“I’m going back to Gallup now,” I said. “I’ll be staying at the El Rancho Hotel, which is a very cool place. When they were shooting those early western movies, the stars all stayed there.”
Finally, Dabley said in his gravelly voice, “I’ll give him your message.”
“And listen, somebody make a better plan this time. Do a decent job on it. And the trust will have to flow in this direction.”
As he drove away, terror seized me for the first time. Claudia was missing, and I was going to find my brother. I had been right; he really was alive. I crossed the parking lot and held on to Tyrell as if he were a life buoy. He seemed surprised but put his arms around me. “It’ll be okay. Whatever it is.”
I raced back to Shawnee, threw my belongings together as fast as I could, and headed toward Albuquerque, calling Estelle on the way just so I could hear her voice. I didn’t explain anything but asked her to put Momma on the phone. My mother jabbered in my ear, “The yellow dog. I once had a dog that ate peanuts.”
I started to sob, and Estelle took the phone back. “Ellen, what is going on? You sound awful.”
“Nothing. I’m just homesick. Really, really homesick.” I hung up before she could question me. Next, I called Sister Irene and left the message that I was on my way back to New Mexico. I was going to stay in Gallup tonight, but I needed to see Ruby in the morning.
The Oklahoma Visitors’ Center seemed like a safe enough place to stop, so I went inside, said hello to a nice lady, and hid in a bathroom stall, where I composed my first text message on a cell phone. I hated the tiny buttons. In AA I had learned that, if I write an important letter, I should wait a day to send it, so I promised myself I would not send this message yet. Blake, I am so grateful for your being in my life. I need to tell you that I do seem to be in love with you, or whatever it is. A real connection. I’m not sure I can say this any other way, but okay, I give up, I yield. Since I had finally grasped the fact that I might die in this situation, I added, I’ve had a wonderful life.
7
The speed limit was seventy, the Lincoln rode rough but steady, and the retrofitted FM radio worked reasonably well. I passed the rest of the drive back to New Mexico listening to country music and fundamentalist Christian stations.
Rock of ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in thee.
Jesus seemed like a pretty good idea at the moment. But the hours of driving exhausted my fear, and on the outskirts of Gallup I came to my senses and erased the text to Blake on my phone, replacing it with I’ll be in Gallup in twenty minutes. He immediately replied: Meet me at Earl’s.
Earl’s Restaurant was about a mile down the strip. Blake stood on the curb, his hands thrust into the pockets of his windbreaker, his face lined with anxiety. “Where did you get this?” he said absently, patting the fender of the Lincoln after I pulled to the curb. Then he wrapped his arms hard around me. “Stay calm,” he said, “but Claudia’s been hurt. Her father left for Oklahoma on a chartered plane a few hours ago. I waited to tell you.”
He released me and held on to both my hands. We stared into each other’s eyes like a pair of scared teenagers.
“Ellen, the FBI is now insisting that you work directly with them. They’ll protect you. You were right that your brother is alive.”
“I’ve had a long drive to think about all of this, Blake. I did get very scared, but I don’t believe I’m on anybody’s list as dangerous. Tell me what happened to Claudia.”
Claudia had been found lying beside her rental car on a dirt road in the Ozarks, forty miles north of Elohim City. Her jaw was broken, and she was unconscious. As beatings go, it had not been dreadful. She had not been raped, but someone had used a small blade to write JEW onto her forehead and carve ZOG into her arm.
“This is my fault,” I said, beginning to hyperventilate.
He still held on to my hands. “Ellen, look at me.”
Gasping, I looked into his face.
“Keep looking at me.”
I held on to his ordinary face and began to quiet down.
“You need to hear me right now. None of this is your fault. These are very bad people we’re dealing with.”
My breathing slowed to the panting stage. “She’s going to be okay?”
“That’s not clear yet. The main problem was the force of the blow to her face. Somebody hit her hard enough to break the bone. She’ll be in intensive care until she’s conscious and they’re sure they have any consequences under control. She does have quite a concussion, that’s for sure.”
