by Brandt Legg
Rip, stunned by the news, turned so quickly his head caught a protruding log and he started to fall before Grinley caught him. “
“Are you okay?” Gale asked, as Grinley got Rip into a big plush leather chair.
“Hell, no. Now I’m wanted for murder. Can you show me the story?” Rip asked, trying to get up.
“I’ll bring you my laptop. Sit tight.”
“Thanks. I know you have no reason to believe me, but I didn’t kill anyone.”
“I know you didn’t,” Grinley said, handing him the computer. “I could tell when I first looked at you that you hadn’t.”
“How can you be sure?” Gale asked.
“Because once you’ve killed a person, you can recognize the look on someone else’s face.”
Gale stared at Grinley.
“Don’t worry, I haven’t done it often, or lately.”
“Were you a soldier?” Gale asked, unable to suppress her reporter’s curiosity.
“You might say I was a soldier in the war on drugs.” He laughed.
“I can’t believe this. Gale, they’re saying I’m the prime suspect in lab technician Ian Sweedler’s death. Those bastards killed Ian and they’re blaming me! Why would they kill Ian?”
“Because he saw the casing,” Gale said.
“Are they going to kill the students next?”
She shuddered. “I wouldn’t put it past them. But Ian was different. He was an expert on ancient artifacts. He got a good look at the casing and probably recorded details. If Ian went public, he would have been believed.”
“Yeah,” Rip said, testing the bump on his head. “Josh, Larsen, Topper, Ian, Booker’s guy, those cops in Atlanta . . . there’s a trail of blood behind us.” He looked up at Gale, hoping her eyes would forgive him. Instead they nearly broke him. He covered his mouth and fought tears.
“You want some ice for your head?”
Rip didn’t answer.
“Maybe some smoke?” Grinley held up a small, carved wooden box and flipped the lid open, revealing at least ten ounces of pot.
“No, thanks,” Gale said.
“What we really need is to do some work. Is there somewhere private we can work? In the sun?”
Grinley led them through a maze of a house, plush leather chairs and couches, carved wooden tables, beautiful paintings. They passed several black metal spiral staircases leading to the roof.
“Quite a place,” Gale said.
“A big-time drug lord built it in the early seventies. Taos was a kind of Wild West back then – hippies, dropouts, mercenaries, fugitives, crazies . . . ” He laughed. “I guess it hasn’t changed much!”
“Were you here, back then?”
“Oh yeah, as best as I can recall. I came here as a runaway in seventy-two. I was sixteen, worked for Trog, he’s the one who built this place.”
“How’d you wind up with it?”
“You’ll have to excuse Gale, she’s a reporter,” Rip said, emphasizing the word “reporter” as if he was saying “Nazi.”
“I don’t mind. I’ve got nothing to hide, except a whole bunch of stuff I don’t want the cops to know about,” he said, opening a door into a courtyard surrounded by the house. About thirty by thirty square feet with a fountain, in the center was an odd bronze sculpture of a naked, blindfolded woman ,holding dozens of scales of justice. But it was the sea of six-foot-high marijuana plants filling the space that made Gale laugh.
“Yeah, you have nothing to hide,” Gale said.
“Oh, this.” Grinley waved a dismissive hand. “Pot is practically legal in Taos. Sunny enough for you, Rip?”
“Perfect. Thank you.”
“I’ll leave you to it then,” Grinley said, heading back inside. “I’m just going to check online and see how much of a reward I’ll get for turning you in.” He wandered into the house, laughing.
“He’s not going to turn us in,” Gale said.
“Maybe he should, before someone else gets killed.”
“Listen to me,” Gale grabbed his shoulders and looked into his eyes; the blue irises caught the bright sun and took his breath away. “Each death confirms that we did the right thing. It’s not the other way around. They can kill two hundred people, and it’ll just make me want to run faster, farther. Do you not understand that?”
“The first time I met Josh, was also the last time I met him. And Larsen was my closest friend –”
“Stop torturing yourself. You’ve been looking for this your whole life.”
