When he’d driven up to the gates of the Williams’s Ranch, still elated he’d survived the earthquake that had taken half the rest stop, he’d found himself recruited immediately to help round up panicked and stampeded cattle. The ranch entrance was gated and locked, with a doorbell button on a pole for easy access from a truck. A small sign on the gate modestly said “Williams.” Alan pressed the button and waited for ten minutes before he saw a truck raising a plume of dust down the ranch road. The truck held Beth Williams, Sam’s wife, who was directing the salvage operation at the main house. They had never met, but Beth knew he was coming for a visit. Sam Williams had already been gone for hours, collecting his priceless scattered quarterhorses. Beth unlocked the gate and waved Alan through with wide arcs of her arm. She desperately needed someone to drive out to pasture four with water, coffee, and sandwiches. Alan immediately offered his Bronco and his services and fifteen minutes later found himself driving over bumpy pastureland with an enormous cooler and a huge Thermos of coffee strapped into the back. He hadn’t even gotten out of his Bronco.
He found pasture four easily; there were no signs but the area was a milling, frantic mess of cattle and dogs and men in four-wheel-drive trucks. Four men were working with the cattle, although it seemed like a hundred with the noise and the dust. The men were using the dogs and their trucks to cut injured cattle out of the herd. Most were being patched up in a makeshift corral, although there were two forlorn corpses stacked neatly thirty yards away from the corral. As Alan drove by, he saw that each had been shot between the eyes. He parked next to the makeshift corral and wondered what to do next.
A man who seemed most obviously in charge came striding over with his hat plastered to his eyebrows and an outlaw bandanna tied around nose and chin. Alan just had time to notice that the man’s shirt seemed to fit him rather oddly when the cowboy reached his Bronco and raised his head.
“Tell me my mom sent you here with food,” a woman’s voice said from the bandanna.
“In the back,” Alan said, trying not to laugh out loud. Now that he could see her eyes and hear her voice, he wondered how he’d mistaken her curves for a man. Perhaps he should look into getting glasses.
“Well, get out and help me,” the woman said, pulling her bandanna down and glaring at him. “We’re dying out here. It’s been hours.”
Alan jumped out quickly and opened up the back. Within a few moments, three out of the four cowboys were gathered around his Bronco, drinking water from the plastic cups Beth Williams had thrown into the back. Water dribbled down their chins and out the sides of their mouths and cut clean streams through the dirt and grime that coated them. Two of the four dogs came trotting up and were given cups of their own. They were no neater than the cowboys, slobbering water out their muzzles as they lapped frantically. Alan found himself holding the cup for one of the cow dogs, and was taken aback when the dog gave him a measured, adult look before drinking from the cup he held. He’d never seen such intelligence in a dog’s eyes.
The two dogs went back to the corral, and the other two cowboys came trotting to the Bronco. In the meantime, the remaining cowboys—cow people? Alan wondered, since the Williams’s girl and one other were both female—dug into the cooler with little yelps of joy. The Williams’s girl dropped a thick sandwich into Alan’s hands.
“Ate today?” she said, her voice muffled by an enormous mouthful of food.
“No,” Alan said, unwrapping his sandwich. His stomach woke up at the sight of the thick meatloaf. Homegrown lettuce was piled on top of the meatloaf and the bread looked homemade. He bit in. It was, and so was the meatloaf. He didn’t think he’d ever had a better sandwich.
“Angler?” the girl asked, tilting her head towards Alan’s Bronco.
“Yeth,” Alan said through a mouthful of meatloaf.
“Friend of Dad’s?”
This time he only nodded.
“Ever doctor cattle?”
“Not until today,” Alan said after swallowing. He gave the girl a sunny grin and she grinned back. She was perhaps thirty, nearly six feet tall and with Sam Williams’s round face and cheerful black eyes. Crow’s-feet radiated from her eyes and her hair was damp with sweat. She looked magnificent.
“We’d appreciate the help,” Sam’s daughter said, and dusted her palms free of crumbs. She held out a callused and filthy hand. “Susan Williams.”
