To Run With the Swift

by Gerald N. Lund

  I think I have a candidate in mind for this. It’s still a long way off and I know a lot of things can happen, but like it or not, I’ve got him in the crosshairs of my hunting rifle. I mean, when a guy takes a bullet for you, he’s a keeper. Don’t you think?

  Anyway, here’s a quick summary of what we have learned about today:

  1. Our two Englishmen, Geoffrey Campbell and Malcolm Birdwhistle, are going to live. The antivenom Cody brought back from the boat was instrumental in saving their lives, especially Birdwhistle’s. (I kid you not. That is actually Malcolm’s real name, according to Interpol.)

  2. Clay already has an interrogation team on its way to Page. He hopes that grilling the two of them while they are still pretty traumatized will yield important information about their European connections. He’s not wildly optimistic—they seem to have a good cutout system—but he is hopeful.

  3. When we told Clay that Geoffrey had called someone on his satellite phone, they checked the phone and found the number. Using a GPS tracking device, they were able to locate the phone and send in a team. However, it turned out to be in the trunk of a car rented in Denver but left at the Toronto airport two or three days ago. Phony name and address.

  4. As for Jean-Claude, whose last name is Allemand and who is from Belgium, he was captured a few miles south of Escalante after a brief but fierce gun battle with FBI agents and officers from the Utah Highway Patrol. He was shot once in the chest and was flown to the University of Utah Hospital. According to Clay, he is in serious but stable condition.

  5. For all his professional competence and his position of importance in the FBI, Clay Zabriskie is at heart a great big teddy bear of a man. He gave me that hug that he asked for, and kissed me on both cheeks, not once but twice, while Mom, Dad, Grandpère, Rick, and Cody—and a couple of FBI agents—looked on and applauded.

  6. Speaking of Mom, Clay was absolutely charmed by Mom’s painting of Rainbow Bridge. She hasn’t finished it yet, but she showed it to him anyway when he begged to see it. The fact that she broke her inflexible rule—never show a painting until it is finished—says a lot about how relieved she is to have this whole thing over.

  7. And speaking of Clay, he did confirm that we are to be with him and his family on the Fourth of July and that the Deputy Director of the FBI will be here from Washington.

  “Hey, Danni boy. You’re supposed to be in bed.”

  I jumped and gave a little yelp, then sat back. “Grandpère! You scared the heck out of me. You’re not supposed to sneak up on people.”

  “Sorry. Writing up the day in your journal?”

  “No, not the whole day. Just a quick summary. I’ll say more tomorrow.”

  “What have you said about the pouch?”

  “Not much, why?”

  He shrugged. “Just wondered.”

  “Would you rather I didn’t?”

  He thought about that. “Maybe. I’m not sure it’s wise, particularly when it could be subpoenaed for evidence in a criminal trial.”

  My mouth fell open. “Are you kidding?” He shook his head. From his expression I could tell he wasn’t. “Oh, that would be awful.”

  He sat down at the table beside me. “I don’t know, Danni. I told you before that writing it all up was important. Now, I’m not so sure.”

  “Why not?”

  “Not sure. Just been thinking about it.”

  “Me too. Not about writing in my journal, but about Le Gardien.”

  “Some strange things happened today, that’s for sure.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Can I ask you a couple of questions?”

  “Only a couple?”

  “Okay, a bunch of questions. And before you answer, remember, I am really, really tired tonight, Grandpère, so don’t tease me. Please.”

  He frowned. “The very accusation wounds me deeply.”

  “See?” I exclaimed. “That’s what I mean.”

  He laid a hand over mine. “All right. After what you did today, I think you are entitled. So, fire away.”

  Wonderful. Maybe I could finally get some answers. “All right. First question. Why did the pouch wait so long to work today? I mean, why didn’t I sense the danger before we were actually caught in the middle of it and it was too late to get away?”

  “I’m not sure. There are several possibilities. One, maybe it did warn you and you were just too insensitive to feel it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you want me to answer you or to make you feel good?”

  “Answer me. Sorry. Go on.”

  “Two. Remember when we talked about whether the pouch was your nanny or not, back a year or so ago?” When I nodded, he continued, “I told you that I felt like the best analogy of the pouch was that of the tutor in ancient Greece. Though he was a servant, his purpose was far more than just to teach and protect a child. He was to prepare the child in every way for adulthood, when it would no longer need his services. To do that sometimes requires the tutor to step back and let the child learn from its own experience, whether foolish or wise.”

  “Ouch again.”

  “Three. The tutor may see other aspects of a situation that the child does not either see nor appreciate. For example, if you had been warned back at Dangling Rope when you first suggested we go to Crosby Canyon, we would have been kept out of harm’s way, but ...”

  “Oh,” I said, surprised that I could have missed something so obvious. “But then tonight, there would still be three men out there who were a threat to our family.”

  “That’s right. There may be other reasons, too. Just remember that when the pouch is helping you, you may not be the only person involved nor your needs the only ones that are being met.”

  That was a marvelous insight. “Thank you, Grandpère. That is very helpful.” He waited, so I went on. “Second question. I think we all agree that the rattlesnakes today were the pouch’s doing, right?”

