"So what's the story with that tattoo?" Pratt asked.
Morrison turned completely around, revealing his right shoulder. It bore the letters USMC. Morrison looked down at it, then up at Pratt. "You really don't know what that means?"
"The other tattoo, wise guy."
"What other tattoo?"
"What do you mean 'what other tattoo'? The one on your other shoulder. Right here," he said, gesturing to the same spot on his own shoulder.
"Oh, that. I don't know."
"Come on."
"Ah, some guys talked me into getting it when I was really drunk. I don't even remember why."
"Bull."
Morrison didn't respond. His face had taken on a certain hardness. Pratt let it go.
Three beers later, Arkin hiked up the riverbank to urinate, and then, his curiosity getting the better of him, climbed the steep slope of rocks and eroded soil, up toward the top of the ridge, to get a better look around. The higher he climbed, the wider the blue sky became, and the better he began to feel—about everything. He wasn't normally given to sentimentality, but had to admit that moments like this one—where he was surrounded by the grandeur of the deep blue sky above, the crystal clear river winding through the valley below, breathing in warm air laden with the aroma of the sagebrush and dry wild grasses of the high open country stretching to the horizon in every direction—filled him with an undeniable sense of awakening. Sharpened his perceptions.
As he pushed his way through a dense thicket of sage and rabbit bush near the top of the slope, he came upon a bare rock face veiled in deep shadow just below the overhanging rim of the canyon. On it was a pictograph, remarkably well-preserved. He'd long known the area was rich with such archaeological marvels, but he'd never before seen a pictograph that wasn't cordoned off in a well-trodden park or preserve and explained by a plastic placard. The immediate surroundings of this one probably hadn't changed much in a thousand years. And while he was sure he wasn't the first Anglo to see it, given all the nearby farming and ranching activity, and given the popularity of this stretch of the Animas with local trout fishermen, he was still genuinely awestruck by his discovery.
It was a painting of people. A group of them, maybe one-third life size. Long, dark, shadowy figures. There was very little detail to them—just elongated bodies and rounded heads. No limbs or facial features. But at the center of the group, a taller figure stood out, its body decorated with broad vertical and zigzagging stripes, its dark head adorned with two pair of protruding, antennae-like spokes that could have been a crown or symbol for beams of light. The eyes of the tall figure caught and held Arkin. They were large, round, and empty, devoid of pupils or irises. But red. A glowing, menacing red. And despite the many centuries the painting had no doubt withstood sun, wind, rain, and snow, the red paint of the tall figure's eyes was still sharp. Taken as a whole, the dark figure did not look the least bit kind or happy. If anything, he looked threatening. Not necessarily angry, but cold and dangerous. Cold, despite the red color of his eyes.
Who was he? He looked to be someone of great importance. Perhaps a great chief, a god, or an Anasazi holy man—a priest.
Arkin returned to the river, told Pratt and Morrison of his discovery, and led them back up the ridge for a look. After that, they ate a riverside lunch of salami sandwiches, apples, and cheese, then shoved off to find a fresh spot to fish further downstream. As they drifted along, the wall of the ridge on the right bank grew sheer and drew closer until it was no more than a dozen yards from the river's edge. Up near the rim, faces of bare rock, undercut by many millennia of erosion, formed large overhangs. And as they navigated a curve in the river, a short box canyon opened on their right, running straight off the apex of their turn, revealing an unusually large, smoke-stained overhang in its far rim, maybe sixty yards from the boat. In the shadow of the overhang, Arkin spotted a small cluster of cliff dwellings tucked up in a sheltered horizontal crevice. Anasazi ruins, many hundreds, perhaps even thousands of years old, built of stone and mud, their short, narrow doorways impenetrably dark. Perhaps one of them was the ancient home of whomever had painted the pictographs upriver.
As they floated by the ruins, Arkin pondered what had become of the once vast and complex culture that gave rise to these structures. Their kivas, cliff dwellings, villages, and far-flung trading centers. What had happened to the Anasazi? Where had they gone? What became of their chiefs, holy men, heroes, and great thinkers? Their many thousands of families? Their religious clans and gods? All their names and faces, the stories of their struggles, triumphs, and tragedies, now lost to time. Nothing but scattered pockets of sad, crumbling shelters to indicate that they—the thousands and thousands of them—ever even existed.
