by Brandt Legg
“Good morning, thanks for putting me up,” Gale said to Cheyenne. “I’ll get out of your way.”
“Stay for breakfast,” Cheyenne said, “then we’ll drive you out to your car, and see if we can’t get you fixed up.”
“Thanks,” Gale said, realizing she needed help, but not wanting to bring trouble onto these nice folks. She didn’t want anyone else killed. “Is there a place I could . . . ”
“If you just need to pee, anywhere out in the sagebrush is fine,” Cheyenne pointed to the flap.
Gale excused herself. Outside she found a different world than the one she fell from the night before. There was enough light now to see. Behind the teepee an old school bus sat deserted, a rusting red pickup truck and a couple of horse trailers kept it company. Beyond that, there was a small corral and a shipping container. Gale squatted behind a little juniper tree and tried to decide what to do. The wind was strong and the sky threatening. Dark clouds loomed, closing in on the mountains, and holding back the sunrise. The image of Larsen’s bloody bullet-riddled body lying dead invaded her thoughts.
“Looks like a storm’s coming,” Gale said as she ducked back inside.
“Morning storms are unusual, but who can say anymore about the weather,” Cheyenne said. “I better get to breakfast.”
Gale was so hungry she would have eaten anything, and was relieved to see Cheyenne preparing a tofu scramble. While they ate, the rains began, blowing hard against the back of the teepee; they opened the front flaps and watched the lightning show.
Drake began work on another painting as the thunder roared and the lightning flashed on the wide-open mesa, silhouetted against the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. “When a storm comes, you got to let it in,” Drake said as he danced his brush across the canvas. “You can’t keep a storm from coming.” The electricity in the air made Gale’s skin tingle.
“An out-of-place storm like this brings a message,” Cheyenne said.
“Maybe a warning,” Gale said.
“Turmoil is usually a good thing,” Drake said. A loud thunder boomed, as if on cue.
Cheyenne explained that Drake was a well-known western artist who used to have a busy gallery in Taos and another in Santa Fe. But they gave it all up to live in the teepee. He still sold his paintings, usually for between ten and twenty thousand dollars, but now they enjoyed life. Lightning cracked the sky.
“Do you miss the big time?” Gale asked.
“Not for a minute,” Drake said. “I like living without being accountable to nothing and no one, ‘cept the sun and the stars, the wind and the rain. We come and go when we like. People let us camp on their land; I give them a painting. We’ve got places all over the west.” Triple lightning bolts hit so close that the ground beneath them shook.
“Sounds wonderful,” Gale said, standing to get a closer look at his storm painting. But she froze as two black shadowy figures suddenly appeared, blocking the teepee’s opening.
Chapter 39
They woke Jaeger at six a.m., as ordered. He’d slept for a few hours after moving the satellites, which inexplicably revealed nothing.
“Gaines is losing it,” an operative said. “All that trouble and he was only talking to himself.”
“Unless there is a way to communicate through that thing undetected,” Jaeger said, while doing his fifty morning pushups.
“What thing?”
“The Eysen.” Jaeger stopped and looked up at the operative, bewildered. “The NSA recruits the best of the best and then makes them better than that. We have the finest technology in the world and yet you are sitting in this room with me during the most important chapter in our nation’s history since the signing in Philadelphia.” He furrowed his brow. “What do you think we’re doing here?”
“Sir, Gaines just spoke again. He still has that music on, but we are able to get it separated. He asked a question, ‘What happened?’ The computer filtered the words through a psychological analyzer.”
“And?”
“There is a ninety-eight point eighty-four percent likelihood that he’s talking to a person, and he expects an answer. According to the computer, he is engaged in a serious conversation with someone.”
Jaeger shot a look to the operative who thought Gaines was talking to himself. He stood up. “Screw this. I want cameras in there now! And I want the Safety Net ready to go. Everyone in San Miguel on standby.”
