by John Dalmas
37
CLOSE ENCOUNTERS
OF THE WORST KIND
Though the canyon bottom was in shadow, it was still daylight when they reached the river. Reached it to find a rafting party policing up the foot of the dune, the beach so to speak, after taking a break there. Feigning a limp, Martti went to the man in charge. After a short discussion and the exchange of a fifty-dollar bill, Tuuli joined the group on one raft and Martti those on the other. Less than an hour later they were let off near the mouth of Bright Angel Creek.
From there it was only a few minutes' hike to Phantom Ranch, with a lodge and cabins. The last string of saddle mules had started up the Bright Angel Trail three hours earlier.
Again Martti and Tuuli consulted. To set out for the south rim this late, even on the well-marked, well-maintained Bright Angel Trail, seemed ill-advised. It would be dark long before they reached the Tonto Platform, halfway up, and they'd already hiked a lot of miles, including halfway back up the Barney Trail.
So Martti used one of the ranch's public phones and called Joe's home, while Tuuli stood by to ward off anyone who might otherwise overhear. It was 6:10, Pacific Daylight Time, but Joe wasn't in yet. She expected him any time now, Eleanor said. Martti left the phone number, and ten minutes later Joe called back. Martti explained the situation to him, all of it, pointing out that it wouldn't be safe to try reaching the car without an armed escort. And with the dead man in Barney Canyon, he didn't want to involve the police. It would complicate things all to hell.
Joe called up the Department of Justice atlas on his computer, and found a solution: He'd phone the Coconino County Sheriff's Department—presumably they'd have a floater within reasonable distance of the park—and ask them to pick the two of them up at Phantom Ranch. They could drop them off at Tusayan Flight Services, just south of the park boundary. The justification would be that Martti was urgently needed in L.A. There'd been an unexpected development in an investigation he'd been working on.
Meanwhile Joe would send a party of security men there in a skyvan from L.A., not to bring them home but to help them recover their car. They could overnight at Tuba City, twenty minutes away by skyvan, an hour and a half by road, then rent a road vehicle in the morning, and the whole party would come back for the travel van. Hoping the hit team hadn't trashed it.
It turned out to be not quite that simple. The sheriff's department had to get Park Service permission to fly into the canyon and pick them up. But that took only minutes, and it was still dusk when the floater arrived. Fifteen minutes after that they were at Tusayan Flight Services.
* * *
Harley Suk O'Connel pulled the roadvan up in front of Tusayan Flight Services, and stopped. The five of them got out and walked to the door. Jamaal started to open it, then closed it again and stepped back.
"They're here!" he hissed. "Both of them!" He shooed the others away with flapping gestures.
"Who?" O'Connell asked.
"Seppanen! And his wife!"
"Shit!" grunted Lionel.
"How did they get here?" Naylene asked.
"How would I know?"
For a long moment, all Jamaal could think was: Cowboy's dead all right! That and his quarries' escape and presence here, broke his confidence that he could kill them quietly. Then from somewhere, some hidden level, a purpose clicked in. The bottom line was to kill Seppanen; that was clear and compelling. And obviously Seppanen was armed. He'd have the pistol they'd heard in the canyon, and Cowboy's too now.
"Back to the car," he said.
He opened the luggage compartment, then a locked chest that sat in it. Inside were four Uzi submachine guns. He handed one to Lionel, then took out another. "Harley, with Cowboy gone, one of these is yours."
"I don't need it. I got my heart gun." He patted his jacket, over the snubnosed .32 concealed in a shoulder holster.
"Take it!" Lionel said, and pushed the Uzi at him. "I know you just hired on to drive, but I'm not leaving them a crack to get out of. There's got to be a back door to this place. I want you there to cover it."
"What about the pickup you called for?"
"I'm calling Terence to cancel it. We'll kill everyone here, then you'll fly one of those. By yourself." He thumbed toward three charter skyvans parked at the end of the building. "Let them think we left in it. The rest of us will drive back."
