Tanner knocked on the doorframe. “You ready for me?” he asked.
“Remember how this Cluff and Ashdown stuff hasn’t been sitting right with me? Well, I just found Byron and Lonnie Ashdown dead out in Antelope Flats with a couple of trucks and an NPS Jeep that ought to be connected to someone, but there’s no corresponding bodies. The vehicles were shot to pieces and flipped upside down like some giant’s kid left his toys in the sandbox.”
“You call it in?”
“Not yet. I’m still thinking about it.”
“If it’s on the monument, it’s federal jurisdiction.”
Dalton nodded. “It is on the monument.”
“You look terrible.”
“It’s a war zone out there, or maybe more like cartel action.”
“Weird place for drug trafficking. It’s not on the way to anywhere. But Byron could be messed up in anything. Maybe he’s a rat.”
Dalton unlocked his phone, opened his photos app, and handed it to Tanner, who thumbed through the vultures, upturned vehicles, empty trailer, backhoe, M16, scattered clips, displaced earth, two human skulls, a pile of other bones, shards of pottery. Tanner handed the phone back, then raised his eyes to meet Dalton’s.
“See what I mean?” Dalton said. “I’ve got a lot of loose ends to run down tomorrow. Could you head out there and get a cast of the tire tracks? I’ve got a missing person report on a park volunteer. I’m starting to think she’s in the middle of this somehow. A German tourist has gone missing, too. Raylene says Bruce had been taking all of his Indian stuff back to where he found it. This thing is just a black hole, Chris. We’re all gonna end up sucked into it.”
Day Nine
High-precision isotopic analyses : The Freedom Jamboree : Some quid pro quo : Everything’s upside down : Back to the Beehive House : Closed-door stuff
Scissors parked on the street in front of the trailer park. The sun was up but it hadn’t broken over the cliffs. He removed the note he’d taken from the ranger’s vehicle, which gave Sophia’s name, address, and phone number. Her trailer was number nine. He snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves and waited until there were no cars in the street before getting out. He opened the trunk, slid a pistol with its silencer into the belt of his pants, and took a small blue pry bar, which he hid along the inside of his arm.
He followed the hedge along the back side of the trailers until he came to number nine. After knocking twice, he pried at the door until it popped open. As he entered the space, he could see that she worked at the small orange built-in table, where there were a few books stacked vertically, a laptop, and a pile of papers held down by a fist-sized chunk of pink quartz. He went through the papers, which were mostly photocopies of academic articles with titles like “Documenting the visitor degradation of Pueblo II NPS archeological sites,” “Reconstructing regional population fluctuations using radiocarbon dates: A new case study using an improved method,” and “Ethnographic study of the Wïiatsiweap hoax of 1937.” Scissors put his finger on the word “Wïiatsiweap,” took out his phone, and dialed.
“I’m in her trailer,” he said. “She’s got an article in here with the word you wanted me to watch for.”
“Wïiatsiweap?”
“I wasn’t sure how to say it.”
“Read me the title.”
He did.
“See if there’s one in there called ‘High-precision isotopic analyses of lead ores from Arizona by PR-DCS-LR: Implications for tracing the production and exchange of glaze-decorated pottery.’”
Scissors struggled to write fast enough. “Hang on. I’m still back at ‘isotopic.’”
“Just find it.”
He put the phone on speaker and set it on the desk, then went through all the articles and found it near the bottom of the stack.
“It’s here.”
“Look through the article. Are there any notes? What did she underline?”
He flipped through the pages. “She’s got it all the way marked up.”
“Is there a computer?”
“Yes, a laptop.”
“Take it. I want to know what she’s writing.”
Scissors took the phone and went into a draped closet. Inside was a roller bag, which he unzipped and threw on the bed. He filled it with clothes and threw in the computer, told her what he’d packed, then asked if she needed anything else.
“Just her. I need to talk to her.”
“Well, I’m working on it.”
