Sheepdogs: Keeping the Wolves at Bay by Gordon Carroll (tools of titans ebook .TXT) 📗

Not that I haven’t seen my share of concerts. I worked summers up there for three years starting when I was eleven. I lied a little about my age (I did that a lot when I was a kid). I worked cleaning up after the concerts and keeping the bathrooms stocked during them. I saw some great concerts. Only not the seventies and eighties bands… more the nineties and two thousands era.

The theater is actually part of the City and County of Denver even though it’s nowhere near the city. And this far out of Denver proper, the cops almost never patrol in the day time, which I hoped would give us the privacy we needed to make this thing work.

The massively tall, double bay doors were secured by a simple, but thick padlock. I pulled a forty-two inch bolt cutter from my backpack. It went through that padlock like it was aluminum foil. And we were in.

I went straight to the alarm box. It took me about thirty seconds and two alligator clips with a three-inch wire, to disable.

Beneath the tons of rock above us it was pitch black. I knew where the breakers were, but I wanted it dark. I didn’t want to take the chance Mr. Spock might spot us. If we lost the element of surprise, we were done for. I closed the doors and broke out my flashlight. The ceiling rode a good twelve feet above our heads, the walls were about twenty feet across. Our steps echoed and bounced off the stone walls and floor, both dogs nails clicking hollowly. I smelled dust and mold and decades of stale alcohol that had spilled from hundreds of thousands of plastic cups sloshing beer and broken bottles of the stronger stuff snuck in under coats and in fanny packs and blankets. I knew that up in the seats, outside, the pungent tang of burnt marijuana permeated every bit of porous material it could seep into.

Tom stopped, shining his light into a large room to the right. There was a rectangular table, the legs rusted, the top scarred by legions of cigarettes set on the edges and forgotten during games of cards or dominos and allowed to burn into the thin sheet of linoleum, blistering the surface. I’d lost a lot of money to the men I worked with during those summers at this same table, and once I’d had to pick up one of the scattered folding chairs and smash it across Dick Owens’ face to keep him from gutting me with a switchblade.

Some guys just couldn’t take a joke.

“Maintenance Staff Room,” I said. Pilgrim bounded into the room, going from table to chair to locker, back to chair, up on top of the table, sniffing every smell, taking it all in like a kid let loose in a candy factory. Hard to believe he was thirteen.

Max, looking bored, lifted his leg and peed on the doorpost. Hard to believe he was two.

“This way,” I said and started down the tunnel. We came to the branch that led to the outside center platform. This tunnel was a little tighter. I gave the dogs the stay command and we went single file, the stairs angled upward until they broke into a hollowed out section encased in a wooden shed. The doors were secured by a wooden beam held in brackets across their width. There was a lot of lighting equipment; spots, tracks, single stands, color-wheels, but no sound boards. I guess they didn’t trust the expensive stuff to wood doors and beams. Smart.

I said, “This is your post.”

Tom gave the small area the once over, then nodded curtly. Sweat beaded and rolled down his face and his already dark shirt was even darker with it.

“You’ve got the gun?” I’d given him a six shot, .44 magnum revolver with hollow point shells. Not a lot of rounds, but they were packed with enough powder and lead to equal the kinetic energy of a Volkswagen going a hundred and five, and there was a lot less to go wrong than with a semi-auto. Besides, a gun good enough for Dirty Harry should be good enough for Tom. He pulled the gun from the holster beneath his shirt. It had a four inch barrel, not as long as Harry’s but this would all be close-in work so Tom shouldn’t need the extra inches. I took the gun and checked the load, snapped the cylinder closed and handed it back to him.

“You just point and click, like using a mouse on the computer only this click’s a little louder. Got it?”

“I’ve got it; the Army, remember?” He looked so pale I thought I might be able to see the glow of his face if I turned off the flashlight. I put a hand on his shoulder.

“She’s going to be alright, Tom.”

He gave me that single curt nod again, as though he didn’t trust his voice, and took the gun back.

“Don’t use it if you don’t have to, but if you do, then do.”

“I just want my little girl.”

“I know.” I took my hand away. “You’re going to be here for awhile, make yourself as comfortable as you can, but be ready for the signal.” I turned back to the tunnel. “I’ve got some work to do.”

42

I picked up Max and the two of us sprinted up the stairs from the stage of the theater all the way to the top seat. Around eighty trillion steps.

I’d gone over it in my mind a hundred times, but now, standing up here, I took a few minutes to make sure it was as I remembered.

Five minutes to four and the sun still hid below the eastern horizon, its arcing rays shading the black of night to a mellower hue of deep purple. Looking to the east, over the semi-bowl of the theater, Creation Rock rose up on my left. I knew there to be a cave a little higher than