The Cosega Sequence: A Techno Thriller

by Brandt Legg

“I had a Harley all through college.”

  While winding up Miller Road, Rip kept checking the side mirror. He felt bad about pushing that man down, but if he’d been caught, death was certain. The narrow road dead-ended into Spider Road, and after a quick turn; led them back to Paseo Del Pueblo Norte, the main drag and away from the Pueblo.

  “Get off the main road,” Gale yelled in his ear. He hung a left onto Kit Carson Road and found his way onto the back streets.

  “No one seems to be after us. Let’s go to San Francisco de Asís Church,” Gail said, grasping her hat so it wouldn’t blow off.

  “Hell no! We’re leaving town.”

  “It’s on the way.” Her hair whipped in the wind.

  “Damn it, Gale, you’re crazy!” Rip coughed as a bug shot down his throat at fifty miles per hour.

  “Pull over!” she shouted.

  “I want out of Taos,” he said, as they stopped in front of a parked car.

  “Are you running from the FBI or from Conway?”

  “Both!”

  “You have to admit it’s pretty amazing that the shopkeeper knew Clastier.”

  “He didn’t know Clastier. He knows some obscure history. He’s delusional.”

  “Fine, forget about reincarnation. He still picked you out as connected to Clastier. How do you explain that?”

  “I don’t have to, I don’t care.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Sure it’s weird, I don’t deny that, but I’ve got a black crystal ball in my pack that has kind of numbed me to weird.”

  “We can’t drive a stolen motorcycle forever. We’re going to have to get off the road. Please, just go to the church.”

  “You want to seek sanctuary in a church? How fitting.”

  “I just want five minutes.”

  “Then where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know why you want to go to the church either. Clastier didn’t leave a note for us at the last one.”

  “Didn’t he?”

  “I didn’t see one!” Rip said, exasperated.

  “Clastier sure found a way to communicate with us at the Pueblo church.”

  “A freak coincidence,” he yelled, not believing his own words. “Fine, we’ll go, but then I’m calling Booker. It’s not just time to leave Taos; it’s time to get out of the country.”

  A few minutes later they arrived at San Francisco de Asís Mission Church. Instead of stopping, Rip drove to the next street and pulled the bike into a narrow row of trees.

  “It’s not too hard to see,” Gale said, pointing to the large shiny motorcycle.

  “I don’t see anywhere better.”

  Gale broke off a few branches and tried to cover the license plate.

  “Let’s just get this over with,” Rip said. He saw a place across the street that might have a payphone.

  Rip couldn’t help but be struck by the beauty of the church, its smooth, round, earthen walls, and massive adobe buttresses. “It’s been photographed by Ansel Adams and painted by Georgia O’Keefe,” Gale said.

  They hurried inside. A bearded Hispanic man was answering questions from a group of high school kids. Rip had noticed the bus in the parking lot. “Yes, construction began in 1776, and it’s been in continuous use ever since its completion around 1810, although some of us historians argue about the dates,” the man said.

  Rip scanned the ornate, colorful altar that filled the back of the church. The high white walls rose to a crown of hand-hewn vigas. He saw no messages from Clastier and, more importantly, no angry old shopkeepers with poison in their eyes.

  “Did a priest named Clastier ever preach within these walls?”

  The question startled Rip, even though he recognized Gale’s voice; he didn’t quite believe she was sharing a secret so publicly. The historian apparently agreed. He squinted his eyes at Gale and couldn’t seem to find his voice. Rip searched for a place to become invisible.

  “I think that’s all we have time for today,” the historian finally said, nodding to the class’s teacher, who took the hint and worked at corralling her students.

  “Maybe you’d like to speak outside,” the historian said, stepping close to Gale. They walked to the door as students were flooding out. Rip reluctantly followed.

  “I’m sorry, but would you please repeat your question,” the historian asked, looking at Rip suspiciously.

  “I want to know about Clastier,” Gale said.

  “I’m sorry but it is forbidden.”

