by Brandt Legg
“Maybe there’s an Eysen hidden there?” Gale said.
“What do you mean?” Sean took advantage of the opening.
“Nothing,” Rip said.
“He’s earned the right to know,” Gale said.
“I’m just trying to keep him alive,” Rip said.
“Funny, I thought I was trying to keep you alive,” Sean shot back.
“Look, Sean, I appreciate all you’ve done. Your parents have lost one son. I don’t want to be responsible for another death,” Rip said.
Sean gripped the wheel tighter and clenched his teeth.
“Everyone who has seen or even learned of the Eysen is dead,” Rip finished as lightning punctuated his words.
“Not you and Gale,” Sean said.
“Come on, Rip,” Gale said, “He’s been in this from the beginning. His brother was the first casualty. He’s wanted and running just like us. Sean got us out of Virginia, and Taos.”
Rip thought quietly for a few minutes. The sky lit an intense electric aqua color against apocalyptic clouds that fortunately were moving away from them to the south. The sunset was stunning in the dramatic sky and Rip was grateful they would avoid the storm.
Sean didn’t want to push anymore; his headache was almost gone and he hoped to avoid another argument. With the sun finally below the horizon, driving became easier, but he could feel Busman’s eyes burning into the back of his head, and he knew the NSA man could hear every word.
Chapter 32
Rip exhaled. “We found a kind of computer – an eleven-million-year-old computer.”
“What do you mean?” Sean, genuinely surprised, didn’t understand how anything that old could even be compared to a computer. “Like a stone abacus or something?”
“No. We’re talking about a fully functioning computer. Kind of like an iPad except it resembles a bowling ball.”
“I never did too well in history, or earth sciences, or whatever this is, but I’m pretty good on a computer, and what you’re saying sounds impossible. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Of course it doesn’t make sense. That’s why they’re killing people for it. And since when did killing ever make sense?” Gale said, not looking up from her writing.
“Who’s doing the killing?” Sean asked, angrily.
“The Vatican killed Josh,” Rip said.
Suddenly Sean jerked the car to the shoulder and got out, leaving the door open. He ran into the middle of the asphalt, still hot from the day’s battle with the sun. Fortunately, no cars were visible in the twilight other than a distant set of headlights long behind them that appeared to have stopped. Gale ran after him.
“I don’t believe it!” Sean screamed, his hands on his head. “Why are you lying to me?”
“It’s true, I’m sorry. It’s a hard thing to hear,” Gale said, trying to hug him.
He pushed her away. “My girlfriend is Catholic, the Pope is Catholic, John F. Kennedy was Catholic, and you want me to believe their church, any church, murdered my brother over a computer, over ANYTHING?”
“It doesn’t matter if you believe it,” Rip said, standing next to the car. “It’s what happened. The Vatican wants the Eysen, and it’s hardly the first time they’ve killed over it.”
“I’m not talking about history; I’m talking about now!”
“You want to talk about now after they murdered your brother? They killed a lab technician, just because Josh had taken the casing that held the Eysen to him.”
“You sent him to do that.”
“And I regret that. But the Church is doing the killing, not me. They also killed a man who helped raise me, and probably others who were just trying to do the right thing.”
“What are you talking about?” He charged at Rip, but stopped short. “How do you know? Last I heard you were wanted for killing the lab guy.”
“I told you this was a bad idea,” Rip said calmly to Gale. “Let me have the keys, Sean. I don’t think you should be driving right now.”
“We know who killed them,” Gale said, “because we have people helping us who know.”
“Who? Who could know that? Who would even believe it? Someone just told you the Vatican killed my brother, and you think that sounds reasonable? What if I told you it was a drug dealer that killed him . . . or maybe it was OJ Simpson. No, no, it was a one-armed man.”
“May I please have the keys?” Rip tried again, looking in both directions. Still no cars.
“Let me see the computer,” Sean said, looking past Rip, into the car.
“The Eysen doesn’t work at night.”
“Of course it doesn’t!” Sean rolled his eyes.
“Sean, I know you’re upset,” Gale began. “But this is not the place. We’re standing in the middle of the road. All we need is for a cop to cruise by and we’re all finished. Let’s get to the canyon and we’ll show you everything in the morning. You may not believe who killed Josh, but don’t judge until you hear the whole story.”
He shook his head. Gale thought he looked suddenly younger. “Fine. But I’m driving,” he slammed the door.
“Okay,” Gale said, shooting Rip a look to silence his protests. For the next hour, to the annoyance of Busman, there was almost no talking. Gale found a penlight in the glove box, used the time to read the Clastier Papers, and write in her journal. She wanted to press Rip more about what Clastier’s letters contained, but knew he’d never discuss it while Sean could hear. She’d find a time.
Rip was now desperate for time to figure out Clastier and the Eysen. He thought about the friend he was counting on to hide them; Tahoma had worked with Rip and Larsen on a rarely authorized dig near Shiprock. Several startling artifacts were unearthed; nothing like the Eysen, but nonetheless, things that may have been far older than conventional wisdom allowed – twenty thousand years or more. The sponsor wanted to go further, but the Navajo Nation Government demanded they stop, citing religious concerns. Legal issues complicated matters, and although the find could have helped prove the Cosega theory; Rip sided with the Navajo and got Booker involved. This ended the dig, and his relationship with the sponsor.
