by Joe Nobody
“Not many people know I have my instrumentation rating,” Foster bragged, strutting toward the fancy flying machine. “I got bored a few years ago and decided to take some lessons. I wish I had logged more hours by now, but given today's events, I think I’ll take my chances in the air.”
“You’re letting him go?” Kit asked, unable to remain silent any longer.
“Yes, I cut a deal with him. He’s going to enter the witness protection program… sort of. Mr. Foster will be officially pronounced dead tomorrow, and he’s promised to disappear. In exchange for his freedom, he has restored the electrical grid and instructed Gravity Well to erase itself. I thought that given the circumstances, it was a pretty fair bargain.”
Kit started to protest, but then paused. Griffin was right; this arrangement was probably the best outcome anybody could ask for. If they arrested Foster and put him on trial, others would eventually try to create their own Gravity Well. The man could afford a platoon of lawyers, and the whole thing would end up a media circus that would accomplish little more than to further divide an already wounded country.
“You’re a smart man with a lot of resources, Mr. Foster,” Kit nodded. “If I ever hear from you again, I’ll personally have you arraigned on so many felony charges it will take the court a week just to read the complaint.”
“And if I ever hear of anything like Gravity Well rearing its ugly head again, sir, I’ll personally hunt you down and kill you where you stand,” Griffin added.
Nodding, William reached out to shake both of their hands. “I’m off to the islands,” he explained. “I own the entire chain. I fully intend to live out the rest of my life combing the beaches and fishing. Good luck to both of you.”
With that, he pivoted, opened the jet’s door, and unfolded the stairs. Griffin and Kit ambled toward the wall and punched a large, red button. The huge hangar door began to move.
The couple returned to the waiting police car, Griffin removing his cell phone from his pocket.
“Jerry,” he began after his call was answered. “It’s time for you and Colonel Lopez to enter the building. We have firm intel that the building is not manned. Both of you should follow your orders.”
“Gotcha,” the local marshal replied. “And just in the nick of time. Our military buddy was getting a little antsy. We’ll coordinate efforts and enter the complex right away.”
After he disconnected the call, Griffin looked up to see that Kit was alarmed. “Are you sure that was the right move?”
William had been certain that all evidence of Gravity Well would be destroyed within five minutes of an unauthorized entry. “Yes, I’m certain that is the right move,” Marshal Storm acknowledged.
Kit’s mood was brightened by more than just the perfect, blue sky outside. In addition to the glorious Saturday morning, Griffin had insisted on a date. “Let’s go hiking,” he had suggested. “I know the perfect spot not far away.”
Glancing at her watch, she noted there was just enough time to finish her yogurt smoothie and catch a little of the news. She needed a distraction.
Griffin had been out of town for the past 10 days. “I’m cleaning up some of this Gravity Well business on the hush, hush,” he had told her. Kit had been surprised at how much she missed seeing him, how the few phone calls he’d managed had made her heart race.
Shaking her head to avoid journeying down that path, she switched on the television and flipped to a cable news station.
“Our top story this morning comes out of Washington, DC,” the anchorman began. “In a stunning turn of events, Attorney General Sawyer announced his resignation less than a year after being confirmed for his appointment by the Senate. The Republican is the second senior White House staff member to leave in the last two weeks, following General Honeycutt’s announced retirement just a few days ago. Unconfirmed sources claim both men have left at the president’s request, apparently due to the backlash from the Gravity Well terrorist attack.
“Also, Foster Technologies has released additional information regarding that attack, citing an unknown security fault in its software products. According to a corporate spokesman, the company has issued a patch for the glitch that led to the shutdown of every power grid in the United States, all under the guise of an artificial intelligence system that most experts say was nothing more than a false front. Several of those responsible for the attack died in a shootout with law enforcement just outside Seattle. The FBI is still investigating.
