by Todd Borg
“Tania, it’s okay. I understand. Museums need wealthy people to provide the art, and it’s standard routine for those people to wait until they are old or dead before they give their art to the museum. In return, they know that the museum will provide a great viewing environment for that art. What you do for the wealthy is just as valuable as what they do for you.”
“Oh, thank you. I’m… It’s just that most people don’t have quite such a sensible way of looking at these things.”
“Tell me about your photograph.”
“Yes, of course,” she said. “Our patron has many great works, but this one is a standout. Tell me, are you by any chance familiar with the photographers called Group F-Sixty-four?”
“No, I’m sorry, it doesn’t ring a bell.”
“It was a group of well-known photographers who got together in the late nineteen twenties. Ansel Adams, Imogen Cunningham, Willard Van Dyke, and a few others. Their purpose was to show the world that Stieglitz and his New York friends were not the center of the photography universe. The Group F-Sixty-four look was one of crisp focus, exquisitely-framed images, mostly of Western landscapes, but also including portraits and nudes and close-ups of natural objects. They often felt that f-stop-sixty-four was the best aperture for creating their works.”
I’d come out on the top of the Pollock Pines ridge. The winding highway had turned to high-speed freeway and I was up to 70, rocketing down toward Placerville.
“Anyway,” Tania continued, “our patron has a beautiful black and white, silver gelatin print, eight by ten. Very sharp focus. A spectacular use of lighting and shadows. The range of values alone is worth noting. On the verso it’s dated nineteen twenty-eight, and it says, ‘printed for the de Young show, nineteen thirty-one.’ It’s signed by Edward Weston. He had a one-man show at the de Young Museum in nineteen thirty-one. Have you heard of him?”
“Of course. One of the three or four most famous American photographers of the twentieth century. What is the subject?”
“The photo shows several men working with large pieces of rock, laying them into a wall. Three of the men are Caucasian and two appear to be Chinese. It hasn’t been authenticated, but it looks very much like Weston’s other work and clearly fits with his oeuvre. I believe it to be a genuine Weston, which would make it very valuable.”
“Tania, that is a big help. I very much appreciate it.”
“Really. Oh, I’m glad. I worried that I would be bothering you by calling.”
“No, absolutely not. Tell me, is there anything about the photo that might provide a clue as to where it was taken?”
“No. I’ve looked at it up close with my loupe. There are no specific identifying characteristics that I can find.”
“What about things not specific?”
“How do you mean?”
“What is your gut sense? When you look at this building they’re working on, does it look like something you recognize? A tall building going up in San Francisco? A dam or breakwater? A villa in Los Angeles? Could they be repairing a wall at one of the California Missions?”
“Oh, I see what you mean. No, none of those. But whatever I would think could not be backed up with any scientific evidence. It would be, what’s the word, whimsy.”
“That's exactly what I want, Tania. I want your whimsy. What do you think of when you look at the photo?”
“Well, this would really be whimsy.“
“Perfect,” I said.
“Last summer,” she said, “two of my friends and I went up to Lake Tahoe for a vacation. We went all around the lake and looked at the amazing sights. One day we hiked down the long path to Emerald Bay and we took the tour of the Vikingsholm Castle.”
“And that’s what the photo looks like to you?”
“Yes. It looks kind of like these laborers are building one of the walls at the Vikingsholm.” She paused. “And that would fit with the name you gave Robert Calibre.”
My brain was blank for a moment.
“Which name was that?”
“You said it was called the Sky Palace. That would fit, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, Tania. Better than you realize.”
I thanked her and hung up.
THIRTY-NINE
It was very dark by the time I came to my turnoff on Highway 49 in Placerville, the Gold Country Highway. I went north, up past where gold was discovered, past the turnoff to the Three Bar Ranch, home of Ellie Ibsen, the world’s greatest dog-training expert whose search dogs had helped me on several cases. I continued several miles north to the same place where Spot and I had been a couple of days ago. I hid my Jeep under the brush I used before.
