“What can I do for you?” the man asked, smiling and reaching out to shake the agent’s hand.
Agent Westmore shook his hand, noting as he did so that the man’s hand was slightly damp. The agent then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his badge, holding it out for the man to see. “Agent Westmore,” he said, “Washington State Bureau of Investigation.”
“Officer Tom Burnham,” said the man, “Colorado State Patrol. What can I do for you? What brings you all the way out here to Colorado?”
“Just a little sightseeing,” responded Agent Westmore.
“Well, you’ve picked a great location for it. You’re smack in the middle of the greatest example of God’s handiwork anywhere on the planet. I’m thinking, however, that you’re kidding. You passed right by the tourist information center a few blocks back.”
The agent smiled. “From what I’ve seen so far, this is beautiful country, but, yes, I’m here on official business. I need to get down to Cottonwood, and according to your roadside signs—Highway 550 is closed. I dialed the number given on the sign, but it didn’t give any more information as to why.”
Officer Burnham looked over toward the front counter and then back at Agent Westmore. “Oh,” he said, “sorry about that recording. I guess we forgot to update it. We’ve been pretty busy. All the weekend staff is out manning roadblocks. I guess, since it’s been all over the news, most people already know that they can’t go south from here. I can’t believe you haven’t seen it.”
“Sorry, I just got into Colorado today and haven’t been paying any attention to the local news. Are there problems down toward Cottonwood?”
Officer Burnham was now scratching behind the ears of the dog on his left, the animal’s eyes squinting to narrow slits with delight. “It’s been on the national news, too. You must’ve been living in some kind of bubble these past few days—hell, you must be the one person in the whole damn country who hasn’t heard about the Cottonwood Dead Zone.”
“Cottonwood Dead Zone?” puzzled Agent Westmore. “What happened there—a chemical leak or something?”
“No, nothing like that,” said Officer Burnham. He walked over to the coffee table, picked up a copy of The Sunday Denver Post, walked back, and handed it to the agent.
On the front page, though not the top story, was a headline that read Cottonwood ‘Dead Zone’ Disrupts West Slope Traffic. Agent Westmore quickly read the first few sentences and then looked at Officer Burnham.
“What the hell is this all about?” he asked.
“That’s a good question,” replied the officer, “a damn good question. They haven’t figured it out just yet.”
Agent Westmore glanced down at the paper once more, this time reading a few paragraphs until he understood, and then looked back to Officer Burnham. “Well, just how in the hell am I supposed to get down to Cottonwood?”
“Another damn good question. For now—you don’t. I can’t even get a car down there right now. There’s nothing but all-electric cars getting to Cottonwood, and we’re not that sophisticated here in Montrose.”
The agent paused and looked down at the hounds. Their sad brown eyes reflected his sentiment exactly. “I’ve just driven all the way from Washington State, and returning empty-handed is not an option. I need to get to Cottonwood.”
“Empty-handed?” asked the officer. “What is it you’re going after in Cottonwood—if you don’t mind me asking?”
The agent paused and studied Officer Burnham for a moment. “An escapee from one of our prisons. I’ve been following his path, and it’s led right to Cottonwood. I’d just like to complete the job and go pick him up.”
“Well, unless you’ve got an electric vehicle, you can’t. And even if you did, you’d still need permission from CDEM first.”
“Who the hell is CDEM?” asked Agent Westmore.
“Not who—but what,” replied the officer. “It’s the Colorado Division of Emergency Management. They’ve taken over complete control of the situation in Cottonwood, and until further notice, the area is restricted to official CDEM approved business. They get final say on who goes into Cottonwood right now.”
“Don’t you suppose my official business from the State of Washington might be approved? I just want to get in, find my escapee, and get out. It shouldn’t take but a few hours. Wouldn’t they allow that?”
“Couldn’t say,” said Officer Burnham. “You’d have to take that up with them. We only enforce the rules here—you know that. But even if you could get down there, why do you think it would only take a few hours? Do you know the exact location of your escapee?”
