Touching Cottonwood

by Randall Simpson

  The mayor had heard enough. He switched off the television and poured himself another glass of whiskey. He sipped it slowly, letting its mellowness roll around on his tongue before evaporating or trickling down his throat. In his alcohol-indebted frame of reference, rightly or wrongly, he imagined there might somehow be a silver lining in this crisis—so long as people like Gwendolyn didn’t say or do something stupid. Just maybe, thought the mayor, it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if this mysterious phenomenon lasted a few more days or even weeks. He decided right at that moment that he wasn’t going to complain too loudly if the state wasn’t rapidly forthcoming in trying to find a solution. Cottonwood, after all, was the only town on the planet experiencing this kind of event, and certainly that had to be worth something. With each assuring sip of whiskey thereafter, the mayor’s certainty grew—something positive could eventually come from the Cottonwood Dead Zone.

  Forty-Six

  The Jackpot

  In the folklore of many Native American tribes is the story of Spider Woman. Though the details of her nature and origins vary from tribe to tribe, one thing consistent among the various myths is that this supernatural being is the original female creative principle of the cosmos, existing from the very beginning, associated with the Earth and the flowering of life itself. Also associated with Spider Woman is the art of weaving, for according to myth, her exceptional ability in making her intricate webs was passed on to humans through the art of weaving.

  From baskets to blankets, all the many useful items that Native Americans have learned to weave are based on skills originally taught them by Spider Woman, but for some tribes there is also a darker side to her nature. Jutting up 800 feet from the dusty hot floor of Canyon de Chelly National Park in eastern Arizona is a rock formation named Spider Rock. The very top of Spider Rock appears lighter in color than the surrounding red rock, almost appearing white at certain times of day. While a geologist can tell you the scientific reason why Spider Rock is white at the top, for some Native Americans the reason is based on the deadly activities of Spider Woman. Some traditions maintain that she lives at the very pinnacle of Spider Rock, spinning out her immense webs and quickly catching any would-be intruders to her domain. According to legend, the white on Spider Rock is the bleached-out bones of her prey.

  Cottonwood was located a few hundred miles to the north and slightly east from Canyon de Chelly and Spider Rock. Though there was no known abode of Spider Woman near Cottonwood, the town was not without a web. Like the millions of villages, towns, and cities around the world, Cottonwood was wrapped in the web of the Internet that had been spun around the world, snaring nearly everyone in its virtual stickiness—young and old, male and female alike.

  Like the useful baskets woven by Native Americans, the Internet was a useful tool for ordinary citizens to communicate with the rest of the world, sharing information along the electronic gossamer strands of the Internet. The web was also a useful tool for law enforcement organizations and indispensable in fighting crime. Law enforcement organizations around the world instantaneously shared large databases. Once someone had been arrested, or even merely stopped for a traffic violation, their information was put into the system. All it took was a few clicks of a mouse and that person’s information became available to law enforcement officers anywhere in the world. For those officials, the term “worldwide web” had taken on an entirely different meaning. Criminals were now caught in the virtual spider’s web of the law. Spider Woman might very well be proud.

  While Sheriff O’Neil was busy looking along Little Bear River for Old Blind Carl and finding nothing, Deputy Sheriff Sparks had struck gold on the Internet. His computer monitor displayed page after page of information about Matthew William Duncan. Beginning with a speeding ticket he’d gotten as a seventeen-year-old, right up through his arrest and subsequent conviction in Washington State for manslaughter, Sparky had found it all. The most interesting thing of all, however, was the final page he was now looking at. On the screen was a special bulletin issued by the Washington State Department of Corrections; it was this page that Sparky was studying closely when Sheriff O’Neil came back into the office.

  “I sure hope you’ve had better luck than we did,” said the sheriff as he slammed the main door behind him and walked over to where Sparky was seated.

  “I was wonderin’ if you were gonna come back today,” said Sparky, not bothering to turn around to look at the sheriff.