"There's going to be roadblocks on every . . ."
"God DAMN your black ass, O'Connell! Do what I tell you!"
The intensity of Jamaal's sudden anger, and the illogic of his decision, shocked O'Connell. Jamaal had always been a cool head, always thinking, rarely making a mistake. But this? No way in hell they'd get away with it. He reached and accepted the Uzi, thinking that when it was over, maybe he'd sneak off in the dark. He'd have a better chance hitchhiking, for chrissake. Naylene could fly, if that's what Jamaal wanted, though whether she could navigate was another matter.
Naylene could also shoot, and that's what Jamaal was interested in now. She'd been included to make them more convincing as tourists, but she could kill without scruple. She'd proven that in the past, and they'd all been checked out on the Uzis. Jamaal waited till O'Connell had disappeared around the back corner, then he led the other two toward the door.
* * *
The terminal's waiting room was 80 by 40 feet, with restrooms, an office-ticket area, and the baggage room at one end. At the other was a food service, closed at this hour.
The only scheduled flights this late in the season were daylight sightseer flights over the canyon, and this evening there was only one employee on duty. Counting Martti and Tuuli, the number of nonemployees was four, all awaiting pickups.
They might have napped, but the seats weren't well suited to it, so they simply sat, talking occasionally in murmurs. Silently Martti puzzled over who'd put out a contract on him, and why. After a little the door opened, catching Tuuli's attention, turning her eyes to it before it closed.
"Martti!" she hissed, "they're here!"
He looked at her.
"A man just looked in the door, then closed it. He was in the park information center with the gunman in the canyon!"
"You're sure?"
She nodded vigorously.
He patted his jacket pocket, feeling the Lady Colt there. Two rounds.
"Should we sneak out the back?" she asked.
This, he thought, would be a good time for her psychic ability to turn on and come up with something. He shook his head. "They may have someone outside the door, waiting to blow our brains out." Getting to his feet, he walked over to the service counter, Tuuli following, and spoke to the night agent.
"Do you have a gun?" he murmured softly.
"A gun?"
Martti grabbed a handful of shirtfront and jerked, hushing the man. "Christ, man! Keep it down! A guy just looked in the door, then backed out—a member of the black mafia in L.A. I'm an investigator. It's likely they're looking for me, and they won't be leaving witnesses."
The man stared, paling. "You serious?" he whispered.
Martti hissed his answer: "Goddamn it! Do you have a fucking gun?!"
Eyes large, the man shook his head.
"Great. Mine will have to do then." Martti gestured toward the other waiting couple, who sat next to each other, reading. "Get them in the baggage room and on the floor. Quietly! Hon, you too."
He took the pistol from his jacket pocket and stood with his back to the counter, both doors within his peripheral vision. The night agent hustled the other couple into the baggage room, Tuuli following. When nothing happened right away, Martti wondered if he'd done right not to try the back door. Another minute passed. Then the front door opened and Jamaal stepped in, Uzi poised. The empty seats held his attention for a moment, and perhaps, coming in from the dark, the light was a problem. Martti drew down on him. "Drop it," he said.
Jamaal blinked as if confused, then jerked his weapon toward Martti, who fired. The Uzi spewed a short burst that chewed the fl
oor as Jamaal fell. A muffled scream from the baggage room didn't register on Martti's attention. Naylene stepped in behind the fallen Jamaal, and while her eyes sought a target, Martti shot her too. Even so, she fired a short burst that splintered the counter beside him.
The Colt empty, he'd started toward them to get a fresh weapon when Lionel came in, stepping over the bodies. "Shark," he said smirking, "you a dead muhth . . ."
There was a shot from the back door, just one, and Lionel fell too, a bullet through the middle of his forehead. The Uzi fell from his hands unfired. Martti spun. Harley Suk O'Connell stood there, his .32 caliber lowered. He beckoned. Martti went over to him, unsure what the situation was.
