by Mark Frost
We still wait for the phone call from the suppliers, and our friends in the pickup are right across the street.
September 4, 2 P.M.
The call has just been received. We are to meet a man at the cotton candy stand outside the bull ring. We were given no description, he will know us. This does not sit well with either of us. Think it's time to lose our friends in the truck.
September 4, 3 P.M.
Our two shadows are no longer on our trail. Lost them in the market. Dennis is now in position at the cotton candy stand. I'm holding back in case we encounter a problem. A tall man in a white suit is approaching Dennis. . . . We have a problem.
September 4, 7:03 P.M.
Diane, Dennis is gone. I don't know where. The seller would not deal with the both of us. Dennis made the decision to go on with him alone.
They left the scene in a gray four-wheel-drive truck, a Mercedes. I was to wait in our room and hear from them within four hours. That deadline passed three minutes ago. I smell trouble. Dennis told me before he left that if a problem develops, I should open the false bottom of his suitcase. . . . Where the DEA comes up with Israeli hand grenades I can only imagine. Suspect the submachine gun will also prove useful. I think it's time I pay my friends in the truck a visit.
September 9, 7:50 P.M.
Diane, few things in the world are as persuasive as a hand grenade down the shorts. My two new friends not only told me where Dennis is, they offered me the use of their truck. My old scoutmaster would be glad to know that I can still tie a good bowline with the best of them.
Dennis is being held at a large ranch outside of town. I think it's safe to say that I should not expect any help from the federal police though I may meet some of them at the ranch.
September 9, 10 P.M.
Diane, there are several things I can count as being in my favor as I look over the ranch. One, it's a moonless night. Two, I have surprise on my side. Three, there appear to be only a dozen guards around the compound. Actually I think I'll put number three in the intangible column.
According to owners of the pickup, Dennis is being held in an outbuilding next to the horse corral. There is one guard on the door. The problem as I see it is a simple one, extract Dennis without getting us both killed. I believe what I need is a very large rubber band.
September 10, 12 A.M.
The majority of guards appear to have turned in for the night. Was not able to locate a rubber band, but I have managed to fashion a sling out of a discarded piece of hemp that was in the back of the truck.
The plan as I see it is in two parts. One, using the sling, I propel a grenade to the door of the bunkhouse, followed by a smoke grenade into the middle of the compound. The resulting confusion should allow me time to dispatch the guard at the door and to release Dennis. ff the first part doesn't quite work as planned, I will fall back on an old maxim that Ulysses S. Grant lived by - overwhelming firepower, with maximum force. A thought just occurred to me, Diane. I've never actually used a hand grenade.
September 10, 2 A.M.
Diane, never forget when using a sling to propel hand grenades that the arch of the toss is just as important as the speed with which it travels. It should also be noted that the use of hand grenades within the borders of a sovereign nation may subject one to deportation and heavy return fire.
Dennis is well. Found that a balance between U. S. Grant's rules of engagement and a solid foundation in luck worked pretty effectively. I do not expect that either of us will be asked back to this charming country in the near future.
* * *
The following day this newspaper account of the incident appeared in the San Diego Mirror.
* * *
Mexican police report that a gun battle last night on a ranch ten miles outside of Tijuana resulted in the wounding of seven men. The men were all attending a prayer service in the ranch's chapel. According to the report, the fighting erupted when an argument over the interpretation of the Book of Job disintegrated into automatic weapons firing and the tossing of several hand grenades.
* * *
No official report or comment was ever made by the FBI or the DEA. Cooper completed one more case with the joint task force before returning to the Bureau full-time.
* * *
November 9, 4 P.M.
Diane, information has come across my desk that a large amount of cocaine is moving into the community through a dentist's office in Oakland. There are times, Diane, when we are all asked to make a sacrifice and go the extra mile in the fine of duty regardless of the personal risk involved. This is one of those times. Dennis saw a dentist two months ago. The burden, I'm afraid, falls squarely on my shoulders.
Fear, Diane, is a conquerable emotion when a mind and body are properly trained. There are, however, two exceptions to this that I have found no preparation can prepare one for. One, a small burrowing beetle crawling inside my ear and heading for my brain. Two, a dentist crawling inside my mouth with a high-speed electric drill.
I have not been to a dentist in seven years.
November 15, 10 A.M.
I have an appointment. I am sure this is just my imagination, but I am certain that every one of my teeth is suffering from severe decay. All night long I had very vivid dreams of my mother pouring me bowl after bowl of breakfast cereal with heaping mounds of sugar on them.
