Dissolution: The Wyoming Chronicles: Book One

by W. Michael Gear

  “Under 36 C.F.R—”

  “Yes, yes, and all the Executive Orders, as well. We’ve heard it,” Agar snapped. “Your stint at playing God is over, Mr. Edgewater.”

  “You try and jail me, and half the town is going to come after you,” Edgewater promised. “I’ve got my backers, too. Powerful families in this town. People I’ve made promises to.” He pointed with a thick finger. “People whose sons, husbands, and brothers have been murdered by your hired mercenaries. And you can bet, they’re going to be wanting blood.”

  “You think they’ll back you?”

  “You bet. I’m the duly constituted authority in a time of—”

  “If he spouts that shit again,” Agar told Sully Richardson, “break his jaw.”

  Richardson squirmed uncomfortably in his chair.

  Agar continued, “You kidnapped and executed innocent citizens, people whose loved ones are only now realizing their family members lie in unmarked graves. You kidnapped and trafficked in young women. Call it what it is: sexual slavery. When word gets out about what those young women and girls endured, you won’t make it half a block.”

  “Any relations with females were consensual. You don’t understand what some women will offer to a man with power.”

  Agar looked at Sam. “You were part of the raid, I understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” Sam wheeled himself forward, taking time to shoot a hard glare at the director; the man was glaring back, that slight smile on his small lips.

  Agar tapped papers on the judge’s desk. “Mr. Delgado, this is your sworn testimony. That there were only six of you. That Amber Sagan blew herself up in order to allow you and Breeze Tappan to get past the blockade. That you and Ms. Tappan freed the women and girls from the stable, that you used a bulldozer to knock down the concentration camp and free the people Edgewater had taken prisoner?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Was there any way those young women in the stable could have been there consensually?”

  “No, sir. Two were shot down by Edgewater’s men as they ran for the trail. The others will testify as to the nature of their captivity.”

  “That’s a lie,” Edgewater said easily. “This deluded young man would have you believe it was seraglio? His band of raiders merely stumbled upon a barracks where I quartered some of my men.” He smiled. “You’ll just have to take the testimony from my men when they get back from the mountain.”

  “Won’t need to,” Agar told him. “We’ve got statements from the surviving young women. All the way down to young Kylie Havel. She’s fifteen, you sick son of a bitch. And worse, she says your man Tubb shot her parents when they tried to keep you from abducting her.”

  “Never heard of her.” Edgewater lifted a disdainful chin.

  But Sam could see the piece of shit squirm for the first time. Apparently, the news that the girls were safe came as a real shock.

  “Mary-Lou Finch?” Agar asked. “Joelle Masters? Michaela Jensen? Verla Tollman? Rosa Bertolli? Courtney Volusia?” and the list went on. When he’d finished, Agar asked, “Never heard of any of them?”

  “No.”

  “Very well, the court calls Shirley Mackeson.”

  Edgewater stiffened as the side door opened, and the tall gray-haired woman from the fenced compound entered. Sam barely recognized her, washed, and elegantly dressed as she was.

  She barely gave Edgewater a glance, stopping before the bench, greeting, “Governor.”

  “State your name and position, please.”

  “I’m Shirley Mackeson, I serve as County Commissioner for Park County.”

  “You know the defendant?”

  “I do.”

  Agar lifted a thick sheaf of papers. “This is the sworn testimony of you, Bill Marley, John Baker, Sally and Tom Visange, Harry Nelson, Terry Tanksley, and Barry Lehman?”

  “It is.”

  Agar fixed on Edgewater. “I’ll cut to the chase. These are all prominent people from Cody that you ordered arrested and locked in a fenced enclosure at Clark Ranch. These witnesses claim you executed thirty-two people without due process, legal representation, trial, or right of appeal.”

  Edgewater’s eyes had narrowed, his jaws working. “Here’s the thing, Governor. It’s a whole new world. Now, you’re a man who understands what’s what. My last communication informed me that two Chinese divisions had invaded Portland and Seattle. That an American carrier group had been attacked in the South China Sea, and that our banking system had been brought down to keep us from responding to—”

  “Actually, it’s three entire Chinese armies.” Agar corrected.

