“Meg. Did she get you – at the lab?” The ice in Leslie’s words was unmistakable.
As was Packard’s irritation. “Uh-huh.”
“I...didn’t mean anything...”
“Bullshit. You know damned well what you meant. Les, we’ve done this.” Packard’s biggest mistake after Meg had come aboard was to admit to Leslie that he found her attractive. He’d figured she could handle it. Misfigured. It had compounded with every tiny hint, real or imagined by Leslie, that Meg might be coming on to Packard. Or that he might be succumbing to the younger woman. Even now, months after he had his “talk” with Meg, which he’d recounted in tedious detail for Leslie – at her insistence. It was not one of Leslie Goldman’s endearing qualities.
She folded her arms. “You couldn’t call me with any details?”
He wished she wasn’t there, that she’d gone home. “I mean finding that cave – I – ah, the hell with it.” In his earlier message, he’d tried to explain his absorption with the discovery, the painstaking work of bagging and removing the numerous specimens, how he’d worked through the night. How he’d totally forgotten to check in with her, assure her he was okay. Which Packard assumed they both knew wasn’t accidental. And then, driving back to Borrego Junction, he’d known she would be in class. Packard removed a plastic-wrapped plate of pizza slices and the carton of skim milk.
“I was concerned about you.” She ran some water into the teakettle.
He decided against the obvious retort: then why didn’t she make the trip to Moab for his hill-climb attempt – or at least pretend to be supportive? He told himself he was too tired, hungry – too emotionally drained for a confrontation. Besides, he knew the answer.
“God, you don’t seem very excited. I mean for someone who’s just set the whole deal on its ear.”
Packard unwrapped the pizza, shoved it into the microwave, set the timer. “Maybe. It’s not certain. We’re re-testing.”
“Oh, come on.”
He barely heard her.
When was Chicago going to respond? And what was that man – the sixteenth man – doing up there on a ledge in Muleshoe Canyon? Why had he died up there? How was it going to go with Goldman – with himself – if the bones were really that old? If Chicago says yes, could he still walk away from this?
Packard was experiencing the not unfamiliar but certainly most frustrating aspect of his physical and mental exhaustion, the part that made him angriest – that maddeningly unproductive period when his already fatigue-jumbled, non-linear thoughts became almost unsortable – when the only clarity was his awareness that he was barely functioning. He hated it – the loss of believing he was in control. And yet he knew he was beating himself up unnecessarily – that here, once again, he was demanding too much of himself.
It wasn’t always easy to remember that part.
“Hello?”
Packard snapped back to the present. “Sorry.”
Leslie turned up the burner under the kettle. “What happens if the test results are all consistent?”
“You should ask your father.”
“No, dammit. I’m asking you.”
“I don’t see that it’ll be in my hands. Or his. But I intend to let him save all the face he can hang onto. Help him, even.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“Look, I don’t know. I mean if this – if it turns out to be real it’s going to make a huge splash whether I like it or not.” The microwave chimed. Packard leaned on the counter with both hands, his head hanging between his shoulders. Then he straightened up, turned to her. “Les – I’d really like to be by myself.”
She glared at him for a count, then left the room. He heard her zipper the laptop. Then the front door slammed shut. Packard took the pizza out of the microwave, stared at it. He felt better.
Tuesday
The man with no face stood at the edge of a yawning, bottomless black hole, and a hooded figure whose face was hidden kept repeating with each electronic buzz, “But why is it tolling for thee?” On the fourth buzz, the man with no face vanished into the hole.
And Packard figured out – more-or-less – where he was. Groggily he groped for his phone, dragged it to his ear. “Yes...?” Nothing. Except dial tone. And the buzzing continued. He found his cell phone beneath his wallet. “Hello...?” The green digits on his clock radio indicated 5:33 AM. “Wait a minute – who...?” The tenseness in the raspy voice on the other end forced him awake. He sat up. It was Fran Jeeter in Moab. He listened, then: “Oh – my – god. Okayokay – I’ll be there in – I don’t know – as quick as I can.” Packard was already struggling into his clothes, rang off, was about to put the phone down, instead punched in a number.
