Nor for that matter could she bear to look at any piercing of flesh, via even the most benign medical procedures. Her aversion notwithstanding, she had gone on to distinguish herself on the Albuquerque PD, ultimately becoming a Homicide Detective Sergeant.
Barbara braved another look at Packard. “Anyhow, your description, the M.O., the whole shot. Very similar. Except this freak’s never cut any people before that we know of. Just seems to get off slicing up vehicles.”
“Okay, but suppose it isn’t him. Suppose it’s the same one who – who stabbed Meg Brady...”
Crocker shifted his weight to the other foot, arms still folded combatively. He had signed on as assistant head of campus security four years ago, having resigned from the BJPD not long after Barbara arrived. Not that he was alone in resenting her appointment, nor was he the sole defector, just the most vocal. But Barbara Litton quickly proved herself, winning over those who remained under her command, as well as the community as a whole. Crocker became the university’s head of security back in January, more or less by default, when his predecessor retired.
Barbara jabbed a period onto her pad, looked at Kate. “Miz Norris – we don’t like for visitors to get the impression this kinda thing happens often in Borrego Junction, ‘cause it doesn’t.” She drew a breath, continued. “Now, as far as your notion that this might be part of some convoluted decades-old plot---”
Crocker finally unfolded his arms, spread his palms. “What I said.”
Barbara scowled at him, resumed: “...Well, I’ve got a problem with that.”
“Excuse me?” Kate let go. “My job is to go up against lumber and mining and oil companies that spend jillions buying congressmen, and pay armies of lawyers to pull every slimy trick they can to get around the laws – to convince us that raping the forests and drilling wherever the hell they want to is really a public service – so you’ll have to forgive me if I tend to believe in that kind of thing.”
Packard smiled. It was a tough sale, one he’d pushed with less passion than Kate – because it was so wild – but it seemed less and less escapable. Even if the sixteenth man wasn’t her grandfather...
Crocker pushed himself away from the wall. “Gimme me a goddam break.”
“Reed, shut the fuck up.” Usually more circumspect about their mutual animus, these were the first words Chief Litton had directed at him since a cool hello.
Packard decided his torn, bloody shirt was, along with this conversation, beyond salvation. He put his jacket on over his tee shirt. “Look, it’s your call. C’mon, Kate.”
“Good. I’m ready---”
“Waitwaitwait...” Crocker stopped at the door. “So, you’re tellin’ us you find these bones – and suddenly all this other stuff happens because of it – but you’ve got no idea why.”
Packard inhaled, then: “That pretty much covers it. Yes.”
“Y’know, professor, I hear there’s a lotta static already – that those older bones aren’t as big a deal as you’re makin’ out...” He paused for effect, then: “That’s gotta smart. I mean – the heat – the press – headlines – that’s real heady. Kinda thing almost anybody’d want more of...” He exited the infirmary, his footsteps echoing.
Kate was the first to speak. “What an asshole.”
Barbara Litton expressed her agreement with a contemptuous shrug. Packard continued to be surprised at how little any of it – except the deepening riddle of the sixteenth man – mattered to him.
“I’ll run the slasher through NLETS. Maybe we’ll turn up something...” Barbara moved to the door, turned. “...It is a lot of coincidences...”
Big, dried drops of Packard’s blood were still on the floor of the parking structure. The police had taken photos of the damage to his Cherokee, which was more extensive than either Packard or Kate realized. Seat padding, bits of fabric, his books and files, spare tire cover, carpeting, door panels, the mess was total. Kate drove back to his condo, both of them conjecturing enroute about what the man with the knife might have been looking for. A piece of jewelry, papers, credit cards, an electronic gizmo? Nothing struck a chord.
Kate’s Bronco was still parked in front, where she’d left it the previous night. As they rolled into Packard’s garage, he suggested she pull it in beside the Cherokee. It was obvious she wouldn’t be heading back to Montana till at least the next day.
His sore arm notwithstanding, the shower refreshed Packard. He decided not to cancel his 4 o’clock class. He had checked neither his phone messages nor his mail. Especially not his phone calls. He didn’t want to hear from Felix, Leslie, reporters. It would only tie him in knots, piss him off at things he couldn’t change, or, for now, wasn’t up to dealing with.
