by Joseph Flynn
“Because?”
John laughed without humor. “It’d ruin my image.”
His mother said with a sigh, “That or improve it. Is there anything in particular you’d like your father or me to do for you, John?”
“Just talking to you always helps. But Marlene said I would have known why the Super Chief was stolen if I hadn’t been raised white. I told her I’d been raised white and brown.”
“Absolutamente.”
“So can you tell me what I’m missing here, Mom?”
“Your new friend, this Maj —”
“It’s not like that. We’re colleagues. Purely professional.”
“I was going to say,” Serafina responded, “you pointed out to me that she told you of a large gathering of native peoples.”
“Yes.”
“And Marlene confirmed this, as well as saying the train would be released without ransom.”
“Right again.”
“Then if something is not going to be withheld, what might the purpose of all this be?”
It took John a moment before he said, “Something’s going to be added to the Super Chief? What could that be?”
“You told me this train is being sent to a museum. What do such places trade in?”
“Knowledge. Conveyed by images and language.”
Serafina said, “And, in this case, my guess is, songs. Perhaps even dreams.”
John knew only too well the story of the nightmares Serafina was reputed to have sent to his birth mother, Bly Black Knife, after she sued to regain custody of John when he was six years old. The night terrors had persisted until Bly had dropped her suit. John’s aversion to the rez was based not only on having been expelled from it in his earliest moments, but also the fear of being returned to it against his will as a young child.
“So you’re saying, what, Mom? The Super Chief is going to be released, but the museum in Chicago is going to get a haunted train?”
Serafina told him, “I would say that anyone visiting these railroad cars will find it a saddening, perhaps even disturbing, experience. It will be filled with many distressing stories.”
From the even tone of his mother’s voice, she didn’t seem to disapprove.
But then she had blood from the Tarahumara, a Native American tribe of northwestern Mexico. They’d once occupied much of the land that now comprised the Mexican state of Chihuahua. When the Spanish arrived in the 16th century, los indios fled to the mountains and canyons. John had no doubt his mother’s native forebears would have their own tales of woe to tell, given the chance.
John said, “I suppose the museum’s management, if they’re smart, could prepare visitors for the emotional impact by providing graphic educational materials outlining the historical effects of the railroads on native peoples.”
Exactly what Alan White River had asked for in the first place.
Serafina responded, “I’d like you to introduce me to whoever conceived this plan.”
Said as if White River wouldn’t be going straight to a lockup, John thought.
Then he had an idea. Maybe something other than a prison sentence could be worked out.
“I’ll do what I can, Mom. Thanks for everything.”
“Remember what your father told you, John. Be true to yourself.”
That was the thought John held onto as he fell asleep
Chapter 45
New Mexico, further north
More comfortable with her accommodations, Maj Olson lay asleep in her own compartment on the train as it moved northward through the New Mexico night. A phone call disturbed her rest. What the hell, she thought. Couldn’t a doctor of philosophy get a little rest?
More often than not, the answer had been no. Starting out as a teaching assistant, moving up to a research assistant, finding a dissertation subject, writing the damn thing and then defending it against your superiors’ attempts to pick it apart, she hadn’t had much idle time. If you cleared all those hurdles, you were awarded your doctorate, the peak of academic achievement in these here United States and …
You got a job being a cop for Amtrak.
At least that was how things had worked out for her.
Sometimes Maj thought she should have become a professional dirt-track racer like her brother, Denny. Sure, that was dangerous and dirty work, but it was fun. The money could be significantly better than what your wet behind the ears college prof made, too. Maybe it wasn’t too late to change careers. Denny would help her sharpen her racing skills.
A decent-looking woman could, pun intended, clean up in dirt track racing, if she posted a few wins.
Or Maj could write an insider’s view of a true-crime story: the theft of the Super Chief.
Maybe become the author of a best-seller, if she played a big enough role in finding the train. Might even be a movie deal in the bargain. Hollywood liked a good train story every now and then. She could be the technical advisor. John Tall Wolf and that state cop, Rios, notwithstanding, she didn’t see herself as a leading lady. Maybe a bit player, a walk-on, just as a hoot.
What she could see quite clearly, in her dream state, was becoming a celebrity scholar. A woman of both learning and action. Indiana Joanie, if you will. Someone all the best schools would want to add to their faculties. Then there would be the pile of guest lecturer money she could make and …
The damn phone, playing “Good Day Sunshine” had interrupted her fantasies.
She answered with a surly, “This better be good.”
A woman’s voice, unruffled by Maj’s ill manners, told her, “If John should need you, you will be there for him.”
“What? John who?”
“You will not let Coyote or anyone else harm him.”
“A coyote? Are you nuts? We’re on a train. Who is this?”
“You will be there for him.”
You couldn’t argue with loons. Every grad student learned that right off.
“Yeah, sure. Good night.”
Maj clicked off. To her great relief, she picked up dreaming right where she left off.
With the decision that authorship and movies would be a better choice than dirt bike racing. And, who knew, maybe she did have unsuspected acting skills. Hours later she woke up, after getting another phone call.