“Alan Baxter,” Alan said. “Lead me to it.”
That had been twelve long hours ago. It was midnight, and they’d finished gutting and hanging the four cattle that were casualties of the earthquake only an hour ago. Beth Williams laid on a feast at the big country kitchen, steaks and eggs and country gravy over biscuits and an enormous spinach and lettuce salad with fresh cherry tomatoes and tiny carrots and peas, all from her own garden and tasting like heaven.
“We’ll salvage two for the ranch,” Sam told the family at dinner. “The others will go to Operation Relief. I’m sure they’ll appreciate the donation.”
“Operation Relief gives groceries to lower income families,” Susan explained to Alan in a murmur. “Private, no governmental strings, just the way we like it.”
“Thanks again, Alan,” Sam said. “I’m sure glad you happened by today.”
“Me, too,” Alan said, and meant it, even though he was filthy and more tired than he had ever been since a summer working construction long years ago.
“So where were you during the earthquake?” asked Frank. Frank, short and dark, was from New Jersey, was emphatically Italian-American, and had bought a one-way bus ticket to Wyoming the day he graduated from high school. He ended up as a cowhand on a ranch in Jackson Hole and eventually found his way to the Williams’s place. He explained to Alan that he always wanted to be a cowboy. He was just born with the itch and had it all his life. Frank told Alan this while expertly stitching a long gash in a heifer’s haunch. Alan was sitting on the cow’s head and holding her front feet, a position he found awkward and potentially dangerous. But Frank knew what he was doing.
He later explained to Alan about waking up in mid-Wyoming and looking out the bus window at the bright and silent world of Sinclair, an oil-refinery town. He thought it was an amusement park, he told Alan, because he couldn’t imagine that around the town of Sinclair there were hundreds of miles of nothing at all. The bright lights, the towers, and his exhaustion peopled the empty refinery structure with Ferris wheels and roller coasters and miniature golf towers. When he woke again he was seeing the dawn rise over the Wind River Mountains, and he knew he was in the land of his heart, his dreams, the West.
“I was at the rest stop coming down from La Veta Pass when the earthquake hit,” Alan explained at the supper table. “But I wouldn’t try to take a break there anytime soon. Most of it’s at the bottom of the canyon.” He was happy to have a story to tell and gratified at the stunned amazement of his hosts.
“We didn’t think there was any damage,” Beth said. “I hope no one was killed.”
“We should catch the news,” Sam said.
“I’ll catch up in the morning,” Alan said. “I need a shower and sleep more than I need to see the news right now.”
His shower over, Alan pulled on an ancient and most-beloved pair of trout boxer shorts and a white T-shirt. He pulled back the covers and gingerly settled his body into the cool sheets and turned off the lights. He had a habit of thinking over his day while he settled into sleep, but tonight he was asleep before he began.
Joni’s Restaurant, Colorado Springs, Colorado
“Tonight, I’ll take every perk you can get us,” Joe Tanner sighed. Joni’s Restaurant was roaring with people. A crowd of waiting guests stood in animated clumps in Joni’s gardens. Joni didn’t allow smoking so only the smells of her cooking wafted out the front of the old Victorian house.
“I was right,” Eileen said. “Everyone in Colorado Springs has gone out to dinner tonight.”
“Eileen!” Joni called out. “And your handsome Joe!
I was hoping you would arrive tonight. I have saved you a spot.”
Joe put his nose in the air and pinned a smug smile on his face as they were escorted past the crowd of waiting people. Joni was tiny and wizened and adorable in her checked apron. Her thick white hair had been cut recently and upswept in the latest style, held back by the flowered headband she always wore.
“We can wait, Joni,” Eileen protested. “I don’t want to impose.”
“Nonsense!” Joni said sharply. “Look at my gardens. These people are having a wonderful wait.”
“True!” Joe said cheerfully. Joni’s gardens were exquisite. Park benches and rattan chairs dotted the gardens and attentive waiters took orders for drinks. The late August evening was chilly but the afternoon rain had blown away and it promised to be beautiful tomorrow.
