by Brandt Legg
“Will there be time?” one aide asked.
“It’ll be close.”
“How long have you known where Gaines was?” the other aide asked.
“We found him about four hours ago. And we’ve got a BLAX agent in the woods outside the house where’s he’s hiding.”
“Isn’t the NSA all over it?”
“They have the house surrounded and satellites monitoring, but we have this tiny window of time.”
“Time’s a funny thing,” one aide said, repeating one of Booker’s favorite lines.
“Yes, it is.” Booker had long believed that one day he would go up against the NSA or one their affiliated groups. His only advantage would be having more advanced technology than they had. In order to accomplish that, Booker bought any company, patent, or prototype that had anything to do with intelligence gathering or enforcement. He also hired every engineer who showed any promise.
The trick wasn’t to give the government any shoddy product, it was to give them the best there was . . . almost. He held back the top one percent of the latest, greatest technology. Once the equipment had progressed further, he’d given them that, and keep the next new best stuff. If the customers weren’t satisfied, they would go elsewhere. Booker’s aggressive acquisition strategy tried to ensure that there wasn’t anywhere else to go, but even that had to be kept secret through elaborate layers of shell companies, and countless attorneys shuffling papers. In addition, Booker was unequaled in his ability to buy influence. There was always something someone wanted, or better yet, needed.
All his strategy and preparation left him in an advantageous situation, but it wasn’t enough to gain a superior position over the mighty U.S. Government. For that, he used backdoors. Inside each design was a hidden backdoor that could give Booker access to what was being done, used, and collected. They were complex, didn’t always work, and usually were not in real time; but it certainly got him closer to being on even footing with the most powerful intelligence agencies on the planet.
Jaeger, breathless, stopped jumping rope and checked his heart rate. “How long until we’re back online?” he asked, although he knew it was impossible to know.
“It should be any minute, sir.”
“Is there anything yet?”
“No, sir. So far nothing is coming up. We’re forty-one percent complete on the second wave-scan and there are no connected devices appearing.”
He wiped his face with a towel, checked all the monitors and motioned for a refill on his tea/coffee. “Get me New Mexico up on those first four screens. I want to know what’s going on there. Folks, there are three theatres of war in this thing. Wherever Gaines is, wherever Asher is, and wherever Booker is. And right now, two of our targets are in New Mexico. Taos is a God damned multiplex and I want pictures!”
Outside San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, a single BLAX operative, dressed completely in black, crawled on his belly through the undergrowth. Sixty feet away from him were a pair of NSA agents watching the house, unaware of his presence. Seconds were ticking away. He needed to run, but could only slither. There would be only one shot. Making his mission more difficult were the weapons he carried, along with the critical piece of equipment necessary to complete the assignment.
The BLAX operative knew the NSA’s eyes in the sky would be back online in a few minutes. Under his skintight black suit he wore a nylon-mesh embedded with wire that would defeat the thermal sensors, but their technology was capable of some incredible things; such as contour recognition, and motion detection. He’d trained in one of Booker’s facilities with just such equipment, manufactured by a Booker company.
Booker leaned toward the monitor, as if doing so might bring word sooner. And suddenly it lit up. “Booker,” a voice came over the speaker. “Four seconds to contact, three, two, one. Go.”
“Rip,” Booker said, “Can you hear me?”
Chapter 35
Gale watched Nanski’s car, waiting for an explosion. None came. She got lost in the flames, hypnotized by their tragic beauty; as if Clastier’s words could be absorbed by seeing them burn.
It took a long time for the flames to die. She had no idea how long, at least an hour, and nobody had come. That someone might never occurred to her, until she shuffled back to the SUV, and then she was surprised no one had. Even though the road was isolated, it seemed crazy that no one would show.
Turning around would be difficult on the narrow road, but she didn’t want to go to San Cristobal tonight anyway. What if there were others after her? And for the first time, she remembered calling nine one one at the church for Father Jak, so the FBI would be notified. She wondered who the dead man in the burning car was. Danger and fear clouded her thoughts; she had to get out of there.
Gale drove the rest of the way down the narrow road, until she came to a bridge that she recognized. She and Rip had started their raft trip there. Why had she wound up back at this place? She remembered Grinley, another kind stranger like Father Jak; good helpful folks, who kept getting killed.
Trembling, Gale drove slowly across the John Dunn Bridge, unable to see the dark waters of the Rio Grande. Revving the SUV’s engine, she headed up the steep switchbacks on the other side. When she crested the top, the endless mesa greeted her, standing dark, a sea of sagebrush, punctured by the occasional distant light, signs of life on an otherwise abandoned section of Earth.
Gale followed the rutted dirt road, not caring where it was going. After a few minutes, she heard a faint clicking. It took her a couple of seconds to realize it was her ring on the steering wheel. She was shaking so much that the SUV was beginning to swerve. Gale had a fleeting thought that it wasn’t that cold. She couldn’t focus. What was it? Wasn’t she supposed to be somewhere? What? Then the realization came as the SUV left the dusty road and crunched into sage and chamisa; she was going into shock.
