by Brandt Legg
“I’ll give it to the Director, when he calls. DIRT is already working on backgrounds and case connections for all of them. But I’ll tell him your theory and we’ll see if he thinks it flies.”
“One of the field agents just sent me a text. Three witnesses have confirmed Gale Asher was with Gaines at San Francisco de Asís. Better call off the Pueblo search.”
“Funny. Remember how some of the students at the dig site said he was furious she was there? I guess they’ve grown closer over the past week.”
“If Booker Lipton asked Dover to drop the charges, wouldn’t Gaines have known? He sure acted like a desperate man this morning, and is, by all indications, still running like a frightened fugitive.”
“Running is the key word. We’ve got the motorcycle and no other vehicles have been reported stolen, the Vatican guys are accounted for, so where the hell are they? How did they get out of there?”
Booker was on the grounds of a mansion overlooking the Potomac River just outside Washington, D.C., when Kruse phoned him. The estate belonged to a friend and was occasionally used by Booker for sensitive meetings with government officials.
“I was just calling you. Anything?” Booker asked.
“We’ve got nothing,” Kruse said, while loading an HK MK23 handgun to supplement his Glock-19. “They narrowly escaped the Taos Pueblo Police and now have disappeared once again. The feds are at San Fran –”
Booker cut him off. “I know about the morning events. It’s laughable that the Bureau is having such trouble apprehending Gaines, but I’m not amused that you can’t get him either. This may be our last shot; now go to this address in Chimayó; you should find him there. If he resists, take whatever non-lethal means are necessary. ”
Booker hung up, popped two ashwaganda pills for stress, and took a swig of apple/carrot juice from his flask, then walked back inside and apologized to Senator Monroe.
“Forgive me, Senator, I had to take that. Messy matter in China.”
“Aren’t they always,” the Senator joked, snapping his fingers three times as if adding a “ba-dum-bump” to his punch line.
“Senator, do you really want to be president?” Booker asked. “There are pressures you can’t imagine, even if you think you can; the constant threat of assassination, and never-ending attacks from the opposing party; trying to destroy your fragile reputation, and engulf you in a scandal that is new and exciting enough to shock a nearly unshockable nation. And for what? It isn’t the salary; I pay corporate vice presidents ten times as much. The ego boost? They may claim the president is the most powerful person on earth, but his power is a fraction of mine, and I’m not even top dog; not to mention, I don’t have to get re-elected. So all that risk for four, maybe eight years’ worth of surface power, low pay, and average benefits. Hell, it can’t be Air Force One; I could give you a much nicer plane than that.”
“Booker, you make it sound so appealing.” The senator laughed, setting down his wine. “It’s more about history.”
“Ah, yes, the legacy; the exclusive club of presidents in the history books. All the better if you take us into a war. Wartime presidents are generally regarded higher in public opinion polls; historians give them bonus points for navigating a war, even unsuccessful ones.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Senator, the kind of favorable history you’re looking for can take fifty years to hit the books, and hell, it isn’t even real. I’ll give you one billion dollars to do with whatever you want, buy a bunch of gumballs for all I care. One billion dollars ought to pay for plenty of history books.”
“You want me to withdraw from the race?”
“I don’t really care about that, but if I give you a billion dollars; you’d probably have to. You can’t hide that kind of gift. Believe me, I’ve tried. No, what I want for a billion dollars is for you to turn your back on something more important to you than the presidency of the United States.”
Chapter 20
Sean Stadler leaned out the car window and smiled. “Need a lift?”
“I don’t believe it!” Gale squealed.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Rip shouted.
“Jump in, I’ll explain everything. I can’t believe I really found you.”
Rip got in front and Gale climbed in the back. She immediately wrapped her arms around him from behind and kissed his cheek. “How did you find us?”
“Would you mind driving while you talk?” Rip asked. “I think it’s best we get far away from Taos as quickly as possible.”
“No problem. It seems like I’m always driving you guys out of trouble.” Sean laughed. “Where are we heading?”
“The Interstate,” Rip said.
“Closest one is in Santa Fe,” Sean said.
“Take the back roads; 518 isn’t far,” Gale said, folding a map she’d picked up at the motel. We need to make a stop in Chimayó.”
“No,” Rip said. “We’re not making that mistake again.”
“It’s not a mistake,” Gale said.
“We found nothing at the last church.”
“How can you say that? We found the historian.”
“I suppose you think Clastier sent him?”
“He knew Clastier.”
“Come on, Gale, he said he didn’t exist.”
“You know that’s not what he said.”
“Are you trying to get us arrested? We need to get somewhere safe, somewhere we can study what’s really important.” He looked back at Gale. “If you want to know what Clastier would tell you to do right now, he’d say, ‘forget about me, study what I told you to look for,’ and you know it.” He arched his eyebrow for emphasis before turning back to Sean. “So, if you don’t mind turning around up here and heading to Santa Fe . . . ”
“It’s safer for us to go the back way,” Gale pleaded, “and we’ll be in Santa Fe a couple of hours later. This is the last church, I promise.”
“No.”
“Then let me out.”