  “I almost didn’t. I stopped by my house to put my feet up and have a couple of beers. We struck out. Not a sign of Old Carl.”

  “Well, I think maybe I’ve got something here that’ll make your day—maybe the jackpot. Look at this.” Sparky leaned away from the desk as the sheriff bent over and stared at the computer screen. He read:

  Washington State

  Department of Corrections

  Arrest Warrant

  Case #020086044

  The Washington State Department

  of Corrections

  has issued a warrant for the arrest of:

  Matthew William Duncan

  described as a:

  White male

  Age 31

  6’2”

  190 lbs.

  Brown hair

  Blue eyes

  Muscular build

  The suspect walked away from the Monroe Correctional Complex in Monroe, Washington, on July 15th. He is not known to be armed but could be dangerous. If apprehended, use maximum-security procedures for confinement.

  It only took a few seconds for the details of the message to settle in with the sheriff. His heart began beating faster. “Bingo! Good work, Sparky!” he said, slapping his deputy on the back. “You just made up for a whole lot of things—a whole damn lot. Let’s go get the bastard.”

  The afternoon sun was low in the sky as the sheriff and Sparky arrived at Rebecca’s house. They had decided to walk to the house rather than ride bikes, figuring it would be difficult and awkward to transport a prisoner in such a manner. The sheriff’s cop sense told him to dispense with the ringing of the doorbell or any knocking. They had a wanted fugitive on their hands, and you didn’t knock for fugitives.

  The main wooden door inside the screen door was open this time. Both the sheriff and Sparky drew their revolvers as they approached. Sheriff O’Neil was calm and steady as he neared the door. He glanced through the door into the house. The front room was lit up by the orange evening sun, streaming through the westward facing window.

  “Matthew Duncan,” said the sheriff clearly and loudly through the open door. “Are you in there?”

  There was no answer.

  Once more, and a bit louder, the sheriff called out, but there was still no response. “We’ve got to be careful here,” said the sheriff in a low voice. “Ms. D’Arcy might be around here now, for all we know. We don’t want her getting hurt or mixed up in all this.”

  Sparky only nodded his acknowledgement.

  “I’m gonna go check around back again,” whispered the sheriff. “You stay here and watch the front. He may come running this way, once he realizes I mean to arrest him.”

  Sparky nodded again.

  The sheriff bounded off the porch almost exactly as he’d done earlier in the day, crushing a nearly equal number of petunias as he headed toward the backyard. Holding his gun steady in one hand and pointing it out in front of him, the sheriff slowly and carefully undid the latch on the gate and entered the backyard. His senses were heightened for any sudden sound or motion, but he was blind to other sensations. He failed, for example, to notice the sweetly perfumed fragrances of the many evening flowers; he failed to notice the way the evening sun was dancing among the leaves of the white clematis; he failed to notice long shadows being cast by the pampas grass on the weathered gray cedar fence. John O’Neil failed to notice all the magical beauty of the garden—radiant, perfumed, and sparkling for his enjoyment.

  Focused only on sudden sounds or motions, the sheriff turned the cor
ner and rounded the back of the house, entering into the main part of the garden near the patio. He approached the spot where he and Matthew had spoken earlier in the day, noticing that the clothes Matthew had hung were now gone. Out of the corner of his eye, a flickering of light to his left caught his attention, and he quickly turned toward it. His attention fell upon a small candle, burning in a cobalt blue glass holder sitting on the patio table. He watched the flame as it moved and flickered ever so slightly, though the air in the backyard was calm.

  Curious, thought the sheriff.

  Then from behind him at a distance, a voice called out:

  “You’re looking for me, no doubt,” said Matthew.

  The sheriff spun around and instinctively pointed the gun in the direction of the voice. He pointed it right at Matthew who was seated on the small bench at the far end of the garden. He was dressed this time in blue jeans and a white long-sleeved pullover shirt.

  “You’re under arrest, Mr. Duncan,” said the sheriff calmly, keeping the gun pointed steadily at Matthew.