“No. Not this. I was looking for something to prove my theory. This is something that disproves everything we’ve ever known. This little prize gets everyone who finds out about it killed,” he said, pulling the Eysen from his pack.
The lights started glowing immediately. They sat down on the thick cushions of heavy metal patio chairs, their knees touching.
“It must get its power from the sun, but I don’t see any collectors. How does it do that?” Gale asked, not expecting an answer, as the Eysen went through its now familiar spinning-earth sequence.
“No idea. I’m just glad it’s working again,” Rip said, looking over his shoulder to check if Grinley was around.
The image abruptly switched to a view of a large black globe, with millions of pinpoint crystals covering it. They marveled as hundreds of layers were revealed, one after the other.
“It seems to be showing us the composition and construction of the Eysen,” Rip whispered.
“Like it heard what I asked,” Gale said, stunned.
“Do you think it’s interactive somehow?” Rip asked, almost to himself.
The Eysen filled with golden flowers.
“I think it just answered yes!” Gale laughed.
Chapter 46
Sean Stadler and the man from the bus whom Sean had heard called “Jaeger,” ate breakfast on a secluded deck. The driver of the white Lexus in Asheville, and another NSA “specialist” were in the front room of the large log cabin, and a third patrolled the grounds. The Cessna had landed the previous night at the Angel Fire Airport in New Mexico. At 8600 feet above sea level, its two runways were among the highest in the United States. The pilot had warned it might be a tricky landing, but everything went smoothly. Fifteen minutes after touching down, they were at an NSA safe house; nestled in the ponderosa pine forests of the Sangre de Cristos Mountains, twenty-five minutes east of Taos.
Now they waited. Sean needed to get to Gale and Rip – there were warnings to convey and so many things to discuss. The NSA had been meticulous in this case and was narrowing down Gaines’ location with each passing hour. They knew the Vatican’s suspicion, that the fugitives would head to Taos, in the same way they learned most everything – by intercepting phone calls and email transmissions. In this instance, they’d seen the photos shared between Pisano and the Cardinal in Rome, and had heard their conversations. They even had the information that had passed from Attorney General Dover to the Vatican, and noted that the Pope’s representatives had not reciprocated with any of their own information. Dover didn’t know about Taos, didn’t have a clue about the Eysen, but the NSA most certainly did.
The secret committee, which dictated NSA’s tasks, had given a “Scorch And Burn” or “SAB” directive. It was only the third such order ever; the second had concerned Edward Snowden’s leaks; and the first, no one left alive outside the committee knew. And now, the third SAB had been issued about the Eysen. Jaeger knew that an SAB meant nothing was out of bounds – breaking laws, assassination – whatever it took to achieve the objective, to get the Eysen. Most people didn’t know that the NSA, an agency so secret that is had once been called “No Such Agency,” even had agents. The fact was that since 2001, the NSA had developed a huge secret force, which was unequaled in power and resources.
As he walked in, Hall tossed Barbeau a bag of almond croissants. Barbeau pulled one out and flashed a rare smile, but then launched into a rant. “The NSA scoops up our best lead and we can’t even find out w
here they’ve taken him. I’ve been on with the Director twice already this morning, and he says we’re getting stonewalled on both sides. The Attorney General and NSA both have seemingly opposing goals, and we’re stuck trying to arrest this guy before one of them kills him.”
“I was up half the night trying to figure out what the hell was inside those casings,” Hall said. “It’s impossible to imagine anything dug out of the ground that the NSA would need so badly.”
“We found Ian Sweedler’s body an hour ago in a wooded lot, not three-quarters of a mile from his lab. Like the killer wanted it to be discovered.”
“Who did it?”
“Had to be the Vatican.”
“Why?” Hall asked.
“Don’t you see the pattern? Anyone connected to the casings is dead or missing.”
