by Susan Slater
Amos’s daughter stayed with him to interpret. Almost all of Ben’s older clients needed help with the English language. It didn’t do a lot for patient/therapist confidentiality but it was better than not reaching these people at all. Ben began with a few simple questions testing short-term as well as long-term memory. Everything seemed all right. He sat back.
“Do you know how your father got that head wound?” “Some accident while he was out with the stock. I think he said a tree branch fell on him.”
Plausible, Ben thought, but couldn’t bring to mind any trees out on the mesa big enough to crash down that way and leave a gash … Abruptly, Amos suffered a spasm of coughing that racked his thin body and left him wheezing and red in the face.
“How long has he had that cough?”
The daughter turned to her father, said something and got a shrug in return.
“I’m not sure,” she interpreted. “I don’t remember it, but I haven’t been around for a couple weeks. He’s had one bout with pneumonia but that was a couple years ago. I don’t think his lungs have fully recovered. Anything out of the ordinary seems to bother him—dust, the pollen when we come to town. It could have just been the exhaust from my car.”
Something was bothering Ben; he just couldn’t quite bring it to the surface—
“Ask your Dad if he’s lost his bedroll?”
“Bedroll?”
Ben nodded and knew even before the translation that Amos understood. The cut on the head, the cough, this was the man who was on the mesa that night. He must have seen the crash of the Stealth Fighter. Ben sat forward. Amos was twisting in his chair and looking at the floor. He’s uncomfortable about something, Ben thought.
“He says he doesn’t know.” The daughter looked perplexed. “What’s this about a bedroll?”
Ben explained, leaving out the possibility that her father might have been attacked.
“If he saw the death of that pilot, that explains a lot,” she said but didn’t offer what exactly. Ben waited. As modern as the daughter was, she still can’t discuss the dead with ease, he thought.
“I’d like your father to stay in the hospital a couple days for observation. I don’t want to alarm you but with a history of pulmonary problems—”
“He won’t want to do that. That would leave my mother alone.” She paused. “I guess I could take my mother back into Albuquerque with me …”She turned to Amos and discussed the matter. Ben didn’t think Amos would agree, but the daughter turned back and said, “Two days, only.”
“Great. I’ll get him checked in.” Ben reached for the phone.
“Ummm, Dr. Pecos? My father wants to know if anyone’s come into the hospital who’s—” She conferred with her father again before finishing, “gone blind.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, this crazy thing happened. An old goat that my father’s had for years was killed the other night. Someone skinned it in this strange way—pulled its skin away from the head and carved around the back end. It was just a mess. But the person also took meat from the goat’s left side, the side with the goat’s walleye. It’s a superstition but my father believes that person will go blind.”
Ben sat back. A goat was mutilated the same night that, fifty miles away, a young Hereford bull was sliced up? He wasn’t certain what it meant but he couldn’t ignore the coincidence. And he’d have to be careful with this information. It would only fuel the argument that UFOs were involved. All that was needed now was for someone to have seen an alien. He picked up the phone to make arrangements for Amos to be admitted.
+ + +
He hadn’t come on Sunday morning. Edwina put the sack of sandwiches in the fridge in the lunchroom. And brooded. She’d had her hopes up, even worn a new silk blouse and short khaki shorts with beaded belt that matched her earrings. Her mother had warned her not to bend over. Where could he be? Her practical side said that no one had hired her as his tour agent and he could have very well gone home. She had no idea where home was, maybe Hollywood like she imagined. But she wasn’t going to rest until she found out. After all, he still had her tote.
“Hey; Edweener, you want to pull some shit detail this morning?”
The man in the door was more or less her boss. At least, he had the seniority among those who were on duty today. He’d transferred in from someplace back east and let everybody know he considered this park a real step down.
“Such as?” She wasn’t about ready to jump at latrine cleaning.
“We got some signage down up on the ridge. It’s been awhile since anyone rode fences, so to speak. I need you to take the Jeep and do a perimeter shot, put things back in order. It’ll take the better part of the day.”
Yes. She almost yelled out loud. This was perfect. She could snoop, check the campground …
“Sure, I’ll go.” She caught the keys he tossed her way in mid-air.
+ + +
The Jeep whined up the first incline behind the Information Center in third gear. Edwina had chosen this shortcut to the top of the mesa because it overlooked the largest row of hand-chiseled stone houses and was closest to the campground—the one that she assumed he would use. Actually, for him to easily reach the Center every morning on foot, it was the only campground he could be at. The other one was some twenty-five miles away just this side of Nageezi. He wouldn’t be there.
But calling this a campground was somewhat of a misnomer in that there were no amenities—like all the others in the area there was no running water or sewer system.
Twenty by twenty spaces had been crudely marked off, bordered by rocks, and park personnel had placed a half dozen signs and boxes containing park pamphlets—the dos and don’ts and what to see—at the entrance. Each space sported an iron-solid pedestal grill, a picnic table and a few sparse piñons that offered neither shade nor privacy.
