by R. R. Irvine
While Traveler worked, the Indians chanted, to take the curse off such desecration, Bill explained. The body wasn’t deep, no more than a couple of feet. Even so, Traveler was sweating profusely by the time the last of the loose red dirt was removed.
He caught his breath. It wasn’t the missing mayor; it was the body of a boy.
He immediately compared the dead face with a photograph of Petey Biscari, but the desert had already sucked out the juices. The boy in the photograph bore no resemblance to the shriveled mummy inside the jeans and tattered T-shirt.
“He looks like he starved to death,” Bill said.
“It’s the desert,” Charlie said, “taking back life for itself.”
The three Shivwits pulled Charlie aside to whisper in his ear. After a while he nodded and returned to the grave. “They say he didn’t die of thirst. They say it wasn’t the desert that took him either, but the light. The great pillars of light that the white man has been igniting in the desert for years.”
“Jesus Christ,” Traveler said, remembering the radiation badges at the Echo Canyon Clinic.
“Yeah,” Martin added. “If it’s radiation, it had to come from that damned clinic. Maybe Thurgood is Ottinger after all. Maybe the bastard’s been experimenting on children.”
Traveler turned to the Indians. “Where did you find the boy?”
Charlie conferred with the shaman before answering. “At a toxic dump site near the border. It butts up against the reservation.”
“How could the boy have gotten that far in this desert?”
Charlie talked that over with the Shivwits. “They think he stowed away on a truck heading for the dump site. He could have jumped off and hid when the driver dumped his load.”
“Why didn’t they report it?” Martin asked.
Charlie spread his hands. “There was nothing they could do for the boy, and they didn’t want to get into trouble for being that close to the site, which is a restricted area.”
“The boy must be baptized immediately,” Bill said.
Charlie plucked the photograph from Traveler’s hand and held it out. “Look at him. He was touched at birth. The great spirit would never turn away from such a gentle soul. Our efforts aren’t needed. I see it inside.” Charlie tapped his forehead. “He has been raised already.”
Open-mouthed, Bill stared at the usually laconic Charlie, who said, “Do your work, Moroni, so the boy can rest in peace.”
Nodding, Traveler loosened the jeans, whose heavy denim had kept the boy’s shorts from disintegrating. And there, sewn into the elastic band, was the name Petey Biscari.
33
BILL, CHARLIE, and the Shivwits Indians stayed behind to wait for the sheriff or the FBI, depending on who claimed jurisdiction, while Traveler and Martin drove back to Fire Creek. Once there, they headed directly for Coffee Pot Springs, ignoring the restrictions on vehicles in the vicinity of Jason Thurgood’s tent clinic. They intended to confront Jason Thurgood without delay.
They parked fifty yards short of the red boulders that guarded the pass to the old ghost town. By the time they reached the stone sentinels, the sun was beginning to set. Yet even in the dying light, they could see the body sprawled in front of the tent, next to one of the camp chairs.
There wasn’t another soul in sight. Even so, they drew their .45s as they descended the hill. When they reached the tent, the only sound was the flapping of canvas in the evening breeze.
Jason Thurgood lay on his back staring up at the sky with sightless eyes. There were two bullet holes in the center of his chest, exactly where Vonda Hillman had thrust her pistol. The red soil around his body was black with blood.
The bullet holes were small, Traveler thought as he glanced back at the crest of the hill.
Martin read the glance. “If you’re thinking that’s where the shots came from, I agree.”
Around the body there were dozens of footprints—boots, sneakers, even bare feet.
“It looks like everybody in town’s been here,” Martin said, kneeling beside Thurgood and gently closing his eyes. “All the way back here, I kept telling myself there had to be some kind of mistake. Only a good man would come to a place like this to heal people.”
“Maybe he was doing penance for a guilty conscience. Maybe he was too good to be true.”
With a sigh, Martin rose to his feet before collapsing onto the camp chair.