“Guys, guys, wow. I leave you alone for a few days and you wind up fighting like an old married couple. Now come on, Rip, she sounds reasonable.”
“Look, Sean, you have no idea what she sounds like after all we’ve been through. You’re not really part of this so why – ”
Sean jammed on the brakes, swerving into the parking lot of an old woodworking shop. Rip, who hadn’t buckled up, slammed into the dash. The pack in his lap helped cushion the blow but he still hit his head on the windshield.
“Hey, what the hell!” Rip yelled. Gale was strapped in, in the back and fine.
“I’ll apologize right after you.” Sean glared at Rip.
“What do I have to apologize for?”
“For saying I’m not really part of this,” Sean blasted. “Excuse the hell out of me, did your brother get killed because of this?” His voice broke as he yelled. “The FBI is after me, they’ve harassed my grieving parents. I’ve twice driven you out of harm’s way, crossed the whole damn country hoping to find you, and you have the gall to tell me I’m not part of this? My brother is dead, you arrogant bastard!”
“I’m sorry, Sean, I truly am. You’re right; I’m an arrogant bastard. I never stop thinking about Josh. I’m so sorry.” His eyes filled with tears. “You have no idea how sorry I am.”
“He is, Sean. We talk about Josh all the time. I miss him,” Gale said, sadly. She put her hands on his shoulders.
“I know,” Sean said. “Me too.” He put the car into gear and pulled into traffic. “You all right?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Rip said.
“Sorry about that,” Sean said. “You should put on your seatbelt.”
Rip nodded, buckling the belt.
“Chimayó then?” Sean asked.
“I guess so,” Rip sighed.
“Thanks,” Gale said from the backseat. Rip didn’t know if she was thanking him or Sean, so he didn’t respond.
After a few miles of silence Gale spoke. “So tell us
the story. How did you wind up in Taos?”
Sean told them about the call from someone warning him to get out of Josh’s house before the cops got there, the agony of telling his parents about Josh’s death, the FBI coming to the door, and his run to the bus station. It was a long story; forty-five minutes of rolling northern New Mexico countryside passed as they traveled what locals called the High Road. They were just outside of Ojo Sarco, about twenty minutes away from Chimayó, when Sean’s story began to deviate from the truth.
“Once I knew the FBI was after me, I got to my cousin’s place in Greensboro and he rented this car for me. Then I headed straight to Asheville, where I was hoping to meet up with you guys again. I didn’t know where else to go or what else to do.”
“How were you going to find us?” Gale asked.
“Rip had given me a phone number and said the person could get a message to you.”
“I gave him Booker’s number,” Rip told Gale.
“Yeah, but as it turned out,” Sean continued, “I lost that scrap of paper somewhere. It didn’t matter because when I got to Asheville, I didn’t stay because the place was swarming with feds. A college buddy who graduated last year lives in Memphis; I figured it was as good a place to hide as any. But it was crazy; when I got there we just had time for a quick drink before a family emergency had him heading to Dallas. We caravanned for a while, because I didn’t know where to go. I was in Oklahoma, when I heard about the murder charge, which I knew was a crock. The news said you were believed to be in the Taos area; there’d been some big raid. I headed straight here. Can you believe it? I was like a mile away when I heard on the radio that the murder charges were dropped, but local police were still after you for questioning over a stolen bike that had just been spotted at San Francisco de Asís.
“It’s fate,” Gale said.
“What?” Sean asked.
“That you found us again,” Gale answered.
“Gale probably thinks a dead priest sent you to us,” Rip said, sarcastically.
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” she said.
Chapter 21
They found the old lady’s house, a small adobe shaded in trees. The wispy and small woman appeared frail, and might have been eighty, possibly even ninety. “What do you want?” she said in her toughest voice, which was too raspy to scare anyone.
“Are you Teresa? The historian sent us. He said he’d call. My name is Ripley.”
“Who are these two?” Teresa waved a bony hand at Gale and Sean. “A couple of vagabonds it looks like.”
“No. I’m sorry, they are Gale and Sean, friends of mine,” Rip said.
Gale stepped forward and offered her hand. “Nice to meet you ma’am. May we come in?”
Teresa recoiled, almost disappearing in her floral housecoat. “All of you!? My goodness, no. You vagrants can stay in the yard. I’ll have tea with Mr. Ripley.”
“Teresa, may I call you Teresa?” Rip asked, bowing slightly.
She smiled at him.
“I’d like it if my friends could join us.”
“No, no, no. The likes of them can’t be trusted.” She grabbed a broom and shook it at Sean. “You, boy, watch you don’t trample my petunias.”
Sean cowered backwards and in his nervousness actually did step on some of the purple flowers. Teresa looked horrified, as if he’d produced a gun. Rip motioned to Gale that they should all just leave, and tried to convey with his eyes that the old lady might be a bit off.
“Rip, you go ahead and talk to Teresa alone. We’ll wait out here,” Gale said.
“Away from my petunias!” Teresa shouted.
“You’re sure?” Rip asked Gale.
She nodded. “Go ahead.”
Rip leaned in close to Gale and whispered, “Okay, if I’m not back in an hour, send help.”
