Zack rose to his feet to a smattering of polite applause. As he walked forward he sensed the anticipation of the audience. His chest tightened. Then he was in front of the lectern with his wrinkled notes spread out before him. He stared back at the hall full of students and teachers for a few seconds while he tried to collect his thoughts, and his courage.
Zack was a careful person, overly deliberate to some, perhaps. To others his sun-bronzed face and unfaltering blue eyes came across as honest and trustworthy. He would have been surprised to know the audience saw him as poised and confident.
"I'm honored by this opportunity to address your Criminal Justice classes," he said. "I once sat where you sit now."
There were a few polite grins.
Zack swallowed and began. "In my life among the Navajo, I learned never to dismiss out of hand long held cultural beliefs, no matter how outlandish they might appear to me. Myths, traditions, stories––they all have a purpose, or they wouldn't exist." He flicked a bead of sweat from his nose. "Most of these stories are harmless and reflect a different way to think about things. Yet some myths and legends touch upon darker places most of us prefer not to visit. Unlike us, the Navajo give credence to their spiritual side. There is a place for it in their culture. They look such things square in the eye.
"Consider for a moment how you and I deal with mysteries. For instance, is it possible any among us have not heard a ghost story? How many of us believe ghosts exist? How do those of us who do believe explain them in terms of established physical science, or in terms of religion for that matter? Yet ghosts and spirits have been with us as long as there have been humans, and judging from recent TV shows they are no less important to us today.
"Now consider how we deal with the subject of ghosts as a society. The fact is, we don't. When we deal with it, we do so in secret, as individuals. We follow our own path and keep our cards close to our chests. Our personal beliefs about ghosts come from our own experiences. Indigenous people, on the other hand, face the subject of spirits together as a society, head on, not obliquely."
Zack paused. He felt he still had the audience. He charged ahead. "When I began my work as FBI liaison in support of the very modern and effective Navajo Nation Police, I had my own prejudices. The agents who held this position before me didn't stay long. It was more than just the heat and isolation, it had to do with an inability to accept the Navajo way of thinking."
Zack raised an eyebrow. "My job wasn't considered a dream posting." There were a few chuckles.
Zack was encouraged. "I was lucky," he went on. "I made a friend on the reservation who taught me to reserve judgment; to listen. It was an important lesson. That advice kept me involved––and alive. Over time, I became privy to the more guarded thoughts of the Navajo people. I came to know something about their view of the paranormal.
"In their culture, the shaman wields great power. He has the ability to see beyond the veil. He understands all things natural and supernatural. He can use this knowledge to heal or to hurt.
"Not all shamans have equal capabilities. They have graduated levels of experience and potential for good or for evil. A holy man can lose his way, just like any other man. An evil man of such power can become an evil entity indeed.
That is the origin of the Skinwalker, the legendary Navajo witch who assumes the shape of animals to achieve his ends."
Zack reached for the water glass in the lectern. As he sipped, he watched the audience. He thought they looked intrigued but skeptical.
"I see by your looks I may have lost some of you here. It is an idea people of science have trouble getting their heads around. I know I did. Is such a thing possible? When assisting the Navajo police, you are confronted by such possibilities almost every night. The policemen regularly receive complaints about Skinwalkers. They handle them as a matter of fact, investigate them, and write reports about them. Sometimes the evidence is difficult if not impossible to refute."
"No doubt you'd like to hear some of the cases." Zack felt the rising anticipation of the audience. He looked at his watch. "There is insufficient time to relate all the situations that have strained my belief. Suffice to say, I have seen animals butchered during the night by beasts that don't exist. I have seen the glow of eyes shine red in impossible places. I have followed blood trails of wounded fugitives and at their end found dead animals with the same wounds. I have seen animal tracks that turn to human prints and then back to animal. I have heard tales of manlike figures running alongside speeding cars. I have glimpsed creatures that simply don't exist in our every-day world."