“I’ll be right back,” Traveler said and jogged back the way they’d come.
At the crest of the hill, he began a sweeping search pattern with the beam of his flashlight. Just off the trail, out of the traffic flow, light glinted off a shell casing. It was from a .22, freshly fired judging by the smell of it. Next to it were the prints of the killers, where they had stood side by side.
Traveler hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should fetch his father to witness the find. Finally, he shook his head, pocketed the casing, and stepped on the prints on the way back to his father.
Martin met him halfway up the path. “Come on, Mo. We’d better get the marshal.”
Martin didn’t speak again until they parked in front of the marshal’s office at city hall. “You know what I said to Thurgood that first time we met? ‘Are you the messiah, like everybody says?’ ‘God, I hope not,’ he answered. He laughed then, a crazy laugh thinking back on it now. ‘If Christ came again,’ he told me, ‘they’d have to kill him to keep his mouth shut. No one wants to hear that stuff about the eye of a needle. People want to think that the more money they make, the more God loves them.’ ”
Martin got out of the Jeep and slammed the door. “I don’t care if he did walk away from that clinic. It doesn’t change the fact that he did something to Petey Biscari and the Whitlock boy that drove them into the desert. God knows how long they suffered out there. If you ask me, he got off easy.”
34
BY THE time they’d driven Marshal Peake back to the tent, there was no body. Even the blood-soaked soil where Thurgood had lain had been scooped out and carried away, leaving a body-size depression.
“Shit,” Peake said. “That’s cults for you. They clean up their own messes. Without evidence, we’re up shit creek.”
“Call the county sheriff,” Martin said. “Dump it in his lap.”
Peake adjusted the wick on one of the two hissing Coleman lanterns he’d brought along. “I’m willing to take your word that Jason Thurgood was killed here, but the sheriff won’t. And you know what happens if I bring in more outsiders. Nobody talks to them. The Children close ranks and so do most of the locals.”
“We’re outsiders,” Martin said, “and people have been talking to us.”
“That’s only because they know you’re checking up on the Smoot woman. Nobody wants to rile a man like Josiah Ellsworth.”
“You can’t ignore another murder,” Traveler said.
Peake removed his cowboy hat and pretended to study its sweat band. “There are a lot of people around town who’ll say that the murders are your doing. Your way of stirring up trouble. Take Norm Shipler, for instance. What with his broken leg and the fact that he’d been drinking, according to witnesses down at the Escalante, chances are he fell in the creek and killed himself. Maybe he didn’t even give a shit by then, and who could blame him considering the way his daughters had been acting up.”
“What witnesses?” Traveler asked.
“Most of them are Moroni’s Children, so what? They’re still willing to swear to it. As long as they do that, Norm’s death comes up an accident. As for Jason Thurgood, I have only your word that he’s dead. For all I know, you two have got murder on the brain.”
“I thought you believed us,” Traveler said.
He shrugged. “I’d be a fool not to keep my options open.”
“As long as you’re doing that,” Martin said, “let’s up the count and make it three murders.”
In detail, Martin recounted the opening of Petey Biscari’s grave on the Indian reservation. As he was spea
king, two women, both carrying flashlights, lined up outside the entrance to the tent, apparently expecting a late evening sick call. Their faces shone in the white lantern light.
After a long silence, Peake spoke softly. “I don’t like the thought of a young boy dying like that, but as far as I can see it has nothing to do with Fire Creek.”
“His father has identified the boy’s doctor as Jason Thurgood,” Traveler said, leaving out the Ottinger name change to keep things simple. “Petey ran away from the Echo Canyon Clinic. Somehow he made it far enough for the Indians to find him.”
“Shit,” Peake said, cramming his hat on his head. “You’re talking about that government research center over by Pioche, aren’t you?”
Traveler nodded.