  “Forbidden? By who?” Rip asked.

  “By Papal decree.”

  Chapter 17

  Nanski and Leary reached the Pueblo, unknowingly trailed by an entourage of FBI agents, less than ten minutes after Barbeau and Hall arrived.

  Barbeau was still trying to navigate the unusual bureaucracy of the sovereign nation, while Hall was discussing the matter with the war chief. Nothing could be done until the tribal governor arrived. Two other agents were trying to find the officer involved in the event. No one seemed to know what happened.

  Nanski and Leary made the same mistake Gale and Rip had, by going to the “new” San Geronimo church.

  “There’s no one here,” Nanski said. “Maybe the feds already have them.”

  “What about that old church tower?” Leary asked. He’d read tourism pamphlets during his hours staking out San Francisco de Asís.

  “Show me,” Nanski said. They sprinted through a short maze of Pueblo buildings and found the empty police cruiser parked near the cemetery entrance. The shopkeeper and his helpers had already been cleared off, but Nanski spotted another Pueblo police vehicle in a parking area beyond the wall. As they ran through the cemetery, Leary crossed himself in the traditional signum crucis and recited the trinitarian formula.

  After dropping off the wall into the parking area, Leary pointed to a rescue squad. A paramedic was tending to an older man dressed in a leather jumpsuit, while his wife hovered over him. In that instant, Nanski felt deflated. Was this the incident that had brought them here? Was this the couple police were seeking? Had Gaines even been here? He went over to the EMT, and sent Leary to the police officer.

  The EMT knew nothing, but the woman was happy to provide details.

  “Oh, a crazy man came flying over that wall there and shoved my husband to the ground. Stole our Harley! He nearly killed us both!”

  “I’m so sorry this happened to you, ma’am. You could help us catch him, if you could tell us what he looked like.”

  “Well, of course, I already told the police, but it happened so fast. He was a blur, but I do remember he had a backpack.”

  “Could you tell me your license plate number?”

  “I gave it to the other officer. Are you a detective?”

  “Something, like that. I’m afraid you may be asked to tell your story a few more times. It’s important to help capture this thug.”

  “Yes, he is a thug,” she agreed, and gave him the plate number.

  “Thank you. I’m sure your husband will be fine.” Nanski saw the man only had a few scrapes, maybe a bruised ego; mostly it had just been traumatic. “God bless you,” he said, and walking away, immediately made a phone call.

  Busman’s NSA subordinate had urged him to get to the Pueblo. Instead, he insisted they all head south. “The flare up at the Pueblo will force them out of town and the most logical route is right past here,” he said, pulling into the parking lot of the Sagebrush Inn. “We’ve got a good view of the highway and listening to the Police band, we’ll find out more.”

  “The FBI will make the arrest,” the junior agent repeated.

  “Hold tight. We’re fine right here.” Busman turned to Sean “Are you ready? You know what to do?”

  “I think so,” Sean stuttered.

  While they waited, Busman finished his daily jog that had been interrupted earlier. As he did laps around the large parking lot, he thought of his model-beautiful wife. If all went well, he’d be back home
in a couple of days.

  Barbeau and Hall were hung up so long with the war chief that, by the time they reached the parking lot where Rip had taken the motorcycle, Nanski and Leary were already gone. They thought it best to head back into town and hoped the Town of Taos Police would spot the stolen motorcycle. The Pueblo cop had told Nanski that the state police were working with the FBI and that agents were already at the Pueblo. The multi-jurisdictional case was going to be a mess.

  Hall talked to the woman and showed her a photo of Gaines. She was positive that he was the thief. Oddly, she hadn’t seen Gale, but the Pueblo police confirmed she had been with him earlier. They were still searching the reservation for her.

  “Do you think she’s still hiding here?” Barbeau asked an officer.

  “We’re searching, sir, but the Pueblo is ninety-nine thousand acres stretching into the mountains. She may have made it to the edge of town by now. Could be anywhere.”