Operatives scurried to work stations. Two left the room and a few minutes later, four more employees arrived. Safety Net was the name of the operation to pull Gaines out and secure the Eysen. Jaeger was willing to let Gaines have the time to decode the Cosega Sequence, believing it would unlock the secrets of the Eysen, but he wasn’t willing to lose the artifact. If there were a chance someone else might be able to communicate with Gaines, they needed to bring him back to the United States, and lock him down in a government bunker somewhere.
Jaeger had not been comfortable with the situation from the start. Allowing a suspect to remain at large was counter to all his training and experience. But working at the NSA had a way of changing a person’s perspective. Having access to all the world’s secrets was a reality-distorting process. Not everything was black or white, and the more important things were unlikely to fit in neat little boxes. “Preconceived notions turn out to be a crash course in stupidity,” Jaeger frequently said.
A bone-thin relic of a man rushed in and handed Jaeger a file. The aged man, one of the few analysts who consistently impressed Jaeger, looked at him with watery eyes, “Frightening,” he said quietly and walked away.
Like most of their operations, the NSA didn’t have to investigate the Eysen; they only needed to analyze data that others had. The bulk of information had come from the Vatican; the world’s leading authorities on the previously unknown priceless piece of technology. For days, the NSA had been producing reports that Jaeger found increasingly disturbing. At first, they wanted the Eysen because of the incredible potential it held to propel the United States’ intelligence, military, and business sectors so far ahead of its rivals that America’s dominance in the world would be assured for centuries.
But the report he’d just read changed the priorities in a way he couldn’t quite figure out. Jaeger, needing something to reference, tried to recall a time in history when a similar situation had occurred. There was none. A world devoid of the Catholic Church had existed before, but not for two thousand years. And the report detailed not only how would the Vatican fall, but would possibly take all of Christianity with it. And Jaeger knew that churches weren’t just a place to hear Sunday services; they also acted as a stabilizing force in the world. Without the Vatican, a power vacuum would be created that could throw the entire world into chaos.
“Sir, Washington is on the line,” an operative said.
“Tell them I’ll call them back,” Jaeger said, looking at the image of Elpate’s house on the screen. “We’re going in today. Tell me when we’re go-ready. And get me the Vatican on the phone.”
Chapter 40
Rip waited for the Crying Man, who for the first time seemed to be at a loss, as if he were trying to create a way to answer Rip’s question and describe what happened to the Cosegans. After a few moments, he simply shook his head. The music changed; there was an absence that took Rip couldn’t place at first. The chanting and whispers were gone; replaced by a hum, with something organic about it, perhaps the sound of a distant earthquake.
The Crying Man stared into Rip’s eyes; communicating in this new telepathic language of emotions. Rip thought he understood, “There’s nothing left to see.” Or perhaps, “There’s nothing left to say.”
A knock on the bedroom door grabbed Rip’s attention. When he turned back to the Eysen, the Crying Man was gone; the trees fading. Rip put the Eysen in his pack; then, remembering what Booker had said, slung it over his shoulder.
Maybe it was an NSA agent, Rip thought, picturing Dyce and Elpate silently killed, adding to the long list of
deaths he had caused.
“Rip, it’s Elpate. You got a girl in there or something? Let me in, man.”
Rip opened the door.
“Dude,” Elpate, said looking around in an exaggerated manner. “Is she underage or what?”
“Sorry, I’m just working. I’m paranoid.”
“Yeah, that’s what happens when you break the law, that’s why I’m all legit.” Elpate laughed. “Want to buy some pot?” he said, laughing louder.
“No, but I appreciate your putting me up. I know it’s a risk you don’t need.”
“That’s okay, brother. We’re so far off the beaten path; no one is going to find you. Hell, they would have been here by now. Of course you don’t have to worry, no one is going to ever be able to get past the twisty lock on your doorknob.” He roared with laughter.
Rip couldn’t help but laugh at his own ridiculousness. “Come in,” he said to the over-the-hill former drug dealer. After all, it was his house. Dyce and Elpate had put their lives on hold for him and for no other reason than that Rip’s dad was a friend of Dyce’s, and Elpate was a friend of Dyce. If not for them, Rip would be in a federal prison or dead, instead of having conversations with an eleven-million-year-old entity.