The agent shook his head. “Not exactly,” he said, his chest beginning to tighten as the lingering smell of burnt popcorn and old linoleum flooring induced a wave of nausea. The forlorn eyes of the hounds made the experience complete. “So tell me,” he continued, “what exactly would happen if I left and drove straight down the highway toward Cottonwood?”
Officer Burnham smirked. “Well,” he began, “assuming you could somehow manage to get around our roadblocks—which I would doubt ‘cause we’ve got some really good marksmen—but assuming you could, then about five miles out from Cottonwood, your car would just quit—stone-cold dead, and try as much as you’d like, you couldn’t restart it. Then you’d have to make the decision of whether or not to walk the twenty-five miles back here or the five miles into Cottonwood. Regardless of your choice, and again assuming one of my fellow officers didn’t pick you off with a nice clean shot right away, I’d probably have to come after you with Max and Chloe here. They’re the best hounds in western Colorado, and just as sure as the size of their beautiful noses, they’d help me track you down pretty fast. You’d ultimately be arrested, and it would only get worse for you after that. I hope you get the picture—Cottonwood is off limits without permission from CDEM.”
Agent Westmore stared at the officer, his nausea intensifying. “This is crazy,” he said. “All I want to do is pick up my escapee and head back to Washington. Certainly you understand?”
“Being a fellow lawman, I can sympathize with you, and I’m sure this all puts a little detour in your plans. Why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll go see if I can get hold of someone at CDEM. Would you like some coffee? I just put on a fresh pot a while ago.”
The agent nodded.
“Great,” replied Officer Burnham. He looked at the hounds. “Stay,” he said firmly. Neither dog moved, but they followed the officer with their droopy eyes as he turned and walked out of the room and down the hallway.
The agent moved over and took a seat on the old, though surprisingly comfortable, couch. Maxie and Chloe followed him and lay at his feet on the old beige linoleum, their noses twitching with interest as they explored the thousands of interesting new scents rolling off the agent and across the floor.
After a few minutes, the officer reappeared carrying two steaming cups of coffee. “The good news,” said Officer Burnham, handing a cup to the agent, “is that I made the coffee today, and that means it’s bound to be at least acceptable. Most everyone else here brews it way too strong. The bad news is that no one seems to be answering the phone at CDEM this afternoon, but I did leave a message. They’re all probably out enjoying their Sunday, but I’m hoping someone will be dedicated enough to check messages sometime today.”
Officer Burnham took a seat in one of the chairs opposite the couch where Agent Westmore sat. The two bloodhounds, which were still near the couch, raised their heads up to see where their master was sitting, and then, seeming to accept the close proximity, plopped them back on the linoleum floor and closed their eyes.
Agent Westmore took a long sip of coffee. It was the best he’d tasted since leaving Washington. “You brew a mean cup,” he said, managing a smile toward Officer Burnham. After another long sip and a pause, he added, “Now, from one lawman to another—how can you help me get into Cottonwood?”
The officer smiled, taking a sip of his own before replying,
“I appreciate your professional passion to complete your mission down here, but that’s not going to happen—I like my job. You’re just going to need to find some patience and wait for CDEM to get back to us.”
The two men talked for nearly an hour as Agent Westmore learned all that Officer Burnham knew about the Cottonwood Dead Zone. He found out that it had started on Friday around noon—about the same time the agent had been making his visit to Mount Rainier National Park. The officer told him that no internal-combustion vehicles of any kind were operating inside a zone about five miles out from Cottonwood in all directions. So far, no one knew the cause, though the favorite idea circulating among the locals and on the Internet was that it was caused by some sort of secret military test gone awry.
Agent Westmore also learned that Officer Burnham was a local. He had grown up in this part of the state, with family going back three generations. His father and grandfather were both farmers, though his grandfather had tried his hand at mining at one time as well. Most interestingly of all, Agent Westmore learned that though he now lived in nearby Delta, Officer Burnham had grown up in Cottonwood.