Her head hit the windshield, as the SUV took out a juniper, before being stopped by a sturdy little cedar. What do I do? She opened the door and fell out, woozy. Somehow, in her weakness, she pulled herself up and opened the back door – a jacket, a baseball cap. She got them on and started to jog in place, while rubbing her upper arms. “Think. Where am I? Taos. Gale. Taos. Gale,” she kept repeating. Her teeth were chattering. “Come on! I’m going to die out here after all this?” she shouted into the starry, moonless sky.
She got back into the SUV, cranked the engine and turned the heat on full blast. Rubbing her arms and stomping her feet, she could feel some improvement. Fifteen minutes later, the engine idled, coughed, and died. Out of gas.
Without thinking about it, Gale got out of the car and started walking toward where she thought Grinley’s house had been, thinking it would be a place to hide. Unknowingly, she went in the wrong direction. An hour later, she staggered over a hill and saw an Indian teepee glowing a few hundred feet in the distance. At first, she thought it was a hallucination; then she remembered where she was. What seems strange anywhere else, is normal in Taos.
The glow looked warm and inviting. It didn’t really matter if there were a serial killer in there. Gale was about to collapse on the deserted road that could be better described as two foot-trails in the desert. With her remaining energy she marched through the scrub to the teepee.
“Excuse me,” she said, standing a few feet from the flap. “Anyone in there?”
A tall gangly man emerged, cocking a shotgun. “What the who,” he said gruffly.
Gale thought she was lost in time; the man in front of her was the most authentic looking cowboy she had ever seen. His gray hair fell to his shoulders from under a dirty white, wide brimmed cowboy hat. A faded red bandana loosely wrapped around his neck and a worn brown leather vest tight against a thin frame. He might have been missing a six-shooter strapped to his waist, but he was wearing chaps.
“I’m sorry to bother you, I’m lost, my car . . . “ Her knees went.
The man dropped his gun and caught Gale before she hit the dirt. “Cheyenne,”
the cowboy called. “Help, quick.”
A pretty woman appeared from inside. “Who is it?”
“Some tourist or something, busted car, gone and fainted.”
“I’m not fainted,” Gale said sluggishly.
“Get her inside then,” Cheyenne said.
Inside was plush and comfortable, not at all what she imagined the inside of a teepee to be. They put her down on the earth floor on top of woven wool Indian blankets and pushed pillows around her. There were several lanterns lit and a small fire in the center.
“I’m sorry, I’m cold.” The cowboy put a few more sticks of wood on the fire, while Cheyenne covered her with a blanket. “Thank you.”
She woke up sometime later and found Cheyenne was sleeping. The cowboy was painting a canvas on an easel. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “But your face was created for an artist.” He moved a light closer to her. “And your eyes must have been created by an artist.”
Chapter 36
Pisano could not believe someone was pounding on his door at this hour. What time was it, anyway? He’d been asleep for hours. Grabbing his Smith & Wesson revolver, he pulled on a robe and walked to the front door of his posh townhouse, just across the Potomac River from Washington, D.C. The gun felt good in his hand; he called it “power in my possession.” The Americans weren’t any good at fashion, but they made excellent weapons. Looking through the peephole, he was shocked by the site of a Catholic cardinal and two stocky Vatican agents.
He put his gun down and hastily undid the locks. The agents pushed their way in as soon as the door opened an inch. Pisano was knocked backwards, but the two agents each grabbed an arm before he hit the floor. They dragged him and deposited him roughly onto a sofa.
“What is your problem?” he said to one of the men. “Do you know how much this robe cost?”
“Quiet,” the cardinal commanded. “Do you know, who I am?”
Pisano shook his head and gulped hard. He didn’t know, but suspected, and it wasn’t good.
The cardinal, a man in his seventies, with a severe face and a European accent difficult to place, stared. “I am Exsequor et Protector Ecclesiae.”
Pisano had heard of the cardinal known as the “Enforcer and Protector of the Church,” but before now, he hadn’t been sure such a person really existed. It was rumored that he was the most powerful man in the Vatican, more so than the Pope, and even the head of the Vatican Secret Service. Pisano wondered what he had done to warrant a personal visit, and feared he was about to be executed.
“You are not an unintelligent man, Francesco Pisano,” the cardinal said, glaring at him. “You love the Church; your faith is true.”
“Thank you, your Excellency. Yes.”
“And yet you are an ignorant fool. The Ater Dies is upon us, and you sleep here like a baby, like a pampered puppy. You stand, when I’m addressing you.”
Pisano jumped to his feet. “Your Excellency, please forgive me. If you leave me in charge I will – ”
“You are not in charge, Pisano! Do you think me a fool?” The cardinal pushed his palm fast toward Pisano’s head, stopping less than an inch from his face. Pisano fell back to the sofa cowering. “There are thousands of you trying to hold back Armageddon.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Do not question me. And do not interfere with Joe Nanski. He does not answer to you. It is you, who must do his bidding.”
“Of course. I understand.”
The cardinal shook his head while holding out his hand. Pisano stood and then quickly dropped to his knees. After a short prayer, he kissed the cardinal’s ring.
