Thunderbird

by Susan Slater

  The car bumped to a stop and the driver turned to look at his passenger. “Just how long do you think we’ll have?”

  “Hey, do I hear a little sarcasm?”

  “Damn right. You tell me how we’re going to get in and out of there and do a maze in anything under three to four hours. And where are we going to find the grass—”

  “Dirt.”

  “We’re doing an intricate maze in the dirt? You’re crazy.”

  “I’ve checked it out. It’s doable.”

  “I’ve got a bad leg and you’ve barely got vision out of one eye and we’re going to produce a damn work of art in ground hard enough to crack walnuts—”

  “I’m going. You’re either in this or you’re not.”

  The driver turned to squarely face the passenger. “Look at me. You know what you should do.”

  The second man was silent.

  “Are you paying attention to me?” The driver leaned closer.

  A nod.

  “You should report what you saw—what you took pictures of.”

  “And do time—watch a career go down the tubes—never to be resurrected?”

  “I’d think your government might be lenient. You’re giving them evidence of a serious crime—murder, even—if we think of the pilot.”

  “It’s my life.” The passenger paused, slipped off a pair of polarized sunglasses and pressed a tissue to his right eye.

  “My God. That eye is terrible. You’re not going to testify to anything if you don’t see a doctor. Chuck the circle idea and let me drive you to an emergency room.”

  “I’m fine.” The passenger twisted his head away.

  “Oh yeah, one eye swollen shut, the other running with pus. That’s not my idea of fine.”

  “There’s too much at stake.”

  “Like your sight.”

  “It’s just allergies.” The man was pressing wadded tissue to his eyes with the fingers of both hands.

  “Then get the right meds and treat the condition. Come on, we’re halfway to Gallup. We could be there in under an hour.”

  + + +

  Funny, the parking lot was half full. Ben parked close to the street and hiked back to the hospital’s front door. He checked his watch, eight-thirty on the dot.

  “Hey, you’re in time to help,” the night nurse greeted him from the desk.

  “What’s going on?” He leaned against the counter and surveyed a room with thirty or so people. Some obviously just trying to sleep it off out of the cool night air but others were in need of medical attention.

  “Power failure next door.” She nodded toward the east indicating the county hospital. “They need to save their generators. It was easier to just close down emergency and send folks here. It’d be a big help if you could check people in. I’ll finish up with the front two rows, you start with the man on the end of row three.”

  The two hospitals were less than a block apart. On more than one occasion, Indian Health Service had stepped in to help out.

  There were two men on the end of the third row of folding chairs that had been set up to accommodate the crowd. Could be a couple, Ben thought, as he took in the solicitous gesture of the older man as he pressed fresh tissue into the younger’s hand. The tissues were quickly wadded into a ball and not once did the younger man even acknowledge his companion. The set of his jaw seemed to indicate he was in a great deal of pain.

  An accident? Ben couldn’t tell but he supposed it was his duty to find out. He picked up a clipboard and form from the counter and scooted a chair up beside the two.

  “I’ve been volunteered to try and make this process go faster. I need to get some information and then you’ll be ready to see a physician. I’m the painless part, I hope.” He smiled.

  The man barely nodded and didn’t take his hand from his eyes.

  The older man turned to him. “Let me help with the particulars. His name’s Bruce Bartholomew. I’m Nate Stevens. A friend.”

  Ben nodded and shook the extended hand. “Here’s his medical card. The address is current.”

  New England Financial, One Health Plan. Ben wasn’t familiar with the coverage. But he’d copy the card and put it with the chart. Indian Health Service was only helping in an emergency. Who paid what would be sorted out later. Nate offered an address and phone number and place of business, then rattled off a litany of previous eye problems. He seemed well-versed on the other man’s medical history, Ben thought.

  “Will it be long?”

  Ben and Nate both turned to Bruce who had removed his hands from his eyes and was smoothing the tissue across his knee. He looked up directly at Ben.

  Ben checked an intake of breath and put on his best “there’s nothing out of the ordinary” look when he really wanted to grab the man by the arm and head for the nearest doctor.