Arkin stared up at one of the short, dark doorways, wishing his eyes could see through the blackness. He'd always wondered at these doorways, standing silent, open, and ominous. It was easy to imagine that one could step through them and into another world, as if they were the very portals through which their long vanished builders disappeared so many centuries earlier, perhaps leaving this dry country for one of lush green lands. Perhaps the other world was looking back through the dark doorways at him. But Arkin was a rational man, a skeptic, not at all inclined to embrace superstition—and he already knew better. On one of those rare occasions when he'd let the last vestiges of his subconscious not yet yellowed by cynicism to run wild, he'd fallen for it, risking his neck climbing up to such ruins, full of illogical hope that he would find something—some amorphous thing that he no longer had the fortitude to dream about. He'd poked his head through the doorways, only to discover, in each instance, empty rooms. Empty rooms of crumbling masonry, rodent droppings, and dust, long since stripped of anything else by grave robbers and looters. And the longer he'd lingered, the emptier the rooms had seemed, and the more he'd felt it likely that the vanished Anasazi had simply been wiped out by disease, starved out by drought, or had pillaged the land until it could no longer provide the resources to sustain their population and had moved on, dispersing across the region in fractured and diminished bands, perhaps following the ancient Animas down to greener country. He recalled how strangely lonely these thoughts had made him feel.
*****
When they were done fishing, Morrison volunteered to jog back up Highway 550 to recover the truck, and by midevening, they were back in Durango. After a quick dinner, Arkin eating a bowl of cornflakes, Hannah drinking a smoothie, Arkin drove Hannah down to Schneider Park for the promised stroll along the river. Hannah was still feeling the effects of chemo, and her pace was slow. But it was a pleasant walk all the same, Arkin just happy to be with his wife.
As they walked along, silent, hand-in-hand, Arkin remembered how, when they first moved to Durango, he would stroll this very trail almost every day, watching the swift-moving river, amazed at the idea that these very waters flowed on for hundreds and hundreds of miles, merging into the San Juan, then the Colorado, running through the Grand Canyon, and on out to the Gulf of California and Pacific Ocean. Thinking about it had always comforted him, but for reasons he never fully understood. Then, one gray and dismal afternoon, Morrison told him the awful secret: sapped by irrigation and drinking water systems in Arizona, Nevada, and California, the mighty Colorado River trickled to a brackish dead end in a lonely basin of dusty Mexican desert. It did not make it to the sea. When Arkin learned this, he didn't sleep for three days.
NINE
"Put on your vest and strap on your pistola," Pratt said as he intercepted Arkin in the hallway on his way out to the parking lot at the end of the day.
"And why would I want to do that?"
"Because Cornell found our man," he said, thrusting a sheaf of printouts into Arkin's hands.
"Cornell?" Arkin asked as he began flipping through the papers. "Get real."
"One of his guys was canvassing the town of Green River, Utah, yesterday. Gas station attendant remembered a guy gassing up in the late morning the day of th
e Eagan shooting."
"Yeah?"
"Well over six feet tall. Long, curly, black hair, and a funny accent. He was wearing a hat pulled low, dark sunglasses, acting all squirrelly. Look here." Pratt turned to a page consisting of three black-and-white security camera images. One was of the suspect sitting in his sedan in the fueling bay. It was taken from overhead, and the man's face was blocked from view by the roof of his car. But through the windshield, the camera had caught a picture of a large chin flanked by long, curly, dark hair. The other two images consisted of a view of the man from behind as he exited the station's mini-mart—unremarkable aside from helping establish his height—and, critically, a blow-up of his car's license plate.
"Whose car is it?"
"DMV sheet is in there."
"Come on."
"Paul Milford. Portland, Oregon. Age 35. Height 6-foot-4. Black hair. Weight 285."
"He doesn't weigh 285 in this photo."