  “Is there really a need to point that gun at me, John?” said Matthew.

  “Shut up,” said the sheriff as he unclipped his radio microphone with his free hand. “Sparky,” he said into the microphone, “I’ve found our man. Come around to the back…or better yet, go through the house and see if Ms. D’Arcy is in there.”

  “She’s at work,” said Matthew.

  “I told you to shut up,” said the sheriff, keeping the gun and his eyes firmly fixed on Matthew. “Now put your hands on top of your head—very slowly.”

  Matthew slowly put his hands on top of his head, while keeping a slight smile on his face. The sheriff approached him cautiously, keeping the gun pointed directly at Matthew’s head.

  “All right, Mr. Duncan,” the sheriff continued, “I want you to very slowly and without making any sudden moves, ease yourself down off of that bench and lay flat on the ground here for me—keeping your hands up on your head.”

  Matthew did as the sheriff requested.

  As Matthew lay there with his face close to the grass, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the earthen richness. He thought of Old Blind Carl and the way he’d crawled among the deep grass by the river, touching it, smelling it, and seeing it for the first time. He thought of what the smell of grass meant, not just to Carl and yesterday, but forever. He thought of joy and life.

  About that time, Sparky came out of the house and stood next to the sheriff, with the sheriff only glancing at Sparky as he kept his eyes and his pistol pointing directly at Matthew.

  “Search him for weapons first, Sparky,” said the sheriff. “Then put the cuffs on him.”

  Sparky promptly and eagerly complied, walking around to Matthew’s feet and kicking his legs wide apart in the grass. Kneeling to the ground, the deputy quickly patted down Matthew’s body before roughly pulling both hands behind his prisoner’s back and securing them tightly together with handcuffs.

  “Clean and cuffed,” said Sparky, standing back up.

  “All right,” said the sheriff, “bring the prisoner to his feet.”

  Rigorously lifting from under one arm, Sparky pulled Matthew to his feet.

  “Can I ask what I’ve done wrong?” asked Matthew, once fully standing.

  “Ask all you want, but I don’t have to tell you shit…Mr. Escapee,” snapped the sheriff.

  “Ah, so that’s it,” replied Matthew.

  “That’s it for now, but we’ll see what else you’ve been up to. Now shut the hell up.”

  With Sparky holding Matthew by one arm and the sheriff keeping his gun pointed directly at the captive, the three men left the backyard and walked down the center of the street toward the sheriff’s office. None of the doors on Rebecca’s house were closed or locked, and the candle on the patio table remained lit.

  As the three walked along the quiet evening street, the sheriff and Sparky seemed puffed up with pride, parading Matthew like a hunting prize. A few residents, who were out on their porches enjoying the summer evening, noticed the curious trio, though none recognized the man the sheriff and deputy were now escorting. Sparky seemed particularly proud of the fact that he was the one actually handling the prisoner, though the sheriff made no small show of keeping his gun pointed as firmly and officially as he could at Matthew’s back. High overhead, unseen and silent, a meadowlark flew, following along in the same general direction the three were headed.

  There was only one jail cell in the Cottonwood Sheriff’s Office. It was actually more of a detention room than a cell and had a solid door fitted with very robust looking locks. The room smelled dusty and stale, as it was seldom used. There was a tall and narrow window at the far end of the room opposite the door, too narrow for even an infant to fit through. Along the wall to the right of the door was a cot, and in the center of the room was a small table with two chairs. The cell was located down a short hallway off the main office. The hallway was separated from the office area by a door with a small square window.

  The three men entered the cell and stood next to the table. “Go ahead and take the cuffs off him, Sparky,” ordered the sheriff.

  Sparky undid the cuffs, and Matthew brought his hands around to the front, rubbing his wrists.

  “Thanks, Sparky, those handcuffs are very uncomfortable,” said Matthew.

  Both Sparky and the sheriff ignored the comment, and Sparky attempted to sneer at Matthew with as much of a sneer as he could muster. Matthew only smiled at the attempt, causing Sparky to change his quasi-sneer to a simple frown.

