by J. K. Scott
At the entrance to Highway 17, I noted heavy eight-lane truck traffic. I decided to take the overpass to Cottonwood. After several miles, I turned north on 89A to Sedona. I had to talk to Peter at BBB, but wanted to locate him first. Without his last name and address, I would need to search previous meeting locations. I couldn’t risk calling the Beyond Black Borders (BBB) emergency number until I clarified if Cascade was a nefarious company and knew their current status with BBB. I trusted Peter and hoped he could answer my questions.
9
SOARING SUMMER TEMPERATURES in the Phoenix Valley had residents and tourists seeking cooler elevations in Prescott, Sedona, Flagstaff, and the Grand Canyon. Traffic was heavy and slowed to a crawl at the turn to Sedona Red Rock State Park, where day campers, bird-watchers, hikers, and bikers explored the spiraling red-rock countryside. Even on weekdays, the parks, art communities, hotels, restaurants, and retail flourished, surrounded by the scenic magnificence of Aztec sandstone cliffs.
Arriving at downtown’s Y roundabout, I slowed to a crawl and passed restaurants, jeep tour companies, and retail shops. For the next six miles, I drove along Oak Creek Canyon’s picturesque, curvy road to the Manzanita Campground.
I pressed my luck by arriving without a reservation. At the gate entrance, Tanner, the grounds manager, welcome me, saying, “Dak, it’s good to see you. Your business called and reserved the last available space. I’m to tell you to be careful hiking. A dead hiker was found in the Superstition Mountains. And don’t call your job until after your vacation.”
I thanked Tanner for the message. The hiker’s death bothered me. Only two days ago, I had met Trevor. The warning not to call until after my vacation concerned me. That meant I shouldn’t contact Ronzo, because their server and communications had been compromised. The only good news was that Mary had passed my message to Ronzo. I hoped she would succeed with John Wheeler’s release.
I drove around the camp, noting several motorcycles, three Alto cars, two jeeps, and several mountain bikes. I settled into a remote area in the tent camper’s paradise amid the elder ash and box elder trees along the babbling Oak Creek. Several campers were fishing on the creek banks.
After unpacking and pitching the tent, I secured the two good memory sticks in the zipper pocket in the rear passenger seat. The used one I left in my backpack. I left the camp to find Peter, who’d mentored my classification process and arranged my Cascade assignment a few years ago. Uncertain whom I could trust, I had to be cautious.
In uptown Sedona, I stopped at a hilltop resort hotel to use the lobby network with my mil-spec computer. It took a few minutes to confirm Trevor Sampson’s body had been found at a local campsite in the Superstition Mountains east of Phoenix. I couldn’t shake the thought that if I hadn’t contacted him, he might still be alive.
Online, I searched for Professor Randall at Arizona State and learned he had retired a decade ago. Cut off from Ronzo’s valuable services, I had to use my own resources to find Peter. I couldn’t risk contacting BBB’s emergency call line and being questioned until I knew my status.
I returned to the campsite with an old map to plot my search for Peter. I couldn’t risk using my burner phone for named searches. The advanced CALEA law that allowed for the tracking of calls even on a burner phone bothered me. Peter could have moved, but I had a distinct impression he had a private office at a storefront in Sedona. Private meeting locations changed monthly on or near Jordan Road.
I started my search on the east side of Jordan Road without success. On the west side, I dropped by a metaphysical spiritual center that advertised meditation and healing classes. A rock patio garden separated the two single-story buildings. The main building had meeting rooms, and the other had a spacious retail shop. The shop sold paintings, statues, books, crystals, jewelry, fragrances, music, and other tourist trinkets.