"Maybe he goes to Weight Watchers now. NCIC has him down for two arrests for public indecency."
"Of what flavor?"
"Doesn't say."
Arkin examined the rest of the documents as Pratt stood waiting. "Hmmm."
"'Hmmm,' what? We going to have a word with this guy or not?"
"In Oregon?"
"He's at a motel in Walsenburg."
"Walsenburg, Colorado?"
"No, Walsenburg, Germany, genius."
*****
Three hours later, Pratt and Arkin—wearing body armor, but in plain clothes—sat in Arkin's unmarked car on the edge of the dark parking lot of a dusty, 1950s-era Walsenburg motel, having just arrived from Durango, their eyes locked on the door and window of Paul Milford's room. Milford's sedan was parked in front of his door. Dim light could be seen around the edges of the drawn blackout curtains. Three local patrol cars were parked just out of sight on the street fronting the motel. Each held three members of the local county's special reaction team, in full tactical gear. Cornell and one of his deputies were in another unmarked car parked in front of the motel office, just within sight of Milford's door.
"Manager told Cornell that Milford's been there a week," Pratt said. "They haven't seen him leave his room."
"At all?"
"Nope."
"Interesting."
"Interesting, he says. I'll tell you what else is interesting. This body armor is gonna be about as good as tissue paper against .50 caliber armor-piercing bullets."
"Well, let's not give him time to set up."
"Shouldn't we let the SRT guys take him down?"
"I have a gut feeling we should just try talking to him first."
Pratt looked doubtful. "Talking to him?"
"Yes."
"You're the law enforcement genius."
As Pratt said this, the light in Milford's room went out. Then his door opened, but only an inch.
"Are you guys seeing this?" Cornell asked over the radio.
Arkin keyed the mic of his radio. "We're on it." Then, to Pratt, "Let's go."
Pratt radioed the other units that they were initiating contact. They each chambered rounds into their guns and re-holstered them, got out, shut their doors as quietly as they could, then crossed the parking lot as Milford's door clicked shut again. As they reached Milford's sedan, Pratt placed a large wooden chock behind the right rear tire while Arkin scanned its interior and ran his hand over the hood to see if it was warm from recent use. It was cool. Reaching the door to Milford's room, they stood to either side of it, ready for action but doing their best to look nonchalant. The air smelled of cigarette smoke. Pratt knocked.
"Who's there?" someone asked. Something about the voice struck Arkin as unusual. But it wasn't an accent. It had more to do with the tone.
"Police," Pratt answered.
"Hold on."
The door opened a crack. Nervous, yellowed eyes peered out at them.
"You're police?"
"Yes, sir," Pratt answered, pushing the door open wider to reveal a tall, slouching, anxious looking man with sallow skin and long, dark, curly hair tied back in a ponytail. He held a half-burned brown cigarette in his hand, wore pink terrycloth slippers, a cherry-red silk robe embroidered with flowers, and ruby stud earrings in each ear. The air that flowed through the open doorway was humid and smelled of iodine, expensive cigarettes, and some type of cheap perfume. Arkin thought he recognized Lucille Ball's voice coming from the antiquated tube television set. As he processed the scene, he turned to see Pratt looking utterly revolted—almost to the point of anger. Milford saw it too, and his face betrayed a sudden terror.
"You don't look like cops," he said, his voice tense, as he took a step back.
Programmed by training, as Milford stepped back, Pratt stepped forward. At this, Milford's eyes went wide. He dropped his cigarette and began reaching behind his back.
"Gun!" Pratt shouted as he sprang forward. In seconds, they had Milford disarmed, in handcuffs, and flat on his belly, Arkin having wrenched a small, stainless steel, fake pearl-handled .25 caliber semiautomatic from the man's hand as he'd tried to pull it from the silk belt around the back side of his robe. Milford was moaning as if in great pain.
"What's your problem, pervert?" Pratt shouted, his knee pressed into the small of Milford's back as he held tight to the handcuff chain.