I pulled the baggie of charcoal out of my belt pack and rubbed it over my face and hands. Spot was very interested in this new makeup and stuck his cold wet nose on me in several places.
“Okay, largeness. Time for your nap.”
I turned around to face Spot who sat on the back seat, his head jammed up against the headliner of the Jeep.
“Don’t want to put you in front of men with guns just yet. And I may need your help later, so sleep well.”
I tucked my wallet under the edge of the floor carpet where it curved up toward the brake pedal, and put on my belt pack. I stuffed in the goodies Diamond had gotten me except for the big roll of duct tape. I grabbed my windbreaker and bolt cutter, pet Spot and got out, locking him in the dark Jeep.
I needed my key to get back into the Jeep, but I didn’t want to make things any easier for the Patriots just in case everything went wrong.
Thirty feet away was a Black oak. Using my flashlight, I walked around it looking for a little crevice or hole in the bark and found one at the split where one limb branched off another. I wedged my Jeep key into the notch, pushing the metal into the bark with some force so that it would be impossible for a squirrel to run off with it.
With no ID or key on me, I started up the dark trail, carrying the bolt cutter and using my flashlight in short bursts.
It seemed a long hike in the dark before I reached the fence. I was in full view of the dark world, but I didn’t have much choice. I put on the headlamp that Diamond had brought and, kneeling in the dirt, I used the bolt cutter to cut a small hole. The fence wire must have been hardened, because it was very difficult to cut. The hardened wire immediately began to dull my cutter. Each subsequent cut became more and more difficult. I worried that the cutter would get too dull before I could make an opening. I downsized my intended circle. After I’d gone about half way around the clock, I had to work the cutter back and forth, over and over, twisting and rotating to cut the linked wires. Finally, the cutter became so dull it was unusable.
I bent the cut half-circle of wires as much as I could with my hands, then stood and kicked at it with my feet, trying to flex it up a bit farther. I cut a piece of the cord Diamond had given me and looped it through the half-cut circle of fencing. I ran it up and through the fencing links a foot above. By jerking and cinching, I folded the heavy wire circle back against the fence and tied the line off to hold it in place.
The opening in the fence still looked much smaller than anything I could crawl through. But I had no choice.
I got down on the ground, raised my right arm, put it through the hole, then stuck my head through the fence. I began to wriggle through. Cut fence wires hooked on my ears and hair and drew bloody scratches down the left side of my neck. I tilted my shoulders at as much of an angle as possible. Wires ripped at my shirt. I got my right shoulder through the hole, but one wire dug in near my left carotid artery, and I wondered for a moment if I would puncture it and die in a minute, pulsing blood coloring my corpse while I was stuck in a fence.
I shifted my position so the opposite wires skewered my right armpit in order to take the pressure off the left side of my neck.
Getting my left shoulder through was the worst. Wires that were effectively sharpened by the process of cutting, raked parallel grooves in my left deltoid and down the outside
of my left arm as the opposing wires ripped the flesh of my right armpit. My left elbow seemed to stick on a sharp wire, and as I wrestled it free, I envisioned the bones separating like cooked chicken bones.
Eventually, I was through to my waist and from there it was mere scratches all around my body as I got my butt through and snaked my thighs and legs the rest of the way.
I stood up, blood coming from countless small wounds, and thought about the Bouvier that Spot and I had seen from a distance the previous time we’d climbed to the fence. With luck the dog was kept inside. But unless he was upwind of me, he would smell my blood along with my scent, and it would inflame his response. He would bark until let out.
If it came to a confrontation, I’d have to rely on my experience play-fighting with Spot.
I couldn’t hurt a dog that was just doing his job. No club or cobble or other weapon was acceptable. A reckless decision by many measures, but such was the handicap of knowing dogs as well as I know people.