“Damn it, we need answers,” Hall said. He and Barbeau had talked until well past eleven the previous night, and had developed a new structure. Hall would run the Booker side of the investigation, which included Gaines, Asher, and Larsen Fretwell. Barbeau would focus on the NSA, the Vatican, Sweedler, and the Stadler brothers. The Director’s deep-unit, known as “DIRT,” consisting of hand-picked, trusted agents would work the high-level stuff, including the connections among the Attorney General, the Vatican, and the President. DIRT also provided their best hope for any insights into the NSA. They all had scrambled phones to protect against NSA eavesdropping, including Barbeau and Hall, but it came down to whom had the latest and greatest technology. Hall was betting on the NSA.
“We need to figure out what the NSA is doing with Sean. I mean, how much could he know?” Hall asked.
“Yeah, he didn’t even know Gaines or Asher before he picked them up on the parkway. And they spent twenty-four hours together. But the NSA hears all the calls and they must know, or think, that Sean can lead them to Gaines.”
“Why don’t we find the Vatican agents and follow them? They seem to be a step ahead of us.”
“The Attorney General is making sure they’re ahead,” Barbeau said, disgusted.
“Because he’s a Catholic? Or is there something else?”
“He’s seriously Catholic. I’ve never met a man with a deeper faith who doesn’t wear a collar.”
“Then explain the President. He’s taking a risk giving the AG this much room. Laws are breaking all over the place and it’s coming from the Justice Department.”
“Those laws don’t apply anymore,” Barbeau said. “If it’s under Homeland Security, there are ways to get anything done.”
“Yeah, but our hands are tied.”
“For the moment, but the Director is working on it.”
“He may not survive this,” Hall said.
“He doesn’t care if they fire him.”
“I’m not talking about being fired.”
Chapter 47
Nanski and Leary had left their Albuquerque hotel room just after dawn, picked up a fast food breakfast in Española, and had driven straight to Ranchos de Taos. The tiny town, a few miles south of Taos, was home to the famous San Francisco de Asis Mission Church. Leary parked across the plaza, pumped a mint spray into his mouth, and walked around the exterior, while Nanski went inside.
The beautiful adobe building, constructed between 1772 and 1816, had been the subject of paintings by Georgia O’Keefe, photographs by Ansel Adams, and housed the legendary “Shadow of the Cross,” a life-sized painting of Christ, done in 1896 by Henri Ault, that inexplicably glows in the dark. But Nanski and Leary weren’t interested in the architecture or the miraculous painting. They were there to greet Gaines; who, they felt sure, would arrive soon. Although expunged from Church records, and lost to history, Father Clastier had once regularly preached at San Francisco de Asis. “If Gaines is coming to Taos,” Nanski had told Leary, “the only reason is to seek out Clastier, and this Church is where he must begin.”
Nanski came out of the church, smiling. “Gaines hasn’t been here yet.”
“You’re sure he’ll come?” Leary asked. “Why would he risk it?”
“He’ll come. I just don’t know how long it will take. He is the last true follower of the great heretic.” Nanski’s phone rang. It was Pisano. After the call, he told Leary, “More good news. They are about to formally charge Gaines with the murder of the lab technician. It’ll hit the media in about ten minutes.”
“Good- that should help flush him out,” Leary said.
“Absolutely, his time is short and God is on our side. Another gift we have received. Do you recall the copy of Thomas Aquinas’ On Being and Essence that we found at Gale Asher’s place?”
“Of course; it was lovingly inscribed by Senator Monroe.”
“Yes. Pisano met with the Senator today. It seems that back when Monroe was still an unmarried college professor at Georgetown, he had an affair with his favorite student, Gale Asher. And they are still very close.”
“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Leary said, smiling. “Do you think that Gaines has any idea his partner in crime has a deeply personal relationship with the most important Catholic in the country?”
“And likely the next American President,” Nanski added.
“I’ll bet Ms. Asher has kept that bit her little secret.” Leary laughed.
Barbeau looked at his phone. “It’s the Director; he’s calling early,” he said to Hall.
