Owl Dreams

by John T. Biggs

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  A lot of important places were lined up along the remains of old Route 66. That was the only reason the Federal Department of Transportation hadn’t put the mother road in a home. El Reno Federal Correctional Institution was on the road a little over thirty miles west of the Crazy Snake Gambling Casino. Not a long drive, unless your passenger was getting accustomed to his sanity and wanted to talk about it. Sarah tried her best to ignore Robert’s discourse on the cosmic unity.

  “People gambling in the Crazy Snake right now will eventually do hard federal time just down the road.” He had more to say about the Alpha and Omega of criminal activity and the mystical connection between all things.

  “Enough of that crap.” Rolling down the windows of her Subaru changed things immediately. His monologue deteriorated into nonsense syllables as the wind blew across his face. That was annoying too, but it at least it wasn’t New Age annoying.

  “You’ve got the ID Professor Lindsay sent you?” Was the head nodding a response or part of some schizophrenic recovery ritual? She should have asked her questions before surrendering Robert to the influence of the wind.

  “Can you hear me?”

  He removed a laminated card from his shirt pocket and shoved it in front of her eyes, severely compromising her view of oncoming traffic.

  “Good.” She pushed his hand aside and used her peripheral vision to watch him return the card to his pocket. Passing Robert Collins off as Archie’s spiritual adviser was a real Hail Mary, but Archie had insisted she bring her “male companion” when she came to visit him, and no one could visit a federal inmate without a photo ID.

  “Do you know anything about the Native American Church?”

  “Sure.” Robert held his right hand out the window and made it

  perform a series of aerobatic maneuvers.

  “Can you answer questions about the religion, if the authorities quiz you?”

  “I’ve heard ceremonies carried on the wind. I remember quite a lot.”

  “Why do you suppose Archie wants to see you?”

  “Probably lonely.” Robert told her. “And I don’t think Archie wants you to travel alone.”

  Probably right on both counts. She doubted if Archie’s friends and relatives would pass muster with the National Criminal Information Center, and his cultural background gave him no reason to be confident in the abilities of women.

  Too late for second thoughts. But Sarah still had a few as she pulled into the prison parking lot. An armed guard stopped them at the gate. A plastic badge on his uniform shirt identified him as Sgt. Buford Troxel. He wore a matching name belt confirming his identity. As if anyone would pretend to be Sgt. Buford Troxel.

  The guard was a suspicious man. He checked Sarah’s name and Robert’s against a visitors list. He took their photo IDs into a guard station and made a call. Sarah wondered if the guard’s paranoia was a sign of thoroughness or a symptom of mental instability. Not that it mattered.

  Sergeant Troxel returned their IDs. He produced a paper and read a list of rights visitors agreed to waive while they were on FCI property. He made Sarah pop her trunk so that he could look inside. He put on a pair of rubber gloves and searched her shoulder bag. She watched his lips move as he read the label on a box of Tampons. Thank god she’d left Hashilli’s pistol with Big Shorty.

  “Can’t take the bag inside,” he told her. “Best to lock it in the trunk. The institution’s not responsible for theft.” The guard produced a saucer size, angled mirror on a stick—like a dental mirror for a giant. He inspected the undercarriage of her Subaru with the disinterested concentration of a gynecologist completing his final pelvic exam of the day.

  “Don’t usually take such precautions,” he told her, “But the Vice President is here.”

  “In prison?” Sarah wondered how much time he’d have to serve.

  “Just in the state. Can’t have him killed here in Oklahoma.” With murder, as with real estate, location was everything.

  Somehow looking at the reflection of a rusty drive shaft would keep the second most powerful man in the free world safe. Sarah wanted to ask Buford Troxel how, but she was afraid his answer might make some kind of sense.

  The front entrance of the prison led into a large room that reminded Sarah of a hotel lobby. Her ID and Robert’s were checked by a young black woman in civilian clothes. She gave them visitor’s passes attached to fiberglass loops they were to wear around their necks.

