“Oh,” she says. “The old Mormon cemetery. Yeah, they found a few old bodies from the wagon train days. I’m sure they were taken to a university someplace to study. Sacramento has a good archeology department.”
“What about the recent bodies? Were they identified?”
“Didn’t hear anything about recent bodies,” she says. “Just old bones, but I don’t follow that kind of thing. I’m a baseball nut. You like the Yankees or the Red Sox?”
“I don’t follow sports.”
“Too bad. The Sox are going all the way this year.”
Something isn’t right. He saw greasy modern-era bodies laid out under an awning. There were some bones, but they’d had fillings in their teeth. He’d seen them. Or at least he thought he’d seen them. He’s seen other things that cannot be real.
“Oh. Hey Melanie, come in here.”
“What is it Kathy?”
“Tell Mr. Oswald about the cactus.”
“Your sister dropped it off,” Melanie says picking it up. “Yeah, here’s the card. See? She mentions your mother. I take is she’s dead. It’s comforting to know spirits watch over you. You never go anywhere alone when you have faith.”
Michael does not understand. “My sister? When was she here?”
“She came in last week. She’s a little thing.”
“Did she say she was my sister or was that inferred?”
“She acted like she knew you,” she said. “Held your hand, spoke to you, stayed for hours. And the card. I glanced at it when I took out the dead flowers.”
“What did she say to me?”
“Wasn’t she your sister?”
“I don’t think so. Maybe a half-sister. Maybe.”
“Well, I didn’t hear what she whispered to you. I just saw her talking. She was concerned for you. That was clear.”
“What did she look like?”
“Small. I remember that,” she says. “Darker hair than yours. I think. You know, I don’t remember much else. We get a lot of people visiting and it was a while ago. Faces all blend together.”
“Okay,” he says. “Thanks.”
Melanie hustles out toward a buzzer down the hall.
“Girlfriend?” Kathy asks.
“I have no friends.”
“You have me.” She forces a smile into her eyes.
He considers this for a moment, but only a moment. He’ll be forgotten the second he’s out of the hospital. He’s only a passing patient, another face in the crowd, like his “sister”—transient, forgettable, invisible. He smiles at her in thanks, however, offering her the accustomed response to a polite lie, confident he’ll forget her just as quickly.
A green clad orderly arrives with a wheelchair and his final discharge papers. He smells of bleach, which he knows is a cover for worse things.
“Good luck, Mr. Oswald,” says the nurse.
“I can walk out,” Michael tells the orderly.
“I can’t let you do that,” he says. “I have to wheel you out. It’s a rule. We don’t want you suing us if you fall down the stairs or something.”
“Whatever,” he says and climbs in. He hands back the signed paperwork.
“You heading south?” asks the orderly making small-talk.
“Don’t know where I’m headed,” Michael says. He’s anxious to be alone, get behind the wheel of his car and drive across a desert, falling into that hypnotic reverie long, lonely drives always provide.
“Too early for the south,” the orderly says in the lobby. The space is big, clean, orange, and bright. It speaks of professional decorating and Feng Shui, but the illusion of competence and happy endings is challenged by a group of weeping people in a corner surrounding a fidgeting doctor trying to find something to do with his hands
Outside is the smell of heat, dry and ashes.
“That’s in the fall,” continues the orderly. “Lots of good hunting still. Well here you go.”
“Thanks,” Michael says standing up and fishing his keys out of his pocket.
“Good luck, Josh,” says the orderly before disappearing back inside.
Chapter Fourteen
His phone isn’t just dead, it’s been shut off. After a charge from his car’s lighter, he reads his last messages, three about the imminent disconnection of his phone and a last one providing 24-hour notice before termination. All are two weeks old.
It doesn’t bother him. Who does he have to call? Carla? That ship is long gone. Roy? Fuck him and his job. His kids? Ships on their own courses. His social worker? Now there’s a possibility.
He points his car up I-15 aiming back to the Salt Lake valley with a purpose of finding someone who might know what he’s forgotten.
I-15 and 93 share certain characteristics, lanes and lines, traffic north and south, but they are as different as a wedding is to a wake. There are no long stretches where he sees no other car, no quiet out of the way rest stops, deserted and lonely like on the highways he’s been traversing all summer. Luckily for him, most of the traffic is heading south, toward Vegas and the weekend.
He falls behind a row of a dozen semis roaring northward. It is a modern caravan, or the closest thing to it in this day and age. Because of speed, it’s short-lived compared to its ancient counterparts. The momentary fellowship of the road is discarded when a passing lane appears and each jockeys to lead the pack probably because, like the old Iditarod saying goes, if you’re not the lead dog, the view never changes. However, for a little while at least, they travel together with a shared purpose and wind stream. That is enough to join them today, but it was not always the case. From somewhere deep in his childhood, Michael remembers stories of grand caravans with camels and treasure traveling the ancient highways, the silk roads between oases of water and safety. Then, people grouped together for security and defense more than for fellowship. Danger lurked around every corner, animals and hungry beggars, highwaymen and thieves. These threats don’t exist in the same way today where commerce rolls at eighty-five miles per hour.
