“How would he know someone has arrived? There’s nothing out here,” Reinhardt said.
Paul squinted and covered his eyes, turned counterclockwise, then stopped. “There,” he said, pointing. “It’s maybe fifty feet from us.”
“What are we looking for?” Sophia asked.
“It’s a sensor. Silver. A thin metal rod coming up out of the ground. The thick part is at the top. It looks like a cattail. He’s got them scattered all over. They pick up the movement of anything over four feet tall, so jackrabbits and coyotes don’t set it off.”
“That’s not paranoid or anything,” Sophia said.
“After all of this shooting, I fear I will be paranoid forever,” Reinhardt said.
After a few moments, a series of flashes returned. Paul smiled, “Good. He’s there.”
“Was that Morse code?” Reinhardt asked.
“Pretty much.” Paul handed the mirror to Sophia and asked her to put it back into the can. As they returned to the trail, Paul raked out their footprints with a sage branch. “It wouldn’t fool somebody with tracking experience, but it’s all part of the instructions. I have to bring the sage with me to prove I did it.”
Reinhardt replaced the book jacket on his head. When Paul and Sophia looked at him, he said, “One severe burn is enough.”
Again, Paul took the lead, and as he passed Sophia, she stopped him and leaned in. “When I found him, he was delirious with dehydration and diarrhea. I couldn’t leave him.”
“I get it,” Paul said.
Sophia sniffed the air. “Is that watermelon?”
Paul moved the candy to the other side of his mouth. “I saved it.”
“For what?”
“For my last meal.” Paul turned and started walking.
As they hiked on, the belt of green transformed into a grove of cottonwoods that filled a low spot like an oasis in an illustrated book. They watched two wrens flit across the expanse and disappear into the trees. On a low hill behind the grove was a water catchment, solar panels, and a narrow radio antenna with nearly invisible guy lines securing it to the ground. At the center of the grove was a school bus, and on one side it was fitted with a screened-in porch set underneath a corrugated metal roof. As they drew closer, they noticed more of the cattail sensors and an abundance of bird calls from the interior of the grove of trees. Somewhere a rooster crowed, and a human voice growled at it to keep quiet. They passed into the delicious shade, and the coolness of it washed over them in waves.
The bus doors opened and Dreamweaver descended the stairs in unlaced boots and tan cargo shorts. A gray checkered bathrobe fluttered behind him like a cape, his pale chest covered in thick, curly white hair.
“Paul Thrift, what the hell?” Dreamweaver bellowed. “This kind of intrusion will not stand!” Paul held up the sage branch. Dreamweaver dropped his chin. “At least you’ve kept to the protocols, but who are these spies?”
“We’re all in some trouble, friend,” Paul said.
“I hope it’s the right kind of trouble,” Dreamweaver said, smiling. His teeth were perfect except for a single gap on the right side where a canine should have been. He threw his arms open to draw Paul into a bear hug, but Paul held up a hand.
“I’ve got some broken ribs.”
Dreamweaver turned his head and glanced at him out of the corners of his eyes, then he sized up Sophia and Reinhardt. “How did the Spider-man break his ribs?” he asked.
“Spider-man, huh?” Sophia asked.
“I didn’t pick the name,” Paul said.
“It was gunshot wounds,” Reinhardt said, “or maybe the fall.”
“Did you shoot back?” Dreamweaver asked, wiggling a finger into one ear. When Paul said that he didn’t return fire, Dreamweaver made a grunting noise, then removed the finger. “You were wearing your armor, I guess.”
Paul nodded.
“You know how I feel about guns,” Dreamweaver said.
“Last refuge of a scoundrel. We’ve had that conversation before,” Paul said.
“I know Big Brother requires you to carry one. I’m just saying.” Dreamweaver turned his attention to Sophia and Reinhardt. “A poison dart is faster, quieter, and completely non-corporate.”
They looked at each other.
“A dart doesn’t have to kill you. Central nervous system paralysis is sufficient force to stop any conflict. Once you paralyze somebody you can still talk to them, and they have to listen. Once you shoot a person, logic goes out the window.”
“Anesthesia achieves a similar effect,” Reinhardt said. “Though sometimes there can be quite a lot of talking.”