November 18, 1 P.M.
Diane, there is good news and bad news to report. I believe I will be able to arrange a buy with the dentist. The bad news is that the eight-year-old I was seated next to in the waiting room has a better dental future than I do.
I am the proud father of six cavities. Each time he found a new one, the dental assistant would shake her finger at me. Diane, if you have a moment, would you look through the Bureau's handbook and find out if there are any specific regulations against shooting dental hygienists.
November 23, 3 P.M.
Diane, this is one dentist who has drilled his last tooth. Unfortunately, it was mine, but I think he did fine work.
* * *
Chapter 3
* * *
On December 15, 1987, Cooper left the DEA, FBI joint task force.
* * *
December 20, 11 P.M.
Diane, I can't tell you how good it is to be back on terra firma. While I respect and admire the job the DEA does, I do not feel that I quite fit in with the cowboy esprit de corps that is prevalent in their ranks. But I did have some damn good fun, not to mention a complete dental fixup at no extra charge.
* * *
On January 7, 1988, Cooper received this tape in the mail.
* * *
There once was an agent from Dover,
Who loved to smell the clover,
When along came an arrow,
Right through his marrow,
Now the agent from Dover is dead.
I know that last line didn't rhyme, but it so fit the spirit of the poem, don't you think, Dale? I did do another one. Would you like to hear it?
One dark day in the middle of the night,
Two dead agents got up to fight,
Back to back they faced each other,
Drew their swords and shot each other,
A deaf policeman heard the noise,
But Cooper was dead, just like Windom's wife,
I have seen the future, and it is now.
See you soon, Dale.
Your loyal friend and teacher,
Windom of Earle
. . . Has kind of a baronial splendor to it, don't you think?
January 8, 10 A.M.
Diane, I've forwarded a copy of the tape to Gordon in Washington. There is, however, nothing to be done. Windom is totally insane and will never leave the hospital.
January 17, 9 A.M.
Diane, looks like I'm going to be out of town for a while. There's been a murder in a town in the southwest part of the state of Washington. The state authorities assume from the condition of the body that kidnapping was invo
lved and have asked the Bureau to look into the case.
Gordon has asked me to handle it because he has this feeling it may be a serial event and none of the agents in that district have direct experience with one. I catch the 11 A.M. flight to Portland, where I pick up a car and head for the town of Deer Meadow. An hour or so north.
It's winter up there, so I am packing a pair of longjohns, wool socks, warm hat, and goggles in case I run into any snowstorms.
January 17, 11:50 A.M.
Airborne, Diane. Remind me the next time I fly to bring along a Thermos of coffee from the office. The mixture they serve seems to be a combination of hickory, pine bark, and a mystery ingredient that eludes identification. I also suggest if you ever are offered salmon crepes for a meal on a commercial carrier that you make sure that salmon ran upstream sometime within the last decade.
January 17, 1:20 P.M.
Have picked up the car at the district office in Portland and am headed north. Will meet local officials at the county morgue, where they have the body.
January 17, 3 P.M.
Diane, the local and apparently only authority is a large ex-marine going by the name of Cable. Locally known as the Chief. He is none too pleased about having a federal man on his turf, though it is clear that the last serious crime he saw was in a gangster movie.
What I know at this point comes from Cable's report. A work of fiction worthy of a Pulitzer. Distilled down to the facts, this is what we have. Teresa Banks, no known next of kin, residence unknown, was found lying in a drainage ditch on the outskirts of town. Her naked body was wrapped in clear plastic and secured with duct tape. Appeared to have suffered numerous contusions to and about the head. The local coroner has determined the cause of death to be brain damage caused by a blow to the right temple area that fractured the skull. None of the other blows were severe enough to cause death. She had had sexual relations within the last twelve hours of her life.
I'm going in to see the body now.
January 17, 3:10 P.M.
Diane, I am looking at a white female, approximately eighteen years of age, weight 117 pounds. There is an obvious collapse of the right cranial vault above and forward of the ear. Bruises on her neck indicate that strangulation was also present. There are scratches on her knees, and dirt has been ground into the cuts. There is no indication that she was bound in any way during or before her death. . . . This is interesting. Would you please hand me the tweezers?
Diane, something appears to have been forced under the nail on the ring finger. It is quite deep. I am going to try to remove it. . . . It appears to have penetrated at least three quarters of the way under the nail. . . . just a little bit deeper. Chief, I think you might feel better if you stepped outside. . . . There, got it.