Zack wiped his forehead. The room had grown silent. "I'm not here to tell campfire stories. There is an old saw that says once you've eliminated all other possibilities, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Our culture tends to limit the possible far more than other cultures. My friend and mentor taught me to avoid such limitations. If all my senses, experience, and knowledge lead me to the impossible, I must alter the shape of the possible in my own mind. Once you close your mind to anything, it ceases to exist for you. But for others, it may still be there."
Zack smiled and looked around the room. "Thanks for listening. I'll be happy to take questions."
There was a thunderous round of applause.
A young professor rose from an aisle seat. "Agent Tolliver, as a law enforcement agent, you deal in tangible evidence. Yet you have presented scenarios to us today for which you have not presented proof. Do you have real evidence to convince us of what you have seen?" As the man sat, he sent a meaningful glance at the students near him.
Zack waited, aware of the sea of intent faces. "Let me ask you a question in return. What evidence would you require in order to believe? When I tell you, as a federal agent, that I have seen such things, do you consider that sufficient evidence?"
There was a hush as everyone waited.
The professor stood again. "To answer your question, no. I would require hard evidence, such as corroborating witnesses or a photograph."
Zack moved to the side of the podium and leaned against it. "Have you ever been shown a picture of a ghost, or of a Bigfoot?"
"Uh, yes, certainly."
"Do you now believe they exist?"
"Well...no."
Zack pushed further. "Have you ever known of corroborating witnesses to a Bigfoot sighting, or an alien craft sighting?"
"Well, yes, but..."
"Do you now believe in them?"
The man shook his head and smiled sheepishly.
"That is our problem in a nutshell," Zack said. "The suspension of belief. When dealing with uncommon events such as these, it is a human tendency not to believe in them even when we've seen them with our own eyes.
"I return to my earlier point. Advanced societies such as our own, centuries removed from the fundamental concern of surviving the night, tend not to support belief in anything beyond the conceived reality of our present world. When confronted by an unnatural entity, we tend not to believe.
"In cultures where the night still holds unpleasant possibilities, however, people who are vulnerable to their physical surroundings tend to believe in such entities until they are proven false. It is a survival instinct."
* * * * *
After the presentation Susan and Zack stood together in the reception area, sipped coffee and nibbled cookies. The young professor who had challenged Zack approached them. With him was a middle-aged man, his face browned and weathered. The man's hair bore an imprint from a hat, as if he rarely removed it. He held the hat by the rim and slowly spun it with his fingers.
The young instructor stuck out his hand to Zack. "I'm Jack Burns, one of the course teachers here." He flashed a row of perfect white teeth. "I want you to know it was not my intention to give you a hard time back there. The lesson on the nature of evidence was too good an opportunity to miss. I appreciate your response. These students need to understand the determining factor for sufficient evidence often varies, depending up
on economics, cultures, environment, and last but not least, the brain of the presiding judge." He turned to Susan. "May I say, Dr. Apgar, your presentation was brilliant. Your reputation appears well deserved."
Susan nodded her appreciation.
Burns turned to the man next to him. "Allow me to introduce Rufus Reyes. Mr. Reyes owns a ranch near Santa Lupita, just a few miles west. He's an old friend of mine. When he learned about your lecture today he asked to come along. He wanted to meet you in particular, Agent Tolliver."
Mr. Reyes's leathery face creased into a grimace of a smile. He shook hands with Zack, nodded to Susan, and returned to turning his hat brim.
He stood there, looking uncertain. "It's more of a farm, really." The man's voice appeared to rumble direct from his chest. His eyes were a pale blue, as if bleached by the sun. "I run some cattle on the south hills, but mostly I grow peppers, squash and beets in the river bottom." He paused, clearly uncomfortable. He looked at Zack. "Agent Tolliver, I'll come right to the point. I was lookin' for a little advice."
Zack was caught by surprise. "Advice? I don't know anything about farming."
"Nothin' to do with farming. It's more along your line of work." Again he paused. "Listen, what I got to say needs more space than this." He waved at the crowded room. "Can we go get a sandwich, and talk?"
"Well, I..." Zack looked at Susan. "Do you need...?"