It rang once, was answered by a voice as sleepy as Packard’s had been. “Yes?”
Packard spoke rapidly. “Felix, it’s me. I thought you should know. Muleshoe Canyon – there’s been a robbery or something. I don’t have any details except that Scott Herren’s in the hospital and – and Meg Brady’s dead. Killed. I’ll fill you in after I get there.”
Packard heard a groan, waited for a further response. Then he heard the click. Which told him everything he needed to know about the support he was going to receive from that quarter.
He headed for his car, questions rushing, none of them able to compete with the overwhelming awfulness of Meg’s death. He was not looking forward to the solitary two-and-one-half-hour drive. His opera CD’s weren’t going to do it for him this time.
“I took off, they were playing Scrabble.” Jeff Fischer was seated on the ground, knees up, head in his hands.
Acting Sheriff V.J. Toland nodded, solemnly wrote something on his notepad, looked up as Packard emerged from the motor-home, appalled, angry, fists clenched to control the tremble.
The interior was a mess. The Coroner had made a white-tape outline of Meg’s form, where she’d fallen between the galley and the dining nook. Her blood seemed to be everywhere, the counter, the table and seats, even the ceiling. Some sections of the tape were stained the same red-brown color as the surrounding carpet – tape laid across the puddles of her still-wet blood. Drawers, cabinets, closets had all been opened, contents spilled, clothing and bedding ripped apart. The rest of the site was trashed as well, equipment chests broken into, overturned. Vicious.
Packard shook his head, started to speak, but the words caught in his throat. He tried again. “Hard to say for sure, but no – it doesn’t look like anything else was taken.”
When Packard arrived, V.J. informed him that according to Jeff’s appraisal the only missing items seemed to be the remains of a baked ham, some cheese and about fifty dollars they kept in a coffee can for running-into-town-money. The motor-home TV and VCR were smashed, probably during Meg’s struggle with the killer. Mobile phones, several expensive microscopes, climbing and rappelling gear, helmets, tools and the like had been ignored.
V.J. nodded, returned his attention to Jeff. “Okay, again – this Teresa, you uh had sex with her but you didn’t get her last name?”
“That’s – yeah. I didn’t.”
Jeff’s statement was that he left Meg and Scott in the motor-home around nine PM and headed into Moab for a steak and a few beers. Three, to be precise. He described meeting a girl over the latter – a hiker – with whom he ended up in the back of the van where they’d ultimately fallen asleep. He said he awakened sometime after four and she was gone, so he drove back to camp, arriving at first light. He found Meg’s body in the motor-home, the unconscious Scott down the trail near the burial chamber, his flashlight nearby. He’d apparently been bludgeoned, bleeding from the back of his head. Jeff called 911, and twenty minutes later V.J. and his people showed up, followed quickly by George Quinn, an ambulance and Fran Jeeter. Jeff insisted the small traces of blood on his hands and clothing were the result of touching the victims in hope that he might help them.
V.J. was doing his best to handle this in a professional manner, his doubts about Jeff’s v
eracity not shared by Fran or Packard. He referred to his notes. “But she was blonde and five-three.”
Jeff sighed. “About. From California she said.”
“Drunk, would you say? On anything?”
“No. People like her, they don’t need that shit.”
“But nobody saw you with her.”
“Well, of course. Somebody must’ve. But it was late and loud and crowded. It was a mob-scene. All these bikers and hikers and off-roaders and rafters...”
V.J. foomfahed: “And um you’re sure there was no like youknow disagreement between you and Mr. Herren or Miz Brady---” He was stopped by the sight of Fran Jeeter rolling her eyes, and by Jeff’s irate response.
“Jesus, would I have fuckin’ come back here - and - and called you? I’d be halfway to fuckin’ Idaho by now.”
“Mr. Fischer, there’s no need for that kinda---”
Fran cut him off: “Oh, c’mon, V.J., there is too. You’ve been over this five times already.”
V.J.’s phone buzzed. He glowered at her as he answered. “Toland...”
Jeff looked up at Packard. “Man, if I’d just stayed here...”