He found Kate in his den, smiling at his sketches for Giddy and Smythe. She looked up, flustered. “I hope you don’t mind. I took them out of your folder. They’re wonderful.”
“Thanks.”
She put the drawings down. “I fixed us some coffee.” She crossed toward the door. Packard stepped aside, but the cabinet to his right limited his movement. She brushed against him. Her hand fell into his.
Packard hadn’t planned it. Or even, beyond briefly acknowledging to himself that he was attracted to her, thought about it at all. Not consciously, anyway. But as he took her hand, he knew they would go with it. And her eyes told him she understood, too, that none of it, her coming to him, the few hours they had spent with each other, was, like that moment, ever truly in their control.
There was a peace, a thankfulness, in the way they looked at each other, their faces close. They embraced, kissed, then wordlessly went upstairs, to Packard’s bedroom. And all of his fatigue, the horror of Meg’s death, fell away, displaced by his urgent need for Kate. What followed was lovely, an almost trancelike, floating, experience. And Kate made it clear that it was the same for her. An hour later, spent, fulfilled, their faces side-by-side on the pillow, Packard silently reflected on the incredible randomness – but just as amazing, the arguable predestination of their having found each other. And the wonder of their newness. They laid together that way for a long while.
Packard lettered the fourth name on the board: TRINKAUS. Above it were SMITH, WOLPOFF and STRINGER. Capping the red marker caused his biceps to hurt. He turned to the class. “Okay, for Friday I want you to compare their positions on the Multiregional Evolution model and the Out of Africa model. Where they’re together and where they’re on different pages.” He placed his papers in his bookbag as his students rose, exited into the corridor.
Earlier, Packard had spoken to the question raised by one of his students about the potential effect of the Moab Find, as it was already being called, on such models. He explained that it would probably have none, since all that would be required was a revision in the accepted wisdom about when the earliest migration to the Americas took place. Then he added, wryly “...And given academia’s receptivity to new ideas, that revision should take no more than thirty or forty years.” Which bought him applause and some laughs. And made him glad he hadn’t cancelled the class. Kate urged him to do so, as had Rudy; certainly everyone would understand. But he needed it, the busywork. So, while he had dressed and gathered his notes, she attacked the Cherokee’s shredded interior with a roll of duct tape.
Packard stooped, picked up the interoffice mail envelope protruding from beneath his office door. He was slipping his key into the lock when Rudy caught up with him.
“Jesus, I just heard. How’s the arm?”
“A little sore, but otherwise, okay.” Packard gestured him inside, followed, closed the door, tossed the mail envelope on his desk, eyed the folder Rudy was clutching. “What?”
“First, I’m not going to do a number about Felix’s little show this morning.”
Packard grinned. “That’s good. Next?”
“Two, you should check your phone messages. I took these at the lab...” Rudy handed him a stack of phone slips. “...Everybody from Reuters to UCLA to the New York Tim
es. I was right. You are a serious fucking deal.”
“Rudy – the folder.”
Rudy grinned. “Sonofabitch. How did I know you were gonna say that?”
“C’mon, c’mon.”
“Okay.” He spread the folder, presented it to Packard. Beneath Charles Callan’s postcard, the stamp now clipped to it, was a page of DNA hashmarks in three side-by-side columns. The first two represented extractions from the bone and hair specimens. The other was from the back of the postage stamp. They were virtually identical. “Your postcard guy’s our sixteenth man. Definitely.”
The thrill Packard felt wasn’t surprise. The graphic confirmation, compounded by everything else, only made the whole thing more frighteningly real. He willed himself to remain calm, to block for awhile the overload of new questions, possibilities. He removed the postcard, handed the folder back to Rudy. “Thanks.”
Rudy searched his face. “That’s it? ‘Thanks?’ Hey, c’mon, pal – give. What’s the story? Who the hell was he? What was he doing in---?”
Packard held up a silencing hand. “All right...” He told Rudy what he knew, what he surmised.