"You go ahead," Susan said. "I've got nothing more planned for you today. We can meet later back at the Inn." She leaned in toward Zack, put a hand on his arm. "I think it went well today, don't you?" she whispered. "Thanks for the help."
She turned and beamed a bright smile at Professor Burns. "It's been a long time since I've been on this campus, Jack," she said. "Have you time to give me a quick tour?"
The young professor seemed more than willing to accommodate her.
She took his arm and they melted into the crowd.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mr. Rufus Reyes led the way out the double doors of the Allan Hancock College Library across the large parking lot to a white Chevy Silverado. The dents and scratches on the truck's body suggested it was for work, not show. Zack noticed the Reyes Ranch logo painted on the door, a longhorn cow under an oak tree.
Reyes got behind the wheel. He reached over to knock an old newspaper off the passenger seat.
Zack sat, his feet straddling a coil of rope.
"Didn't take time to dandy things up," Reyes said. "Don't often have passengers." He grinned. "Other than my dog Duke, that is, and he don't much care how it looks."
Reyes maneuvered the truck out of the parking lot. He glanced at Zack. "Just for the record," he said, "I don't believe any of that bullshit you spooned out in there."
Zack smiled. "Most people don't. As I explained, we're all in our own cozy worlds, and if we don't have to disturb them, why do it?"
"Well, my cozy world's been disturbed. That's why I want to talk to you, but only informal-like." Reyes paused to make a turn. Once they were safely in the stream of traffic he resumed. "I especially wanted to talk to an FBI guy who's good at mysteries. I got one for you."
"Is it criminal activity, Mr. Reyes? If not, you'd be wasting my time and yours."
"Call me Rufus. An' I guess if I knew the answer to that question I wouldn't need you no more."
They crossed over route 101, then turned left into the dirt parking area of a timeworn brick-faced restaurant. The sign read "Pappy's".
"They got a good tri-tip sandwich in here," Rufus said.
"Tri-tip?"
Rufus stared at Zack in consternation. "It's a cut of beef, son. It comes from the bottom half of the sirloin." He climbed out of the truck, shaking his head.
Zack followed him into a dark and narrow entrance hall.
A woman with curly grey hair and a large bosom greeted them with a smile. She wiped her hands on a stained apron. "I thought I saw your truck pull up, Rufus." She grabbed a couple of menus. "Usual place?" Without waiting for a response she breezed away.
The men followed her along a row of booths to a large corner table. Light from frosted windows set the polished wood aglow.
"How's your place out to Santa Lupita?" She slapped down the menus as the men found chairs.
"Just fine." Rufus gave a long, dramatic sigh. "Dorothy, I need your help here. Would you explain to this poor fella from Arizona what tri-tip is, and why it's so special?"
Dorothy's face took on a look of mock horror. "I hope you didn't make any disparaging remarks about tri-tip in front of Rufus. He gets all discombobulated."
"I..."
"Never mind, Sweetie. I'll tell you. Tri-tip steak is to Santa Maria what coals are to Newcastle. It's who we are." She thought for a moment. "Excepting for strawberries, maybe. We're known for them, too. Anyway, we invented our own style tri-tip barbeque right here in Santa Maria. A tri-tip steak is the most flavorful, low fat, low cost beef you can get. But you have to do it right. And we do it right."
Rufus jumped in. "I'll tell ya the right way. Dorothy, correct me if I'm wrong. " His face showed real excitement. "First, ya rub it with salt, three different peppers, fresh garlic, paprika, and a secret seasoning made with––what was it again, Dorothy?"
Dorothy swatted his shoulder. "You keep trying to wheedle that out of me, Rufus."
Rufus grinned. "Next you gotta barbecue it skewered on steel rods over red oak wood––gotta be red oak, nothin' else. Then ya gradually lower the rods as it cooks. Cook it to medium rare and prepare yourself for a treat."
Rufus looked up at Dorothy. "For the second half of this lesson, would you bring us two tri-tip sandwiches and two Firestone DBA's, please, ma'am."
Dorothy hustled off.
