drifting from town to town, no apparent destination in mind, never stopping long in one place, getting by on nothing more than her good looks and a truck load of wits. Unfortunately, good looks and wits only got you so far, and for the moment, Goldilocks realized that she was hungry. So she set off across town to find an out of the way place where she could do her thing and get some grub.

  Half an hour later she found herself on the other side of town, a few miles from the city proper. Her tummy grumbled when she noticed a lone convenience store at the foot of a large hill, surrounded by farmland.