“In a connected story, we mourn the death of a pioneer in the big business of software and one of the world’s wealthiest men. The founder of Foster Technologies, Mr. William Foster, was apparently a casualty of the terrorist attack as well. According to an FBI spokesman, Mr. Foster had been held hostage by that same terrorist organization to insure he did not assist federal authorities.”
“Now, moving on to the local weather, our meteorologist Daisy Sommers says we are in for an unseasonably mild weekend….”
Shutting off the television, Kit meandered to her apartment window and watched for Griffin to arrive. She had been overwhelmingly busy since the Gravity Well incident and had reverted to old habits. One side of the sink was full of dishes, her living room strewn with research material from her office, a basket of clean laundry on the kitchen island. She didn’t want the marshal seeing her place in its current, cluttered condition.
He was on time, pulling into a guest spot at exactly 9 a.m. Before he could even cut the engine, Kit bounced down the stairs with her hiking boots and backpack in tow.
“Morning!” she greeted, noticing instantly that Griff appeared to be in an equally good mood. “How are you healing? You sure you are up to this little jaunt today?” she teased.
“The hand still hurts a little,” he reported. “I hardly notice the arm. And Ms. Carson, today is just a walk in the park,” he retorted.
“Where are we going?” she asked. “You were very mysterious over the phone.”
Shrugging, he responded, “A special place… a little off the beaten path. I think we’ll have a wonderful day.”
They drove east out of El Paso on I-10, entering a region known as the Trans-Pecos, stopping in a sleepy town for brunch. The terrain outside Kit’s window was arid, dotted with sparse vegetation and dark, angry-looking mountains.
Despite the foreboding landscape, Kit enjoyed their time together. The sky was a cheery blue; she had the weekend in her heart and her bare feet propped up on the dash.
Almost two hours out of the city, Griffin turned south on a remote, two-lane highway. A billboard at the intersection offered, “Scenic Fort Davis” as the upcoming attraction.
“Fort Davis?” she inquired.
“Quaint little village, but we’re not going that far. There’s a place I know before we reach town. It’s a stunning hike. You’ll like it.”
Forty minutes after leaving the interstate, and a couple of county roads later, Griffin pulled into a dirt lane, the metalwork sign over the road announcing they had entered Limpia Valley Ranch.
The vegetation was greener here, Griffin’s car navigating the narrow lane as Kit studied the sheer walls of black volcanic rock. The canyon floor was speckled with emerald patches of short oak and ferns. It was a diverse, almost contradicting landscape that held the eye. Not having spotted another home, driveway, or sign of humanity for miles, the prosecutor cherished the unspoiled beauty of the countryside. Rather than seeing it as isolated and primitive, she found it romantic and intriguing. To Kit, this was an adventure.
They approached a single-story ranch house, a broad front porch running the length of the modest structure, accented by rectangular flower boxes that helped to separate the refined space from the untamed yard. She noted the charming metal roof, a worn saddle on the rail, and three lengths of lasso-rope hanging from a porch post. A tired, wooden barn was situated behind the home, its tin roof rusty, the plank walls in desperate need of paint.
An old ma
n sat in a metal chair on the porch, rings of sweat stains announcing that his western hat had paid its dues.
He rose to greet them, throwing a friendly, halfhearted wave and casting a smile that deepened the wrinkles on his face. “Now, there is a true cowboy,” Kit decided. “The real deal.”
“Come on, I’ll introduce you,” Griffin responded, throwing the transmission into park.
“Cord Doporto, this is Ms. Katherine Carson, a.k.a. Kit Carson,” Griffin grinned.
“Welcome to Chihuahuan,” the ancient rancher smiled. “You are welcome here anytime, for any reason.”
“Cord’s family has owned this property since the mid-1800s with no sign of that changing anytime soon,” Griffin continued. “How many grandchildren do you have now, Cord?”
“Sixteen… with another on the way,” the old-timer boasted. “Plus, three great-grandchildren.” The guests declined an offer of refreshments, Griffin anxious to start their hike. “You’ve got wonderful weather for it,” the rancher noted, scanning the horizon.