“Besides, if I know my Eileen, she has not stopped working today, am I right?” Joni said. “Making sure everyone is okay after the earthquake and taking care of people.”
“More or less,” Eileen mumbled, thinking of Jim Leetsdale in his silent box at the morgue.
“Here is your table,” Joni said, settling them in what was once the dining room of the old house. Their table was in the bay window and it was arguably the best place in the house.
“Thank you, Joni,” Joe said happily. He waggled his eyebrows at Joni and leaned forward for a kiss, puckering his lips extravagantly. Joni squealed in delight and stepped briskly away, making a slapping gesture at him.
“Stop that, you’re Eileen’s,” she said. Eileen rolled her eyes.
“Only because you won’t run away with me,” Joe said mournfully.
“We’d better feed him before he gets any worse,” Eileen remarked to Joni. Joni laughed and waggled her fingers at Eileen.
“We’ll get you set right up,” she said, and bustled away.
“So,” Joe said, settling in his chair and taking one of Eileen’s hands in his own. “Tell me about your day.”
“A murder at Peterson Air Force Base.” Eileen spoke in normal tones. The restaurant was positively roaring with conversation and cutlery clashing against plates as people brought every bit of Joni’s fabulous food to their lips. The earthquake was the only topic of conversation as people spoke in bright, animated tones to one another. There were no reported fatalities, so the atmosphere had a tone of celebration. The noise level was outrageous.
“Yikes, a drug case?”
“No,” Eileen said reluctantly. Homicides at the military bases in Colorado Springs were usually drug-related. The last big nondrug homicide Eileen had worked was at Schriever Air Force Base, which had led her to Joe and “doom” clearance and a friendship with a CIA agent named Lucy. “This one is odd. He was laid out to look like he killed himself, but he was definitely murdered.”
“How do you know?”
“Rolls! Your supper will be out shortly. Here’s some iced tea for you, my dear, and some iced coffee for my Joe.” Joni breezed away as quickly as she had appeared, leaving behind steaming fresh rolls and a small tub of butter along with their drinks. The iced drinks were beaded with moisture.
Eileen took her glass and drank gratefully. She smiled at Joe as he buttered her a roll. Joe had a thing about feeding her. He liked to offer her bits of his food and make her take them from his hand, or give her bites from his wedge of pizza. Eileen found this little quirk endearing. It was almost as if by feeding her he was providing for her, a modern version of killing an animal and laying it at her cave door. She accepted a bite from the roll. It was loaded with sun-dried tomatoes and basil and tasted heavenly.
“Oh, my,” she said, putting a hand up to her mouth to catch the crumbs. “You should have a bite of that.”
“So tell me how you knew he was killed,” Joe asked again, and took a big bite out of the roll.
“Well, he was laid out flat on his back with his arms and legs straight,” Eileen said, ticking the reasons off on her fingers. “Nobody lands like that after they’ve put a bullet in their head. Second, although he had powder burns on his hands, he had the gun in his hand. Most guns are thrown from the hand after the shot, when the victim is falling. They usually don’t hang on to the gun. Third, there were blood trails from his mouth.”
“Blood trails?” Joe asked, buttering another roll. His aunt was a nurse and had lived with his family for years. She shared tales of work with Joe’s mom, stories that Joe and his brothers had listened to with fascination. Joe had an iron stomach to be envied, another reason why Eileen enjoyed his company. She never had to edit what she said.
“Blood trails,” Eileen smiled, and took another bite from Joe’s roll. “Going from his mouth to his chin. And from his mouth to his ear. And going from his mouth up his cheekbone.”
Joe considered this while chewing.
“Not possible,” he said eventually. “Unless the man rolled around after he’d shot himself.”
“And then they would be spatters, not trickles,” Eileen said in satisfaction. “Yes, the man was moved after death. Blood trails don’t run out of someone in different directions. And here’s the last thing. The man had shot himself in the eye.”
“In the eye?” Joe grimaced.