I’d thought of wearing heavy gloves for protection. But I knew from hours of wrestling with Spot that no kind of glove, not even a knight’s chain mail could provide much protection against an animal with a bite that can break bones. I also knew from experience with Spot that there is a way – though not very reliable – to gain control over an attacking dog, and it requires that one is bare-handed for maximum control. I hoped that I would have the presence of mind to employ it, should it be necessary. So I went in without gloves.
Of the two depressions and their groups of buildings, only the northernmost one had lights on. I turned off my headlamp and went toward the south group of dark buildings, again using my flashlight as little as possible.
Perhaps the south buildings were vacant, with all of the soldiers in the north group, eating dinner and drinking whiskey. Or perhaps the occupants of the south buildings were on the early-to-bed program. Either way, I had a chance of breaking in without arousing attention.
It was very dark, with only faint starlight to see by. I went slowly, careful not to trip, aware that I could step in an unseen hole and break my ankle.
I walked a spiral curve from the fence ring in toward the south buildings, studying them for possible lights or movement. Despite the moonless darkness, I gradually got a sense of access points, likely paths for their vehicles, probable locations of doors, and possible locations for sentries should the Patriots be very paranoid.
As I got close, I was south of the south buildings. I kept looking for a cabin with a pole building behind it, and a hill behind that. If I found it, I would know that buried deep in the earth was the secret container with its meth lab and, hopefully, one very scared woman tied up and gagged, awaiting probable death.
But I saw nothing like what I was looking for.
There were two plain buildings with several windows at regular intervals. They looked to be of standard frame construction with composition shingle roofs, two-foot eaves and wood siding. There was also a large metal pole barn with no windows, no eaves, but multiple skylights. No light came from inside. The lack of windows suggested a purpose that they didn’t want seen by anyone from outside.
I approached the metal pole barn first. In its end was a large oversized garage door big enough to drive a bus-sized RV through. It was locked from the outside by a sliding bar and a large padlock. I would need a cutting torch to get in. I moved to the first of the stick-built buildings.
It had a regular wooden door with a window pane. Peering in, I saw nothing but a distant red glow. I tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. I stood to the side of the wall, pushed the door in, and waited. There was no response.
I walked into the dark interior, moving slowly, keeping my hand along one wall. The red glow turned into a clock. 10:47 p.m. Farther away was another clock. 10:51 p.m. I moved sideways, put my hands out, found a platform, sat down.
It was a bed. I was in a bunkhouse.
I thought of digging through personal effects. But I’d have to use my one of my lights. I’d risk discovery by anyone passing by outside.
I left and went to the second building. It too was unlocked. I slid around the door jamb, moved slowly through the dark, and discovered I was in a kitchen/dining hall. It had a strong odor of garlic mixed with bleach. Again, I could perhaps learn something of the militia men if I wanted to risk a light, but I wanted to explore more before I took that risk.
I left and found the dirt road up the small ravine toward the other, higher depression on the fenced land, and the second, northern group of buildings.
Afraid to use a light, I moved slowly, ready to sprint into the brush on the nearby slope if I sensed a vehicle or men walking through the dark.
The northern group of buildings was well lit by the glow of a sodium vapor light. It flooded a large circle of yellow over the space between four buildings, one of which was a Quonset-style building with a large, arched corrugated roof. At the end of the building was a door with a pair of windows on each side. Lights were on inside the building, and I heard voices from within. Two of the four windows were open, and fitted into each was an exhaust fan that ran at high speed.
The long building to the left was a traditional stick-built design with a gabled roof and five double garage doors, all of which were closed. Nearby were parked two ’70s Blazers, the old camo-painted Bronco I’d seen earlier on the highway down in the valley below, and three pickup trucks, one an old Dodge, and two late-model Fords. Not counting any vehicles in the ten-car garage, the vehicles in front of me could represent 18 or 20 men. From the raucous hollering that rose above the whirring nose of the exhaust fans in the Quonset building, they might be 18 or 20 inebriated men who carried automatic weapons.