A fresh wave of panic broke over me, but I controlled my breathing. “It’s my fault.”
“No, Ellen, this was about her. Their fury was about the piece she wrote in the New York Times. They left a note in her car about Jews and ZOG media, and they even mentioned the name of her article, ‘The Tomb of the Unknown Racist.’ But they spelled it T-O-M-E.”
“Really? These are people who read the Sunday Times Magazine?”
“They’re not all idiots, and they do have communications networks.”
I let go of his hands and turned toward the restaurant. “Let’s get off the damn street. I’m not sure what to do next. Maybe that’s why Dabley showed up after the AA meeting. Maybe they were planning to teach both Claudia and me some manners.”
“What are you talking about?”
He followed me in, and we settled into a booth with vinyl seats as shredded as the leather in my new ride. “I didn’t want to tell you this until I got here. Claude Dabley, the man who set Ruby up with the cave disaster, showed up after my noon AA meeting in Oklahoma City today. I told you, somebody has been watching me all along. Dabley wanted me to come with him. He claimed that Royce wants to see me, and he tried to convince me to get into his car.”
“Do you think it’s possible Royce is in Oklahoma?”
“I don’t see how. I think it must be true that he’s got physical mobility problems, and Oklahoma would be too close to Magnus. Having Claude Dabley show up scared the hell out of me. For all I know, his connection is with Magnus or with Elohim City, and this Royce-wants-to-meet-his-grandchildren scenario wasn’t even connected directly to my brother. Maybe it was all a setup. Maybe it was a way to try to draw Royce out of hiding. Or maybe you were right, and Royce is dead. I don’t know how to figure anything out. I did realize I might be in big trouble now. Claudia was missing, and Dabley was standing by my car.”
“Ellen, you’ll have to let the FBI protect you until this situation is under control. They’re going to let my friend be your point person. He’s the one who works in the office here. His name is Wally Furman. I trust him.”
“I’m surprised Claudia drove straight to the Ozarks. Even I wouldn’t do that alone. She’s got more courage than sense.”
“Well, you seem to be her role model.”
“Here’s what I’m willing to do, Blake. It’s what I told Dabley. I’ll check into the El Rancho and wait. I don’t care how your friend Wally decides to handle it. He can keep my room bugged and my car under surveillance, he can tie a fucking ribbon to my arm, but I’m staying at the El Rancho, and tomorrow morning I’m going to the prison to see Ruby. I’ll stay with Saint Irene tomorrow night because I need to talk to her. I’ll be back at the El Rancho first thing the next morning. And after that, whenever I leave the hotel, it will only be to go to AA or to Earl’s Restaurant or to the casino.”
“Can’t you skip this trip to the prison? Why is it necessary? Can’t you just stay here for the time being?”
“I need to talk to Sister Irene. I’m not sure why. And I want to talk to Ruby again.”
Wally, it turned out, sat nearby, watching us. Blake signaled him to come over. “Blake, you hold hands with girls in front of your friends?”
“Please drop the macho act,” Blake said. “I get so tired of it sometimes.”
Wally Furman was about our age, mid or late fifties, but he was taller, tanner, fitter, and his hair was silver. “Yo
u look like a movie star,” I said, shaking his hand. “Do you put something on your hair?”
He ignored my question and said he had just gotten word that Claudia was conscious. She hadn’t recognized the man and woman who attacked her, but she was certain that the perpetrator hadn’t been Joe Magnus. They had been a young couple, early twenties, maybe even late teens.
Wally left to make his arrangements at the El Rancho, but our meat loaf specials arrived, and Blake and I hurried to eat dinner. Then I walked him to my new ride so he could follow me back to the hotel. “What’s this?” He touched the fender.
“I like old cars. After my rental car got busted up, I won some cash playing craps.” He didn’t say anything. “You know, Blake, it doesn’t take a lot of money to buy cars like this. It mostly takes nerve and a Triple A card.”
“Why are they called ‘suicide doors’?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they were dangerous since both doors open from the middle. As a style, it was soon discontinued.”
“I guess that made it easier to get into the backseat. Like it did for the Kennedys.”