  “I think that is a safe conclusion.”

  “But at the time, I no longer had the pouch in my possession. Can it work when someone else has it? Or would it work for them?”

  “It wouldn’t be much of a guardian if it only worked when you were holding it. Early on in your experience, it serves as a tangible aid that can bolster courage or bring insights. But you are called the keeper of the pouch, not the owner, not the holder, not the possessor, not the controller. So no, you don’t have to actually touch it. As for the question, can someone else use it, that would be up to the pouch, now, wouldn’t it?”

  He leaned in. “Let me ask you a question. Did the pouch work for El Cobra when it made the phony gold bars?”

  “I ...” My first impulse was to say yes. He had it in his hand. He commanded it to make gold. But then, it didn’t make gold. It made lead. And it led directly to his capture. “I’m not sure.”

  “Nor am I. Danni, I think you still have it in your mind that the pouch is a possession, something you own, something you control. It is not. It is an inanimate object that has remarkable powers, powers that can bless you or curse you. It is something entrusted to you to be used for good and to help others. But even then, it decides what it will and won’t do, what it will and won’t share. The key is to open yourself up to it and its powers and not do foolish things that turn it away from you. To be grateful for when it does intervene in your behalf. And”—he stabbed his finger at me—“maybe to be grateful when it doesn’t.”

  “I understand.” I quickly caught myself. “Or rather, I think I am beginning to understand. Next question. Is there more than one pouch?”

  “I would think so—it would be a strange thing if our family happened to own the only one in the world. But maybe it’s not a pouch in every case. Maybe it is some other object, like a necklace or a book. I frankly don’t know. But I like to think there is.”

  “I really appreciate thi
s, Grandpère,” I said, touching his arm. “One more?”

  “Of course,” he smiled.

  “When evil people see what the pouch can do, they want it for themselves. This can bring danger on the keeper of the pouch and on those she, or he, loves. Since it isn’t blessing the world in general, only our family in particular, maybe it would be better to not have it, to—”

  He was shaking his finger at me and giving me a chiding look. “There you go again. All you’ve seen is the pouch working for you and your family, but why do you assume it is restricted to that? I mean, what if the pouch holds a ‘second job’? What if it has more than one keeper?”

  “But how could it, when I have it with me all the time?” But I saw the flaw in that reasoning right away. “Okay, maybe while I’m sleeping.”

  “Or when you don’t take it with you. Or you leave it on the bus. Or maybe during your ‘down times,’ you know, kind of like more than one person using the same computer.” His eyes were alive with intensity. “The key is, Danni, to remember that you don’t get to decide what the pouch does, when it does it, for whom it does it, or how it does it. That’s not your privilege. You can influence it to one degree or another, but you do not control it. Est-ce que c’est clair?”

  I lowered my head, appropriately contrite. “Yes, Grandpère. It is very clear. Thank you.”

  His face softened. “You look very tired. We can talk more in the morning.”

  I stood up, bent down, and kissed his forehead. “No. You have given me much to think about. Thank you for being so clear.” I kissed him again. “I love you so much, Grandpère.”

  “And I you, my precious child,” he whispered huskily. “And I you.”

  PART FOUR

  Anonymity Lost

  CHAPTER 13

  Sandstar Motel, Sandy, Utah

  July 4, 2011

  One of the nation’s largest Fourth of July celebrations takes place each year in the town of Provo, Utah. Known as the Freedom Festival, the festivities culminate in the spectacular Stadium of Fire concert and fireworks show, held in the football stadium of Brigham Young University.

  Though I had lived in Utah most of my life, and though we had talked many times about going up for the celebration, the McAllisters of Hanksville had never quite pulled it off. Until now. We pretty much did it all, or, at least, everything major—hot-air balloon festival, pancake breakfast in the park, old-fashioned Fourth of July picnic at noon, potato sack and wheelbarrow races, Utah Symphony Orchestra concert. There were also various “runs”—10K or 5K “Freedom Runs” and the mayor’s mile-long “Fun Run.”

  Mom ran the 10K with Clay Zabriskie’s wife, Helen. They asked me, but I begged off, saying that it would only make Rick feel bad, him still limping around and all. (Rick just rolled those big, innocent eyes of his and said, “This from the girl who is always saying things like, ‘When I see my first happy runner, then I’ll consider it,’ or ‘Fun Run is a contradiction in terms,’ or ‘I collect articles on the dangers of running.’”)

  It all started Friday night with a BBQ at Clay’s house. Clay and Helen have four children, all married, and 13 grandchildren, ranging in age from 9 months to 18 years old. You would have thought we were national celebrities the way we were welcomed. Clay hadn’t told them much, except that we had been instrumental in helping the FBI break a major case.

  Today we enjoyed the biggest two events of the festival—the Grand Parade in the morning and the “Stadium of Fire” concert and fireworks show tonight. Rick’s dad has to be back to work at the coal mine tomorrow, so he didn’t stay for the evening show, but the rest of the family did. It was fun to be together again. We’ve become good friends since our time together on the houseboat. Rick, Shauna, and the girls will go home with us tomorrow.