“It’s getting messy,” the Director began, “The Attorney General just announced murder charges against Gaines. He’s on all the cable news channels.”
“For whose murder?” Barbeau shot back.
“Ian Sweedler.”
“Impossible. Dover knows that’s BS,” Barbeau said.
“Of course he knows. But we’ve been completely circumvented. It all came out of the Justice Department. The Attorney General didn’t ask me because he knew what I’d say. Hell, we only found the body an hour ago,” the Director said.
“Someone’s getting nervous.”
“I’m sure they are. I am. Aren’t you nervous? Why haven’t we caught this guy?” the Director asked.
“Sir, with all due respect,” Barbeau said, “part of the blame for our failure rests with the fact that the Justice Department, NSA, and White House are all working against us.”
“Even though the hand we’ve been dealt is garbage, we still have to play the game,” the Director said.
“Understood.”
“Good. And we did catch a break. DIRT has identified two of the Vatican agents. And one of them used his credit card yesterday to get gas on I-40 twice, and again last night to pay for a hotel room in Albuquerque,” the Director said.
Barbeau covered his phone and shouted across the room. “Hall, get us on the first flight to Albuquerque.”
“I’ve emailed you their files,” the Director continued. “Mark Leary and Joe Nanski. Theses guys are likely the ones who killed Josh Stadler, and maybe even Ian Sweedler.”
“They sound like a couple of real Christians.”
“Not the first people to kill in the name of God.”
Booker’s man, Kruse, had arrived at the motel in West Memphis an hour after the FBI. He watched from a safe distance as agents collected evidence and interviewed potential witnesses. After conferring with an unhappy Booker, Kruse headed to Little Rock and got a room near the airport. He waited, reading one of his preferred dystopian novels, and was engrossed in the final pages of Hugh Howey’s Wool, when Booker called with an update.
“My sources say Albuquerque. One of my jets is already on its way. Your flight leaves in ninety minutes.”
Kruse liked traveling by private jet, and enjoyed being able to take his guns and other weapons of choice anywhere in the world. “What’s the plan?”
“Hopefully we’ll know more by the time you get there. And Kruse, if we do get another chance, you can’t miss him this time.”
Chapter 48
Gale and Rip watched the Eysen for hours, its mysteries and complexities seeming only to multiply.
Most of the images were moving- like video, and almost exclusively, were depictions of nature. The one showing a breakdown of how the Eysen was constructed had indicated a technological sophistication beyond humanity’s current level. Other than the rotating Earth routine the sequence had changed. The only repeat was of the Crying Man, the portrayal so life-like, they had to continually to remind themselves that he was not actually inside the Eysen. Sometimes, it did look as if the Eysen responded to their questions, even their thoughts, but the concept was so utterly outlandish that, even when it appeared to react to them, they shook their heads in disbelief.
“There he is again,” Gale said, as the Crying Man materialized out of an ocean storm. Other than an occasional sea of faces, he was the only human they’d seen. “Why is he so sad?”
The Crying Man opened his arms; his own Eysen materialized before him and grew so that they could not tell the difference between theirs and his. The Earth image, with the different arrangement of continents, came through. Sporadic lights covered the landmasses, as if seen from a nighttime satellite image.
“They’re like glowing jewels scattered on the ground,” Gale said.
“Yes, but look. They are not like our cities built along the coasts. There are almost no lights there. They built their cities inland.” Rip realized he’d said, “they built,” and paused, trying to recall when he had decided that they were an identifiable group. They had built cities, the Eysen, and who knew what other remarkable things. Who were they? What happened to them? The Eysen drew him back from his thoughts, as the lights of “cities” intensified, and then went suddenly dark.
“What happened?” Gale asked
Rip stared silently into the dark Eysen. The Crying Man returned.
“Did they destroy their civilization somehow? Is that what we just saw?” Gale asked.
The Eysen filled with yellow flowers. Rip looked at Gale.
“I know it’s impossible, but I really think it’s answering us,” she said.