As Arkin radioed Cornell and the locals to move in, he scanned the room, seeing clear evidence of an extended, shut-in stay. Empty boxes of Chinese delivery. Empty cans of generic diet soda. Full ashtrays and empty cigarette packs. Clothes—women's clothes—flung about. On the dresser, half a dozen open prescription bottles of pills.
"Didn't see the 'no smoking' signs, right friend?" Pratt asked, his voice still loud, now dripping with sarcasm. "And I'm sure those are all legal prescriptions."
"I'm recovering from surgery," Milford said meekly.
Arkin rose, walked over to the dresser, and began examining the bottles of pills as Cornell and the locals came in. A painkiller, an antibiotic, an anti-inflammatory, two drugs Arkin didn't recognize, and a bottle of estrogen capsules. Each bottle with a legitimate looking prescription label, bearing Milford's name, from a pharmacy in Trinidad, Colorado, 40 miles to the southeast.
"John," Arkin said. "John, ease off."
"Why?"
"What's that smell?" Cornell asked, helping Pratt raise Milford to his feet. Pratt came over to where Arkin was examining the medicine. A quart-sized specimen jar stood at the back corner of the dresser. It was filled with an amber liquid in which floated something Pratt thought looked like cherrystone clams.
"What's this?" Pratt asked, picking it up.
"That's me, asshole," Milford said, sounding equal parts resigned and agonized.
As the wires connected in Pratt's brain, he slammed the jar down, looking nauseated. "Why do you have this?"
"Religious reasons. My whole body is supposed to be present at burial when I die."
"The hell whacko religion is that?" Pratt asked, turning a venomous stare toward Milford.
"The Long Island Congregation of—"
"Never mind, never mind," Pratt moaned, rolling his eyes and holding his palms up.
"John," Arkin said, placing a hand on Pratt's shoulder. "Let's go for a walk. You look a bit disconcerted."
"I look what?"
"Come on. Let's get you some air."
*****
Pratt and Arkin sat in Arkin's car after grabbing burgers and root beers at a nearby drive-in.
"Sex-change surgery?" Pratt said. "That has to be baloney, right?"
"You saw his testicles."
"Yeah, but here?"
"Much to the chagrin of the more conservative members of the community, Trinidad, Colorado, just down I-25 from here, is known in some circles as the sex-change capital of the world because of its famous and highly respected surgical clinic."
"You're kidding me."
"Nope. But the title is an exaggeration. Far more sex-change surgeries are performed in T
hailand and Iran than in Trinidad—or the U.S. as a whole, for that matter."
"Iran?"
"Who knew, right?"
Pratt looked dumbfounded. "And you know all of this because?"
Arkin smiled as his cellphone rang. "Arkin." He spoke with Cornell for a minute, then hung up. "Milford's story checks out. He says he's just staying here until he feels well enough for the return drive to Oregon. The sex-change clinic refused to confirm that he's a patient until we give them a court order. But the night pharmacist at the Trinidad drugstore said the prescription bottles were legitimate."
"So why did he go for his gun?"
"He didn't believe we were cops. Thought we were rural Colorado bigots there to beat him up. Says he's been the victim of hate crimes before and always carries a gun now."
"So it's a dead end?"
"I have to admit, when you first came to me, I didn't think it smelled right."
"Huh? What about a tall guy with a funny accent and long, curly, dark hair gassing up near the crime scene on the same day as our shooting didn't smell right?"
"You said the gas station attendant described Milford as acting 'squirrelly.'"
"Wouldn't the average man be a little squirrelly while gassing up after blowing someone's head off and fleeing the scene?"
"That's just it. We aren't talking about the average man here."
"Huh?"
"If the shooter is the pro that his handiwork suggests he is, then he probably has liquid nitrogen for blood."
Pratt stared at him for a moment. "You could have mentioned that before we spent three hours driving over here just so that I could be traumatized."
"Don't be such a baby."
"Nate, I—"
"Just because someone doesn't fit one of the two or three white-bread human archetypes you learned about growing up in hayseed hillbillyland doesn't mean they're evil. For just one moment, try not to be a walking caricature of the vanilla tough guy law enforcement officer. Everybody can see through the façade anyway."
The Shadow Priest Page 8