“In the eye. Do you know how many suicides shoot themselves in the eye socket?”
“None?” Joe guessed.
“None,” Eileen said. “Nobody shoots themselves in the eye. Your eye is too fragile, too sensitive, too—”
“Too icky,” Joe offered solemnly.
“Too icky,” Eileen laughed. “All of this is circumstantial, but all of it tells me Jim Leetsdale didn’t kill himself. I’m going to find out why someone wanted me to think it was a suicide, then I’m going to nail the one who did it.”
“Supper,” Joni said, setting down plates and whisking away without another word. Joni picked their meals for them and they were always her best dishes.
“Poor bastard,” Joe commented, eyeing his plate with relish.
“Who, Leetsdale?” Eileen asked.
“No.” Joe smiled wolfishly. “The one who’s going to be behind bars in a week. The bastard who killed him.”
Best Western Motel, Alamosa, Colorado
“The scene is completely sealed,” Marcia repeated. She had the makings of a tremendous headache. Why hadn’t she taken pictures? Her pity for the poor dead girl had blinded her to the reality of getting actual pictures of a human mutilation.
The motel room was steamy and warm. Marcia had soaked her sprained ankle, and the rest of her too, in the motel bathtub. Drying off with the regrettably thin towels the motel supplied, she’d prepared the double bed just the way she liked it; all four pillows piled against the headboard, extra blanket, television remote, glass of ice water, her journal. Dressing in her warm, clean sweatpants and a thick pullover, she finally felt clean for the first time that whole exhausting day. She’d settled herself in the bed and started making phone calls.
“Don’t feel bad, Marcia,” Robert said in her ear. Robert Carter was the head of Colorado Mutual UFO Network (MUFON), and he was asking questions she couldn’t answer. He’d called her back on his encrypted line, because Robert never discussed anything unless he was on an encrypted line. What was the position of the body with regards to the compass? Was the woman burned? Did anyone see any lights the night before, as well as hearing the Taos Hum?
“I just can’t believe I didn’t take any pictures,” Marcia wailed. She rubbed her temple fiercely, fighting a desire to weep.
“I’m sorry I’ve been pushing you. I would have done the same thing, really,” Robert said. “Particularly when we’ve just been through the first earthquake in Colorado in who knows how long. This is why we have such trouble with proof. By the time people are calm enough to do some scientific research, the government has moved in and the scene is sterilized. Your descriptions have been remarkably good.”
“Thanks, Robert,” Marcia said. She still felt miserable. “I just didn’t think about taking pictures. She was so pal
e and—oh, young.”
“Have they identified her body yet?”
“Not that I know. She’s at the morgue now, but no one has stepped forward. With any luck, the coroner’s report will be made public.”
“I’m sure it won’t,” Robert said grimly. “An autopsy is going to reveal all the classic symptoms of abductee mutilation—cooked tissue, missing organs, lack of blood. They won’t print that.”
“Alamosa is a pretty small place,” Marcia said. “Let me talk to some people and see what I can find out. People talk, you know.” She massaged her leg and flexed her ankle.
“Make it quick,” Robert said. “I’ll see who we can send down from MUFON. If we send the wrong types, we’ll shut the locals up like clams and we’ll never find anything out. Hopefully, the Rabble won’t find out too quickly.”
Marcia grimaced. The Rabble was the serious UFO community’s name for the fringe elements. The Rabble were people who believed they themselves were space aliens, or who believed Nazi Germany colonized Mars, or who believed the special effects in the Star Trek shows were actual shots from the Galactic United Nation’s ships. The Rabble was also heavily infected with government agents, disinformation agents who did their best to discredit the entire organization.
“If we get Rabble down here,” Marcia said, “we’ll be in real trouble.”
“They’ll come before a week’s out,” Robert said grimly. “The government will send them in, to trample the truth and make sure no one in Alamosa will ever talk to anyone.”
“I’ll see what I can find out before then,” Marcia promised.
“Marcia,” Robert said, then stopped and cleared his throat.
Earthquake Games Page 6