“They may be calling it a clinic now, but there was a time when it was an animal research lab for the atomic bomb testing. They used to stake animals out in cages, starting at ground zero and working out from there, to see where survival and cancer took over. Not many people know about it, but back in ‘57 some scientists came to my dad’s ranch asking to rent a strip of land. That was just before the big shot they call Dirty Harry. Anyway, they paid him good money to cage the animals along our fence line. Of course, Dad had to sign a paper saying he’d keep it to himself.
“They told him he’d be perfectly safe and so would the animals, dogs, cats, and the like. Our place was miles away from ground zero, they said, across the Nevada border. Well, you’d have to know my Dad to understand, but he took a fancy to one of them dogs they’d penned up. Hell, he went from cage to cage refilling their water bowls, which none of them scientists had thought to do. Anyway, when they came to collect their cages after Dirty Harry lit up half the state, they were missing a dog. My dad told them it must have got loose on its own.
“That dog took sick and died soon after. He was caged up only a mile from our ranch.” Peake sighed. “A mile can mean a lot. It took my father another ten years before the cancer got him. I was up in Salt Lake at the time of the shot, taking law enforcement classes at the university. Otherwise, I’d be dead too.”
The marshal smiled grimly. “If Jason Thurgood worked at that clinic, I say to hell with him.”
“Fine,” Martin said. “That still leaves us with two murders.”
Outside the tent, the two women had been joined by half a dozen others.
“I’d like nothing better than to pin a murder on those scientists, but they’re out of my jurisdiction and so is the Indian reservation. You never know, though. I might pick up some gossip sitting around city hall, or pumping gas. Take Norm Shipler’s girls, for instance. To look at them, you wouldn’t think they had any sense at all. But their father’s death shook them, that’s for sure. Ever since they saw his body, Eula and Vyrle have been telling me things.”
Peake adjusted his hat. “Maybe I’ll tell them a few things of my own. Who knows? They might believe me. Maybe Orrin will visit their beds one time too many.”
He chuckled. “It kind of gives you the willies, doesn’t it, thinking how vulnerable a man is during sex, especially if it’s a threesome. Two women against one man. Maybe he falls asleep afterward and is just lying there, naked and exposed. One swipe of a razor and he’s singing soprano. Now that’s what I call blood atonement at its best.”
By now, a large crowd had materialized outside the tent, mostly women and children, though Snelgrove and Porter stood at the head of the line, carrying lanterns of their own.
An angry shout went up when the marshal started to leave with Traveler and Martin.
As if on cue, Snelgrove raised a hand to quiet his people. “Where is our messiah?” he demanded. “He must not be bothered by the likes of you.”
“I haven’t seen him,” Peake said.
Snelgrove waved Porter inside the tent. Traveler had the feeling that it was a gesture only, a way for Snelgrove to show his power over his people, and over anyone who dared confront them.
A moment later Porter emerged, raised his lantern above his head and announced, “Our messiah has been taken from us.”
Traveler stared at the faces confronting him. He saw confusion, maybe even hatred, but no immediate threat of violence. Even so, frankness was always a risk, but one he decided to take. “Jason Thurgood has been shot.” Traveler poked his chest to show the spot.
“Where is his body?” Snelgrove demanded.
“It’s disappeared,” Peake answered.
Snelgrove shook his head. “It’s as I feared. The messiah has been taken from us and crucified again.”
“He was shot,” Traveler repeated.
“It makes no difference,” Snelgrove said. “The wounds of Christ are upon him.”
A woman wailed. Another joined her, their cries instantly contagious to the children.
At a nod from Snelgrove, Porter thrust two fingers into his mouth and whistled shrilly. When calm was restored, Snelgrove signaled his followers to go down on their knees in prayer.
“ ‘O how great the goodness of our God,’ ” he said, “ ‘who prepareth a way for our escape from the grasp of this awful monster; yea, that monster, death and hell.’ ”
“I have become Elijah,” Porter added. “He who will announce the messiah’s coming.”
Martin whispered, “Do you remember your Sunday school?”