“You did?” asked the very interested Agent Westmore. “How long ago was that?”
“Let’s see,” said Officer Burnham, “I left shortly after I graduated from high school, when I went to college down in Durango. Then I went back for a year or so, until I signed on with the state patrol. I guess I last lived there about twenty years ago.”
Normally, Agent Westmore was very careful about revealing any details of his cases to anyone, except on a need-to-know basis. He thought in this situation, considering it was a fellow law enforcement officer, he’d reveal more than usual.
“Well, I’ve got to ask you something,” he said. “Do you happen to know a person by the name of Matthew Duncan?”
The officer’s eyebrows rose. “Matt Duncan? Absolutely, I do—or did. He was just a young kid when I lived there, but it’s a small town and everyone knows everyone—you know what I mean? I remember him—he was always riding his bike way too fast down the sidewalks. I guess we all did at that age.” Officer Burnham paused briefly as the realization set in. “Oh, don’t tell me that’s who you’re looking for?! God bless America, not Matt Duncan!”
“I’m afraid so,” said Agent Westmore. “He was serving a ten-year sentence in Washington State for manslaughter. Seems a little over two weeks ago, he somehow just walked right out. As far as I know, they haven’t figured out how he busted out, but walk away he did, and it’s caused a real commotion. The superintendent of the prison had a perfect track record—Matthew Duncan messed with the wrong man.”
Officer Burnham was silent for a moment as he shook his head and stared down at the resting hounds. “Jeez, what a fucking crazy world,” he mumbled. He then looked up at Agent Westmore. “I guess you never can tell what might happen to people. I suppose a lot of the poor bastards locked up in prisons all over the country started out as happy kids—riding their bikes down main streets. Then, somehow, their life takes a different path, and things get all twisted and messed up for them. I read somewhere that America has the highest percentage of its population locked up and behind bars. What the hell is going on in this country when a kid from a small town can screw his life up so much?”
The agent shook his head. “I wouldn’t know about what’s going on in America, but in Matthew Duncan’s case, his path to ruining his life is pretty clear. He had a great job with the U.S. Forest Service—a ranger and all that. Appears that one day he fell and hit his head and then started acting loopy. He caused the death of another patient in the hospital, and they charged him with manslaughter. When someone goes nuts, who can tell what he might do? One thing for certain, though—he’s crafty enough to be able to escape from a medium-security prison. I won’t be taking any chances with him.”
“So how did you track him back here?” asked the officer.
“It really wasn’t that hard at all,” said the agent. “As smart as he seems to be by escaping a pretty tough prison, he also stupidly created a pretty clear path right back here to Colorado. I first got a tip from a fellow ranger he used to work with. Seems he went right to her after escaping and picked up some of his personal belongings she’d kept for him while he was in prison. He told her he was heading back here to Colorado. That was the first and biggest tip, and it’s sure made my job easier. In Oregon, I lucked out and came across his old prison uniform being worn by some young punk who, along with some of his punk friends, tried to roll Mr. Duncan. He even told this kid he was coming back to Colorado to get married. The path he was on was pretty easy to follow.”
Officer Burnham didn’t respond right away, and the two men took a few sips of their coffee. Finally, the officer said, “It reminds me of breadcrumbs.”
“Breadcrumbs?” asked Agent Westmore.
“Yeah, you know, when someone tries to mark a trail to follow, they drop breadcrumbs along the way. Then, of course, the birds always come along and eat the crumbs, and the people end up lost anyway. It was an old fairy tale, I think. I don’t remember the whole thing, but somehow your story of tracking Matt Duncan back here reminds me of breadcrumbs—only I guess in this case, he’s the one dropping them, and you’re like the little bird following along behind him pickin’ ‘em up.” After a pause, he added, “What the hell, I think I need some more coffee.” Officer Burnham stood up from the couch. “You want another cup?”
Agent Westmore stared at the old linoleum floor. He hadn’t realized until then how cracked, faded, and badly in need of replacement it was. The cracking floor reminded him of trail maps, with the designs in the linoleum being the terrain and the cracks being the trails. The hounds raised their heads and stared at him as though waiting for something.