Packard was initially angry with Jeff for not being there, but he knew it was irrational, that there was no guarantee the young man’s presence would have made a substantial difference. “Forget it. You might be dead too.” Packard turned away, as if another view might rid him of the image of Meg’s body-outline, of how she must have looked when Jeff found her. Of how horribly she must have suffered. He couldn’t shake the question: would his own presence have affected the outcome?
According to the Sheriff, Meg had been slashed across her arms, probably defending herself, before being stabbed in the abdomen. The knife was then pulled upward into her heart. The weapon hadn’t been found, and none of the motor-home’s kitchen-knives seemed to be missing. Scott Herren briefly regained consciousness before being transported to the hospital; he said he’d been struck from behind, never saw his assailant, had no idea if there was more than one. Both Scott’s and Meg’s bunks had been slept in. Jeff stated that Meg’s body was still warm when he found her. A cast iron skillet was near her hand; she’d probably tried to defend herself.
V.J., with a dash of disappointment, noted something on his pad, holstered his phone, addressed Jeff. “They found the girl. Teresa Gilbert, from San Diego. She confirms your story.” V.J. waited for Jeff to respond, but all he got was a stare. “Look, I was just tryin’ to do my job...” Then, reluctantly: “She said to be sure to tell you you were – um – actually, what she said was ‘awesome.’ And she’s sorry about your friends.” He tore the page from his notepad, handed it to Jeff. “She said to give you this.”
Fran caught V.J.’s eye, flexed her brow.
“Her e-mail address.” V.J. located an earlier entry in his notepad. “Dr. Packard – just outa curiosity, was there anything between you and the victim? Youknow – anything...”
“Personal?”
V.J. nodded uneasily. “Like that. Yeah.”
“No.”
Both Packard and V.J. picked up on Fran’s “give me a break” reaction.
V.J.’s voice took on an edge. “Hey, I’ve gotta ask.” He paused. “Okay, no strange tire-tracks up here. So then our perpetrator woulda been on foot. A drifter maybe – or somebody happened to be hiking through here the middle of the night...” V.J. began to get into it: “...Say the victims are asleep. But something wakes ‘em up. The perpetrator, say, entering the motor-home. Miz Brady wakes up first, goes to investigate, and---”
Fran scowled. “V.J.”
“Right. So the perpetrator exits...” He gestured toward the burial shaft. “...and Mr. Herren goes after him...”
Fran finished his thought. “And gets himself cold-cocked.”
V.J. nodded.
She nodded. “Could’ve happened that way. I guess.”
Which was Packard’s take as well. A crazed drifter? An angry or jealous boyfriend of Meg’s? No, it felt as it whoever did this had some sort of agenda beyond food and a few dollars – that that was – what – a cover for something else? Vengeful Native Americans, enraged by the desecration of their ancestors? Misguided environmentalists? He looked around at the chaos, then: “I don’t know – all this? I mean – suppose they had a reason...”
Fran was making notes. “‘They.’”
He shrugged. “It just – seems as if one person – even in a rage, this is a lot of damage. Like – it didn’t happen in only a few seconds.”
Jeff looked up at them. “That’s what I was wondering. After murdering Meg – and Scott laying there unconscious?”
It’s what Packard had been thinking – the cold-bloodedness of it. “And – why here? Why this place...?”
Fran ground her cigarette under her heel. “George figured the perp might’ve thought Scott was dead, too.” The Medical Examiner had departed with Meg’s body before Packard arrived.
V.J. scribbled more notes on his pad, then: “So – to sum up, we’re lookin’ at an assault-homicide-robbery---” Fran’s look stopped him momentarily. “Okay, possible robbery, but no clear motive, committed by person or persons unknown. Oh – and we lifted a lotta fingerprints that’re gonna take awhile to sort out. Appreciate it if you could stop by the office and give us a set of yours, Professor – for comparison.”
Packard nodded. “Sure.”
Jeff stood up. “Does that mean I can go?”
“Yep. And again, I’m sorry if I was a little rough on you.”
During this, something caught Packard’s eye – papers protruding from beneath an overturned footlocker. He crossed, lifted the chest. The papers were crumpled, partially torn but still attached to a journal. Packard picked it up, leafed through it.