During the same negotiations with the Navajo, it had come to light that an eastern university had done a dig nearby in the 1930s, and had taken sacred artifacts. The Navajo sought their return, but were refused. Prior to what would have been a lengthy and expensive court battle that was not going to be easy to win, Rip once again quietly enlisted Booker’s help; and, between the two of them, they were able to secure the return of all the items.
Rip had made many sacrifices to the detriment of his career. He knew it was the right thing to do, but now wondered if he’d been able to prove Cosega back then, would he have wound up in Virginia? Would Larsen be alive? Larsen had been instrumental in convincing Rip to side with the Navajo, and so had Tahoma’s sister, Mai. She had worked as a local guide on the dig. Larsen and Mai became quick friends, but it had been Rip who loved her.
Rip was relieved finally to be at Canyon de Chelly. He felt safe among the Navajo and was eager to get back into the Eysen in the morning. He phoned Tahoma from a battered payphone in front of a convenience/souvenir store. Twenty minutes later, a thirty-year-old green and white pickup truck arrived.
In the flickering fluorescent light of the store’s sign, Sean could see Gale; staring at him. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m just tired, really tired.”
“You like camping?”
“Yeah, Josh and I used to go a lot.”
“I’ve camped with Josh, too, on another continent. A couple of them actually.”
Sean smiled. But it faded quickly. Busman was out there in the blackness. He wasn’t sure where or how, but he had a feeling he’d seen him smile and didn’t approve.
A tall, lean man climbed from the truck; his long, black hair pulled back through a dark bandana atop his head. He hugged Rip. “I’m glad you’ve come, brother,” Tahoma said. Introductions were made to the others. “Forget
camping, you can stay with me,” he said.
“Really, Tahoma, a good place to camp is all we need.”
He stared at Rip. “Trouble follows you, my friend; it is in your eyes.” The dirty fluorescents barely lit the area enough for Gale to see her own feet, and she wasn’t sure how Tahoma could read their situation in Rip’s eyes.
“That’s a fact,” Rip answered. “And I’m sorry to bring it close to your home.”
“Your trouble is my trouble. You come to the house.”
“No,” Rip said, firmly.
“This trouble is serious,” Tahoma said, looking from Rip to Gale and then to Sean, where his eyes lingered. “Okay.” He turned back to Rip. “I’ll take you to a good place, where the spirit of my people is strong.”
They followed in their rental car over washboard roads and down steep rocky grades. The openness soon ceded to trees and the way became less passable. Suddenly, Tahoma stopped, leaving on the high beams. It would be on foot from there. They carried their gear to a flat area just beyond the headlights’ range. Tahoma and Rip pitched a tent near an existing fire pit, while Gale and Sean put up another next to it. The idea was that Sean and Rip would share a tent, and Gale would have her own. But midway through the setup process, Gale changed the plan.
“I think I’d prefer to squeeze in with you guys,” she said.
“Sure. I just thought you might want some privacy,” Rip said.
“I think I gave up privacy ten days ago. How many beds have we shared since then?”
“Right. Okay,” Rip said, unsure why he felt embarrassed.
Rip walked Tahoma back to his truck. “I truly am sorry to come here. I had nowhere else to go.”
“This is where you should be, brother,” Tahoma said.
“You haven’t even asked about the trouble.”
“We’re not so far removed from civilization that I did not hear of an old friend being accused of murder.”
“I’ve killed no one.”
“You don’t need to tell me that; even if I hadn’t also heard they dropped the charges. But sadly, your face says there is more than that.”
“Yes. People after us . . . powerful people.”
“Tomorrow, I’ll take you deep enough that you cannot be found. A place where my people have often sheltered from the wickedness of this world.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Rip nodded. “The same people were after Larsen . . . he’s dead.”
“I know. We saw it in the same report about you. I’m sorry. Larsen was a good man.”
“One of the best.”
“He’s with the ancestors now; he’ll reach into this world and right wrongs.”
“If that’s possible, then some people better be looking over their shoulders.”
“Don’t screw up your present moment by worrying about those other people. You’re in Indian country now.”
Chapter 33
Thursday July 20th
The historian told Barbeau and Hall about Clastier, without ever actually saying his name. Only after a long, and Barbeau thought absolutely ridiculous guessing game; was Hall able to spell it letter by letter. Barbeau had guessed Rumpelstiltskin and Rosebud as names, much to the historian’s outrage.
“Clastier? You’re afraid to say the name Clastier?”
“It is forbidden by the Pope,” the historian proclaimed.
“Easy, Barbeau,” Hall said. “This man was born a Catholic; have some respect.”
“I didn’t know you were born a Catholic. I thought you were indoctrinated,” Barbeau said.
“I’d like you out of my house now,” the historian said.
“Of course you would,” Barbeau said, looking at a wall filled with carved wooden images of saints. “We can leave right away, but you’ll be coming with us, in handcuffs, charged with aiding and abetting.”