“Why are you going back to Oklahoma? Aren’t you still the police chief of Gallup, New Mexico, in the United States of America?”
“If I don’t go see Claudia, you’ll sneak away and go yourself. I know you’re safe here.”
8
Wally Furman’s rich voice complemented his silvery hair. He now wore sweats and running shoes, and, if he hadn’t displayed a gun in a shoulder holster, I might have thought he was an ordinary guest. “You’re going to be staying in the Lana Turner room,” he said.
“Fine with me. I’ve been there before. Imitation of Life is one of my favorite movies. How long have you known Blake?”
“Since the Academy.”
I tried to get him to say more, but he’d seen all those movies in which agents are handsome and taciturn.
We walked up the stairs to the Lana Turner. “We chose this room,” he said quietly, “because it’s in the open, not down a hallway, and the ones on either side are empty. We’ll keep them that way.” He showed me where microphones were embedded under the table lamp and above the bathroom door, and he programmed my cell phone to reach him by punching #1, Blake #2, and 911 on #3.
“Listen, I don’t agree with you that I’m in any danger. I just got rattled by Dabley showing up. If Magnus wanted to hurt me, he would have done it when he had the chance, and these people with Claudia seem like freelancers. Are there more reasons to be frightened that you’re not telling me?”
“We think there might be other loose cannons around. There’s a grapevine out there, and, like your reporter friend, you are not popular. It would be much better if you skipped this trip to the prison tomorrow, but we’ll be right behind you.”
“And, of course, you want me to find my brother for you. Also, Joe Magnus.”
“Magnus has already been picked up and is in custody. But we think your brother may try to contact you again. We want to protect you, and, yes, we do hope to find him.”
“Magnus is in custody. How remarkable that they found him so suddenly, don’t you think? Has it occurred to you, Wally, that there might be people in BATF or even the FBI who already know where my brother is too? And who knew that they’d have to pick up Magnus now?”
“I hope you won’t be offended by this, Miss Burns, but you do seem paranoid about the government. It’s understandable in your situation, but not realistic.”
“Paranoia seems like a pretty sensible response. The FBI had a file on me. Have you talked to Ed Blake about this mess?”
“Blake and I don’t agree on many things, but if there were problems in either agency before—and I’m not saying there were—they have been cleaned up long since.”
“I’m glad you believe that, Special Agent Furman. Have you ever heard of the Cassandra myth? She could see the future, but nobody would ever believe her. I feel a lot like Cassandra.”
He waited for me to say more, as if he were a shrink with a client.
“Okay, you’re a lot brighter than Special Agent Mintern was,” I said. “But come down to the lobby with me, and let’s work that old player piano. I love that thing. Also, I want to tell you a story.”
The cavernous lobby of the El Rancho was dominated by its large winding staircase. The dark wood stairs and floors were carpeted with Navaho rugs. The chandeliers and sconces cast an amber glow, and next to the antique player piano was a four-foot-tall amethyst geode on a stand. Black-and-white photographs of movie stars lined many walls.
“Think of this story as a parable,” I said, while Patsy Cline sang to us. “It’s about a key. When I first got sober, I was not trustworthy, but my mother still let me keep a key to her condo. Then somehow I lost it. You have to understand that my mother’s key was serious business. We were staying at her beach house, a little cottage on a lake north of town. She wasn’t scared at the beach house, but in Charleston, in her condo, she lived in fear, behind walls and gates with a guardhouse. The lake was very big, eleven miles across. It was nighttime when I realized the key was gone. I walked out onto the dock. There were lights at the end of the dock that shined down into the water, and sometimes I saw big fish down there. That night I saw a largemouth bass swimming slowly around one of the poles. I prayed, although I didn’t know how to pray, and I didn’t understand yet that praying for specific outcomes is a mistake. I mean, of course you can pray for specific things, like ‘Please, God, don’t let my sister die horribly’ or ‘God, give me a parking space,’ but that kind of prayer is spiritually problematic. So, I’m out there on the dock saying, ‘God, God, God, let me find the key. She’ll hate me for this, and it will scare her so much she’ll have to change the lock, and I’ve hurt her so much already. Please let me find the key.’ Then I went into the house to confess, but first I had an overwhelming desire to eat sugar. So, I go to the kitchen cabinet and drag down this big bag of hard candies. I’m digging way down because I want a cinnamon piece and they’re the scarcest ones, and then, at the very bottom of the bag, what do I find but the key to my mother’s condo? The lost key. So, was that a coincidence or was it the result of my prayer?”