Fran approached. “What?”
“Our log. Or what’s left of it. Where we record the artifacts we find. Dates, times, description. Most of the pages have been torn out.”
EIGHT
1963
Wednesday, November 20th
Charlie drove slowly past the fairgrounds. He could hear the intermittent cheers, hooting, from the grandstand. The dusty parking lot was about half full. He decided against risking a repeat of yesterday – no way the Chevvie would survive another beating. He found a space several blocks away on an unpaved side street. He attached the 300 millimeter lens to the Pentax, headed for the arena, where he grudgingly handed a dollar to the aging blonde wearing a tacky, too-tight cowgirl outfit and a relentlessly sunny smile.
She handed him a program. “Y’all enjoy the rodeo now.”
“Listen, could you direct me to the office?”
She gestured to her right, beneath the grandstand. “Far end. Green trailer. Can’t miss it.” Then, sizing him up, she gave him an arch wink. “You a rider?”
“Ohyeah...” Charlie returned her wink. “...And I love roping.” Somewhat surprised by his own good spirits, he left her pondering that one.
“Fuck all.” He was maybe 17, slicked hair parted in the middle, sideburns down to the collar of his embroidered shirt, and stubborn. A large bandage obscured most of his nose, but not the bruises below his eyes. His right arm was in a sling, fingertips barely visible at the end of the cast. A crutch was propped against his chair. He was struggling with his makings, trying to roll a cigarette with only his sort-of-good hand, three fingers of which were immobilized, taped together. He’d obviously been at it for awhile; shreds of tobacco were scattered over much of the small, busy desktop. He banged his forearm-cast against his midsection, glowered at Charlie, who had to bend under the tiny trailer’s low ceiling.
It required an effort for Charlie to mask his amusement. “How about one of these?” He thrust his Camels at the kid.
The young man waved it away contemptuously. “You can wait outside, mister. Boss’ll be back in five.” He shook more tobacco out of the little sack. Some landed on the paper.
Charlie went to his crinkly-eyed good old boy-impression, flas
hed his fake press card, tried empathy. “Tough break. What, bulldoggin’?”
“Hey! Out.”
Christ, does everything have to be a fucking contest?
“Y’know, I think I just changed my mind.” Charlie fished in his pocket.
“Say what?”
“I mean they want me ta do a profile on this – whatsisname...” He found a scrap of paper, pulled it out, pretended to read from it. “...Millgrim. Joe Bob Millgrim? Bull rider. And I need ta find out youknow where he’s stayin.’ But the thing of it is I get this feelin’ you’d make a better story. You wouldn’t be free this evening, would ya? Uh, what did ya say your name was...?”
“Beeler. Dub Beeler. That’s with two ‘e’s.” The kid was eagerly searching the registration log. His finger stopped. “Millgrim, right...?
The black bull was enormous – and ugly. He was barely out of the chute when he planted himself on his front legs, kicked his rump about ten feet in the air, threw his head back. It caught the rider square on the jaw.
Charlie settled into a seat high in the grandstand, next to an elderly grizzled-type with about two weeks’ of gray whiskers, patched Levi’s, greasy Stetson and a brown paper sack from which the neck of a green bottle protruded.
The announcer, a whisky-baritone, groaned. “Ooooh. Man, I could feel that one clear up here.”
Charlie shook his head as the cowboy slammed to the ground, gasping for air, his face bloodied. For a few terrifying moments he was dragged alongside the huge animal – until he managed to unwind the bull rope tail from his wrist.
“Two-point-four-four seconds. Tough grits, Lonnie. Folks, why don’t we give Lonnie Stahl a big hand...?” Which produced some half-hearted applause and several hoots.
Charlie dropped his Camel butt, crushed it with his shoe. The brief climb left him winded, which caused his ribs to ache, which reminded him of the beating he’d taken from Joe Bob’s asshole pal. Which renewed his resolve to even things up. Or see Joe Bob get hurt. Charlie’s primary reason for bringing the camera was to use it as a telescope. A closer view in case he got lucky and Joe Bob Millgrim was trampled to death.
The Sixteenth Man Page 7