  “Let’s go,” said the sheriff to Sparky, already exiting the room.

  Sparky closed the heavy door, and the locks made heavy clicking sounds as he turned each key. He then hurried down the hallway to catch up with the sheriff.

  “That was a good day’s work, Deputy,” the sheriff said, once they were back in the main office area. “I knew that crazy bastard was trouble. I didn’t figure him for an escapee, but it all makes sense now.”

  “What do we do now?” asked Sparky as he followed the sheriff into his office.

  “I’ll have to make a call to Washington State and let them know I’ve got their escapee. They’ll want to get their man back, but I hope that in the time it takes them to get down here, considering the distance and our transportation mess, I can get the proof I need that Mr. Duncan has also killed one of Cottonwood’s favorite citizens.”

  Alone and locked in his cell, Matthew walked over to the narrow window and looked outside. Another night was falling on Cottonwood. He watched the streetlights along Main Street flickering to life, exactly the same way he had watched them on warm summer nights long ago when he’d sit with Old Blind Carl at the table in front of Masterson’s, listening to his stories and eating ice cream.

  As he watched the darkness descending, on a small ledge outside the window, a meadowlark landed. Matthew smiled and looked down through the glass at the small creature with its black V-shape standing out distinctly against its yellow chest, even in the fading light. The bird cocked its head to one side, eyeing him.

  Tweeta…tweet…tweet…tweetatweet…chup…chup sang the star-tail.

  Matthew smiled and said, “You’re right, it would be a perfect night for lovers, and I miss her greatly, but everything in its time, my little friend, everything in its time. We still have much to do.”

  Forty-Seven

  Ogden

  Ogden, Utah, was originally named Fort Buenaventura, having been established by a trapper by the name of Miles Goodyear in 1846. Just a year later in 1847, the Mormons bought the land for the sum of $1,950. They then changed the name to Brownville, but later changed it to Ogden in honor of another trapper in the area by the name of Peter Skene Ogden. One could argue that the town could well have been named Goodyear, after the name of the original trapper who established the first fort in the area, but such are the fickle tides of history.

  Another historic claim to fame of the area around Ogden is the
location of nearby Promontory Summit. It was at that famous site that a “golden spike” was hammered into the Utah soil on May 10, 1869, to officially connect together the Western Pacific and Central Pacific Railroads, marking the completion of the nation’s first Transcontinental Railroad. The driving of the golden spike represented a turning point in the ongoing push for the expansion of the American Frontier. No longer were months of dangerous journeys by wagon train along the Oregon Trail necessary to make the journey out west. Rather than months on a wagon train facing death, disease, and danger, with the hammering of the golden spike and the completion of the Transcontinental Railroad, Chicago to San Francisco was only a matter of a train ticket and a little over a week’s time.

  Many of those using the Transcontinental Railroad were in a hurry to get to the booming cities of California, and they simply needed to cross through the Utah Territory. Only a few of those who were just passing through ever paid much attention to the fact that they were actually traveling through Ogden, rather than the more populated and well-known Salt Lake City to the south.

  After leaving the traffic jam and tragic accident southeast of Boise, it had been a miserable drive along Interstate 84 for Agent Westmore. The rain-drenched highway was far better suited for boats than cars or trucks. He stopped once in Twin Falls for fuel and a small sandwich, which he ate in the car as he continued driving eastward. He then followed the highway as it arced south into Utah, where it joined with Interstate 15.

  The rain had eased, and it was late and close to sunset when the agent finally exited I-15 near Ogden. He was looking first for a place to grab a more substantial meal, and second, a place to sleep for the night. Soon after exiting the highway, he was in luck, as he spotted an establishment that promised to offer him both. Like a beacon in the dimming light, lit up with gold lettering on a black oval background, was a large sign that read The Golden Spike Restaurant & Hotel. Also pictured on the sign was a sledgehammer, striking what appeared to be a golden railroad spike.