Dreamweaver laughed. “I like him. You’re from the fatherland? Sounds like maybe Berlin.”
“Sehr gut. Sprichst du Deutsch?”
“Ich habe mehr Möglichkeiten, es zu lesen als zu sprechen, aber ich versuche, in der Praxis zu bleiben,” Dreamweaver said.
Dreamweaver asked Reinhardt how he managed to team up with the others, and he said Sophia rescued him.
“Ha!” Dreamweaver said. “Turning the tale on its head. The maiden rescues the hombres.” He turned to Sophia. “Nice work dismantling ye olde power structures.”
Reinhardt turned to the others and flashed his book cover at them with a grin. “This part of our adventure is the rescue from without—”
Dreamweaver nodded, then thought for a moment and nodded again with wide eyes. “That would make me a supernatural guide. I’m good with that. Sit. Let me bring you refreshments.” Dreamweaver disappeared into the bus. Reinhardt inserted himself into a bench at the picnic table and rested his head on his arms. Paul lowered himself to the ground and sat in a half lotus and began aligning his neck and spine. Sophia sat backward on the bench opposite Reinhardt and stretched her hamstrings.
The yard was a menagerie of odds and ends. There was a chicken coop attached to a shipping container, a garden protected with military camo netting, a narrow carport with two motorcycles in it, an empty flatbed trailer, four or five spinning windmills made out of hammered copper, strings of prayer flags, a dozen or more blue fifty-five-gallon barrels, one crate that said FRAGILE, and another that said EXPLOSIVES. At the center of the yard was a massive chunk of metallic stone the size of a large pig.
“What’s that?” Sophia asked.
“Meteorite,” Paul said. “It’s why he bought this place. He wanted to own something extraterrestrial. He’s been taking chunks out of it and forging tools with the metal.”
Dreamweaver returned after a time with a serving tray of Mason jars full of cucumber water. Sophia was hoping for the miracle of ice, but she knew such a luxury was a ways off. There was also a plate of unidentifiable orange melon slices, a bowl of nuts, and a second bowl heaped with jerky. He set it all on the table. “Water, sugar, protein, fat, salt. Should take the wilt out of you hothouse flowers,” Dreamweaver said.
As they all dug in, Paul stood and came to the table. Dreamweaver intercepted him and said, “Eat the damn jerky, son. You aren’t going to heal on melon and nuts.” Paul looked him in the eye and nodded.
“Good.” As they ate and drank, Dreamweaver said, “Questions aren’t normally my thing, but neither is homicide, attempted or otherwise . . . so, I’ve got to ask. What the hell happened to you people?”
Sophia looked at Paul, who didn’t speak immediately.
“I was rescued from my own bad judgment. I think that is a different story from theirs,” Reinhardt said.
“Fair enough.” Dreamweaver turned to Sophia and she recounted the tale of the Ashdowns, meeting them once and then again. She told of the map and the man who killed them, then explained about Paul’s arrival and how he was shot, how she fled and found Reinhardt and returned to find Paul alive, then she relayed the story of how they escaped through the lava flow.
“Let’s back up to the map.” Dreamweaver’s eyes landed on Paul. “Any chance it belonged to Bruce Cluff?” Dreamweaver asked.
Paul looked down and nodded. “It�
�s his.”
“Which one?”
“It’s the one with Antelope Flats, Las Casas Altas, and Swallow Valley,” Paul said.
Dreamweaver squinted as he thought. “Makes sense,” he said. “There’s been all kinds of action since the president tweeted about shrinking the monuments. The guys who used that map to go pot hunting had no idea how much money they could make selling it to the people getting ready for the auctions or that they were at the epicenter of an oil, gas, and government hootenanny.”
“I don’t know if you heard, but Cluff died,” Paul said.
Dreamweaver nodded. “Breaks my heart. But he didn’t kill himself. I don’t buy a word of it. Smells like the work of corporate assassins.”
“I heard the two dead grave robbers talking about the maps,” Reinhardt interjected.
Dreamweaver locked eyes with Reinhardt. “From the spirit world?” he asked.
“What kind of question is that?” Sophia said with a dismissiveness she immediately regretted.