The American road system is safe. Everyone knows it. Everyone except those who know better, like Michael, who saw bodies pulled from the ground.
He thinks of Isaac Lowe. No one’s confirmed to him that it was his body found in a grave at Crystal Springs, but he knows it was. As surely as he’d known the body would be there and other bodies besides. He knows also, generally speaking, how Isaac Lowe got to be planted in the ground there. He had lowered his guard to a friendly face that lead to a chance meeting where, deceived again and lured to a secret place, he was ruthlessly killed for his cargo.
A clean, simple kill. A good kill. A righteous kill. His was a good death.
He thinks these things calmly and with eerie pride, and that bothers him. Where, he wonders, are his middle-class sensibilities? This is not how he was raised.
He switches on the radio for distraction, to erase the morbid visions and sympathies polluting his mind.
“We are all born of clay,” says the radio. “God made us all in His image from the earth of Eden. We are all His children, but only the blessed are truly of God.”
The radio is still tuned to the religious channel Craig left it on. The sound is strong even this far out in the desert, the AM signal breaking to static only occasionally. The speaker has a deep voice twanged with a southern drawl common a thousand miles east and south of here but alien to Michael’s Midwestern ears.
“This is at the root of the sacrament of baptism,” the man says. “But baptism is only an invitation to the Lord. You must accept God into your heart, open yourself to the spirit, be born again unto Him to be truly of God. Once you have done this, once you have accepted God as your God, you are forever held to a higher purpose.”
The light makes its illusions of water on the road, lies of cool comfort on the desert plain. He lets the radio play and watches the water disappear when approached.
“Though you may stray and shun the ways of the Lord in later years when the spirit does no
t burn as brightly in your bosom as it did that glorious day when you gave yourself wholly unto the Him, do not be deceived. Should you trespass against the Lord, ignore the sacred rites and ways and righteousness, you will be judged more harshly than those not of God. For in your heart, you know better. You are not of the common man. Though made of earth like the rest, you have the breath of God within you. You are chosen and beloved of God forever. Amen.”
He doesn’t know how long the cruiser has been following him, nor how long its lights have been on. It’s only when the siren blares that Michael takes notice and sees the squad car practically parked on his bumper.
He checks his speed. Eighty. Five miles over the limit but still slower than the traffic around him. He pulls to the side of the road.
He’s in Utah now, north of St. George, but the car is Clark County Sheriff from Las Vegas. They are well out of their jurisdiction.
Michael watches the police car through his side window mirror and waits. He knows his registration is current but double-checks it anyway as he gets it out of the glove box. His license is worn from traveling in his wallet but it’s still good for another three months. Michael rolls down his window preparing to hand over the documents, but the cop doesn’t get out his car.
Michael waits five minutes and is about to get out and approach the cop when a white sedan pulls up behind it. Only then does the cop get out. He’s met by a black man, a bureaucrat. Michael knows the type by his wide-striped polyester tie and cheap suit. They shake hands, and then it all comes into focus. They’re joined from the passenger side of the white sedan by Agent Hall of the FBI.
The uniformed policeman finally walks up to Michael’s window.
Michael drops his license and registration on the seat. He knows he won’t need them.
“Will you step out of the car please?” asks the cop through the window. He’s standing behind the driver’s door, just peeking into the window, ready and braced should Michael kick the door open or come out shooting. He moves back a step when Michael opens the door and gets out.
Michael notices the cop’s hand resting on the butt of his pistol while he follows him to the waiting white sedan.
“You left Vegas pretty quick,” says agent Hall.
Michael doesn’t say anything.
Two fiberglass RVs speed past three feet from them going ninety miles-per-hour and burning their brakes at the sudden sight of a police car.
“What?” says Hall.
Michael shakes his head.
“Let’s talk over there,” says the other one, the one in the cheap suit. He walks down the gravelly berm below the lip of the highway, leaving the Nevada cop to wait in his car.
Away from the road, Michael says, “Who’re you?”
“He’s agent Blake from Homeland Security,” says Hall. Hall’s suit is better, but the FBI didn’t get the memo about striped ties either.
“You didn’t call,” says Blake.
“Was I supposed to?”
“Did you get our cards?”
Michael shrugs.
“We have to talk to you about Crystal Springs,” Blake explains.
“I told Hall here everything I know. I told him five or six times if I remember correctly. I told him enough times to make me sick. I told him enough times to put me in a fucking coma for a month. Why do I need to tell it again? Am I under arrest? Under terrorist suspicion?”
“You don’t have to talk, Oswald,” says Hall. “How about you listen?”
A semi pulling cattle blows by in a cloud of earthy stench. Even fifteen feet from the highway, three feet below the road, the smell causes them all to cover their faces.
“I’ve been out of the loop.” Michael is the first to speak. He’s used to the smell of bullshit. He knows there’s more coming. “Was it Isaac Lowe you pulled out of the desert?”
Hall answers through the cloth of his tie held over his nose. “Yes, it was Lowe.”
“Who were the others?”
“Mormon pioneers from 1850,” says Blake. “Oh, and some Indians.”
“Native-Americans,” Michael says. “You should be more sensitive.”