But those who stopped there overnight never stayed long and drove those big cumbersome self-contained units anyway. So, the grills were seldom used. This wasn’t the type of camp for someone to spend much time. And he had shown up at the Center three days in a row. For some crazy reason Edwina had imagined he was riding a motorcycle, something sleek and expensive—European, with tent and gear tied to the back. She’d gone to a Harley rally once and Ian just wasn’t the sort—heavy leather, facial hair, bandanas, potbelly.
She pulled to a stop beside the row of info-dispensers to the right of the drive that would take her back to the camping spaces. She’d fill the empty slots first and look official— just in case anyone was watching. The boxes were hardly ever vandalized and one unit even asked that people put in a dollar before taking a brochure. She almost always found more money than the number of absent materials could account for. At least somewhere in the world people were honest and generous.
Exactly three motor homes loomed up in the campground. All had a little old, mom-and-pop look. Probably because all three, aimed with their rears her direction, had lace-trimmed flowered curtains covering back bay windows. Not his style. And he was too old to be traveling with his parents. She smiled remembering the ill mother who surely cherished her caring son.
But hadn’t he said something about buddies? Maybe, she was looking for two or three bikes. She’d check anyway—just do her friendly Park Ranger duty—and see if everyone was finding things all right … and ask a few questions. Edwina pulled alongside the unit closest to the road, got out and knocked on the door.
“You’re wasting your time. Nobody’s home.”
Edwina shaded her eyes and looked over her shoulder. A teenaged girl slouched against a picnic table two spaces over.
“Do you know whose unit this is?”
“I don’t know their names.”
Edwina walked toward the girl and held out her hand. “I’m Ms. Rosenberg from the Information Center, just doing a little survey to determine level of usage for the campground this month.”
The girl was waving one hand as if to dry the bubble gum pink polish t
hat decorated each fingertip and ignored Edwina’s offer of a handshake.
“This place sucks.”
Edwina laughed. “The campground or the ruins?” She thought she knew before the girl answered. The girl was probably thirteen or fourteen, Edwina thought. Old enough to have noticed a truly striking man if he had camped nearby.
“Campground. The rest of it is pretty cool.”
“Are you traveling with your parents?”
“Grandparents. Their idea of seeing America. I’m from Salt Lake City.” The girl tipped a Clearasil-dotted face upwards. “They’re gone, took the car into Crownpoint for groceries. You need them to fill out something?”
“No. Maybe, you can help me. I’m also trying to locate a man about thirty, dark short hair, tan, very muscular—he left his wallet at the Information Center.” A tiny lie but the girl was already shaking her head.
“No one like that has been here. We pulled in day before yesterday, and we were the only people here until last night.”
“You didn’t notice anyone riding a motorcycle?”
“Nope.”
“Thanks anyway.” Edwina turned to go. “And the people in these two units?” She gestured toward the motor homes to her left.
“Ugh. Older than Grammy and Umpa. Believe me there hasn’t been a hunk within a mile of this place.”
Edwina waved from the Jeep, but the teen had already turned back to the magazine in front of her and drying the nails of her other hand.
“Attention span the length of a sparrow’s tail,” Edwina muttered to herself, but she believed the girl was telling the truth. He hadn’t been in the campground. She sat a minute. Now what? She had no plan past finding him here. She’d been so certain, the disappointment was painful. She eased the Jeep into gear and bounced onto the dirt trail that led out of the camp and back toward the rim of the canyon.
But it didn’t make sense. There was nowhere else for him to be. Legally, that is. No one was allowed among the ruins. Most were closed even to walking tours. Pueblo Bonita at the north end, the largest and most intricate still welcomed the curious. But he had left the Center and hiked up the trail that would put him up here, where she was now, some five miles from that particular ruin.
And then it came to her. Why was she thinking that he’d necessarily play by the rules? Didn’t the rangers have to roust half a dozen campers each summer from caves or dwellings in the cliffs that were strictly off-limits? She felt let down. But it was her own stupidity to assume he wouldn’t be involved in anything against the law.
Now she had a real purpose to find him; it put a slight blemish on her feelings—she’d wanted him to be perfect. But this gave a thrill of adventure to it. Unless he was illegally excavating. That was a different story. Climbing around the cliffs, camping, that was one thing; but if he was involved in—she braked the Jeep and sat there hugging the steering wheel. It hadn’t been that long since a group had been arrested for digging and attempting to carry off two mugs, almost whole, both excellent examples of the Chaco black on white period some thousand years earlier.
She needed to be thinking differently. If he was doing something he shouldn’t, he wouldn’t be doing it in plain sight. Think. Where would the most likely spot be? One that might yield treasure, shielded from view, somewhat difficult to reach but still within hiking distance of the Center? A place very few would know about …
She pounded the heel of her hand against the steering wheel. She had it! Just the place and somewhat of a climb to get there, but the hollowed-out rooms high above the valley floor were entirely secluded with only a rickety wooden ladder as access. A ladder that should be kept hidden for ranger use—but also kept in good repair for just this type of emergency. She slammed the Jeep into gear, made a half turn and headed for the rim. She even knew the road to take that would keep the Jeep hidden from view until the last mile or so. And she’d hike that; didn’t she keep in shape for just this sort of duty?