“I thought the murder charges had been dropped against Professor Gaines.”
“True, but Gaines is wanted for things you have no idea about.” Barbeau sat on the couch and put his feet on the coffee table. “If you knew how tired I am of this chase, how fed up I am with the Vatican’s interference, or how serious this really is; I think you would be a little more cooperative.”
The historian just frowned.
“Please forgive Agent Barbeau,” Hall said. “Peoples’ lives are at stake. You seem like a nice man. We need your help.”
“I’ll tell you what I know because I think it will hasten his departure,” the historian said, glaring at Barbeau.” And he did. He relayed, with almost perfect accuracy, every word exchanged between Gale, Rip, and himself. He omitted the phone call he made to Teresa’s house, but worried that might be discovered later, if they checked his phone records. At this time, he thought it was the wisest course.
Barbeau and Hall would visit Teresa later, but next on the schedule was interviewing the key witnesses from Gale and Rip’s escapades at the Pueblo. First, they stopped by their temporary office at the New Mexico State Police building.
“Ask the captain if they’ve made any progress on the drug dealer,” Barbeau said to Hall, as they walked inside. Finding Grinley would be a huge break, since he’d spent considerable time with Gaines and Asher. But Hall was worried the Vatican may have already found and killed him.
Barbeau entered the conference room that had become their makeshift command center and was shocked to see the Director of the FBI. “This can’t be good,” Barbeau said. “If you flew all the way from Washington to Taos, New Mexico, did you even sleep last night?”
“Let’s go for a walk,” the Director said. “Leave your phone here.”
They passed Hall, coming back from the captain’s office. “Director, we didn’t know,” he looked at Barbeau. “We didn’t know he was coming, did we?”
“No,” Barbeau said. “Should Agent Hall join us?” Barbeau asked the Director.
“Sorry, Hall. I need Barbeau alone for a brief word. Nothing personal. We’ll definitely get you up to speed later.”
“Sure thing. I’ve got plenty to do,” Hall said, trying not to sound annoyed.
Once they were outside, the Director continued walking far into the sagebrush that surrounded the building. Barbeau just missed stepping on a large prickly pear cactus, its dried blooms looking like forgotten pink confetti.
“What’s so important that you couldn’t tell me over the phone?” Barbeau asked, hoping he didn’t sound as impatient as he felt.
“There is no way to trust the privacy of any telephone, even the scrambled ones, and certainly not one originating from the D.C. area.”
“The NSA?”
“And others. The loss of our citizens’ privacy happened long ago. What’s more alarming is that no privacy remains, even for officials.”
“Some would call that fair.”
“Not when the information gleaned is used to manipulate and control. We’re not talking about a utopian transparency, where all is done in the name of right and good. This is a long-organized conspiracy to usurp power from the people, and it’s probably too late to stop it.”
“But Director, isn’t it our job to stop it?”
“Of course it is. Damn it, that’s why I’m here. But I’ve got a family, who also depend on me.”
Barbeau knew the Director had to know about his personal life. He might even know more about its current status than he himself did, so he assumed the jab was unintentional. “Have you been threatened, sir?”
“Hell, yes, I’ve been threatened.” He stared off toward the Weimer foothills.
“Did the Attorney General threaten you?”
The Director did not speak.
Barbeau looked around, unconsciously hoping Hall would appear. He was much better at these delicate conversations. “Did the President of the United States threaten you?”
“It’s not that simple. The President isn’t corrupt, but he has been corrupted. The NSA has its tentacles everywhere. They don’t really work for the President anymore; it’s the o
ther way around.”
Barbeau understood; the Director’s very presence in Taos meant it was true. “Can’t the President just fire people, cut out the cancer?”
“They’d kill him.”
“By that, you mean assassination?”
“I brought that up at the meeting and the Attorney General said, ‘Assassinations are so old-fashioned. They’re too obvious. There are a hundred ways to destroy a person and if death is the chosen avenue, then something far more creative than a madman with a gun can be arranged.’ It’s an Orwellian, Kafkaesque nightmare.” He looked at Barbeau through bloodshot eyes. “But there may be a way.”
“A way to what?”
“To stop the NSA, and the power elite who control them, to wrestle control back where it belongs, and to restore the balance of power.”
Barbeau held the Director’s glance. “Does this way include the possibility that we wind up dead by one of those ‘creative means’ the Attorney General alluded to?” Barbeau asked.
“Look, Dixon, we’re damned if we do . . . the thing is, we either go compliant, and watch as our country becomes something our grandfathers would never recognize, or we fight.”
“How do we fight something like this?”
“They have fear on their side. Even as a kid, I knew that if I was fighting someone whose strongest weapon was fear, I would eventually win. Fear may be scary in the dark, but get it into the light of day and fear turns out to be surprisingly weak.”
“Are the President and Attorney General compliant or fighting?”
“That’s why I flew two thousand miles.”
Chapter 34
Gale, Rip, and Sean were awake and munching on trail bars when Tahoma arrived with a surprisingly deluxe hot breakfast.
“Thank you,” Rip said. “This is too much.”
“Where did you get this?” Gale asked in amazement. She felt as if they were a million miles from the modern world.