Dreamweaver rolled his eyes. “You can call it multidimensional space, string theory, quantum entanglements, Rudra’s roar, or whatever blows your hair back. Just don’t make your limitations of consciousness my problem, okay?”
“I am not offended by your question,” Reinhardt said, “but I am not talking about metaphysics. I saw them at a restaurant fighting over the map, saying all these same place names. It seems like the man who came after us was actually after them. I have a photo of it in my dead phone.”
Dreamweaver paced back and forth for a time, then said, “We won’t need your copy. This is some D.C.-level capitalist horseshit, so why bring in small-time old boys like the Ashdowns?”
“What are your friends online saying about the retractions?” Paul asked.
“Everybody’s talking about the energy angle: shale oil, fracking, natural gas. But good old-fashioned bubbling crude isn’t in anyone’s long game. People have the numbers on that. Some say he’s just amping up his base. I’ve got no love for government, less for corporations, man. You know that. What are Parks folks saying, Paul?”
“They think it’s a play to dismantle the whole parks system. Privatize everything. Roll back the EPA, Clean Air Act, water—everything down the tubes,” Paul said.
Dreamweaver pounded the table and cursed, then he sat back and stroked his wide white beard.
“What do you think is going down?” Paul asked.
“Uranium,” Dreamweaver said, growing calm, folding his hands across his belly.
“There’s no market for uranium. Production is down around here,” Paul said.
“That’s right. It’s all coming from Kazakhstan, Canada, and Australia, man. How do you think the president plans to fend off North Korean missiles? With his comb-over? I’ll bet he’s angling to rebuild our nuclear capacity. I mean, it’s probably not his idea. He can’t think that many steps ahead.”
Reinhardt leaned forward. “To me what you are saying does not sound crazy, but it should.”
“It’s probably the Russians putting that in his head. I can’t believe it’s come to this. I’ve stopped reading science fiction. It’s not necessary anymore.”
“How did we go from pot hunters to warheads?” Sophia asked.
“Everything is connected,” Reinhardt said, weaving his fingers together. He looked to Dreamweaver for confirmation, who nodded.
“The dead are pawns,” Dreamweaver said. “Follow me.”
He led them into the bus, and when they climbed the stairs, Sophia noticed how cool it was. “I thought it would be like a furnace in here,” she said.
Dreamweaver pointed to a ramshackle contraption in the corner covered with a thousand copper fins. “Physics sends the hot air back to its brothers outside. They hate being separated. It’s a good deal for everyone.”
The bus still had its steering wheel and driver’s seat, but the rest had been gutted and redone in the fashion of a ship’s interior. The workmanship was exquisite. Wood strips curved along the interior. The knobs and vents were fashioned from brass. The original bus windows had been removed and reglazed with wood stiles and muntins. The glass itself looked as if it had been stolen from another age, warping the view just enough. The furniture was an eclectic mix of styles, at times Victorian, but also modern. On the walls were various maps, one of which was nearly identical to Cluff’s map, without the marks showing what had been returned. Reinhardt tapped Sophia and pointed to it. She shushed him, but noticed a line of small unburnished pots with simple red designs on a narrow shelf. They were in amazing condition. “Where did these come from?” she asked.
“I made them,” Dreamweaver said, walking past a bed at the far end of the bus that was draped lavishly in linen. Clustered nearby was a compact array of old computer and electronic equipment. He seated himself at the console and started reaching around, flipping switches like a pilot. The equipment came on slowly, amber lights and small square displays with their pulsing sine waves. The main monitor flickered on. It was the only piece of new equipment they could see in the whole menagerie. Dreamweaver had them turn around and cover their faces while he logged in. After the system whirred and chugged, they all heard a dial tone, then a chromatic sequence of telephonic whines followed by a beep-dong-beep and an alien array of cavitations: the buzz of a chainsaw, a spray of water, a broken klaxon, then silence.
The only thing that appeared on Dreamweaver’s screen was code. He worked in a terminal window that occasionally showed recognizable words. He used no mouse, his fingers racing across the keyboard instead. Between processes Dreamweaver scratched under his beard and muttered to himself as he went deeper and deeper into the system. He checked some numbers in his small notebook and kept going.
“What are you looking for?” Sophia asked.
“Truth.”
Sophia looked at Paul, who shrugged.