“Holy shit. Still? After all this time? The crown jewels – what? And why wouldn’t they just youknow come and ask you for whatever it is?”
“I haven’t the foggiest. But – I’d guess it must be illegal. Money, stolen goods, the Secret Plans, who the hell knows?” Packard began sifting his mail.
“Jesus, man.”
Packard’s attention went to a crumpled-then-smoothed scrap of paper. On it was a note, pencilled in block letters:
MEET ME HANEY’S W/MS. NORRIS BETW 5 & 6. BACK BOOTH. THIS IS ABOUT #16. DO NOT CONTACT POLICE! OR TELL ANYONE!!!
Packard, with Kate beside him, wheeled the Cherokee into the roadhouse parking area. It was almost 6 PM. There were close to two dozen vehicles, mostly pickup trucks. A working-class hangout near the base of the mountain that rose at Borrego Junction’s eastern fringe, Haney’s served cold beer, generous drinks, adequate burgers and steaks.
Kate was edgy, less skeptical than Packard, both wondering how anyone knew she was in town. When he picked her up at the condo and gave her the news about the DNA results, she was shaken, began to sob. Packard had taken her in his arms, understanding that she was suddenly faced with the awesome possibility that what had begun so horrifically for her at age eleven might finally be nearing some form of resolution. And not necessarily one filled with sunlight and bluebirds. Enroute to Haney’s, he convinced her that she should wait in the Jeep, doors locked; the note-writer was at best probably a crank, at worst the man who cut him – or the slasher’s associate.
As Packard crossed to the entrance, he took no particular notice of the weatherbeaten camper-bodied International pickup truck. If he had, the tinted glass would have prevented him from seeing the woman behind the wheel.
More than half the barstools were in use, as were the two pool tables. Mostly men. Packard headed for the rear, past several booths, none of whose occupants glanced at him. The rear booths were vacant. Packard figured maybe he’d missed a signal. As he turned toward the front door, the woman from the camper entered, moved toward him. Graceful despite her years and extra weight, she was wearing a long skirt, silver-buckled Navajo boots, fringed vest. And sunglasses. As she neared him, he caught her telltale nod. She walked past him, turned into the short corridor leading to the restrooms. Packard waited for a count, then, trying to appear casual, he entered the corridor. The woman was nowhere in sight. At the far end was a door marked EXIT. He headed for it, but as he passed a utility room, a hand reached out, grabbed his uninjured right arm, pulled him inside.
The room was tiny, cramped, dark, musty, smelled of disinfectant. She quickly closed the door, lit the 40-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling. They were of necessity inches apart, surrounded by mops, buckets, containers of cleaning solution, boxes of cleanser, rolls of toilet paper. Packard recognized her perfume, the same scent that Kate wore. He started to speak, but she shushed him. Then, in an urgent whisper: “You know you’re being followed?”
“What---?” Packard lowered his voice. “...Who are you?”
“A black Lincoln and a blue Taurus. You’ll see them when you leave. Only I don’t think the people in the Lincoln know about the other guy. Now---”
“Whoa. Whoa. How do you know all this?”
“Because I’ve been following you since you got back to town yesterday---”
“Jesus.”
“This is no joke, Dr. Packard. These people – by now you know how far they’ll go. Listen to me carefully. The 7-11, out Aspen Road...?”
Packard nodded.
“Okay – a couple minutes after I leave, go get Miz Norris. Bring her in for a beer. Then after about ten minutes, drive out there, park in front, but not directly in front, and both of you go in...”
“But---”
She put her forefinger to her lips, quickly finished explaining what she wanted them to do. Then she slipped out, pulled the door shut. Packard didn’t move. The why’s, who’s, what-if’s were in a separate mind-compartment. In the other, this larger-than-life woman, who was either living in a bizarre fantasy world, or knew things that he desperately wanted to learn. For now, at least, he would try it her way. Cautiously.
EIGHTEEN
1963
Saturday, November 23rd
“...And Vicky Cooper hasn’t stopped crying all day. I mean everybody’s walking around like zombies.” For what seemed like an hour but was actually only seven minutes Phyllis had been droning about her and her friends’ reactions to John F. Kennedy’s assassination. She’d closed the shop early because everybody except LaVonne Swenson, who hated JFK, had cancelled their hair appointments, besides which Phyllis was simply in no condition to look at another scalpfull of black roots.