A slender young girl with a yellow flower in her golden-brown hair assisted an elderly couple. She glanced over at me. “Hi. I’m Harmony. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“I’m just browsing,” I replied. I was ambling to the bookshelf to view the titles, when a display caught my eye. Greg Jenner’s book Planet X was stacked on a table next to an easel that advertised a lecture tomorrow evening on Planet X by Kisha Anderson. I considered attending if I couldn’t find Peter. Unfamiliar with Kisha or her credentials, I mused whether she could be involved with a conspiracy movement or disinformation program or—the worst-case scenario—work for Cascade. I picked up a copy of Jenner’s book about the controversial topic, wondering if the images could be linked to Planet X. Although the courier’s images were from several years ago, there hadn’t been any validity given to the claim that an enormous rogue planet approached our solar system. However, astronomers speculated that a Planet 10 could be in the Kuiper Belt, tugging on outer dwarf planets. I had to keep all options open.
Additional customers arrived, and I continued to browse the shelves, listening to Harmony’s soothing voice sell the value of quartz crystals. Persuaded to buy a crystal, or preferring to chat with her, I bided my time while she finished a couple of sales.
Harmony noticed I hadn’t left yet. “Can I help you? The healing session is almost over, and the store will be very busy in a few minutes.”
Accepting her assistance, I said, “Yes. You are very knowledgeable on crystals.”
“Healing crystals are my passion. May I see your hand?”
After hesitating for a second, I extended my hand. She gazed at my palm as she held my hand. The sensuality of her touch sent me through the roof.
Harmony looked at me seriously. “You are very troubled.”
Deflated by her comment, I forced myself to listen intently as she held my hand while talking about crystals and chakras, which she explained to me.
“I’d recommend a moldavite to resolve your troubles. It’s the only extraterrestrial gemstone. It’s associated with the heart, third eye, and crown chakras. It will strengthen your inner journeys to understand troubling times. It’s a stone of transformation,” she explained as her silky hand slipped from mine.
After her presentation, I felt obligated to buy the moldavite. I said, “You choose it for me.”
She selected a stone for me to view. The marbled green stone the size of a quarter looked wrinkled, like an unripe walnut, in her palm. The hard, wrinkled folds weren’t as appealing as the sparkling crystals. Avoiding further discussion, I said, “I’ll buy it,” without touching the stone.
Responding to my indifference, Harmony softly said, “You have to hold the stone before buying it.”
“Sure,” I said as she passed it to me to hold. I doubted this stone could rid me of troubles. With my other hand, I placed the Planet X book on the counter to buy.
Harmony’s green eyes sparkled. “Oh, are you coming to the lecture?”
I felt my face flush. “Possibly,” I said, as if I had received a personal invitation from her.
“It’s tomorrow, and there are only a few seats left.”
Harmony, the ultimate eager saleswoman, sold me.
I said, “I’ll buy a ticket.”
“Oh, you won’t be sorry. Have you read The Kolbrin Bible? It’s claimed to be the Rosetta Stone on Planet X.”
I had packed the book in my canvas bag, but I wouldn’t admit it to Harmony. I said, “I’ve only read the controversial reviews,” hoping to avoid further comment about Planet X. I felt a twinge of guilt at not confessing I had read the book.
Harmony took the stone from my hand, wrapped it in tissue, and put it in a bag with the book. She posted my sales along with the lecture ticket. I doled out more than $200 in cash for the purchase. I casually said, “I’m looking for a friend of mine. It’s been a few years. I knew him by Peter. He worked and lived nearby.”
Harmony asked, “What’s his last name?”
“I forgot his last name. He’s my heig
ht, six feet, and has dark brown eyes like me—well, not like me. He’s about ten years older. He had a beard, but it could be streaked with gray. He had an athletic build and deep voice. He reminded me of a lumberjack,” I said.
“There aren’t many men who fit that description. I know a Peter, but he doesn’t have a beard or gray hair. I wouldn’t say that he looks like a lumberjack either. He’s really quite handsome. He stops in occasionally to order rare books. He’s a collector of Louis L’Amour books, and he was searching for a hard copy or first edition of Haunted Mesa. I’d told him I’d see if I could locate a seller.”
My heart skipped a beat; from a woman’s perspective, he could be the Peter. I asked, “Does he still live on Jordan Road?”
“Oh no, he doesn’t live in town.”
I asked, “How do you know that?”