Ten minutes later, Griffin hoisted his sizable pack while Kit laced her hiking boots. “Do you have plenty of water?” he checked for the second time.
“Asked and answered,” she grinned. “Yes, I have plenty of water, power bars, and spare socks. This isn’t my first time on a trail.”
For the next 20 minutes, Griffin led them on a switchback trail that snaked upward slowly into the Davis Mountains. Playing the role of the tour guide, he pointed here and there at local shrubs, herbs or moss. “The Indians would grind up the roots and use this as a salve for wounds,” he would say.
“What tribe of Indians lived around here?” she asked at one point.
“For hundreds of years, it was the Comanche. Later, the Mescalero took over.”
“Mescalero?”
“Apache.”
“Oh. If I remember right, they were a very war-like tribe.”
Griffin seemed to sadden at her comment. “Yes, that’s true. According to their legend, they never lost a war… at least not until the US Cavalry came to town.”
Higher into the mountain they climbed, Griffin keeping the pace slow and stopping often to drink and take in the scenery. After two hours, he paused, his expression indicating that he was trying to remember which direction to go.
“You’ve hiked this area a lot, I assume?” Kit asked.
“You have no idea,” he chuckled. “But it has been a while. Things do change, even out here in the desert. I think we’re almost there.”
“Where?” she teased, “The best picnic spot in all of West Texas?”
Shaking his head, Griffin grinned. “Something like that. It’s not far. Don’t cross-examine me to the point where it ruins the surprise, Ms. Carson.”
A few minutes later, Griffin left the hard-packed trail. A machete appeared in his hand, and he began hacking away at the undergrowth. Above the foliage, Kit could see the sheer face of an ominous cliff ahead.
Eventually, they reached the bottom of a steep and solid rock wall. “I didn’t bring any climbing equipment,” she declared. “You don’t expect me to hang by my fingertips or shimmy up some rope, do you?”
“No, nothing like that,” he laughed. “At least not on this trip.”
They followed the base of the cliff for another 40 yards when Griffin suddenly stopped, a pained expression coloring his face. In fact, the switch was so overt, Kit became concerned. “You okay?”
“Yes… yes, I’m fine. Sorry, I had some old memories welling up. No biggie,” he responded.
He moved to the rocks, squeezing into a narrow crevice that appeared to be a dead end. Right before Kit’s eyes, Griffin disappeared.
“What the hell? Where did you go?” she demanded of the jagged rock.
His head appeared, his mouth spread in a huge grin. “There’s a passage. You can’t see it from out there. Come on in.”
She followed, wiggling through the opening, guided by Griffin’s hand.
The space was dark like a cave, the walls barely wide enough for a person to pass. After another 15 feet, she felt more air, as if they were entering some sort of grotto. Griffin’s flashlight soon confirmed just that.
Kit found herself in a broad, rock room with a smooth, hardpacked sand floor. As Griff’s light illuminated the walls, she spotted dozens and dozens of paintings, most of them appearing to be very old, perhaps even historically important. In fact, the entire place had a sense of antiquity about it.
He shined the beam onto a far wall, highlighting several leather pouches hanging from wooden spikes inserted into the rock. Kit spied pottery, vases, decorated spears, and even a beaded, ornate breastplate. It was breathtaking. “Oh, Griffin. Where are we? Who does all this belong to?” she asked, her voice breathless with amazement.
Griffin didn’t answer right away, the marshal strolling across the room and lighting a torch that protruded from a seam in the rock. Finally, he spoke, the flickering light and seriousness of his voice giving Kit chills. “There was a battle with the whites and the horse soldiers nearby. The Mescalero were beaten, and they knew they had very little time to evacuate their village before it was burned to the ground. Only a few men survived the fight, even fewer horses. The elders knew the women and children couldn’t carry everything, so they stashed their valuables here. For generations, this had been a holy place, and they believed they would return one day, retake their land and reclaim their treasures. That obviously never happened, so it’s all been sitting here ever since.”