  “Which is why you need me to—”

  “We don’t need you for anything,” Agar said, slapping his hand on the desk.

  At that moment, Richardson plucked his radio from his belt. “This is Sully.”

  “Captain? We just escorted the women into the Hot Springs High School gym. Most of the town’s here to listen to what they have to say.”

  “Roger that.” Sully slipped his radio back into its holster. “You get that?”

  Agar nodded, stood, and descended to face Edgewater across the table. “Based on what Shirley, here, has told us, and what those remarkable young women have told us, we’ve sent a crew up to Clark Ranch with a backhoe to dig up the graves along the south fence line. Tank and Barry Lehman are driving up to supervise, along with some of your ‘leading supporters’ who we want to serve as witnesses.”

  “Look, we can come to an agreement.” Edgewater gave Agar a knowing grin. “Sure, you might get a lot of things done, but think about how much quicker and easier you could do them with”—he hooked his fingers—“federal approval.”

  “You really think you’re getting out of this, don’t you?”

  “Actually, Governor, yes. I do. Like I said, I can help grease the wheels, and I know the system. How things work.”

  Edgewater shrugged his round shoulders. “So maybe there were some accidents along the way. How about we sweep that under the rug for the time being? Sure, I have appetites, but I’ve controlled my appetites before, and I can do it again.”

  Agar turned to where Sully and Senator Briarson sat. “Verdict?”

  “Story’s out,” Sully said. “We’re done with him.”

  “I don’t see any choice but to be rid of him,” Briarson said. “Make it quick and tidy.”

  “Unmarked grave,” Dr. Holly added from the jury box. “Just announce that Edgewater was found guilty and justice was rendered.”

  “Sure,” Edgewater said easily. “And once that announcement is made, I can work from behind the scenes. Do what you need done. Change my name. Perhaps act as a liaison with some of the other governors and DHS heads.”

  “You don’t get it,” Agar said, pulling a pistol from his pocket as he walked around behind Edgewater.

  “You call this a trial?” Edgewater demanded, a faint sheen of sweat breaking out on his jaws. “I demand a real trial. With a judge and jury, and a defense attorney. I’ve got my rights, and—”

  “And the Constitution’s suspended,” Agar reminded. “I’m told you bragged about that often enough you should remember. That’s what you told the people you robbed, arrested, and stood before a firing squad. The same words you quipped to those young women and girls you stripped, raped, and locked in a fucking stall, you piece of shit.”

  “Kill me, and you’re messing with the federal government!”

  “Down in Cheyenne, I’ve got a passel full of federal officials from the Bureau of Land Management, Environmental Protection Agency, FEMA, the USDA, and host of other agencies that are standing in my way. By killing you, I send a really clear message that, yeah, you’re a special piece of shit, but maybe they might want to work with me.”

  Agar extended the black pistol.

  “Sir?” one of the aides interjected uneasily. “In this instance, I’m not sure you want to do this yourself.”

  “I take my own dogs to the woodshed,” Aga
r replied, and Sam could see the man’s facial muscles straining.

  “Someone else,” Dr. Holly agreed. “Edgewater isn’t just some common criminal like the others.”

  “No,” Agar cried, “he’s worse. Listen to the man, not even a hint of remorse.”

  “Remorse, remorse,” Edgewater said, bargaining for time. “That’s why you need me, Governor. Like I said, I can be a most remarkable asset.”

  Sam winced at the man’s self-assurance; the monster still couldn’t understand just how far he’d transgressed.

  The movement was fleeting, and when Sam looked, there he was: Nynymbi danced in the shadow of court recorder’s chair. The haunting concentric eyes, the waving three fingers.

  You do it.

  Did he really hear the words?

  Sam took a deep breath. Locked the wheels and stood, saying, “I’ll do it, sir. My wife died rather than be raped by him. My friend Amber gave her life to bring him down. Mr. Tappan’s daughter, Pam, was shot by his goons when they went to raid for women.”