The cardinal motioned for Pisano to rise. Then he walked into the dining room and sat at the table. One of the Vatican agents followed and opened a small laptop computer Pisano had not noticed before.
“Come,” the cardinal said.
Pisano joined him at the dining room table and looked at the screen, where a photo of an Eysen filled the screen.
The cardinal leaned back against the stiff chair as a slide show of images began. “Let me show you why you understand nothing.”
Chapter 37
Rip recognized Booker’s voice immediately, but mistakenly thought it was coming from inside the Eysen. He stood, mouth open, staring at the glowing sphere as the Crying Man turned, and walked slowly back into the trees, and the music faded away.
Distracted, and sad to see the Crying Man leave, Rip wondered how Booker had managed the trick. At the same time, he thought perhaps it was the same method by which the Eysen had been able to show Gale, Sean, and himself in real time, when they were at Canyon de Chelly. Baffling.
“Rip, we don’t have much time. Please answer me,” Booker said.
It felt like being awoken from a dream. “Booker, where are you?”
“At the moment I am in Taos, but that doesn’t matter. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to tell you that the NSA has your little hide-away there in San Miguel under a surveillance blanket. They can hear everything said in the house. Later today they’ll be able to see everything, too.”
“Why can’t they hear you now?”
“They’re messing with the satellites and it gave us a brief window – probably less than two minutes left.”
“You don’t really expect me to believe you, after Flagstaff and West Memphis. You were the only one who knew where I was, and yet the FBI showed up both times.”
“Rip, they set it up so that you wouldn’t trust me.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because, I’m the only one who can stop them from taking the Eysen, and killing you.”
“And they’re just letting me have a little Mexican vacation, while I try to decode the Eysen? They’ve got people much smarter than I am who can figure it out.”
“Rip, I don’t have time to explain. But it has to be you.”
“What do you want, Booker?”
“For you to be ready. You need to be out of there before the NSA gets the video feed hooked up,” Booker said. “By the time you believe me, it’ll be too late to talk to you, so just listen to me. Keep your pack on your back and the Eysen inside it. My guys will have blue wristbands on that say AX. Be ready to go. Stay on the ground. Life will be a lot easier if you aren’t dead.”
“I’ve got a few questions.”
“Booker, we are exposed in four,” an agent broke in on the transmission.
“Rip, don’t say another word,” Booker said.
“Two, one, out.”
Rip sat in silence next to the Eysen and said nothing. Within a few minutes he was asleep. Hours later the music woke him. It wasn’t even music by his definition and he tried to remember ancient words for music, but even they fell short. One day, he hoped to be able to invent an entirely new word for the sounds that emanated from the Eysen.
“Violin, cello, or something that sounded like them, a million-voices chant, whispers, a breeze, and a flower blossoming all combined in a soundless universe, supposedly safe to tear down what hardness life had built upon who a person really is at his essence,” Rip typed in his laptop trying to describe what he heard.
Then he stared at the trees, which had filled the interior of the Eysen once again as he waited, anticipating the return of the Crying Man. He was not disappointed as the Crying Man emerged from the forest, this time he used his hands in a slow motion ballet of finger movements to communicate. And inexplicably, Rip understood.
As the Crying Man squeezed and molded invisible clay in his hands, the story of his people became clearer. It never occurred to Rip that this might be a recorded message. This was the deepest and most meaningful conversation of his life. The intense clarity and absence of any agenda, beyond a desperate need to communicate and be understood, made him feel that his life up until then had been devoid of everything that mattered.
After fifteen minutes of silent talking, and anxious to discover the end of the Cosegans’ story, Rip involuntarily asked, “What happened?”
Chapter 38
Sunday July 23rd
“Pardon my manners, ma’am,” the old cowboy said. “My name is Drakeman Ducet.” He set his paintbrush down and tipped his hat with a finger, but did not take it off. “Folks call me Drake. Cheyenne, my wife, she calls me all kinds of things, but most of them are sweet.” He motioned to the sleeping woman.
“I’m Gale Asher. Sorry to have barged in on you.”
“Gale like a storm? It fits,” Drake said.
“Some days more than others.”
Drake chuckled and resumed his painting.
Gale sat up and looked around. There were dozens of framed paintings leaned against each other. She couldn’t see them too well, but most appeared to be western scenes – cowboys on horses, canyons and the like. “You’re an artist?”
“I’ve always tried to be.”
She went over to take a closer look at the nearest batch. “They’re wonderful.” And she meant it. Now curious to see what he was painting of her she asked, “May I?”
He motioned for her to come behind the easel. “Wow.” Although it was unfinished, Gale couldn’t believe how well he’d captured her. “My eyes,” she said, “it’s like looking in a mirror.”
“We’ve all ridden long trails. Only place you can really see it on a person is in their eyes.” He considered her face, only inches away, and added a few brush strokes to the painting. “The eyes are formed by all they’ve seen across every lifetime. Some say each life is a chapter and the eyes contain the entire book.”
“Can you read them?” Gale asked.
“Not very well, I’m just an ol’ cowboy.”
“Don’t let him fool you,” Cheyenne said, awake now. “That ol’ cowboy knows a lot more than he lets on.”