“More coffee?” asked Officer Burnham.
“Oh, sure,” replied the agent, finally returning from the trail-linoleum floor, looking up at the officer and handing him the coffee cup. “It looks like I’m not going anywhere for a while.”
Agent Westmore ended up spending several hours with Officer Burnham. They finished off a pot of coffee and shared a few leftover doughnuts from the day before, even laughing about the cliché. When there were only crumbs remaining in the doughnut box, and they’d had all the coffee they could stand, the office phone rang. Officer Burnham went to the front counter to pick it up, followed by Max and Chloe, who first yawned and stretched before joining him near the counter. On the other end of the line was a representative from CDEM—William Dressler. Officer Burnham talked to Mr. Dressler for a few minutes before Agent Westmore realized it was the call he’d been waiting for and joined the officer at the counter. Eventually, the agent was handed the phone, and he explained his situation to William in more detail.
“I know I probably shouldn’t be offering this without talking to my boss,” said William, “but I think I might be able to get you into Cottonwood tomorrow. Our lead investigator for the Dead Zone will be passing through Montrose, and I could have him stop and pick you up….”
It was agreed that Akash Mudali, who was heading out from Denver early Monday, would stop and pick up the agent in Montrose.
“At which hotel will you be staying?” asked William.
Though he didn’t have a hotel yet, he thought of the first thing that came to his mind. The dozens of signs he’d seen for the hotel between Grand Junction and Montrose had worked their magic.
“The Slumberjack,” replied the agent.
After he’d hung up with William Dressler, Agent Westmore noticed that Officer Burnham, who had been standing nearby during the conversation, had a funny smile on his face.
“What’s that all about?” asked the agent.
“I’m guessing you didn’t have a hotel yet—but you chose the Slumberjack. My brother-in-law is such a genius. I hate the guy.”
“I don’t understand—is it a bad hotel?”
“No, the rooms are fine. He just changed the name last year and then peppered all
the roads around this part of Colorado with those stupid signs that I know you’ve seen—with that dumb-looking lumberjack sleeping peacefully in the bed with his axe resting next to it. He put all those up last summer to increase his business, and by God, if that fool isn’t doing just what he said he would. You are living proof.”
“I guess I’m just a sucker for roadside ads,” replied the agent. “I’m really not that picky as long as the rooms are clean and the beds are comfortable.”
“I told him the lumberjack on the sign looked like some hobo with that scruffy beard and all, and that having a guy like that with an axe in a hotel room might turn people off to staying there—but I guess I was wrong.”
“The axe didn’t bother me,” said the agent. “But really…it was just the first name I could think of.”
Officer Burnham continued to smile. “And where do you think you might feel like eating tonight?” he asked.
The agent smiled back. “Oh…you think I’m just gonna saunter on over to Tim’s World Famous Tasty Burger? Don’t tell me your brother-in-law owns that, too? Does his name happen to be Tim?”
“Nope, his name is Stan,” replied the officer with a smirk. “Tim is my brother—my twin brother, in fact. He put his roadside signs up first, and that’s what gave Stan the idea to try it with the Slumberjack.”
The agent smiled and shook his head. “Well, isn’t this all just a cozy little state you’ve got here in Colorado. I suppose your uncle owns the bank?”
“Nope, he was a farmer like my dad,” replied the officer, “and like my dad, he’s been dead for a couple of years—but my mom worked at a bank once.”
The agent grinned. “Well, I find it humorous your brother calls his burger shop ‘world famous.’ I doubt anyone’s heard of it beyond Montrose.”
“And Cottonwood!” added the officer. “Tim opened his first restaurant there, and so many Montrose folks were coming down for burgers that he opened a second one up here. It’s true that this is as far as he’s gotten to being ‘world famous,’ but Tim’s got big dreams, and he does serve up a pretty tasty hamburger.”
Touching Cottonwood Page 43