“So what’re you working on back here all secret and hush-hush?”
“An old artifact.”
“Dyce told me that much,” the old Mexican said, with his short, white ponytail and glassy eyes, he looked like he’d been stoned since the 1960s. “But it’s cool, if you don’t want me to know. If the federalies torture me, I’d tell them everything. I’m un poco afraid of pain.” He winced. “In fact, I’m scared of anything scary.”
“The truth is, Elpate, I don’t know what it is, exactly. I need time to figure out what it is.”
“Take all the time you need, brother. But you’re eating my food, and that’s cool, but I, ya know, like to see some gratitude. Nothing much, just a little cash for grass every now and then.”
“Sure,” Rip said, digging in his pocket and pulling out one of Grinley’s hundred dollar bills.
“Oh, you’re too kind.” Elpate held the bill up to the light, and then smiled.
“Actually, I’d like to talk to you and Dyce about something.” They found Dyce cooking up bacon and eggs, with jalapeño peppers and onions. Rip admitted to himself that the food had been worth the hundred he’d just given Elpate.
At Rip’s suggestion, they ate outside. There was a small table on the sunny patio that they moved under a shade tree in the backyard.
“Listen, guys,” Rip began. “I wish I could stay here forever.”
Elpate patted his pocket, where he’d stashed the money. “You can.”
“But, I think it’s wiser if I move on.”
“No dude, you can have the bread back, it’s cool. I don’t really need it,” Elpate said.
“It’s not the cash. I’m happy to pay my way. I just sense something in the wind.”
“Rip, it’s gotta be pretty risky out there still,” Dyce said.
“I know, but sooner or later they’ll find me. They always do.” Rip thought of the motel in West Memphis, Canyon de Chelly, and Grinley’s. “Every time I think I’ve lost them . . . Anyway, the best chance I have is to keep moving.” Rip wasn’t sure if he wanted to go with Booker, but needed more time to think about it. “Would you be willing to take me?” he asked, looking at both of them.
“Where?” Dyce asked.
“I don’t know yet. Farther south. Do you guys have any ideas?”
“When?” Elpate asked.
“After breakfast?” Rip asked.
Chapter 41
In the early hours of an already warm summer morning, Senator Monroe strolled a path at Camp David; the President on one side, Attorney General Dover on the other. “Mr. President, I assure you that Booker will be dead before the second summit,” Monroe said. He’d been summoned to the presidential retreat, once the Attorney General got word of the arrest warrant issued for Booker.
“I don’t like you, Monroe,” the President said.
The Senator gave him a that’s-not-news-to-me look and snapped his fingers as he rolled his right hand off in a dismissive gesture. “Like I care.”
“And I’m sure as hell not going to let you use the White House to embarrass the Vice President and me, by arresting the richest African-American in the world.”
“Why would you be embarrassed? Booker Lipton is a criminal,” Monroe said.
“Aren’t we all?” Dover asked rhetorically.
The President scoffed. “I didn’t authorize the assassination of an American citizen.”
“Are you stopping it?” Senator Monroe asked.
“You know I can’t stop it,” the President said. “If the NSA wants Booker dead, that’s his own fault. He’s done something to threaten national security.”
“The NSA has deemed Booker Lipton, an enemy of the state,” the Attorney General clarified.
“Semantics,” the Senator said, stopping and turning to face the two men. “Thanks to our friends in Rome, the FBI has enough evidence to put Booker in prison for the rest of his life, probably longer. He’s finished.”
“You’re underestimating Booker Lipton,” the President said. “And I’ll not be a party to your stunt.”
“I’m sorry, if you think I’m doing this to embarrass your Vice President, because the last time I checked, he was doing a fairly good job of doing that, on his own.”
The Attorney General stifled a laugh.
“I don’t know about you, Mr. President,” the Senator continued, “but I’m a patriot.”
“Well, Senator, I don’t know about you, but I’m the President.”
“Ha! We’re both just counting down the days though, aren’t we?” Monroe retorted.
“Gentlemen,” Dover said. “Please, let’s not make this worse. I think the President has made his position clear, and I will inform the Director of the FBI not to arrest Booker Lipton, while he’s at the White House.”