  “You, Mr. Delgado?” Agar studied him thoughtfully. “Vendetta?”

  “Justice, sir. The first step toward rebuilding.”

  Agar’s eyes didn’t waver as he handed Sam the slim black semiautomatic pistol. The design was the same as a 1911 like old Bill’s, but slightly smaller. A Browning in .380. Sam did a chamber check, walked painfully around the table, and looked Kevin Edgewater right in his surprised blue eyes as he put three rounds through the man’s heart.

  Sleep in peace, Shyla.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Sam had lost count of the days he’d spent atop the little knoll where Thomas and Willy had buried Shyla Adams. Morning, noon, evening, midnight. It all sort of ran together as he’d sat by the mounded soil and relived every single instant he’d shared with Shyla. With intricate detail, he’d carried in stones and arranged them in artistic patterns atop her grave.

  In the lucid moments between bouts of tears and the times he shrieked in rage, Sam wondered if he’d gone completely insane. He reveled in the memory of how he’d shot Tubb, and as he did, he placed his forehead on the grave’s surface, willing the image through the dirt and rocks to Shyla. Desperate in the hope that he could communicate the man’s death. The same with the shocked disbelief in Edgewater’s eyes as the first bullet tore through the man’s heart.

  For a time Meggan brought him food. Then Thomas told him he was on his own.

  That morning he’d watched from the grave as they brought Pam home in the college van. And Sam had finally roused himself enough that he’d come down, taken a shower. Having eaten, he now sat despondently on the porch, where he studied the cold bottle in his hand.

  Pam had been placed in a nest of pillows on the love seat Frank and Brandon had carried out for her. “What are you going to do about the bullet holes?” Sam asked as he swirled his beer.

  This, he’d been told, was the first bottled stout from the Big Buffalo Brewing Company in Hot Springs. Word was that people who bought bottles of beer, couldn’t buy more unless they brought the bottles back—and they would receive discounts on future purchases by providing clean, brown-glass bottles with their first purchase. Since crown caps were nonexistent, wooden stoppers were wired on.

  Pam—looking sallow and thin, glanced up at the pock marks on the logs. “Most of them were nine-millimeter or .223 slugs. Didn’t even get through the logs. I think that’s what you’d call character. The bullet holes in the windows? Those we’re going to seal with epoxy and hope they hold. It’s not like I can order a new picture window anymore.”

  Sam nodded and sipped his stout. No windows, no tires, no cinnamon, the list went on. In the month since he’d executed Edgewater, the world continued on its downward spiral. Food shortages were being felt in town, but the first gardens were putting up shoots. The last two winters, it was said, had been mild, so the numbers of antelope, mule deer, and elk were up.

  The local game warden—on orders from Governor Agar—now coordinated a carefully managed hunt. From this time forward, game populations were to be managed like livestock. At Evan Holly’s insistence, local groups were now foraging for bitterroot, sego lily, desert parsley, bladderwort, and a host of other wild plants to supplement the shortages.

  Ranchers were allotted fuel on a priority basis depending upon how many calves they were raising; and the same system on a per-acre basis was keeping tractors running on the farms. Expectations for the fall harvest were high. Because out-of-state wheat harvester crews from Texas and Oklahoma weren’t coming, anyone with a gleaner now sat at the top of the heap.

  News trickled in from the Northwest. The Chinese were largely stalemated in the cities they’d taken. Word was that China hadn’t sent their promised reinforcements. That four EMPs had laid China prostrate.

  Rumor also had it that Russia had invaded Europe, and both were locked in a titanic struggle.

  And America had been completely broken.

  “You don’t look so good, Sam.” Pam sipped her glass of mint tea. “Sleep last night?”

  “Haunted. Nynymbi keeps creeping around the room.”

  “So you’re going to tell me the cabin’s haunted?”

  “Oh yeah.” He pinched his eyes closed. “Shyla slips through the shadows. I hear her sometimes when her voice mingles with the wind’s. I feel her. Just that faintest touch on my cheek, or maybe my shoulder. When it gets to the point that I can’t stand it anymore, she fingers strands of my hair. I see her smile of encouragement every morning when I make myself get out of bed and will myself to live another day.”