Gale laughed, which made the old woman trust her even less.
Rip followed Teresa inside. She bolted the lock behind her.
“Have a seat, Mr. Ripley.” She pointed to an antique burgundy-colored chair that belonged more in a colonial museum than a southwestern adobe. “I’ll bring us some warm tea.” While waiting, he looked at portraits adorning the walls, presumably of her ancestors stretching back to the conquistadors. He wondered why he’d agreed to this waste of time.
“Teresa, please don’t think me rude, but we’re in a bit of a hurry.”
“In New Mexico?” She laughed as she came in with a tray of tea. “We have a saying here, mañana.”
“Yes, it means tomorrow,” Rip said.
“Maybe in the rest of the world, but in New Mexico, mañana doesn’t mean tomorrow, it means not necessarily today. Time is different here.”
Rip smiled and sipped his tea. “Could you tell me what you know about Clastier?”
She stared at him, the wrinkles around her foggy eyes tightened. “It sounds so good to hear a man say that name. Would you mind saying it again?” Her eyes closed.
“Clastier.”
She took a long deep breath before speaking. “He never existed . . . do you believe that, Mr. Ripley? Clastier never existed.”
“I am certain he existed,” Rip said.
“Of course he did! You know he slept in this very house.” Her eyes were wide, studying Rip to gauge if her words were shocking enough.
“Really? Did he live here?”
“For a time. Clastier and my thrice-great-grandmother were lovers.”
This time Rip’s shock was real.
“How do you know?”
“I have their letters.”
“You have letters written by Clastier?”
She nodded, proudly.
“May I see them?”
“You cannot have them.”
“No, of course not, but could I just look at them?”
“I don’t want that shiftless pair you came with knowing about them.”
“Certainly not.”
She left the room for a couple of minutes and returned with a stack of folded, yellowed paper, tied in worn black twine, almost three inches thick. He looked up for approval as he held the end of the bow. Teresa nodded and smiled.
He immediately recognized Clastier’s neat script. Although he couldn’t speak Spanish very well, he could read it. He’d started teaching himself the language using Clastier’s papers, and the English translations during his youthful summers in North Carolina. The papers didn’t just inspire his pursuit of archaeology; they also prompted him to take Spanish in high school and college. “You can’t expect to really see the world if you only do it in English,” he’d always said. Perusing the letters, he feared might be snatched out of his hands at any moment by the neurotic old woman, he found mention of spiritual ideas, radical at the time, such as reincarnation, a collective consciousness, and even physical and mental powers of the soul, which he recognized in more refined passages from the Attestations section of Clastier’s papers. It was exciting to see the rawness of his words, and for the first time, Rip felt a true closeness to the man who had guided so much of his life. It was as if he were reading the private thoughts of a dear old friend. After a long passage about miraculous healings at the Chimayó Church, he knew he’d have to take the letters with him.
Chapter 22
The Director explained to Barbeau that, although the Attorney General had dismissed the criminal indictment against Gaines, they still wanted him as a material witness for questioning in multiple crimes, including two murders. Furthermore, the government intended to secure the return of government property, namely the artifacts, “by all available means.”
“So nothing has changed?” Hall asked.
“The Director believes Dover dropped the charges in an effort to get rid of all the heat from the state and local jurisdictions that were getting involved. They were impossible to control. The media, although easier to manage, was also becoming a problem.”
“So if we capture Gaines . . . ?”
“The Director’s best guess goes like this: De
partment of Justice questions Gaines; the artifacts will disappear either to Rome, or into some bottomless government warehouse, meaning the U.S. intelligence community. Then, within a couple of days, Gaines leaves a tidy note, citing his destroyed reputation, and kills himself.”
“I’ve seen that movie before.”
“Yeah, they keep doing remakes of it in Washington, and even though the public knows the ending, they keep buying tickets.”
Gale and Sean sat talking in the car in front of the old lady’s house. Chimayó, an oasis in northern New Mexico’s high desert badlands, seemed mainly covered with large cottonwoods and willows that shielded them from the hot sun.
“She’s loony, don’t you think?” Sean asked.
“You mean Teresa? She’s just old,” Gale said. “I don’t think she likes strangers.”
“She seemed to like Rip.”
“Yes, she’s from a time and culture where men were respected just because they were men, regardless of their actions.”
“Do you respect Rip?” Sean asked.
“That’s a funny question.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, very much,” Gale answered, squinting her eyes.
“Me, too.”
“Don’t you think your parents are worried about you?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe we can figure out a way to get word to them. Losing Josh, the FBI after you, they’re probably going crazy.”
“Where are we going next?” Sean changed the subject.
“We’re going to need to stop somewhere and buy camping gear. Rip wants to get out of the state, so we’ll head west as far as we can go, until we need to sleep.”
“Arizona?”
“Initially.”
“I can drive all night, or we can take turns. I don’t care about this rental; like I did my Jeep.”
“Driving late at night means there are fewer vehicles to blend in with and the road is mostly filled with cops and drunks. It’s too risky,” Rip said.
“Think you’ll ever get the Jeep back?” Gale asked.