Diane, what we have is a small square of white paper with the letter T typed on it. Offhand I would say the type face appears to be of American manufacture, pre-electric. The lab should be able to identify it more specifically.
There is nothing under any of the other fingers, or the toes. We'll need to run a check of all homicides of females in this general age category, specifically looking for letters placed under the nails of victims, body wrapped in plastic, similar cause of death.
Diane, as Gordon thought, everything about this has the feel of a serial killing. The question is, is this the beginning of something, or the end?
January 17, 6 P.M.
Diane, looks like Teresa Banks last worked at a roadhouse about ten miles outside of town at a whistle stop called Cross River. One of the locals recognized her as a waitress he'd seen there. I'm headed there now.
Rumor has it, Diane, that this is pie country. It is the sworn duty of all agents of the Bureau to separate fact from fiction wherever they encounter it. I feel it is the least I can do to lend a hand when the integrity of something as sacred as pie is concerned.
January 17, 7:30 P.M.
The Cross River Café. The owner is a man named Weller. Teresa Banks worked here for a period of no more than three weeks, and lived in one of the cabins that tourists rent down along the river. She had not shown up for work for the last five days, and all of her belongings were gone from the cabin. She left no forwarding address, no one saw her leave with anyone, and I've gone through the cabin and found nothing to indicate that anything out of the ordinary happened there. She was here one day, gone the next. Looks like a dead end, though I can report that the peach-apple pie they serve is the stuff of legend. The pecan and the cherry, however, were a distinct disappointment.
January 17, 11 P.M.
Diane, I'm staying at the Loggers Inn. Unless more comes our way tomorrow, there appears little reason for me to stay any longer. I hate to admit it, Diane, but this trail has come to a dead end. One typed letter is all we have to go on. Who she saw and what she did for the last five days of her life is locked away from me. As a sidebar, I ran all the locals with anything so much as a traffic violation and have come up with a big zero. The owner and all the employees of the café also check out A-okay.
Diane, every trail has an origin. Nothing can move about this world without leaving so much as a mark. But that's what we have. I don't know how to articulate this, but something is very wrong here. That would seem an obvious statement. But there's something at work here that I feel I've come in contact with before. Call it an evil, a sensation of something old and very dangerous that I have come in contact with three times before. Once in a small mountain village when I was traveling. Once in college. And once when Caroline was killed. Bureau training does not cover or even acknowledge the existence of forces outside of the physical world. Nothing in Western thinking does. But it is there. Whether it travels in the shadow of the night, or slips by on a gust of wind. Or is carried around in the soul like a serpent, waiting for its moment to strike. I know it is real because I have watched a good friend destroyed by it.
It has been here in this remote town, and it has claimed another victim. The question is when will it strike again, as I know it will, and where?
Enough for one night, Diane.
January 18, 9 A.M.
Diane, a storm blew up in the night. This much more I know about our victim. She was born Teresa Mary Banks in Tacoma, Washington, on July 11, 1970, to Ellen and Tony Banks. At age twelve her parents were killed in a car accident, and she became a ward of the state. At age fifteen she ran away from a state facility and was not seen again until the day her body was found. That's not much for an entire life.
The remainder of the lab reports should be completed within two days. I expect they will add little to what we already have.
January 20, 11 A.M.
Diane, I have the last of the lab reports on my desk from the Banks murder. Two items are of interest. One, the square of paper found under her nail was an acid-free typing paper, very expensive. The typed letter appears to be the work of an old Smith-Corona Model 99. Both are potentially useful bits of information, but advance the case nowhere at the moment. As no one came forward to claim Teresa Banks's remains, she was buried at county expense in an unmarked grave. The burial was attended by a pastor, a representative of the county, two gravediggers, and myself. I'm returning to San Francisco. There is nothing more I can do here.
The case will remain in the active file; however, I am moving on to another assignment.
February 2, 10 A.M.
While arresting bank robbers is in and of itself a satisfying pastime, I find I am having difficulty concentrating on the tasks at hand. My thoughts keep returning to that unmarked grave in Washington. Had a very strange dream last night. I was dancing with a tiny little man, and a very beautiful young woman.
* * *
In June 1988, Windom Earle attempted an escape and was caught. Several days later Cooper received another tape in the mail.
* * *
It is time for the game to commence. I will move first, it will come when you least expect it, and at the worst possible time.