“Several months ago, I found his rare book. We met at Red’s Restaurant in the Sedona Rouge Resort, where he stays while in town.”
Harmony had not failed to amaze me. “What was his last name?” I asked, as if I’d had a memory lapse.
“Grant. Peter Grant,” she said without hesitation.
I thanked her for the information and left before the healing session finished.
Pleased with my resourcefulness in obtaining information, I drove back to camp and noted a police officer talking to John, the owner. My heart sank as I hesitated to keep driving in or stop. Sweat trickled down my chest as my gut wrenched. I hoped the police were not looking for me. I couldn’t sustain this paranoia forever, as my adrenal glands were working overtime.
With bated breath, I glanced over at the police officer talking to John as I rolled to a stop. I opened my window to the elements.
“What’s up?” I asked Tanner.
Tanner leaned into my open window. “Old man Barnes caught a prowler leaving his tent after fishing. He yelled at a tall man dressed in gray sweats. He ran after him, but the thief jumped on a motorcycle outside the entrance. The police have talked to the other campers. Let me know if you’re missing anything before the police leave.”
“Thanks. I’ll check my tent,” I said, very concerned.
“Yeah, the police suspect the thief is looking for cash, alcohol, or opiates. Sorry to bother you, Dak.”
When Tanner spoke my name, immediately, I questioned my choice to stay in a camp where people knew me. I pulled into my space and glanced around. My tent appeared untouched, but the incident raised suspicions. As a precaution, I checked the two memory sticks in the jeep. I had to remind myself that a recent prowler didn’t mean I was the target.
To calm my jitters, I left for the creek’s bank to read the seventy-page book on Jenner’s Planet X, also known as Nibiru. The planet was steeped in prophecy from the Sumerian tablets. There were several names for and variations of the incoming-planet theory, mainly that it was a rogue planet or that our sun had a sister star or there was a brown dwarf with an orbiting planet that crossed over into our solar system around every 3,600 years or more. It had been speculated that Planet X or another planet collided with Earth or other planets millions of years ago, creating the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter.
The mainstream scientific community refuted Planet X’s existence after years of searching the skies with advanced satellites. Scientists were still searching to see if Earth had a binary star or brown dwarf sister planet. However, the ancient texts referenced it with regard to upheavals in the solar system as well as extinction periods in Earth’s life span of 4.3 billion years.
I closed my eyes to recall the images. Could the images be faintly related to the Planet X scenario? Far more suggestive would have been that cosmic intelligence or interdimensional beings were related to the planet. I finished the book and prepared to leave for town to continue the search for Peter.
The sun set over the towering red-rock cliffs as I drove to Sedona Rouge Hotel to dine and inquire about Peter. The well-dressed Thursday-night crowd did not include Peter. The restaurant reeked of social energy; I ordered Tito’s vodka at the spacious bar lounge, hoping the mood was contagious. Over a rib-eye steak dinner, I observed the patrons questioning if BBB members or an elite group that claimed they kept the world intact frequented the restaurant.
After dinner and light conversation with the bar attendant, Rod, I asked about Peter. Rod said a man who fit Peter’s description dropped in occasionally, but he hadn’t seen him in ages. I told Rod if he saw Peter to tell him a friend was looking for him, but I didn’t leave my name; Rod had my description.
Without a communication network, I felt detached from the pulse of life. I decided to have a nightcap at Creekside Bistro before hitting the sack. I arrived at Creekside Plaza, where a lively band played on the patio, with the crowd moving and swaying to vibrating music. Only hours earlier, I had mulled over Planet X’s destruction, and now I medicated myself with too many vodkas. Numbed by the elixir, I immersed myself in the music. The evening blurred as I socialized at the bar, and I barely recall joining a woman with golden-brown hair in a bun and her friends at a table.
The next morning, I crawled from under the tent, feeling the aftermath of toxic alcohol withdrawal and dehydration. I slithered into the creek and suffered a cold jolt of icy water that stung my skin. Soaking in the creek, my body ached, and the icy water left a burning sensation. Fortunately, the trees shaded me from the bright sun, preventing blindness in my bloodshot eyes.