  “This, too, will pass, Sam.” She fixed her gaze out in the field where Jon was walking through the alfalfa, a shovel over his shoulder. Ashley was carrying the plastic sheet tied to a two-by-four that they used to dam the irrigation ditch. The two, together with Frank and Brandon, had finished swathing, baling, and stacking hay but two days past. Now a big green haystack stood on the far eastern corner of the field.

  Pam studied him from beneath a skeptical eyebrow. “Talked to Thomas the other day. He says he’s saddling old Tobe for you tomorrow morning. He says the spirits told him it’s time. That you’re healed up enough. He said Breeze was going to meet him up there.”

  “Breeze?”

  “Brandon made her promise.” Pam studied him thoughtfully. “What about you, Sam? Thomas said you told him you’d go to the cave.”

  Sam closed his eyes, thoughts in chaos.

  Like, what’s the point?

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Breeze could have refused to participate. For a lot of reasons. It was crazy. Indian hocus pocus. A healing and cleansing of the soul? Seriously? She could have dismissed it as fantasy, shaken her head, and walked off. The way Thomas looked at her—that knowing twinkle in his dark eyes—he knew it, too.

  She hadn’t expected Sam Delgado to show up, hadn’t really seen much of him since he’d come back from Cody. Instead she’d hung out in the high country with Willy, keeping an eye on the field camp.

  Willy didn’t talk much about what he’d done after riding off that day on the trail. He just got a faraway look in his eyes. His expression and slumped posture barely masked a bruised and tortured soul.

  Then Thomas had shown up. The two Shoshonis had disappeared for a couple of days, and when they’d climbed back up to camp at dusk one night, Willy was like his old self again.

  But when it came to herself? She probably should have said no.

  But I promised Brandon.

  And yes, damn it, she’d go through with it. Not that she had a hell of a lot of other things on her plate.

  She’d heard about sweat lodges, but never been in one. When Thomas led her and Delgado down to the small dome next to the pond below the spring, she crossed her arms and studied it skeptically.

  A fire was burning outside, hot stones shimmering in the heat.

  “Take your clothes off,” Thomas told them. “You can leave your underwear on, but it’s better if you g
o naked.”

  Sam outright refused, looking horrified.

  Something about the expression on his face goaded Breeze into taking off her shirt, playing an odd game of dare with him. She was sliding her pants over her hips, when he sort of started, blinked, and like a man in a trance, began unbuttoning his shirt.

  Thomas held the flap for her, his eyes closed, face beatific as he chanted softly in Shoshoni. Sam ducked in next, and moments later Thomas used a shovel to drop three glowing cobbles on the dirt in the center of the lodge. The old man—wearing only a loin cloth—crawled in with a coffee can filled with water.

  Draping the door hanging to seal the dome in darkness, he said, “You are both warriors. The spirits of the dead cling to you. They bother your thoughts, disrupt your dreams. Let us cleanse you, and then, when you are ready, ask the spirits to help you find the way forward.”

  When he sprinkled water onto the hot rocks, it exploded in steam.

  Breeze had broken first, asking to be let out. She’d crawled from the lodge, loose-limbed and glistening sweat. Nor did she need to be asked twice when Thomas ordered her and Sam into the pool of cold spring water.

  That had been the first time. And over, and over, they repeated the process, and for some inexplicable reason, she and Sam had endured.

  It’s as if we’re punishing ourselves.

  That night, at the fire, she sat next to Sam, poking the fire with a stick while venison backstrap roasted over the coals. Overhead, the night sky had a foggy look. Lot of smoke in the sky, and clear days were becoming few and far between. Periodically ash floated down from the haze, carried from who knew how far.

  “Heard you calling out to Shyla last night,” she told Sam.

  “Might have.” Sam sat on a bucked, round of wood, elbows on his knees. “She’s stronger here, more clear. Like she’s watching.”

  “Does she smile? Laugh?”

  “Yeah.”