It was almost 12:30, by the time I started taxing. I was airborne quickly and climbed to thirty thousand feet. I cruised at a little over five hundred miles an hour. The weather was not bad and I stay south to avoid, stormy weather in Kansas and Illinois.
It was mid-afternoon when I landed at Walker Field, Grand Junction. I had contacted the owners of the hanger, where I had left my plane, the last time and made arrangements, for them to refuel and store my plane, until I was ready to leave. Hertz rental had once again supplied me with a four wheel drive SUV.
Once I was checked in at the Grand Vista Hotel, I called Kala, to let her know I had landed safely. I said I would probably not make contact with Gwenda, until in the morning. After I hung up with Kala, I called the number, I had been using to reach Gwenda. I let the phone ring a dozen times before giving up.
Wednesday morning, I called the same phone number. This time, it was a female voice. I asked for Gwenda and heard the woman yell for her.
Hello came a familiar voice through the phone. Gwenda, I responded excitedly. Mr. Steele, she said. Are you here in Grand Junction? Yes, I replied. Well I have school today, but my mother and I would like to meet you tonight, if we could do that. I really didn’t want to wait around another full day without answers, but I had no choice.
Okay, where would you like to meet, I asked? There’s a restaurant, called Palisade Café and Grill on West Third Street in Palisade’s, she replied. My mom and I will meet you there tonight at 6:00. I agree to the meeting and we hung up.
I decided I would spend the day researching the history of this area at the local library and on my laptop. I found an area in the library that held old Daily Sentinel of Grand Junction newspapers. I found a rack with newspapers from 1995 and 1996. It wasn’t a large newspaper, but it was informative. I sat all morning and a good part of the afternoon, reading through the two years of news. The town seemed to have the same issues that every other town or city had.
I looked at my watch and saw it was getting close to five. I left the library and headed east on State Highway 6 towards Palisade. I followed the GPS on the car and it led me, straight to the restaurant. I was about fifteen minutes early, so I went on in. I found a seat at the bar, where I could see the front door.
A few minutes before 6:00, two women walked into the restaurant. One was just a teenager and the other looked to be in her late thirties maybe early forties. The young girl said something to the hostess, who pointed me out.
I stood up when the two ladies, approached me. The young girl said we could sit at that table, as she pointed to one in the middle of the floor. I picked up my beer and followed them to the table. Gwenda introduced her mother, Miakoda. She said nice to meet you and we all sat down. I could see they were Native Americans, by their facial design and completion.
Gwenda said they were from the Ute Mountain Tribe. They were both very pretty, especially the mother who was quiet. Your uncomfortable about all this, I said to Miakoda. My daughter should not have called you, she said. O’ mom, Gwenda barked. If grandma can help Mr. Steele find his daughter, than I think she should.
I thought it was time for me to tell them, who Christine was and how I was connected to her. When I told them her mother was killed, a couple months ago, they were saddened. I said all I want to do is find out if Christine is alive, or if not, what happen to her. I explained about her being on a Greyhound bus and I’ve tracked her from St Louis to Grand Junction.
Gwenda said her grandmother lives on the reservation in Fruita, Colorado. She is a medicine woman for the tribe’s elders, who refuse to see American doctors. The reservation is on the north side of Fruita, at the base of Fire in The Sky and Rock Mountain.
When do you think I could meet her, I asked. Gwenda said she gets out of school at three. She said I could pick her up at school, and she could take me to her. No! Her mother soundly stated. Why, asked Gwenda. Miakoda was silent and I spoke up. I don’t think it would be appropriate, for you to accompany me, without another adult.
I suggested they find another adult male, to go with us, and I could drive. I said I have a large SUV rental and have plenty of room. Miakoda said I should pick her up at two thirty tomorrow, at the Varaison Vineyards and Winery. She gave me directions and said she would have Cogan, come with us. She also told me the phone, I called them on, is located at the winery and they are only in there until around 9:00 in the mornings.
We ordered dinner. I told them a little bit more about me and Lorain. Miakoda became more relaxed as we ate and talked.
Gwenda said she was a straight A student with a 4.0 grade point average. She said she was a senior at Palisade High School. She said the school is helping her with a scholarship to Colorado State University.
Miakoda said she has been saving every cent, so Gwenda can go to college. She would be the first in their family to attend college and only about two percent of the, Ute Mountain Tribe, ever to go.
I reached into my shirt pocket and removed my personal business card. I said if Gwenda had financial problem with her college education, they were to contact me. I would be happy to pay for her education. Neither one of them could believe, what I had just said to them. I told them I was very wealthy and my education was paid for, at no cost to me or my parents. Maybe it’s time, I do something for someone else.
It was 8:00, by the time we got out of the restaurant. There was a light rain and I offered to drive the ladies home. They both jumped in the back of my rented SUV and Gwenda point me in the right direction. They live on the other side of railroad tracks that ran through the center of town, in a nice trailer park. I dropped them in front of a large trailer and they jumped out, saying goodbye as they rushed into the trailer.