Unable to coordinate my movements, I rolled over to drag myself from the creek and almost crawled back to the tent, when I noticed that my jeep was missing. I moaned in panic; last night was a blur. I hobbled to stand, burdened by the weight of my problems. I desperately searched the campgrounds for my jeep with the memory sticks inside. My only redeeming thought was that they would be useless to a common vehicle thief. I falsely convinced myself that the bar attendant had taken my keys at Ken’s Creekside Bistro and called a taxi for me.
About to hitch a ride to town with another camper, I stopped in my tracks as my jeep pulled into the campground. Unstable on my feet, I leaned on a nearby tree and watched the jeep come to a halt. I stared at Harmony as she climbed out of the jeep, wearing white shorts, a blue T-shirt, and running shoes. Her golden-brown ponytail bounced as she dangled the electronic key in front of my blurred eyes. She looked vibrant and rested, while I held back fluids trying to escape my churning stomach.
Hesitantly, I said, “What a relief. Do I dare ask what happened?”
Harmony grinned. “Oh, you were on a roll. You gave me your keys after your fourth drink, admitting you couldn’t drive. I drove you here last night.”
Embarrassed that I had imposed upon Harmony, I asked, “What can I do to redeem myself?” as memories flooded my feeble mind. I vaguely recalled the previous evening at the bar, talking to several women who invited me to join their table.
“For now, I need to pick up my car at Ken’s Creekside.”
“How can I thank you?” I asked, feeling a protesting rumble in my stomach.
“Just say thank you. I’m in a hurry; I have to help Kisha prepare for tonight’s lecture. You’ll be there, won’t you?”
Relieved I had my jeep, I said, “Sure, I’ll be there.”
“Great. Let’s go. Kisha is waiting for me.”
“Sure. Give me a minute to change.”
I peeled off my wet clothes, pulled on a pair of khaki shorts and a T-shirt, and rubbed toothpaste on my teeth as I left the tent to climb into the passenger seat.
Harmony drove aggressively as I suffered, rolling with the curves. She eased off the accelerator as she approached town while my stomach churned. She had so many rings on her fingers that I couldn’t tell if she was married or engaged.
I said, “I owe you for driving me last night.”
“Oh, you were quite the talker,” Harmony said as she swung into the parking lot of the restaurant where I had brewed my
brain in alcohol. I cringed at her comment and didn’t respond.
I crawled out of the jeep like an old man who hadn’t exercised in years.
Harmony said, “Don’t forget: the lecture is at seven o’clock.” She blew me a kiss and left the parking lot in a white convertible. The airy kiss kindled my weakened spirit.
I opened the jeep’s back door to check if my memory sticks were still in the zipper pocket. Relieved to see them still there, I promised myself it wouldn’t happen again. I had already made two serious mistakes, and a third would be unthinkable. Fortified in knowing that I would recover from my irresponsible behavior, I left for the Sedona Rouge to have lunch and talk to the servers.
10
ON MY SECOND visit to the Sedona Rouge, the friendly hostess recalled a rather quiet man who fit Peter’s description, but she hadn’t seen him in weeks. Every morsel contributed to Peter’s whereabouts, but I didn’t have weeks. Determined to continue my search, I decided to attend the Planet X lecture that night, but I would need a cover. With Trevor’s death, I had to be more cautious. I recalled that he had talked with a staffer before joining me. What if he had asked her to snap a photo of me or us? What if Trevor’s slayers had forced him to admit who had the images? Imitating a detective and analyzing the past and future had their challenges. My mind kept conjuring possibilities, struggling between being sensible and curtailing my paranoia.
Leaving the restaurant still hopeful, I stopped at several shops to buy a disguise. At a new-age shop, I bought long white linen pants, a matching long-sleeved shirt, and leather sandals. At an upscale beauty salon, I bought a shoulder-length ash-blond wig and a gray dye crayon to streak the wig and the stubble on my unshaven face. My last purchase was press-on tattoos that would last for a few weeks.