When he realized she’d hung up, he pocketed the phone and made his way out. He heard scratching, and the door bounced a little. A flutey old voice said, “Yoo-hoo,” and through the window he saw a woman in a gaudy nightgown walking across the gravel drive with a cell phone to her ear. He ducked quickly to the hinge side of the door, his pistol out.
“I don’t know,” the woman said. “There’s someone moving around in the trailer, but her truck isn’t here.”
Scissors stepped behind the door just as it opened. A dog burst in and ran to the far end of the trailer. The woman followed. Scissors slipped in right behind her and placed the gun against the back of her head. She went stiff.
He whispered, “Just keep talking. Explain that nothing’s wrong.”
“Well, apparently, there’s nothing wrong,” she said.
“Tell them it was just the curtains. Nobody’s here.”
She repeated what he said. He guided her through the rest of the conversation, then whispered, “Tell them you’ll call when she shows up.”
“I’ll call when she shows up,” she said.
“Tell them goodbye now,” he said.
“Goodbye now,” she said.
He took the phone from her, ended the call, and tossed it on the bed. “Keep your eyes forward and walk to the bathroom.”
“But I don’t even know who you are.”
“What you imagine is better than anything I might say.”
“Normal people don’t talk like that.”
“This isn’t a normal situation.”
“Killing old ladies won’t do a thing for your reputation.”
“You keep talking to me, ma’am, and I might have to test your hypothesis.”
He pushed her into the bathroom, slammed the door, reached over, and yanked down one of the brass curtain rods from the window above the kitchen sink, which he shoved through the door handle. He replaced the gun in the back of his pants and pulled up the handle on the suitcase. The little dog blocked his way, growling and barking.
“Where were you three minutes ago, you terrible beast,” the woman said through the bathroom door.
Scissors looked at the dog, then opened the small oven, and in a single unbroken move, lifted the dog with one hand, shoved it into the oven, and closed the door with the toe of his shoe. The dog’s muffled barks brought a smile to his face as he stepped into the dappled morning.
___
From their hiding place behind two boulders, they watched a white Chevy Suburban crest the hill and come to a stop. The vehicle was caked in dirt, dented in two places, and a large round safety mirror hung from the back on a bent aluminum arm.
“That has to be them,” Sophia said.
Paul shrugged. “It looks right.”
“If your friend would have come with us, we’d know if this was our ride,” she said.
“We got more than I expected from Dreamweaver,” Paul said.
“I don’t think this is the vehicle our assassin would have chosen,” Reinhardt said. “It’s too appropriate for this place. He is not a country mouse.”
The vehicle pulled forward and the window rolled down. A woman with a nineteenth-century-style hairdo, high oval and wraparound side braids, stuck out her head. She wore a Bluetooth headset in one ear and cheap bladed sunglasses. No makeup. She wore a forest-green long-sleeved handmade dress with a Puritan collar. The fabric was plain with no print. The buttons were the same color and nearly invisible. “I’m looking for Dreamweaver’s people,” she called out.
Paul nudged Sophia. “You go. She won’t talk to me.”
“What? Why not?”
“I can go,” Reinhardt offered.
They both said, “No.”
“I’m U.S. government. They don’t go for that,” Paul said.
“Fine.” Sophia stood and stepped into the road.
“He said there’d be three.”
Sophia motioned for the rest of them. “They’re coming,” she said.
“Send the woman out first?” the woman behind the wheel said. “Cowards.” She reached out to shake Sophia’s hand. “Euphrenia Hamblin,” she said.
“Sophia Shepard,” she said, and they shook hands. Euphrenia’s grip was strong and dry.
Reinhardt emerged from behind the rocks, with Paul following. When Euphrenia saw Paul, she pointed at him with her chin and said, “Dreamweaver didn’t say nothing about transporting the federal government.”
“Is that going to be a problem? He’s hurt, and we’re all in a life-and-death situation,” Sophia said. “But if you want a rundown, okay. We’ve got a Fed, a German, and my mother is from Iran.”