  The fireworks were amazing, but what was absolutely awesome was that David Archuleta performed at the concert. He’s from Utah and won second place on American Idol. He’s way hot, and when he sings, oh my. ... I felt like I was going to melt into a pool of butter right there. Fortunately, I had the perfect cure for that. I was sitting next to a guy who also has dark black hair and large brown eyes and a smile to die for. He won’t ever sing for me, but the scar in his upper leg kind of balances that out.

  Afterwards, the traffic was awful and we didn’t get home until about 11:40. Everyone instantly crashed. But you know me. Danni the insomniac. The good news is, we don’t meet with the Deputy Director until about eleven tomorrow morning, so there’s plenty of time to sleep in. Cody wanted to go with Shauna and the girls to a water park tomorrow rather than meet with the DD. Mom and Dad decided that would be acceptable.

  It has been a great weekend. Amazing in so many ways. And it’s great for us and the Ramirez family to just have fun and not have to worry about saving the world. So with that, good night.

  When Rick, Cody, and I came back from the breakfast in the restaurant next door to the motel, Clay was already in the room with Mom, Dad, and Grandpère. Typical. If he said he would be there at 9:30, you could count on him at 9:25 or earlier.

  He waved to us as we came in, but since they were deep in conversation, Cody backed out and went to his room, and Rick and I went in and sat down. Mom was sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning forward, and looked very much in earnest as she listened to what Clay was saying.

  “I’m picking up the Deputy Director at the executive airport at 9:45.”

  “And Officer Blake will be there too?” Mom asked. “Is that typical?”

  A frown creased Clay’s brow. “Officer Blake has been assigned as our liaison officer for the Utah Highway Patrol because she was the one involved with the case.”

  “Which is great,” I said. “She’s cool.”

  “Agreed, and a fine officer, too. But ...” He blew out a long breath. “But I didn’t expect the DD to ask her to join us for this meeting.”

  “Oh?” Dad said. “What’s up?”

  “I think I know, and that worries me. Anyway, Joel—that’s his name, Joel Jamison—wants to spend an hour with us first, so we’ll have you all come in about 11:30. He’s staying at the downtown Marriott. Do you know where that is?”

  Dad nodded. “I’ve met clients there before.” He looked more closely at him. “You look worried, Clay. What’s wrong?”

  Clay sighed. “I think he’s out for blood.”

  We were all surprised at that, but Grandpère spoke first. “Blood? I thought he’d be pleased that you have the whole gang in custody now.”

  “Oh, he is that. But Joel Jamison doesn’t miss much. That’s how he got to be Deputy Director over the western region. He’s not happy with my report. Or Shayla’s either. She’ll be on the hot seat too.”

  “But why?” Mom broke in.

  He turned and looked at me. “Well, Danni created this little problem for us both.”

  “Because of the pouch?” Grandpère guessed.

  “You got it,” he said glumly. “In my first report, I wrote up everything as it happened, often quoting Rick and Danni directly. When I was through, I read back through it all and I said to myself, ‘Clay, you turn in this report and Joel will have you committed to a psychiatric facility before the sun goes down.’ So, I locked that report in my private safe and wrote a second one—what you might call a ‘sanitized’ version. No mention is made of the pouch, or red-hot pistols, or packets of hundred-dollar bills appearing out of nowhere, or a toy pistol blasting away with real bullets ...” He shook his head. “Or a boat being sunk by forty-two bars of gold-plated lead.”

  “Does he not know about the dive team you sent down there?”

  “Uh ... no. When I pulled them out as quickly as I did, I felt I could get by without mentioning it. Did you write about the gold in your journal?”

  “Um ... yeah. The full story.”

  “And this second version is a problem?” Dad asked.

 
“Oh, yes. I quote: ‘Your report is filled with vague generalities. It glosses over important elements of the story, seems openly evasive at times, and leaves many questions unanswered.’”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Like how you and Officer Blake communicated with each other when Gordo was in the backseat holding a gun on you.”

  I smiled. “I can see why that could be a problem. So what does the sanitized version say?”

  He looked as if he had just bitten into something sour. “I said that the two of you somehow managed to communicate with each other in a nonvocal fashion by looking at each other in the rearview mirror.”

  Dad chuckled. “No wonder he smells blood.”

  “Yeah,” he said glumly, “and I’m still wrestling with how to answer him. I—”

  “That’s simple,” Grandpère said. “Take him the full report. Let him read it. Then talk.”

  “Are you kidding?” he blurted. “This guy has his law degree from Harvard. He graduated third in his class. He’s a hardheaded realist. He’s not going to warm to the idea of a pouch creating things out of nothing. If I give him the full report, Officer Blake will be busting jaywalkers in Hanksville, and I’ll be lucky if I can stay on as janitor at the Federal Building.”

  To my surprise, Mom jumped in. “You have to tell him the full truth, Clay. That’s the only solution.”

  Grandpère was nodding. “You can’t explain things away and you can’t keep hiding them. So, there’s no other choice.”

  Clay was massaging his temples now. “You don’t know him.”