“Really?” Monroe countered. “The Department of Justice has people working overtime, all weekend preparing a ninety-two count indictment against Booker. There’s a secret grand jury convening Monday morning. If you don’t allow him to be arrested, the media will eat you alive.”
“The second Eysen summit is not public; they won’t even know he’s been to the White House and, as for his arrest, until he’s indicted . . . ” The President said.
“Leaks are tough to control in Washington,” the Senator said, snapping twice and pointing to a nearby Secret Service agent.
“Listen to me, Monroe. I’m a lame duck President and you do know what that means. It means that even before Booker is indicted, I can pardon him. End of story.”
The Senator looked the President directly in the eyes. “Do you really think the NSA is going to let you get away with that?”
“I don’t give a damn what the NSA thinks,” the President blasted.
“It’s your funeral,” Monroe said, turning and starting to walk away.
The President grabbed his shoulder, “Are you making a threat, Monroe? Attorney General Dover, did you just hear Senator Monroe threaten the life of the President of the United States.”
Monroe shook loose. A Secret Service Agent brandished his weapon, while another spoke clipped words into his wrist.
The Senator held up his hands, halfway, and smiled. “Mr. President, you misunderstood me.”
The President snapped his fingers and pointed at the Senator’s face. “That’s what I thought.”
“Anyway,” the Senator began, “you and I both know, I don’t have to make threats.”
Chapter 42
The silhouettes, standing in the opening of the teepee, backlit by a sky exploding with lightning, sent terror through Gale. But it was Cheyenne who screamed as she flung the still-hot iron skillet at them. It bounced off one of the intruders’ knees, as he let out a groan. Drake was going for his shotgun, when the other intruder
came down on top of him. The one hit by the skillet, barged in, and grabbed Gale.
She kicked and punched, but was no match for the fit AX agent. “Damn it, Gale, it’s Kruse!” he said, as she bit his hand. His training almost took over and he was about to snap her neck, but instead, he got her in a bear hug. Harmer, now sitting on Drake, pulled a pistol and backed down Cheyenne, who was wielding a knife.
“Put it down,” Harmer said firmly.
“Now!” Kruse added, through gritted teeth.
Drake moaned. Cheyenne dropped the knife.
“Let him up, he’s an old man!” said Cheyenne, who was probably fifty to Drake’s seventy-five.
“Promise to be good?” Harmer asked. “Jeez, Gale, we come in peace.”
“You know these apes?” Cheyenne asked.
“I’m afraid so; I’m kind of their prisoner.”
“Yeah, we’re sort of keeping you alive, you mean,” Harmer said, sarcastically.
“You didn’t do a very good job with Larsen,” Gale shot back.
“Enough!” Kruse said. “These poor people don’t need to know any more than they already do. Let’s get out of here, before you give someone a reason to kill them.”
Cheyenne looked at Drake, and then at Gale.
“I’m sorry. Maybe you all should pack up and head to one of your other places for a few weeks.”
“It’s a mighty muddy day to be travelin’ off the mesa,” Drake said, finding his hat. “We’ll be fine. But, I’d appreciate you all leaving.” His stern look turned soft. “Gale, do you want to leave with these two?”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s the safest for everyone.”
“All right. Don’t worry about us.”
Gale nodded a thank you/sorry/please forgive me look and then turned to Cheyenne. “Please leave this morning.”
“Okay,” Cheyenne said softly, barely audible over the pounding rain on the teepee. “I understand.”
By the time Harmer, Kruse, and Gale reached the Jeep, parked a quarter of a mile away, they were drenched and muddy. Gale didn’t say a word; she knew where they were heading. She didn’t even care how they had found her, but assumed there had been some kind of tracking device in the SUV. Riding in the Jeep, reminded her of Sean, the kid who had gotten them out of Virginia in his Jeep, less than two weeks earlier. She still couldn’t believe he was dead. And his brother Josh, he’d been like a brother to her. And now Larsen was dead, too. What about Rip? Where was he? Was he even still alive?