  Barbeau scanned the hills. “If they’re still separated, we may have just caught a break.”

  “Let’s get a bird in the sky,” Hall said.

  “Let’s get a few,” Barbeau said, as his phone rang.

  Hall called in a request for air surveillance. It would take thirty-five minutes.

  “What the hell?” Barbeau said, hanging up. “Screw Dover!”

  “What now?” Hall asked.

  “The Justice Department just withdrew the murder charges for Gaines.”

  “Wow, that’s a surprise.”

  “Not only that, they cancelled all arrest warrants on him.”

  “You mean, now he’s not even wanted for theft of government property?”

  “I mean, he’s not even wanted for assaulting Senior Knievel over there.”

  “So we’re not on the case anymore?”

  Chapter 18

  The teenagers were swarming around the San Francisco de Asís Mission Church taking pictures, laughing and generally creating a hectic backdrop to the intense conversation Gale and Rip were having with the historian.

  “What does that mean? A Papal decree that we can’t talk about Clastier?”

  “It means that he never existed.”

  “The Pope can do that? Wipe out a man’s entire lifetime? Erase him from history?” Rip was incredulous.

  “Of course, it would be almost impossible to do that today, but the world was quite different in the nineteenth century. His disappearance predates the 1847 Pueblo Revolt; the Church wielded tremendous power, as they do today. The difference is there were no computers, or telephones; even books were scarce. Most people, even the one you speak of, left little trace in the world, and what trace he did leave could very easily be expunged by the powerful.”

  “Why are you afraid to say his name?” Rip challenged.

  “I don’t even know your name. Why would I defy my church to satisfy a stranger?”

  “My name is Gale Asher.” She held out her hand. Rip could not believe she was using her real name.

  The historian shook her hand. “I am Fernando Martinez Aragón. And your eyes exceed the beauty of the wondrous blue topaz in Queen Isabella’s crown jewels. You must be a descendent of fairies.”

  Rip shook his head, even though the description fit what he considered the most captivating eyes he’d ever seen. “My name is Conway,” Rip said abruptly.

  Gale couldn’t help but cough. “Please, Mr. Aragón, we need to know about Clastier,” she said.

  “His life did not happen.”

  “You have no idea what we’ve been through to get this far.”

  “I’m sorry, but as I said, the man you seek never existed.” The historian looked at Rip. “Do you exist, Mr. Conway?”

  Rip stared back at the historian. Gale looked pleadingly at both of them. “My name isn’t Conway. I’m Professor Ripley Gaines.”

  “Of course you are,” the historian said. “I’ve seen you interviewed many times; read about your digs with great interest. And now all this terrible business.”

  “I swear we didn’t kill anyone,” Gale said.

  “Apparently not. As I pulled into the parking lot, the news reported all charges had been dropped.”

  “What?” Rip asked, shocked. “Are you sure?”

  “Quite.”

  Gale hugged Rip.

  “Hugs all around,” the historian said, cutting in on Rip as if they were all on a dance floor. “I must admit it would have made for a better story to tell my students that I helped a murderer escape justice. Oh well, I’ll just have to embellish a little here and there; we occasionally do that with history.”

  “We need to know about Clastier,” Gale asked again.

  “I cannot help you; my apologies, sweet lady. He did not exist.”

  “How can you call yourself a historian?” Rip asked.

  “If he didn’t exist, then what are these?” Gale said, taking the papers out of her backpack.

  “Not here, Gale.” Rip tried to grab the papers, but Gale held them away.

  “Why not? He needs to believe us.”

  “Those papers aren’t yours,” Rip said to Gale, as she handed them to the historian. “We don’t know this man. Why do we care what he believes?”

  “Because he knows something of Clastier, and we need to know all we can.”

  The historian stared disbelievingly at the documents in his hands. “My God, los papeles que faltan . . . Son verdaderos,” he whispered.

  “What did he say?” Rip asked.

  “He said, ‘the missing papers, they are real.’ Please, tell us what you know about Clastier,” Gail begged the historian.