Rufus' smile went away. "I'll get right to it," he said. "Here's the thing. I'm not sure if I got a missing person's complaint, an immigration problem, or if I'm just plain goin' crazy." He leaned forward over the table. "I told you I got a ranch and I grow vegetables. I can't get it done without help. I need workers.
"I don't have a real big place, so I don't hire as many as most. I try to keep 'em on beyond one growing season, though, so if they are tomateros for instance, I'll retrain 'em as onion pickers. Another thing I can do 'cause my place is small, I house these folk right there on the property. The other, bigger ranches can't do that. An' I feed 'em––I feed 'em good. I make an effort to get to know my people better than most, even if they don't speak no English." Rufus smiled wryly at Zack. "Which they don't, 'cause most of them have just crossed the river."
"Undocumented?"
"Yeah, but––" He lifted both hands. "I got no way a' knowin' that."
Dorothy appeared with beer bottles and glasses, placed them in front of the men. Rufus took a pull directly from his bottle.
"You don't ask for their papers?" Zack said, after she'd gone.
"Sure, and I get 'em. And most of what I see probably wouldn't float at Immigration."
"Yet you..."
"Look, before you climb on your high horse, this is the way it works. If you want to enjoy your veggies at a reasonable price, I can't spend all my days takin' documents up to Sacramento. And don't think you're on some moral high ground. I wonder how many underpaid, overworked Chinese kids it took to make your sneakers there."
"Okay, okay. I'm a federal agent––I got to ask these questions." Zack sipped his beer. "I still don't know how I can advise you."
Rufus calmed down. "Well, here's the thing. Some of my people have gone missing."
"Missing?"
"Yeah. Every so often my major domo tells me a worker is gone. I ask the others about him. You know, is he sick or somethin'? I check where he lives, I check the infirmary, but nada."
"So he ran off."
"But a few days later, he's back."
Zack sighed. "You didn't bring me out here just to tell me your workers sometimes take an unofficial vacation...?"
Rufus glared at Zack. "You don't get it. When one of 'em disappears like that, I still
got the same number of workers. When he's back, the number still doesn't change."
Rufus took another swig of his beer while Zack's brain caught up.
"Another thing," Rufus said, "when the guy is back, he's pretty much useless. He's wiped out. Whatever he's been doing, it ain't no vacation."
Dorothy returned with two steaming platters. Zack stared at an enormous sandwich of hot juicy meat piled high on crusted bread with a mountain of French fries.
"Git goin' while it's hot," Rufus said. He picked up his own sandwich, unmindful of the dripping juice.
Zack looked at his sandwich but his thoughts went to what Rufus said. "Let me get this straight. You say sometimes a worker disappears for days at a time, and during that time a stranger replaces him. Then that stranger goes away and the original worker returns?"
Rufus put down his sandwich and wiped his hands on his napkin. "Not quite. Sometimes the stranger stays on and another worker disappears. But there's always the right number of workers. Here's another funny thing. I got real good workers, they work hard. I try to make their lives comfortable. Every once in a while, though, maybe once every couple of months, I get just half the work outa' them. It's like a bunch of 'em came to work exhausted on the very same day. I see they're trying hard––they just haven't got the energy."
Zack chased a bite of his sandwich with a sip of beer. "I still don't see why you need an FBI agent."
"What if I told you the last time my crew came to work all worn out like that, the cops found an empty Panga boat that same day?"
Zack's head came up.
"Ah, that got your attention. But this last bit concerns me most. A couple a' days ago my numbers came up short again. Manuel, a good worker, one I know well, was missing. He's not been replaced yet, an' he's not been back. Manuel has a family, a wife and two kids. When my major domo and I spoke to his wife, she couldn't, or wouldn't, tell us anything. She was real upset, though. I tried talkin' to some of the other workers; they just got scared and clammed up." Rufus glared at Zack. "I think something bad happened to that fella, maybe somethin' to do with drugs. I ain’t gonna sit around an' let somethin' like this happen on my ranch." Rufus slapped the table for emphasis.
ZACA (Zack Tolliver FBI) Page 3