“Mormons and Indians,” he says. “From cowboy days.”
“1850?”
“There about.”
“They had bell bottoms in 1850? Pacemakers? Nike running shoes?”
“That’s what we’re here to talk about,” says Hall.
“It’s what we’re here to tell ya’,” says Blake. The cattle smell lingers.
“We found bodies from an 1850 wagon train. We did. Three of the bodies were from 1850. The Ind—Native Americans were from even earlier.”
“How many weren’t from the good ol’ cowboy days?”
“There was Mr. Lowe, of course.”
“How many?”
Hall glances at Blake who shrugs.
“We pulled eighty-seven bodies out of the ground before we gave up,” Hall says.
“Before you gave up? You mean you could have kept going?”
“Did ya’ get a visit from the governor’s office, Mr. Oswald?” asks Blake.
“I saw a card with the others. I assumed it was a get-well note. Like yours.”
“I’ll play straight with you Oswald,” says Hall. “I told you how many bodies we dug up. That number isn’t widely known. The official story is “at least four.” That’s how we’re going to keep it. That’s how we like it. The governor—”
Blake interrupts. “The Governor and Federal Agencies don’t want what happened—what was found at Crystal Springs—to spread panic or undermine the security of the nation.”
“So it is a big deal?” Michael says. “The nurses at the hospital had barely heard of it.”
“That means counter-psy-ops is working,” says Blake.
“You’re too much,” says Michael. “I feel like I’ve walked into a Bond film.”
“Oswald, Mr. Blake and his people are serious. Do you understand what we’re asking? What we’re telling you? You better, because if you don’t we’ll have to take you someplace where we can better explain it.”
“Gitmo?” Michael says it as a joke, but nobody even blinks.
“It’s not any of your business any more, is it?” asks Blake. “You’re unemployed.”
“You had something to do with that?”
“No,” says Hall. “Take off your tin-foil hat. We heard about it from your partner, Craig McCallister.”
“Ya’ can’t talk about it,” says Blake making it clear.
“By “it” I assume you mean the biggest modern mass grave ever discovered in the United States.”
“It’s not that.”
“There’ve been bigger?”
Blake looks away.
“What? These things are common? You just hush them up?”
“Oswald, why did I know you’d be a problem? Everyone else involved in this understands. It’s not good for the country. It’s not good for travel, or the economy, or for anybody to go around thinking they can be killed at any time.”
“But they can. We all can.”
“That’s true,” says Blake with menace.
“Yes,” says Hall, keeping up his good cop as best he can. “But we don’t need to be reminded of it. This kind of thing, the scale of it is… is…”
“Unsettling,” supplies Blake.
“Do I have to sign something?” says Michael.
“No, your word is good enough.”
“Who would I tell anyway?”
“The press,” says Hall. “The internet. Your wife, Carla.”
“Was that a threat?” Michael says. “I thought Blake was playing bad cop. Get your roles straight.”
“Oswald, we’ve come a long way to talk to ya’ in person.” His tie flutters in the traffic’s breeze. “We’re tired and a little impatient. The officer will escort you to a jail cell if ya’ need time to think about what a help you’d be to your country and neighbors if ya’ supported law enforcement.”
; “Eighty-seven bodies and no one’s supposed to notice?”
“There’s been some notice. There’s even a man-hunt for the suspects you flushed out with McCallister at the truck stop.”
“What? I don’t have proof anyone did anything,” he says. “It was a hunch.”
“Your hunch led to Crystal Springs,” Hall says. From the tone in his voice Michael senses that the FBI agent would be happier if he hadn’t found the graves.
“They’re wanted for questioning,” Blake says. “Persons of interest.”
“Do you have a name?”
“No. Only the grainy video you saw in Ely.”
“You’ve been looking for them for four weeks?”
Hall nods.
“And nothing?
“Nothing,” he says. “It’ll die down soon.”
“Did you tell Mrs. Lowe about her husband? Assurity Insurance? Ross Shipping?”
“Of course,” Blake says.
“The bounty is still up, by the way,” says Hall.
“Figured.” Michael rubs his eyes. It’s too bright. “It was never about the driver.”
“No.”
“So the other eighty-six? You just going to pretend they don’t exist?”
“Are ya’ getting indignant, Oswald?” asks Blake.
“Mister Oswald,” Michael says. “And no, I’m not. They’re dead. Not much you can do for them. I’m just curious.”
“You’re pretty cynical.”
“We’re making identifications,” Hall says. “We have people on this. Families will be notified, missing person sheets updated. This is a major crime scene. It won’t be ignored at the right levels. Everything will fall into place.”
“Just not all at once. Or publicly.”
“Right. Now ya’ get it.”
The smell of dung remains in the air, but Michael can tolerate it. He has his whole life.
“Thanks for your cooperation, Mr. Oswald,” says Blake. “You’re a patriot.” He turns and heads back toward the road.
Hall offers Michael another one of his business cards.
“Were they all strangled?” asks Michael.
The question stops Blake mid-step up the berm and he stumbles. He catches himself but doesn’t look back. He reaches the crest and goes over.
What Immortal Hand Page 12