Her ringtone played “The Anvil Chorus,” the way it normally did.
A sound clip from a Verdi opera, not a Beatles ditty. Where the hell had “Good Day Sunshine,” come from? Was that weird phone conversation she’d had last night a dream within a dream? Looking out the compartment’s window, she saw her train was pulling into Albuquerque.
And FBI Deputy Director Byron DeWitt was talking to her.
“I’d appreciate it if you could do me a personal favor,” he said. “Make sure your backup for Co-director Tall Wolf is spot on, okay? Working a rez is a tricky assignment for him.”
DeWitt’s request brought the weird dream back again. Maj wondered if she was still asleep.
But if the call was real and she had the chance to have DeWitt owe her one …
“Sure,” she said. “Will do.”
Chapter 46
San Francisco
“So you trust this Amtrak person?” Special Agent Abra Benjamin asked Byron DeWitt.
The two of them had just introduced themselves, including a display of federal badges, at the reception desk of SearchCo in San Francisco. Their arrival had been unexpected, and they had neither arrest nor search warrants, but they were greeted politely and assured that the CEO, Mr. Charles Elias, would be right out to see them.
The receptionist, a sturdy young man, went to attend to the task personally.
Before he left, though, DeWitt had said to him, “Please tell Mr. Elias that it would be a terrible idea to call Edward Danner. Doing that might open him up to a conspiracy charge.”
Benjamin made no threat, but she was timing how long it took Elias to appear.
“From what I’ve learned of Ms. Olson,” DeWitt told Benjamin, “she’
s both capable and trustworthy.”
Benjamin said, “Something’s got to be wrong with her, an Ivy League Ph.D. doing gumshoe work for Amtrak.”
“Nothing’s been documented in the matter, but I was told in confidence that a moment of indiscretion might have caused her academic career to … go awry.”
Benjamin grinned. “You were going to say ‘get derailed,’ weren’t you?”
“I’ll never tell,” DeWitt replied.
“So what was her indiscretion? She slept with the wrong guy, someone who couldn’t get her a good job?”
Benjamin had made sure DeWitt would be able to help her before sleeping with him, but they’d also had real feelings for each other. They’d had a kid, too, but Benjamin had put him up for adoption. Despite that, and maybe because he didn’t want to face a lawsuit, DeWitt hadn’t done anything to hurt Benjamin’s career. On the contrary, he’d helped it.
But he’d never slept with her again. A fact that Benjamin had come to regret.
“No, that wasn’t it,” DeWitt said. “The word I got was she took exception at the end of a job interview when the head of the department, as he ushered her out the door, decided to test the muscle tone of young Dr. Olson’s heinie.”
Benjamin’s eyes widened. “Grabbed her ass?”
“Hard enough to leave a bruise is the story.”
“And?”
“Olson responded with an elbow to the schnozz. Fractured cartilage and a gusher of blood resulted.”
Benjamin laughed. “I love it. I want to meet her.”
Before that possibility might be discussed, Chuck Elias arrived.
Under two minutes, Benjamin saw. Still, she asked, “You call your lawyer, Mr. Elias?”
He said, “My secretary has him on hold.”
“A reasonable precaution,” DeWitt allowed.
Within moments the three of them were in Elias’s office, and DeWitt said, “We have reason to believe Edward Danner has corrupted several state officials in furtherance of his plan to build a high-speed rail link between San Francisco and Los Angeles. We’re here to give you the chance to come down on the right side of the tracks.”
Benjamin kept a straight face, but she knew DeWitt had just told her she’d been right.
He had been about to say derailed.
Chuck Elias wasn’t concerned with the inside jokes of two former lovers.
He had his own misgivings about Danner and told the two feds everything they wanted to know. He reasoned that just because someone made you rich that didn’t give him the right to bring you down and get you locked up for the rest of your life.
Elias even volunteered the use of his people to help the feds find Danner’s journal.
Chapter 47
Albuquerque, New Mexico
The Amtrak rail line stopped well short of the Apache reservation northwest of Taos. John wanted to secure the use of a government four wheel drive SUV to continue their journey, but Maj raised an objection. “Where are we going to put our dirt bikes? Even if you don’t want yours, I want mine.”
John took her point of view into consideration.
Not waiting for him to come to a disagreeable conclusion, she added, “If you don’t bring your bike, of course, and there’s a chase across badlands, you’ll be leaving me all the credit for bagging the bad guys.”
Maj didn’t know John as well as Marlene did. He genuinely preferred to deflect praise, divert credit to others and go about his work quietly. What did matter to him was making sure anyone who helped him got to go home in one piece at the end of an investigation.
He’d never consider letting Maj face danger alone.
That was part of being true to himself, as Mom and Dad had advised.
So John called Washington, asked for and got a Ford SVT Raptor, a huge pick-up truck reputed to be able to climb and descend steep, rocky inclines like a mountain goat, though without the same mileage. He made sure the optional 36-gallon fuel tank was topped off. The dirt bikes were fastened to the bed of the truck.
John drove. For the first couple of hours, at least, the roads were well paved. Not even a pothole.