I walked over to the dark, curved roof and inched my way toward the far end. I peeked around the corner. Light also spilled from this end of the building, but it came from just two windows, the only openings at that end. Both windows were open, serving as air intakes to cool the sweaty men inside.
There was a garbage dumpster twenty feet away from the windows, close enough that I might be able to hide in its dark, protective shadow and hear the voices inside the building.
I circled out through the dark and came up into the dumpster’s shadow. I crouched down and peered around the edge of the dumpster, trying not to gag on the miasma of rotting garbage.
A couple of the voices were clear against the larger din of grunts and laughter.
“… up at the range. Those targets were perforated like from a shotgun!”
“That’s what an automatic weapon will do. But instead of little buckshot, each hole is from a round that will take down a bear! Imagine putting that puppy over your shoulder and riding into town!”
“Guys!” A third voice trying to get attention.
“That was the AKs we popped those targets with. The Mac tens are accurate as a pea-shooter. All the power in the world don’t do no good if you can’t hit your target.”
“Guys!”
“Accuracy don’t mean shit if you’re close enough that you can’t miss. Gimme a Mac any day. I’ll show them civil servants what we think of their rules and regs.”
“GUYS!!! SHUT UP!” The voice was deep and thundering.
The building went silent.
“We commence at dawn. Mitch is gonna run tomorrow’s drill. He’ll take us through a full dress rehearsal. The bank will be represented by the south bunkhouse. This will be a full assault, the real thing. Live ammo. Do you understand what that means?
“And if we pull this dry run off, we’re going to set the date. If, and I stress IF… If we make our objective, then we may be wholly funded from within for an indefinite period of time. But NO WAY will there be a stipend! This is a holy war! This is about saving our country from the New World Government! This is not a job with a paycheck! This is about fighting for your constitutional rights, your purpose! OUR MISSION! Now get your asses home to bed!”
There was the general noise of sliding chairs and people mumbling. I
ran away from the small cover of the stinking dumpster, then trotted up the slope into the darkness. I turned to watch from behind an oak. I heard doors open at the far side of the building. Followed by voices.
Several men appeared in the wash of yellow light.
I saw a large, furry, black dog romping through the light, into the shadows, back into the light. The Bouvier des Flanders. Herd dog and guard dog extraordinaire.
The group of men ambled away from me, down the path toward the southern depression and the bunkhouse. The interior lights of the building went off, and two more men came into view. They turned the other way and walked toward the end of the building where the dumpster was.
Toward me.
“Christ, that dumpster stinks!” one of them said.
“Greg put those deer guts in it.”
“He didn’t bury them?! The hell was he thinking?! Davy said we always gut our prey down in the gully so the stink runs down into the gov’ment’s property.”
“Greg didn’t know.”
The dog ran toward them and trotted with them.
As they were about to leave the last wash of yellow from the outdoor light, the dog stopped, lifted his head to the night, spun a half-circle, made a deep growling woof, then sprinted in my direction.
FORTY
As the dog shot toward me, growling like a deadly predator, my instinct was to turn and run away. But I knew that I needed to confront him. And for that I needed to see.
I ran toward the light, toward the dog.
An intense, whispered voice came from below. “Big Bear sees something! Go get ’em, Big Bear!”
The dog didn’t slow as he raced up the dark slope. If he saw my rush toward him, he was unfazed.
He stopped growling.
I watched his leaping stride, concentrated on his rhythm, tried to ignore his sudden, frightful silence. I remembered all the times that I’d engaged in full-body combat with Spot. Spot didn’t use a crushing bite when we played, but he lunged and dodged and parried, and I developed a familiarity with canine attack techniques. I remembered the movements, the tricks. But this dog was a stranger. I didn’t know his personal moves. I also had no idea if a dog that was engaged in play fighting acted the same as a dog in a serious attack.