  “Follow Officer Bryant.” The receptionist pointed at a potbellied, uniformed man in his mid-fifties. He had a rim of bright red hair circling his sun-damaged scalp, like Bozo the Clown’s evil twin.

  They passed through so many sets of double-locked doors that Sarah lost count. They walked through a stationary metal detector. Something called an Ion Track Detection Unit that found them to be free of narcotics, barbiturates, amphetamines, and explosives. Everything you need for a Fourth of July celebration. They were just about to go into the visiting room when a young guard with crew cut, almost invisible, blond hair pulled them aside.

  “Program lieutenant wants to see you,” the guard said. He escorted them into an empty room and told them, “Make yourselves comfortable,” indicating a circle of folding metal chairs that were totally inconsistent with the concept of comfort.

  “Won’t be long,” the guard told them.

  Sarah checked the door to the room as soon as she was certain they were alone. Locked.

  An hour later the door opened, and two men entered.

  The taller of the two wore a blue blazer with insignia on his lapels that, Sarah presumed, indicated he held the rank of lieutenant. He introduced his companion, but not himself.

  “This is the prison Chaplain.” Apparently names were an unnecessary extravagance of hospitality. “He has some questions.”

  Why do bad things happen to good people? Sarah thought but did not say.

  The Chaplain seated himself in a chair on the opposite side of the circle from Robert and Sarah. The program lieutenant stood behind him, conveying the image of authority.

  “The Native American Church,” the Chaplain said. For the first time, Sarah noticed the Bible he held in his right hand.

  “The Native American Church.” He pointed an index finger at Robert as if he were pretending to be a stick-up man in a game of cops and robbers.

  “I understand you are an ordained minister in that church. Tell me all about it.”

  If Robert was rattled by the Chaplain’s interrogation technique, Sarah could see no signs of it. Robert tipped his head from side to side, smiling intermittently as if considering the most appropriate way to answer.

  “I’m not exactly a minister,” he said finally. “My congregation thinks of me as a Roadman.”

  The Chaplain would have applauded Robert’s answer, but doing so would have entailed thumping a hand against his Bible, an innocent action that God might easily misinterpret.

  “On the peyote road.” The Chaplain forced a smile. It might have signified happiness or an impending bowel movement. “By golly, I believe you’re the first one I’ve ever met.”

  Sarah could see that Robert had persuaded the prison minister of his authenticity with a single word. Roadman. She was pretty certain Robert had never been a member of the Native American Church. She was equally certain of his lack of any formal education in theology or anthropology. She doubted Robert had graduated high school. Maybe he’d met an authentic roadman during his extensive walk with schizophrenia. She hoped the Chaplain’s interview/interrogation wouldn’t explore his depth of knowledge too far, but the prison minister was clearly enjoying himself. The man’s opportunities to discuss comparative religion were probably limited.

  “Do you practice the half moon ceremony?” The Chaplain asked. He drew a deep breath as if preparing to add considerable detail to his question, but Robert didn’t give him a chance.

  “All roadmen participate in the occasional half moon ceremony,” Robert said
. “Out of respect for the great Comanche chief and founder of the faith, Quannah Parker.”

  The Chaplain fidgeted in his chair like a four year old. He squeezed his Bible, licked his lips and waited impatiently for his turn to speak while Robert Collins, certified schizophrenic and ersatz roadman, told him things he already knew.

  “Most favor the cross fire ceremony. We find the trappings of Christianity comforting.”

  Sarah watched the prison minister digest Robert’s “trappings of Christianity” statement. She could see an emotional outburst taking shape behind his eyes, pushing tears to the surface and then pulling them back again. She was in the process of formulating an apology and had almost found the right words when the Chaplain surprised her with his unconditional approval.

  “Outstanding!” The prison minister twisted his body in his chair so that he could make eye contact with the program lieutenant who stood quietly behind him. “Parker was wounded in a battle with U.S. troops. He would have died of infection if a group of Peyoteros hadn’t treated him with decoctions of the sacred cactus.” He turned back to Robert, bursting with pride in his knowledge.