  Bruce’s right eye was swollen closed—eyelashes pulled into puffy blue-veined flesh. The left eye was an angry beet-red and encrusted with a yellowy ooze. Ben looked away.

  “How long have your eyes been this way?” He feigned checking something on the chart.

  “Three days,” answered Nate. “No, maybe this is the fourth.” He waited for Bruce to correct him then added in an undertone, “Is he in danger?”

  “I’m not a physician, but I’m glad you came in this evening.”

  “Are you trying to say I could go blind?” The tremor made Bruce’s voice barely audible.

  “I’m a clinical psychologist here part time. Ophthalmology, obviously, is not my specialty but it appears that you could have an infection in both eyes. Your physician will want to reduce the swelling, of course, and get you on a course of treatment right away. This might be a case of episclereosis. If left unattended, it could leave you with permanent damage.” Then thinking of Amos Manygoats, Ben added jokingly, “You won’t go blind unless you mutilated that piebald goat on the reservation a few nights ago. At least, that’s what its owner believes.”

  Bruce’s reaction was immediate—first a piercing wounded-animal wail then a leap toward Ben, both hands on Ben’s shoulders shoving him and chair over backwards—then stumbling over a drunk stretched out on the floor to land spread-eagle himself on the cold linoleum. Ben was stunned but scrambled to his feet. Nate was bending over Bruce saying “… if you don’t tell him, I will” when Bruce burst into tears, struggled to a sitting position and, clasping his sides, he began to keen.

  The nurse-receptionist was immediately at Ben’s side. “Dr. Pecos, your office is available. Let’s take your patient in there.”

  Clearly willing to forego help to get a disturbance out of her area and instantly making aberrant behavior his domain, she actually “tsked” as she watched Bruce weaving back and forth.

  “Do you need help? I could page security.” She leaned in close to whisper but never once took her eyes off of Bruce.

  “No, we’ll be fine.” Ben met Nate’s glance and was reassured by a nod. “I usually use the office three doors down on the right. Let’s get him in there.”

  They navigated the short distance of hall with Bruce slumped heavily between them.

  “Put him down on the couch.” Ben always felt that he should apologize for having what was thought to be standard equipment for a shrink. This one in cracked tan leather would be put back in the lounge once that area was painted. But for the time being, it was coming in handy.

  Bruce seemed catatonic leaning over the couch’s arm, head in hands. When it didn’t seem like Bruce was going to volunteer anything, Nate spoke.

  “Do you believe what you said about going blind? If you were the one who mutilated that goat?”

  “The goat’s owner is a Navajo man. He believes that way.”

  “But you. Are you Navajo? Do you believe it’s possible?”

  “I’m Pueblo.” Ben paused, “In my training I’ve read documented cases—maybe nothing more than the power of suggestion—but nonetheless, recorded instances of individuals who have fallen prey to …” Ben struggled f
or a word other than death or blindness, “some malady that seems to be the direct result of simply believing it will happen.”

  “I think someone has something to tell you.” Nate nudged Bruce, not getting a response, he turned back to Ben. “What I’m about to say will ruin two people, but it has to be said—”

  “I did it. I mutilated the goat.” It was said so quietly that, at first, Ben thought he hadn’t heard Bruce correctly.

  “Why?”

  “Career move.” Bruce shifted his weight to sit upright and dig his wallet out of a back pocket. He handed Ben a business card and a well-folded square of newspaper print. “Read this.”

  Bruce Bartholomew, Newscaster, Weatherman, Channel 7. Ben didn’t watch enough television for the name to be familiar. He smoothed the worn article and adjusted the lamp on the desk for better illumination. A quick scan showed Bruce to be an expert on UFOs, mutilations, and crop circles.

  “Are you saying that you do these things, then report them supporting …” Ben glanced back at the article, “the theory that it’s all the work of aliens?”

  “Yes.”

  Ben wanted to lecture about deceit and criminal acts and punishment but knew he needed to find out just what Bruce knew about that goat and more importantly, perhaps, the crash of the Stealth Fighter.

  “Are you saying that you were close to the crash of the F-117A?”