Charlie listened wearily, the phone clamped to his ear. He glanced at his wristwatch. 1:56. “Yeah. It’s a goddam shame alright.” He took another swig of the Lone Star he’d cadged, along with a pack of Camels, from the sleepy-but-fortunately-sympathetic proprietor when he checked into the Stay Awhile Motor Court. Little Vern had driven him the wordless mile-and-a-half, Charlie staring ahead, the envelope containing contact sheets and film negatives clutched in both hands.
The room was small but clean. The pictures were on the bed beside Charlie. He looked down at them, then quickly away, grabbed a cigarette, struck a match, as if by performing this little ritual, he might make them disappear. He shook the match, placed it in the nightstand ashtray, tried to get back into what Phyllis was talking about. She seemed to have switched topics.
“...Pins in the bone. But Emily says not to worry, the baby’s fine, that she’ll be home – well, at Emily’s, I mean – in a day or so...”
Charlie forced himself to remember what Phyllis had been saying. Lynnie had broken her ankle in a fall – that was it. She was in a Burbank hospital.
“...And she’s resting comfortably. Here, let me give you the number...”
Charlie reached for his pen, opened the matchbook, jotted the information.
Phyllis added that the hospital demanded payment upfront, so his mother advanced the money, but would need to be reimbursed the following week or she’d have to pay a late charge on her mortgage. “All I can say is, thank god this mysterious job you’re on came along when it did.”
Which Charlie more-or-less heard. Reluctantly he had placed one of the contact sheets under the nightstand-lamp, was again peering at it through his loupe. Hoping what – that it had gone away?
Sweet Jesus...
In maybe a dozen of the tiny photos – one of the four men partially blocking the camera-view of Marjorie and Joe Bob Millgrim. One of the men with rifles. The little guy. With the gun that was a dead-bang-ringer for the one they’d been showing on TV. The one they found in the Texas Book Depository, near the open window on the sixth floor. A 9 millimeter Mannlicher-Carcano with a scope.
And there he was, holding the da
mned thing. Slightly built, receding hairline, weak chin, the whole package. The fellow they arrested in the movie theater. The one they were saying killed JFK.
Lee Harvey Oswald.
Or his twin.
Seeing Oswald’s face on the TV back at Vern’s, Charlie thought he was hallucinating. That couldn’t be the guy he’d seen in his contact-prints. Stuff like that just – doesn’t happen. He’d raced out to his car for another look, oblivious to whatever the hell Vern was saying. And sure enough...
“Charlie...? Charlie? Are you there?”
So maybe I’ve got pictures of this Oswald and some other people. Or maybe I don’t. And if I do, so what?
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“So when’re you coming home?”
“Uh – two – three days. Listen, I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you.”
“God, I can’t believe you don’t have anything to say about poor Lynnie, or – or---”
“Good night, Phyl.” Charlie placed the phone in its cradle, but kept his hand on it. And stared at a piece of lint on the rug.
Okay. I’ve gotta do the right thing.
He picked up the phone, dialed the operator, requested Washington, D.C. information. A brief wait, then, pen poised above the backside of the contact sheet: “Yeah, the FBI. Main office.”
Charlie started to write the number, stopped two digits short of the end, hung up the phone.
What, am I nuts? Let’s say the Feds aren’t in it themselves – which with that fucking pantywaist prick Hoover they probably are – but suppose they weren’t part of it. So they don’t kill me. Okay, that’s good. But then they’re gonna ask questions about why I was taking the pictures in the first place, and about Marjorie and her stud. Whose body just turned up with a bullet in him – from my gun.
I don’t think so.
So...if I’m smart...
With resolve, Charlie rose from the bed, grabbed the wastebasket, dropped the contact sheets and negatives into it, reached for the book of matches, which he’d dropped next to his wallet on the nightstand. He tore out a match, struck it – then looked down at his wallet.
The Sixteenth Man Page 16