"That's all of them," O'Connell said. Then, "I owed you, Seppanen. I'm out of here now. Tell the blues it was you killed them. I mean it! I'm staying clear of L.A. after this, but even so, if Terence finds out what I did, I'm a dead man."
He turned and disappeared. Martti started over to the three on the floor. "Tuuli!" he called, "you can come out now! All of you can; it's . . ."
Suddenly his jaw dropped, then his face contorted in pain, and with a terrible grunting cry he fell to his knees, clutching at his chest, and pitched forward onto the floor. Tuuli rushed toward him screaming; a slashing, thrusting knife of sound: "OUT! OUT! OUT!" Dropping to her knees beside him, she cradled Marti's head in her lap. After a minute he opened one eye and looked at her. "Look who loves me," he murmured, and chuckled, then shuddered and closed the eye again. "Just let me lay here a few minutes and I'll be all right."
* * *
A sky ambulance arrived from Grand Canyon Village about five minutes later and took Naylene away, unconscious and in critical condition. She wouldn't live to answer questions. By that time Martti was walking around, no longer even shaky. Martti, Tuuli, and the night agent stayed to wait for the sheriff's deputy.
38
CLOSURE
Their three-man security escort arrived from L.A. while the deputy was still asking questions. When the deputy left for Flagstaff, they drove to Tuba City with their escort, and checked in at a motel room. Physically and emotionally spent, they fell asleep without rehashing the events. The next day their escort drove them back to the park as planned, where they found the travel van undamaged, though the car gun was gone. From there, Martti and Tuuli drove south to Williams, then west and north to discover Las Vegas.
On the road, Martti asked questions. The first was: Why had she taken her Colt into Barney Canyon with her? At best she didn't like to carry it, and in the park it was illegal.
She hadn't even thought about it at the time, she said. Probably it was a psychic impulse acting subliminally.
He mulled that over, unsure that something acting subliminally qualified as psychic, then decided he might be placing improper constraints on the concept.
He remembered vaguely her crying "OUT! OUT!" during his seizure at Tusayan. What, he asked, had she meant by that?
There'd been a being, she said, someone not in a body, enveloping Martti, stopping his heart. An enraged someone. She'd attacked it, thrown her intention at it like a war axe, and it had withdrawn as if snapped back to its body by some great rubber band. She'd gotten a sense of someone insane, whether chronically or in temporary rage she didn't know.
"Could it come back and attack one of us again?" The thought made him uncomfortable.
"Possibly, but not soon."
He wondered how she could sound so sure of herself, but didn't question her on it. Again he brought up the psychic photographer in North Hollywood, and the picture she'd gotten of him with the spirit behind him. And what she'd said about someone acting through her when she took it. Some woman, physically small. Had that someone been Tuuli?
Tuuli laughed. It could have been, she said, she could have been acting subliminally. She'd like to meet this psychic photographer.
He'd driven nearly to Hoover Dam before he asked the next question: Could anyone learn to be psychic like she was? Perhaps by going to Spirit Ranch and being taught there?
She shook her head. Even if everyone had the potential, which she wasn't sure of, it didn't seem doable yet to teach it broadly. Besides, in his way he was already psychic. Look at the "coincidences" and "lucky hunches" that had been so important in his life.
He left it at that. It made as much sense to him as any of the rest of it. He thought about asking her whether she read his sensations when they were making love, but decided not to. Best not to mess with a good thing. Maybe that was subliminal too, and talking about it might kill it.
* * *
Two nights and a day in Las Vegas were enough for both of them. Martti was no gambler, but he'd urged Tuuli to try, wondering if her psychic power would bring a payoff. She was willing; willing and curious. She made a bit on the slots, a bit on the wheel, and somewhat more on the crap tables—enough to cover room and meals, but not a lot more. Nothing conspicuous.
* * *
They spent a short day driving to Tahoe, and a night there at Rollins' Casino Hotel. They liked the lake best, and the forest and mountains.