  An affirmative nod. “Did you see the crash?”

  A deep sigh. “Not the crash itself but shortly after.”

  “He has pictures.”

  Ben turned to Nate. “Are you serious? Why didn’t the two of you come forward with this information? People have died—maybe because of your self-aggrandizing, criminal acts—” Ben didn’t try to keep his voice down. Bruce deserved to hear how he felt. He was thinking of the pilot and Brenda and the Park Ranger. How much heartache could have been prevented if this career-minded asshole had been able to put aside self-interests? “You know, I think I have something of yours—something you lost while photographing that poor goat.” Ben fished the lens cap from his pocket and held it out. “Tell me, how did you kill him? Or for that matter, any of your victims.”

  “I kill livestock for God’s sake. The four-legged stuff that people kill and eat anyway. Not dogs or cats—some little old lady’s Muffin or Mitsy or Poochie …” Bruce was yelling. And Ben didn’t care that he looked prime for a coronary.

  “That calf was valued at $100,000. Tell the rancher that it didn’t make a difference. Tell Amos Manygoats that his goat didn’t deserve to live—”

  “The only thing I’m sorry for is that old man who got in the way.”

  “What old man?” Ben sat forward.

  “Some old guy out looking for his livestock. Scared the bejesus out of me. Wandering around making these clucking noises. I struck him out of self-defense.”

  “And didn’t stick around to see if you’d killed him? Or if he was still alive? Did it dawn on you to drag him to safety? Away from the fumes?” Ben was livid. “You’re an irresponsible piece of shit—”

  “Doctor, is there some problem? Is everyone all right?” The desk nurse paused in the doorway.

  “I’m sorry. We’ll keep it down.” Ben sat back in his chair. He closed his eyes. His head hurt. He wanted to punch this man sitting in front of him—great bedside manner for a shrink, but he was human. Of all the things confided in him, cruelty was the thing he understood the least—against man or animal. And Amos could have died.

  “I’m ruined.” Bruce’s voice was hushed as if someone had let the air out.

  Ben took a deep breath and stood up. “There may be criminal charges. I’m going to admit you to the hospital, under guard. What I know now doesn’t negate the fact that you have a very serious eye condition. I’m going to let law enforcement decide whether to hold both of you. You mentioned pictures, ones you took that night. What exactly did you see?”

  “A bunch of men dragging a body toward the Stealth. And then this Indian woman runs over after they leave and tries to revive the guy but is picked up and carried away by another guy in a flight suit.”

  Ben forced himself to breathe evenly and not look at Bruce. Evidence that exonerated Brenda and gave credence to Tommy’s hypotheses about abduction—and made Pansy a pretty good observer. Ben felt the rise of anger but steadied himself. Would it have made a difference if this had been known before? Certainly to Tommy.

  “I’m sure the Air Force will be interested in what you’ve seen. I know I don’t have to suggest that you cooperate— which starts by staying here while I set things up.”

  Ben walked out to the front desk, paged one of the physicians on call and dialed the number of the Gallup police station.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It was all the coyote’s fault—or the animal’s careful planning, depending on how a person looked at things. Had she been at the right place, at the right time? Or just the opposite? Brenda sighed. Pale, gray light disappeared from the crevices between the boulders crowded overhead. The sun had set and now darkness enveloped the cramped space they called home. For the fourth day in a row she’d go to sleep longing for Mariah, aching to hold the child, bring her into her bed. She’d never been away this long before.

  She’d risked everything last night to see her daughter. When her mother had stirred and called out, Mariah had reassured her without being prompted and didn’t cry when Brenda left. So old for her age. It was like she understood. And the promise to be with her by the first snow. Where would Brenda be at that time? A chill shinnied up her spine. If she didn’t do what she was told, she might not see her baby again. Hadn’t Ronnie told her that he’d been ordered to keep her with him? That she knew too much to be released? If she didn’t do what she was told, Mariah was in danger? She’d had to see her daughter last night—make sure nothing had happened to her already.