Dust from the trail would herald her coming but stopping a mile back, she would catch the beginning of a ravine that wound below the sheer cliffs. It’d take binoculars to zero in on her activity. But no one expected her, she reminded herself. On foot she’d stay to the shadows and in broad daylight she’d be difficult to spot. If anything, she wished the day wasn’t quite so warm. Sweat collected between her breasts—the ones she was still paying for. Her mother would never let her forget what she considered “extreme folly.” The silk blouse felt like a rumpled second skin absolutely glued to her underarms. So much for looking like a fashion plate.
She pulled the Jeep behind a granite outcropping, stepped out, flattened her body against the slanting eight-foot rock and inched her way to the top. There she scanned a hundred and eighty-degree section of horizon with her own pair of field glasses. There wasn’t one thing out of place—no animal or human movement, smoke, vehicles, nothing.
She tucked the glasses into their pouch and slid back to the ground. She felt vaguely disappointed but reminded herself that smart poachers wouldn’t run up a flag. She pulled two bottles of distilled water from a box in the back of the Jeep, tucked them into a backpack along with flashlight, hunting knife, twenty feet of rope, and first-aid kit. Ready. She slipped down the rocky incline to the floor of the ravine and, staying to her right in the shadows of granite overhangs, started out.
Thank God there was no one to hear her huff and puff. Could she be so out of shape or was it just the ninety-seven degree heat? Surely lifting weights and hitting the treadmill every morning accounted for something. She paused to drink from one of the bottles of water and splashed a little on her face and neck. The blouse was ruined already, might as well be comfortable. High, dry heat could sap one’s strength without warning.
Feeling refreshed, she started out again. Her path was dotted with wildflowers in reds and yellows and purples, some seemingly growing right out of rock boulders. She might be enjoying the hike if she didn’t dread what she was going to find. Even if he was gone, she knew she’d find evidence that would place him where he shouldn’t have been. Then what would she do? How would she feel about having made sandwiches for a felon?
She cursed as her heavy-soled, ankle-top boots dislodged a shower of pea-sized gravel that skittered over the side of the path and fell some ten feet. The climb to the cliffs was up and around on a path often no more than ten inches wide. Some of the niches had been carved out by the Anasazi themselves. If she wasn’t so preoccupied she would muse on the world of a thousand years ago. But not today. Her focus was clear and centered.
And she was getting close enough that she needed to be extra careful about noise. The caves were set back, some fifty feet from the path. At the top of her climb, there would be a rounded open space of about seventy-five feet in circumference. A place where cook fires had warmed the gathering of Anasazi and strategic planning had taken place. Well, that last was her addition but, at least, the communal fires had been documented.
She paused to listen. Something had caught her attention, a scraping sound overhead; but the noise was probably not human. Predators and prey roamed these cliffs, hawks and eagles searching out rodents. And the sound wasn’t repeated. At the top of the path, she waited to catch her breath. Or so she’d like to believe. The truth was, now that she was so close, she was having second thoughts. It seemed ludicrous to charge up the ladder and apprehend the wrongdoers all by herself. Of course, she might not find anyone. Yet, she was a Park Ranger. This was her duty.
She took a deep breath, exhaled, and marched across the open area. The ladder was always on the ground tucked behind the clump of scrub oak at the base of the twenty-five foot rock wall. Leaving it upright would only tempt someone to explore. But it wasn’t there. Regulations stated explicitly that it was to be kept close at hand but not in full view of park visitors.
Perplexed, she backed up and searched the face of the cliff. Then she saw it, off to the left almost hidden from view balanced against the wall but nestling in a crevice.
She felt a mix of elation and anger. This, at least, was the first bit of evidence that confirmed her suspicions. Someone had been up here and moved the ladder.
The anger gave her resolve. She yanked the ladder from its perch, walked it to the more secure flat ground of the open area, leaned it against the rock wall, gave it a wiggle with both hands to seat it in the hard sand and started up.
Edwina was not much for heights. Not on ladders. She could walk the rim of a canyon and look out, down, around and not be bothered. But straight up some twenty-five feet on wobbly, narrow wooden steps—in need of tightening judging from the third rung—this just wasn’t her sort of thing.
She paused, then gripped the rounded sides, closed her eyes and made it to the top before allowing herself to even take a breath. She leaned her elbows against the sandy edge of the natural platform and cupped a hand to shade her eyes. She couldn’t see anything that looked out of place—certainly there was no welcoming committee waiting with open arms—that was a relief.
But she’d have to investigate; she’d come this far. Balancing on the top rung and not looking down, she crawled over the edge and stood in an alcove of rock the size of a large living room with a rounded opening at the back which led to a catacomb of smallish caves. She’d been here before many times and knew the treasures that had been carried out—legally and illegally.
She smoothed her sweaty hands against her shorts, plucked her blouse away from her body where sweat had glued it to her skin, and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dimness caused by a gigantic granite overhang. At least it blocked the sun. She felt coolness by way of a breeze rustle around her. Suddenly the hair on her arms stood upright. She’d distinctly heard a noise, footsteps scraping along the rock floor, coming from the narrow entrance to the cave on her right.