* * *
Yosemite was beautiful, even the thick flurry of snow—great wet flakes that met them on the pass, pelting their windshield, melting on the highway. The stands of red fir, so straight and clean, so uniform and dense, were the most handsome forest he thought he'd ever seen. When they visited Tuolumne Meadow, late that day, Tuuli said there'd been a strong but peaceful spirit living there in the past, but it had left. She didn't say how she knew, but he decided that if she said so, it was probably true.
For some reason he wondered about later, he asked if the trees and mountains had spirits of their own. She said they did, but those she sensed here were simple spirits of little force or reach, not the sort that had dwelt in the valley, or in Humphrey Peak or Sipapu.
* * *
The next afternoon they were driving west on Highway 46, through the hills and vineyards southwest of Paso Robles, when they saw a funeral procession approaching. A small one: a hearse and four cars. Tuuli was at the wheel, and pulled off on the shoulder to watch it pass, regarding it thoughtfully.
Martti saw the goose bumps on her forearms, and when the procession had passed, asked "Why the stop?"
"I needed to see that," she said. "That funeral procession. It's the reason I wanted to take the coast route south, instead of I-5."
He remembered their discussion about the route, before they'd left Yosemite. They'd decided on I-5, then somehow ended up on this road. "And you knew there'd be this funeral procession?"
"Not consciously."
Subliminal again.
"I remember thinking at the time," she went on, "that my reasons felt like rationalizations, and I wondered what the real reason was."
"Who died?"
"Ask me who killed him."
"Who?"
"I did. At least I caused the shock that killed him. I think his health was already weak though."
Martti stared at her.
"You asked whether the spirit that attacked you at Tusayan might attack one of us again. He won't."
He. "You mean . . . That was him? In the hearse?"
"That was his body."
"How could you tell?"
"You know or you don't. Besides, he was with it, so to speak. Not in it, but with it. Sort of surrounding the hearse. He's going along with it to the crematorium."
She'd said it as matter-of-factly as if discussing a trip to the supermarket. She started the van then and pulled back onto the highway. He wouldn't ask how she knew. She'd only say "you know or you don't."
"It's not so uncommon for someone to have an attachment to their body after it's died," she went on. "For a little while. That's one reason it's cruel to mutilate a corpse."
"What about cremation?"
"Formal cremation is all right. It's dignified and clean."
"And you say he won't attack one of us again."
"Right. We touched when he passed. Communicat
ed. He's not interested in that game any longer. At all."
Neither spoke for a while. Tuuli drove well and fast, yet her eyes seemed to rove the countryside, drinking in what she saw. Finally Martti asked, "What kind of life is it that's lived subliminally? Wouldn't it be like going along for the ride? Being a spectator while your subliminal self does the driving in a closed-off compartment?"
"It's more like piloting a spacecraft," she said, "setting the course while the computer does most of the navigating and runs the systems. You can change your mind about where you're going, though. The main decisions are yours." She chuckled. "And the computer is part of you, anyway."
She glanced sideways at him. "That's how you walk, you know. Your leg movements, your eye-foot coordination, all those things are subliminally controlled. You tell your body where you want to go, and how fast, and it takes you."
He nodded, marveling as he often had at this quadrilingual person who'd grown up partly in an arctic mining town, and partly on a backwoods farm in Finnish Lapland. Who'd come alone to America at age eighteen to work as a domestic, with no one to turn to for help and counsel. And who, at age thirty-one, spoke American fluently, even colloquially, and made more money than lots of engineers.
He wondered what course she was flying, and what role he played in her trip. Or for that matter, he thought, what course I'm flying. Do I even have a destination? Inwardly he grunted. If I do, it's subliminal.
His thoughts went to the hearse. "The guy—the being in the hearse," he said, "with the hearse . . . What'll he do when his body's been cremated?"
"He'll leave. Go to the other side, the astral universe you might call it, and review his life and actions. That's probably the basis for the concept of purgatory. Eventually he'll recycle; be born as someone new."
"Why did he act like he did? Why did he try to kill me?"