  A shudder and the man beside her turned on his side. She waited until his breathing was even, then pushed to a sitting position. She had to think, make a decision that would be the right one. But what was right? Take a chance? Leave again, take Mariah and … do what? Go to the police? Live in terror for her life and Mariah’s? If she did that, Ronnie would be killed.

  They were coming under the cover of darkness. She could smell Ronnie’s fear. The meeting was set for midnight. But one wrong move, one word out of place … how could she be safer staying? Wouldn’t they kill her anyway? They’d already threatened her child. Could Ronnie save her? Would he save her?

  Stupid. Of course he would. He was Mariah’s father. But somewhere deep inside, she wasn’t so certain. And she couldn’t die. Not now. Not for a long time. There was her mother to take care of. And Mariah. She wanted to see Mariah grow to womanhood.

  The closeness of the rock was intimidating. Even her breath seemed to bounce back at her. She felt trapped by the tight space, by her decision … damned if you don’t, damned if you do. Whatever Ronnie had done, it had been his decision, not hers. She had to safeguard her family as best she could. She truly knew nothing about Ronnie’s involvement but she needed to tell someone about what she had seen the night of the crash. She breathed deeply and felt calmer.

  One time as a child she’d slipped away to come here to the canyon. Her parents were angry until the medicine man said that she’d heard a calling. That she’d had to come. And maybe that was the truth. All her adult life she remembered that day. She’d roamed over the ruins, play-talked with Ancient Ones—even now she could call upon that feeling of peace, of euphoric isolation.

  She glanced again at the man snoring softly now, chin tucked against chest, his head cradled by bended elbow. And once again she felt her resolve fade. No one should ever have to choose between a child and its father. No one. But if she didn’t leave now, she might not have another chance. She slipped to her feet and stood a moment thinking of her plan. He’d relaxed finally, fought sleep for two days only dozing long enough to keep going. Now, exhaustion had set in. Last night and tonigh
t, he’d slept. If she was careful, he wouldn’t know she’d gone until she was miles away.

  But it was so difficult to go. For most of her life she’d been in love with Ronnie Cachini. There hadn’t been any other boyfriends. And she’d always thought they would marry, maybe even live on the reservation. But it was Ronnie who had to leave, see the world. He wanted to make his mark. And now, this mess. Could he have wanted money so badly that he sold out? Became a traitor?

  His family would be devastated. And he wouldn’t answer her questions. She begged him to talk to her. She’d seen the men in the truck. She’d watched them dismantle the plane. Hadn’t she tried to revive the man she thought was the pilot? But no, he’d say nothing. Only that her not knowing would save her. That she had to remain ignorant of certain facts to stay alive. And him? She’d implored him to save his own life. Let her go to Mariah and save himself.

  He was meeting someone. It was the end of the deal, as he put it. One last item, the pilot’s helmet, and he’d be free. Those were his words and that was all she knew—that and the fact that Ronnie had a gun, felt he needed one. And he was angry. An anger that ate at him. Something she’d never seen in him before. Anger and a restlessness. But it had been four years since they were close. Could she have misjudged him even then? Missed the traits that could make him turn against his country?

  He hadn’t tied her up last night or tonight. Was he beginning to trust her? What had happened to the man she would have sworn she knew so well? Last night they’d made love in the narrow, cramped space between the boulders and she’d cried out that she loved him, and he’d held her and rocked gently, and she felt his tears stain her cheek. But there was no proclamation of love from him. And finally, her tears mingled with his as an immense sadness enveloped her at what could never be. Everything she had ever wanted in life was once and for all a shattered dream. She’d crept away in the darkness when he fell asleep, heart heavy but driven to see her child.

  She was small enough to wiggle through a crack overhead and be well away from the ruins before midnight. She knew she had to be careful. Someone might be watching. But who was the someone? It was all a puzzle, but she felt that Ronnie was wrong. Very wrong in what he’d done and that made her physically sick. She lifted on tiptoe and pulled her body upward, holding her breath as a scattering of pebbles bounced over the face of the granite boulder. She waited but Ronnie didn’t move. Then she reached up, found a handhold, and another, then a foothold, and another as she worked her way upward into the cloudy night.