He then paused, stepping to one of the nearby pouches and opening it with care. Griffin produced a small doll, its intricate beadwork and mane of horsehair obviously handcrafted. The marshal handled the toy as it were a delicate museum piece, gently passing it to Kit.
“Her name was Miamee Higelo, or Coyote Rose. She was nine years old and knew her father and uncle had both been killed in the battle. Her grandfather had made the Kachina for her sixth birthday. It was the only gift she had ever received, and she cherished it. She knew her mother would need every ounce of strength to carry their food and bedding, so she left it here. Coyote Rose succumbed to heat exhaustion three days later.”
Staring at the doll, Kit could sense the anxiety and pain of alarmed and desperate people in the room. Tears formed in the corner of her eyes, the emotion in Griffin’s voice contagious, his words so vivid and alive. “How did you find this place? How do you know so much about these artifacts?”
He stepped to her and took her hands in his. With eyes that pleaded for understanding, he explained, “My ancestors were here, Kit. My great, great, great grandfather helped these people carry their valuables into this room. His name was Olinaa Tsinail, or Fire Trail. He was the village’s medicine man, but his power wasn’t enough to save our warriors. He was too old to fight when the whites began arriving. He is a part of me, a guiding hand on my soul.”
Kit blinked, her mind trying to process what her best and only friend was saying. She had always recognized there was something special about Griff… but she had never guessed it stemmed from his spirituality.
“I knew that you had Native American blood, but I had no idea that culture was so much a part of your life,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he nodded, eyes dropping to the floor. “I’ve learned the hard way over the years that most people can’t accept… or don’t understand. I’ve been called everything from ‘touched,’ to ‘outright insane.’ You are the only person that I trust enough to share this with. For some reason, I’ve wanted to do just that since that day in Midland when I spotted those Dick Tracy boxers.”
She strode toward him, stopping inches from his face, then peering directly into his eyes. She studied him for a moment before tugging him close in an embrace. They stood there for several minutes in silence, the crackling torch the only sound.
“So, you don’t think I’m nuts?” Griffin eventually asked.
She laughed, and then stepped back fa
r enough to read his eyes. “Oh, I think you’re certifiably crazy, but your beliefs aren’t going to scare me away – if that’s what you’re asking.”
He pulled her back again, enjoying the feel of her warmth against him. After a few minutes, he began talking again. “So, confessing my unorthodox beliefs was one reason why I brought you out here,” he said. “There is, however, a far more important objective.”
“Oh? What could be more important?”
“People today have a complete misunderstanding about the role of the Native American medicine man. Yes, they knew the roots and plants that could heal. Sure, they passed down stories and prayers from our ancestors. But the most important duty was to keep up the morale of the people. They were experts in turning negatives into positives – making lemonade out of lemons, if you will.”
Not knowing where he was going next, Kit prodded him for more, “Okay? And?”
He ambled back to his pack and removed the football. Holding the sturdy case up for Kit to see, he said, “This is Gravity Well, or at least the only known copy of that monstrosity. William gave it to me that day at the hospital as part of our agreement. I want to leave it here, in a place where it will be protected and secure. I want to change the negative of this place to a positive… I mean to give the spirits here the responsibility of keeping this weapon out of the wrong hands. It will give them a new, meaningful purpose. They can protect mankind.”
Her face went blank, her mind replaying that day in Seattle. With a monotone voice, she began, “That’s why you called Jerry and had him breach the warehouse. You knew Gravity Well would be erased. That’s why the world thinks William Foster is dead. You knew a lot of powerful people would never rest if Gravity Well could be resurrected.”
Nodding, Griffin said, “It is so dangerous… so uncontrollable… a weapon of mass destruction in the wrong hands.” Hefting the case, he continued, “We’re not ready to control something like this yet. Our species is still too immature. If I had arrested Mr. Foster and put him on trial, the world would eventually know of this copy. Even if I had destroyed it that night, the power-hungry would have gotten to William. In jail, during the trial… we couldn’t have protected what was in his memory.”