Maj had been impressed by how quickly a local Ford dealer had delivered the truck. It showed her the vice president’s muscle continued to support the investigation. Or maybe how much pull John Tall Wolf had in Washington. For an employee of the always cash-strapped Amtrak, either possibility was impressive.
Having endured a long, if not uncompanionable, silence by then, she asked John, “You mind if I put on some music? Looks like this thing has satellite radio.”
“I’d prefer a little more quiet,” he said. “I have to sort out a few things.”
“Okay … Listen, don’t take this as a slight, but is something scaring you?”
John gave Maj a glance. “Yeah. I’ve always thought that if I ever set foot on this particular rez something awful would happen.”
Maj gave it a beat. Something like that, an unspecified fear, deserved a measure of privacy. Then again, possibly going into a dangerous situation here, she felt she really should know of any limitations the big guy sitting next to her might have. If she were to count on him in a tight spot and —”
John preempted her next question. “What I’m afraid of is being vengeful, especially against the people who turned me out, my biological family. I might do something unfortunate.”
“Uh-huh. I think you’ve left a few dots unconnected there. But I won’t pry.”
She didn’t have to; John told her his story. Including the fact that his maternal grandmother perceived him as a threat to her power. According to Marlene Flower Moon, anyway.
“And you also think your former boss, now your co-director, is a supernatural entity known as Coyote?”
John nodded. “Could well be. If you think that’s nuts, that I’m off my rocker, I can pull over and let you ride your bike back down the road.”
They were climbing through the foothills now, fir trees growing thick along the roadsides. The truck was pointed toward the town of Agua Pura, the population center of the rez. Beyond that, near the state line with Colorado were mountains, an offshoot of the Sangre de Cristo range.
Maj said, “Thanks for the offer, but I’m a stick-to-it kind of woman. You can’t grind your way through a doctoral program without being persistent.”
John nodded to a sign alongside the road. Native American sovereign territory. Travel permit required for non-tribal persons.
There was no border crossing station. No armed customs officials. No barrier to be raised for automotive traffic. John kept driving, entering a rez for the first time since infancy.
“I guess entry works on the honor system,” Maj said. “But with your BIA status, I assume you’re okay. You’ll vouch for me, right?”
John smiled at her. “I’m guessing you have as much Native American blood as I do Viking blood, right?”
“Maybe I have just a bit more,” Maj said. “I’m one sixty-fourth Pequot. That’s a Connecticut tribe. I think all the members now work for insurance companies and stock brokerages.”
John laughed. “You’re making that up. You’re not blonde, but you do have blue eyes, and you’re one of the fairest-skinned people I’ve ever met.”
“I’m also a historian, so I looked into my family history. Well, the Mormons did it for me. Online. Still, there’s a Pequot on my mom’s side, way back when.”
John stuck out his right hand and Maj gave it a fist bump. Solidarity.
“I suppose your sixty-three sixty-fourths Caucasian blood accounts for your looks,” he said. “But you’re Indian enough to qualify for membership in some tribes. Maybe even a leadership position.”
“Never liked politics. I’m just a scholar who has police training and likes to ride dirt bikes.”
“Always good to be well rounded. So help me out here a bit from your scholarly side.”
“Sure,” Maj said, “what do you need?”
“Well, I have it on the very bes
t authority that the Super Chief is nearby.”
“You heard that from Coyote?”
“I did. But we’ve come a fair piece from the Amtrak station. I don’t think a whole Irish village could have quickly laid and taken up enough track to bridge the gap.”
Maj smiled. “Heck that one’s easy. Wait a second and I’ll get you the exact numbers.” She took out her phone and fiddled with it. “Here we go. Quoting from my research: In 1916, when the U.S. rail system was at its most extensive, there were 254,037 miles of track in the country. In 2010, when I successfully defended my dissertation, there were 94,200 miles. Officially.”
John knew a cue when he heard one. “And unofficially how many miles are there?”
“Nobody knows. A lot of old rails were taken up and sold for scrap, but not all of them were. Some were simply abandoned, left untouched even by scavengers.” Maj paused to smile and lift her rump to reach a back pocket of her jeans. “And who knows how many miles of track were repurposed and are still in use today?”
She waved a four-color brochure. John took a glimpse, thought he saw a picture of an old train, before putting his eyes back on the road. “What’s that?” he asked.”
“Could be, probably is, a clue.”
“Found where?”
“A rack of tourist attraction pamphlets back at the Amtrak station. I spotted it while you were arranging this cowboy limo for us.”
“And the punchline is?” John asked.
“Guess which Native American reservation already has its own little steam-powered choo-choo, cow-catcher, railroad tracks and all, to take the tourists to see all its pretty places?”
“Sonofabitch,” John said.
“At the very least. My guess is the thieves on this rez didn’t have to lay too much new track, after all. Just enough to suit their needs.”
John was about to ask when Maj had intended to share this gem of serendipity with him as he rounded a bend in the road and had to slam on the brakes. Two Indians stood in the middle of the blacktop. The bumper of the truck came to a halt within spitting distance of them but neither one flinched.