He didn’t answer, just gave me that quiet attention, so I continued. “I think this is probably the explanation. I must have reached into that bag before, although I had no memory of doing so, and I must have had the key in my hand when I reached in, and I must have dropped it there. So, after I prayed and went to eat sugar, my hand knew where the key was. My hand knew, not me. That’s why I’ll be able to find my brother now. Something will pull me toward him, or pull him toward me. I just have to wait and trust.”
“That’s certainly an interesting way to think,” Wally Furman said.
“Nah,” I said, “it’s loony, but it’ll work, you’ll see.”
9
The next morning Furman followed me to the 8:00 A.M. meeting on Persimmon Street. Several months ago, when I’d first gone to this meeting, an elderly Native American woman named Nilda had given me her phone number, and last night I’d called her from the Lana Turner room. I offered to come to where she was, but she said she would rather join me at the morning meeting.
When I arrived a few minutes late (I still wasn’t used to parking the Lincoln), I saw that she’d saved a place beside her in the chairs along the wall. I sat next to her for the rest of the meeting and studied her hands. Her fingers were short, her palms wide, her amber skin hairless and dry. She rested her hands quietly in the lap of her skirt, and I wanted to touch them. She was a heavy woman who did not fidget. On both of her wrists were turquoise and silver Navaho bracelets that fit as if they’d been made for her.
I listened vaguely to the meeting. My first sponsor had taught me always to listen for one useful phrase or idea, and, if I found that one thing, I had spent my hour well. A young woman said, “I can always ask a better question. The better question always is ‘What might be good about this situation?’ Sometimes I have to ask th
at over and over. What might be good about this situation?”
After the meeting, Nilda and I walked across the road and sat on a sunny wooden bench near the train station. I’m sure Furman remained unhappily close by, but this was the spot Nilda chose. First, we exchanged basics: She had eleven years sobriety, I had eighteen. I was five years older—she was only forty-nine—which surprised me.
“I know a little about your niece,” she said. “After you were here before, I tried to pay more attention to the news. Your niece killed her children, and she is going to receive a life sentence, yes?” When I nodded, she said, “How can I help you? Are you having trouble with your sobriety?”
“Not with my physical sobriety. With my emotional sobriety. I’m high-strung anyway, and I keep feeling like there’s something more I should be doing about Ruby and her children and my brother. I keep thinking I am in some way responsible for what has happened, but I don’t even know why I think that.”
“Perhaps that is your ego. Your ego wants you to matter more, yes?”
“Maybe. But these are my blood relatives.”
She stroked one of her bracelets. “Powerlessness over water is our greatest difficulty here. We can irrigate and choose crops that don’t require much water, but we cannot refill the aquifer.”
I let this advice, if it was advice, settle in. “You’re Navaho?”
“No, Zuni and Nogalu.”
I wanted to touch her arm, but instead I touched the other bracelet.
“I love the Navaho designs,” she said. “My first husband was Navaho.”
“This is my real question, Nilda. Am I my brother’s keeper?”
She smiled, her teeth white against her bronze skin. “You imagine you will accept my view, yes?”
“I just want your opinion. Your sober, human opinion.”
Her laughter grew loud and astounded. “This is my sober, human opinion: I don’t know.”
Before I left for the prison, I dropped the top on the Lincoln, striped my cheekbones and nose with zinc oxide, and pulled my Charleston cap down to shade my eyes. I was wearing cut-offs and sandals and an ARMY shirt with the sleeves torn out, and I carried the trout bag, into which I had stuffed underwear and a toothbrush.
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