Traveler nodded. According to the Hebrew Bible, the prophet Elijah would walk the earth again when the time came to proclaim a messiah.
“He is close at hand,” Porter went on, “but must be protected from the infidels.” He pointed a finger at Traveler.
For a moment, Traveler thought he had misread the Children’s mood, that an eruption of violence was a possibility after all.
Then suddenly Snelgrove beckoned his people to their feet and led them into the darkness.
“Come on,” Martin said, grabbing Traveler’s arm. “We’d better find Pete Biscari and tell him about his son, not that he wasn’t expecting it.”
35
USING PETE Biscari’s campfire as a beacon, Traveler managed to get the Jeep within walking distance without breaking an axle. As usual, Biscari was sitting in front of the fire with the border collie at his side.
“I was hoping you’d come,” he said as soon as they joined him. He nodded at the heavy iron pot hanging over the fire. “Fresh jackrabbit stew just the way you like it, Martin. It ought to be ready anytime now.”
“We can’t stay, Pete. Mo’s ladyfriend is waiting dinner for us.”
Biscari sighed so deeply that his shoulders rose and fell. “If you didn’t drive all the way out here for my cooking, it must be bad news.”
Martin ducked his head, unable to look Biscari in the eye. “Pete, we’ve been friends for a long time. I wish that I weren’t the one to have to tell you. We’ve been up on the Shivwits reservation. They found a body.”
“Petey ?”
Traveler handed him the name tag that had been sewn into the boy’s underwear.
“How did he die?”
“It’s hard to know for sure,” Martin answered.
“I can read your face. Tell me.”
“The Indians say the light killed him,” Traveler said. “From the bomb testing.”
“I was right, then. Ottinger and that damn clinic are to blame.” Biscari tucked away the name tag. “That reservation’s on federal land. They’ll cover it up, like everything else they do at that clinic.”
“Thurgood is dead,” Traveler said. “Shot.”
“You mean Ottinger,” Biscari replied, giving Traveler a level gaze. “Shooting is a better death than my boy got. They say radiation makes you waste away. They say it takes a long time, not like a bullet. But now at least Petey will be coming home to rest beside his mother.”
“Do you want us to drive you to the reservation?” Martin said.
“I can’t leave the sheep. Petey would understand that.”
“We’ll make the arrangements, then.”
Biscari nodded and shook their h
ands. “Martin,” he said, “you have a fine son. It gives me peace to know that you have such a son.” Then he turned and walked away from the firelight, the dog beside him. They left side-by-side footprints just the way they’d done on the trail above Coffee Pot Springs.
For a moment, Traveler was tempted to call Biscari back and confront him. But the look on Martin’s face made that impossible.
36
TRAVELER DIDN’T remember getting into the Jeep and driving back through town; he didn’t realize that Martin had parked in front of Ruth’s until his father tapped him on the shoulder.
“You know what I’m thinking?” Martin said. “That maybe Vonda was right after all. That maybe it was the devil she was trying to kill.”
“Someone should end up in hell, that’s for sure.”
They climbed out of the Jeep, and went inside, where Ruth greeted them with the cat in her arms.
“Brigham was getting lonely in the service porch,” she said.
Martin held out his arms. Brigham went wide-eyed during the exchange but calmed when Martin settled onto the sofa and began stroking her gently. After a while, the cat closed her eyes and began to purr.
“Sure,” Martin said, “women love soft-talking you in the beginning.”
Ruth latched on to Traveler’s hand. “You look terrible.”
“Someone shot Jason Thurgood. Only this time he wasn’t wearing a bulletproof vest.”
“And now the body’s disappeared,” Martin added, “and Snelgrove and his friends are claiming crucifixion and resurrection, while Marshal Peake seems to be waiting for divine intervention.”
Ruth put her arms around Traveler. “I don’t want you doing anything dangerous.”
Traveler led Ruth to the sofa, sat her beside Martin, and knelt in front of her.