  “The Native American Church began with Parker’s healing visions.” The Chaplain filled the room with wisdom so fast that Robert could not comment.

  He quoted Quannah Parker. “The White Man goes into this church and talks about Jesus. The Indian goes into his Tipi and talks with Jesus.”

  The Chaplain appeared willing and able to continue for the rest of the day, but when he began a monologue on the fabled white peyote of the Grand Canyon, the program lieutenant stopped him.

  “So it’s all right for them to visit Archie Chatto?”

  “Yes, of course.” The Chaplain apologized for his enthusiasm. “A spiritual advisor like Mr. Collins is exactly what Archie needs.” The prison minister rose from his chair and shook hands, first with Robert and then with Sarah.

  “The Lord’s work is a fascinating mystery,” he said to no one in particular.

  “So true,” said Sarah Bible. The only thing more fascinating was a recovering schizophrenic who could impersonate a lawyer one day and a roadman the next. Robert’s skill as an impersonator was almost as good as Hashilli’s. That observation made Sarah a little uncomfortable. She brushed it quickly aside.

  Archie walked across the visiting room with the deliberate dignity of a condemned man. He embraced Sarah briefly and shook hands with Robert as firmly and professionally as an insurance salesman.

  “Thank you for coming.” He led them to three chairs he had moved to the edge of the room and seated himself with his back against the wall.

  Sarah didn’t sound convincing when she told Archie how happy she was to see him. She proceeded without noticeable interruption to tell him of Marie’s involuntary stay at Flanders and how she had been spirited away by a contract psychologist who was also a kidnapper, a murderer, and apparently a Choctaw witch. “Professor Lindsay told me you might be able to help, but I don’t see how that’s possible.”

  Archie crossed his arms, stretching the fabric of his khaki prison-inmate shirt to its elastic limit. “I’m good at finding things,” he said. “Lost possessions, animals, people who have been hidden away—I can find them. I can find your mother, once I am out of prison.”

  “My mother or my sister?” Sarah guessed it hadn’t taken Archie long to penetrate Marie’s deception.

  Archie stage whispered, “It’s Chinatown, Jake.” He told Sarah he had known everything important about Marie weeks before he met her.

  “I followed your mother the way a timber wolf trails an antelope,” he said. “I could pick out her tracks, identify her scent, predict the streams where she would take water and the meadows where she would graze.”

  The naturalist metaphor sounded perverse to Sarah. “You knew she was bipolar?”

  “Incomprehensible, like all of Usen’s best creations.” Archie fixed his gaze on Robert. “The Apache have always appreciated such people.”

  It would be inaccurate to say Robert wasn’t a part of the conversation, even though he uttered not a single word.

  “The silence of endless space and deep water,” is how Archie put it. “The silence of dead ancestors and unborn children.” Archie knew Robert would play a key role in his escape from captivity. He knew it with barbarian certainty.

  “My trial begins in four days.” Archie took the sacred number as a good sign.

  “Room 334 in Judge Arthur Rakestraw’s courtroom in the Oklahoma County Court House.” The federal government had released Archie for trial by the state, even though it was a federal agent he was accused of murdering.

  “No risk of double jeopardy,” he explained. “If the state doesn’t convict me, the feds can try me on a slightly different charge.”

  This wouldn’t be Archie’s first time in Arthur Rakestraw’s courtroom.

  “A three story drop to the pavement,” he said. “No bars on the windows. They are practically inviting defendants to jump.”

  “Wouldn’t you be killed by the fall?” Sarah asked.

  “Maybe your crazy boyfriend will figure out a way to catch me.”

  Sarah considered denying Robert was her boyfriend but didn’t. So many big mistakes. That little one wouldn’t matter.

  “Crazy games are won by crazy players,” Archie said. “And Robert has the makings of a champ

  Two red splotches grew on Robert’s cheeks. His eyes found a neutral spot half way between Archie and Sarah. “In the land of the blind,” he said, “the one eyed man is considered delusional.”

  Sarah had no idea what he meant by that.