  The historian stared into her eyes and finally spoke. “I cannot . . . but perhaps someone else can. Do you know El Santuario de Chimayó?”

  “Yes, the church?”

  “Right. There is an old woman who lives very near the church. Her family home predates the chapel. She knows of whom you speak.” He sifted through the papers, looking longingly at them. “Are they real?”

  “Yes.” Gale nodded.

  “Are they incredible?” the historian asked; his voice and expression conveyed a combination of sadness, hope, and awe.

  “Yes,” she said, reaching for the papers. “Breathtakingly so.”

  He handed the pages back to her without leaving her eyes. Only when she broke their gaze did the historian turn his attention back to Rip. “I’ll call Teresa and tell her to expect you.” He pulled out his business card and wrote down the old woman’s name, address, and telephone number. “Find the church; her house is on the street before.”

  “If you won’t even speak his name, how do you know she has information?” Rip asked.

  “Teresa has more than information. I am a well-known historian, perhaps the leading authority on northern New Mexico. I’m also a Church historian. The two are so very intertwined, you know? She came to me many years ago with her questions, her mystery . . . and something else.”

  “What else?” Rip asked.

  “Ah, that is not my story to tell.”

  “Why didn’t you just ask to use his cell phone?” Gale asked Rip, after the historian had driven off.

  “I don’t want Booker’s number on a stranger’s phone.”

  “Do you still consider the historian a stranger? He knows of Clastier.”

  “So does the Pope and we’re not exactly close. Come on, this town is so old, there’s bound to be a payphone around; it might even cost only a dime.”

  “Look,” Gale said, alarmed, pointing through the trees to where they left the stolen motorcycle. Rip saw the state trooper standing next to it, talking on the radio.

  “Damn, we’re off the hook for murder, but now I’m wanted for assault and grand theft! He hasn’t seen us, let’s go.” They ran north and cut through a dusty plaza; emerging in the parking lot of the Ranchos de Taos Post Office.

  Suddenly a car turned off Paseo del Pueblo onto San Francisco Road and stopped in front of them. The window rolled down and the driver yelled, “
Gale, Rip, I can’t believe I found you!”

  Chapter 19

  Nanski and Leary missed Gale and Rip by minutes. The FBI converged on the San Francisco de Asís Church soon after. The teenagers, their teacher, and the historian were already gone, but they would be found and questioned later.

  Barbeau and Hall returned to the state police headquarters. They were in limbo since no federal charges were pending against Gaines. The Director was working on it. In the meantime, the field agents were trying to track down witnesses and footage from traffic cameras that might have picked up Gale and Rip’s movements. A team from the Pueblo was still canvassing the area for Gale.

  “I just can’t figure out why the Attorney General dropped all the charges against Gaines,” Hall said. He’d asked the question several times since they got the news and he didn’t like Barbeau’s theory.

  “I keep telling you, we were getting too close. He wants the Vatican to get him first so they can kill him,” Barbeau repeated, impatiently.

  “I don’t think so. He could have pulled us at anytime.”

  “We’ll see what the Director says.”

  “I think someone asked Dover to drop the charges, or . . . told him to do it.”

  “Told him? Only one person can tell the Attorney General to drop charges. Are you saying the President of the United States is interfering with a federal murder investigation?”

  “Maybe. But maybe someone else has the juice to get Dover to act.”

  “The Pope?”

  “Clearly. Dover has been acting at the Vatican’s behest all along, so the charges probably would never have been filed without their approval.”

  “Gaines could not have killed Ian Sweedler. Perhaps, the Attorney General finally figured that out and backed out of the mistake as quickly as possible.”

  “I’ve thought of that, but one, he likely knew all along the murder rap was bogus; two, why drop all charges, including theft; and three, the timing of the dismissal was extraordinary – we practically had Gaines.”

  “Then who?”

  “Booker Lipton, Senator Monroe, the President, or someone as yet unknown to us.”