“Not helping,” Paul whispered. He stepped out front. “I hope Dreamweaver explained our situation.”
“He did,” the woman said, “but it’s on me for not asking better questions.” Her jaw flexed, making the earpiece move. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, then looked over her shoulder into the back of the vehicle. “I can’t bring some park ranger across Carver land, especially not during the Freedom Jamboree. It’ll be his head first, then mine.”
“Wait, wait,” Sophia said. “If we turn up dead, this place is going to be crawling with FBI, all kinds of Feds. The German consulate is going to want to know what happened. Same with the National Parks. I’m working on a grant. When I don’t check in, they’ll all come through this place with a fine-tooth comb.”
“What’s a consulate?” Euphrenia asked.
“It’s his government’s U.S. office.”
“UN?” the woman asked.
“Not UN, but we are in the UN,” Reinhardt said.
“Also not helping,” Paul said.
“Why? I see them misunderstanding NATO, but how could they . . .” Reinhardt complained.
“This ain’t what I signed up for,” the woman said. “I help neighbors, not outsiders.”
“I apologize if I am making any assumptions about you from your clothes and manner,” Reinhardt said, “but I ask you, which of these do you think was neighbor to the man taken by robbers?”
“What did you say?” the woman asked, lowering her sunglasses. “Are you quoting Scripture?”
“The priest, the Levite, or the Samaritan?” Reinhardt said, nodding.
“Oh,” she said, pushing her glasses back up. “You’re gonna do it that way, are you?”
“Well, which is the neighbor?” Reinhardt pressed.
“The one who showed mercy,” she said through her teeth. “Get in.”
The woman called to the children riding with her to come up front and let the guests take the back. A boy and a girl climbed over the seats, the boy riding up front, and the girl riding right behind the woman.
They drove in silence for the better part of an hour until they approached a cluster of a dozen houses, where the road straightened and came to a T. The road here was filled with trucks and tractors and children riding a homemade train pulled by a yellow four-wheeler. There were more people gathered here than any of them had seen in days.
“What’s this?” Reinhardt asked.
“Carvertown,” the woman said. “It’s the Freedom Jamboree.”
Paul leaned over and put his head in Sophia’s lap. “Cover me,” he said.
“Who are these people?” Sophia asked.
“You remember the folks that took over the tortoise preserve in Nevada? A guy blew off his own hand trying to dynamite a boulder so it would block the only road in and out?”
“Oh no,” Sophia said.
“This is their celebration of freedom from the long arm of Washington, D.C.”
Sophia looked around and saw the place was filled with cowboys, horses, patriotic bunting, “Don’t Tread on Me” flags, tables full of food, a dunk tank, speakers on tripods, and a half dozen boys throwing hatchets into a log set up on its end. The road had been blocked off with giant wooden spools.
“Can we get through?” Reinhardt asked.
A fat man pulled up on a four-wheeler wearing a gray Stetson. Euphrenia rolled her window down. The man’s face was white and sweat-speckled, and he was breathing through a nasal cannula and supply tube that curled down to an oxygen bottle he kept bungee-corded to the handlebars. He wore thick sideburns, and his plaid shirt was open down to the third button. A liver-spotted hunting dog rode behind him on its hind legs, its paws on the man’s shoulders. “Road’s closed,” he said.
“I can see that,” she answered. “Just wondering why, since this is the only road.”
“Freedom Jamboree,” the man said. “We’ve been closing down Main Street from here to the schoolhouse since—” He paused to suck in some oxygen. “Since Grover Cleveland was president. We reclaim the road to remind people it was Carvers that built all this, not our government overlords.”
“How am I supposed to get home?” the woman asked.
“Y’ain’t supposed to. Carvertown is closed. This here’s a political statement. I know how you people like to stay out of politics and everything, but it pays to know what’s going on.”
“We’re just minding our own business.”