“I’m just guessing at the coordinates for the sites you said were on Cluff’s maps. I don’t trust online maps anymore. The USGS has been erasing cultural sites from their GPS data. It is essentially useless. I mean, this is nothing new, but now it’s worse. I’ve got a buddy who found a database with proposed parcels for the retraction of the monument.” He shook his head. “There’s entries for the whole country. By the way, Alaska is a nightmare.” He typed and searched and eventually wheeled over to the bookshelves on the opposite side of the bus and pulled a volume called Four-Corners Geology, thumbing through it as he scooted back. “Paul, look at this.” He pointed to three places on a multicolored map showing the mineral layers. “There’s uranium all through the parcels that are set to go up for auction.” He snapped the book shut and tossed it on the bed, then pointed to some needlework hanging near his workstation. It showed a tiny fish about to be swallowed by a larger fish, about to be swallowed by an even larger one. “I hate to get all Deep Throat on you, but we’ve got to follow the money, and that’s going to take a little doing.”
Paul hung his head, and Sophia found a chair and sat down. Reinhardt said, “Somehow I thought this was going to be an inner journey.”
Dreamweaver looked up at him. “There is no inner self. The exterior world is likewise an illusion. The way that can be named is not the true way, my friend. Perhaps the mystery of mysteries conceals itself in the word ‘way.’ If only we will allow these names to return to what they leave unspoken. All of it is way, man. All of it. There’s no nouns, only verbs.”
Reinhardt nodded, but he didn’t follow.
“That’s from Martin Heidegger, your countryman. He knew a lot more than he was able to articulate.” Dreamweaver pushed his chair back from the console. “I’m going to data mine this cesspool, but in the meantime, you all need to stay hidden. But not here. I can’t have that. Let me hit up some friends in Short Creek. For the moment, you can camp in the grove, but that’s got to be short-term.”
As they filed out of the bus, Dreamweaver asked Paul to stay behind. “Hey, brother. You want to tell me what’s going on with you
? I saw some documents that suggest you’re in a whole mountain of trouble.”
“It’s complicated,” Paul said.
“What isn’t? I love you, man, but you can’t stay. You’re much too hot. Don’t blindside me. You know how I get.”
“I’ll fill you in later,” he said.
“Hey,” Dreamweaver said, looking Paul in the eyes with so much intensity Paul had to look away, “a friend of mine used to say the first duty of a revolutionary is to get away with it.”
___
When they arrived back at the public safety building, Dalton helped Raylene out of the Bronco. Once she was on the pavement, she took no help and walked straight through the front doors. As she passed through them, she said, “You didn’t have to bring me here. I wouldn’t have said anything. And besides, everyone treats me like I’m crazy anyway.”
“Raylene, we talked about this.”
“You talked. I didn’t agree to a word of it.” She took hold of the handrail and climbed the steps so slowly Dalton thought she might fall backward. At the top, she saw LaRae and said, “Your boss is in a sour mood.”
LaRae looked up and smiled at her. “What flavor of sour is he today?”
“He’s gone from sour apples to sourpuss. Something about our field trip. We drove all the way to Antelope Flats, and he wouldn’t let me get out. Is there some place I could sit?” Dalton tried to help her to a chair in the waiting area, but she refused, seating herself in the chair next to it.
“LaRae, let’s make Raylene comfortable. She said she might like to watch her show. Can we do that on a laptop?”
“We’ll manage.”
“Is Tanner here yet?”
“He’s on his way.”
“Send him back when he gets here.”
“I’ve got a billion phone messages for you. One’s from Germany.” She handed him a stack of Post-its. Dalton took them to his office and started going through them. None were pressing except for the two messages from the real estate people, who said he didn’t finish his online profile, and one from the NPS people working with Sophia Shepard. The message said she was on personal time this weekend and hasn’t checked in. Dalton circled the license number of the truck with federal plates so he could call it in. There was no message about the NPS Jeep. There were three messages from Pete Ashdown that came in over a two-hour period. LaRae had drawn progressively angrier cartoon faces on each note. Dalton stacked them together and set them aside. The last was the message from Germany. Someone named Wolf Messer wanted to report his friend Reinhardt Kupfer missing. The note said he is not responding to social media.
Picnic in the Ruins Page 28