“Hasn’t done you all much good,” the man said.
“Not sure what you mean,” the woman said.
“Your menfolk like to keep you ladies ignorant, don’t they?”
The woman looked into the rearview mirror and made eye contact with Sophia, who felt a fire ignite inside her like a welding torch. “We’re just trying to get to Short Creek,” she sighed.
“I said, this road is closed.”
“My kids are sick, and I need to get them home.”
“What about those folks in back. They don’t look like your people.”
“They’re cousins,” she said.
A voice rang out through a bullhorn. “GOD THE ALMIGHTY HAS MADE OUR NATION. BY DEFENDING ITS EXISTENCE, WE ARE DEFENDING HIS WORK. THE FACT THAT THIS DEFENSE IS BOUGHT WITH INCALCULABLE MISERY, SUFFERING, AND HARDSHIPS MAKES US EVEN MORE ATTACHED TO THIS NATION.”
“You see, the speeches have begun. We can’t stop them now. You can wait or turn back.”
The bullhorn voice continued. “IT ALSO GIVES US THAT HARD WILL NEEDED TO FULFILL OUR DUTY, EVEN IN THE MOST CRITICAL STRUGGLE. THAT IS, NOT ONLY TO FULFILL OUR DUTY TOWARD THE DECENT, NOBLE AMERICANS, BUT ALSO OUR DUTY TOWARD THOSE FEW INFAMOUS ONES WHO TURN THEIR BACKS ON THEIR PEOPLE.”
The man stabbed his thumb toward the jamboree. “I think he’s talking about your kind, sugarplum.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Euphrenia said.
“Might be time for you polygamists to pay us back for draining the aquifer.”
“Our wells aren’t in Carvertown. Not even close.”
“As you are presently trying to cross the aforementioned location, you should think about minding your p’s and q’s while you are here.” The dog riding behind him barked twice. A huge Dodge Ram pulled up behind them and the doors opened.
“Why don’t you all step out of the vehicle.”
“We will not.”
“Citizen’s arrest, then,” the man said.
The woman calmly turned to her son. “Enoch, why don’t you hand me your daddy’s Python. I can’t reach for it and keep my eyes on this gentleman at the same time.”
The boy leaned forward, opened the glove box, and pulled out a large nickel-plated revolver with black grips. The woman took it, cocked the hammer, and pointed it through the window. “This will go right through you, and the dog,” she said.
The man’s face went white, then he backed u
p his four-wheeler and waved off the others. Euphrenia put her Suburban in gear and pulled forward, pushing the cable spools out of the way, then she floored it and drove straight through the jamboree. There was room enough for her to speed through the middle of it all. Halfway through, as she hit some tables, food started splattering the side windows. There was a crash as a watermelon struck the hood and burst on the windshield in a spray of red and green. She uncocked the pistol and handed it to her boy and told him to put it back.
When they were clear of Carvertown, Paul said he was sorry for all the trouble. Euphrenia said she’d been waiting most of her adult life to have a reason to do something like that to a Carver, then she turned to her kids. “Not a word, you hear.”
“I promise,” the little girl said.
After a while the boy said, “That’s the best thing I ever saw.”
___
It was just after one o’clock when Dalton came into the HooDoo Diner looking for Stan Forsythe. He’d spent the morning doing damage control over what Stan had run in the morning paper. Stan was sitting in his usual spot, eating with one hand and scrolling through his phone with the other. When Dalton sat, Stan jumped and set down his phone but not the fork. The sun caught Dalton in the eyes, so he twisted the blinds until both their faces were in shadow.
“You’ve got a crime spree on your hands,” Forsythe said preemptively, sitting up and wiping his mouth. Dalton set his hands flat on the table. “A suicide, missing people—how many now, three or four?—breaking and entering, a park ranger is under some kind of internal investigation, and Janey Gladstone had somebody lock her in the bathroom of one of her trailers this morning. Put her dog in the oven. Seems random, but I have a theory.”
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