The next day I was frigidly waiting around for time to pass. I ate a little lunch and headed for Varaison Vineyards and Winery in Palisade.
I picked up Miakoda and a farm hand named Cogan, at the winery and then drove to Palisade High School, just in time to pick up Gwenda, who sat up front with me.
We quickly worked our way over to the Interstate and headed west, by-passing Grand Junction. We stayed on Interstate 70, until we arrived at the Fruita exit. I took the exit and Gwenda directed me through town and out towards the mountainous area. There was a sign along the highway, telling us we were entering, the Ute Mountain Reservation.
The housing was sparse and there were no people in sight. It looked more agricultural to me, than it did an Indian Reservation.
Gwenda had me turn down a dirt road and I followed it for about a half mile, before we pulled up in front of a nineteenth century cabin. Sitting on the front porch, in a wooden rocker, was an elderly woman. I parked in front and Gwenda jumped out yelling, grandma. I stayed back and let Miakoda and Cogan get out first. The ladies kissed the elderly woman on the cheek and she seemed happy to see them.
Gwenda came out to the SUV and took my arm. She led me up on the porch and introduced me to her grandmother, Keezheekoni. I shook her hand and it was hard and leathery. She has had I hard life, I thought to myself.
We sat around on the edge of the porch and casually talked. Then Keezheekoni said she wanted me to come inside. She looked over at the other two women and Cogan and told them, in a somewhat gruff way, to stay outside.
I walked in the cabin, which was sparsely furnished with hard wooden furniture. No fancy soft sofas, lacey curtains, or television, in this place. We moved, towards the back of the cabin and I sat at a wooden table, with four wooden chairs. A wood burning stove sat against the back wall with open shelf cabinets and a wood counter on both sides.
Keezheekoni reached up on one of shelves and pulled down an old green tinted mason jar. She unscrewed the brass lid and pulled out an eight and a half by eleven sheet of paper and unfolder it. It was one of my fliers. Her hand shook as she tapped on the photo, in the center of the flier.
I saw this girl, she said to me. It was the winter of the big snow and the summer of the mighty sun. I knew what year she was talking ab
out. I had read how the beginning of 1996, the snow storms, had killed around thirty Native Americans in the mountains. That summer was also the hottest on recorded, for the area.
Where did you see her at, I asked? The old woman leaned over, staring out the front screen door, to make sure her daughter and granddaughter was still on the porch. She sat back up in the chair and said, the truck man had her. He came and took me from my home, so I could help this girl have her baby.
This girl delivered a baby, I asked as I pointed to Christine’s picture? She nodded her head yes. She said she told the truck man. The mother was not able to feed the baby and he needed to by baby milk and bottles.
Truck man, I asked? She nodded her head up and down again. I don’t understand, I asked. The truck man fixes trucks and grows grapes, she said. I was still confused, thinking she may not know what she was saying. She picked up a yellow pencil out of a cup, sitting on the table. With her shaky hand she wrote something on the bottom of the flier and pushed it across the table to me.
I spun the flier around and printed down at the bottom, was the name, Douglas Brighton. He’s a bad man, she said. I don’t want my daughter or granddaughter to know I gave you his name. I promised, I would never let anyone know where I got his name.
I recognized the Brighton’s name. The large truck service center on the other side of the Interstate and Colorado River from Fruita, had his name on it. In Palisade was a winery and distiller with his name on it as well.
Keezheekoni said she was sewing her daughters flannel shirt, some weeks ago, when she found the paper folded in the top pocket. I asked, if she knew where her daughter had gotten one of my fliers. She said, Ambrosia her boss had given her some, to post at their stores.
I now knew how and when Miakoda got her hands on one of my fliers. I had given the owner of an organic vegetable market and winery, in Palisade extra copies for her to place at other businesses she owned.
I folded the flier and slipped it into my back pocket. I said I will never let anyone know, you and I had ever met. I don’t know what I will do with all this information, but if Brighton had hurt Christine, he will pay. She grabbed my hand stopping me from getting up from the table.
Mr. Brighton came for me again in March two years ago, she said. He had another young girl having a baby in his house. He said someone dumped her at the truck building and he was just trying to help her. He said when she was well he would take her home.
He warned me not to say anything to anyone. He said he was a powerful man and would have my whole family killed, if I told anyone about the girl and her baby. This is the same thing he said, when I delivered the other baby, many years ago.
I stood and helped Keezheekoni up from her chair. We joined the others out on the porch. They didn’t ask what her and we had talked about. Miakoda asked her mother if she needed anything. She reply she was fine and they would see each other this weekend.
As we were driving back to Palisade, Miakoda said she goes to her mother’s house, every Sunday after church. She takes her to the store and make sure she has everything, she might need for the week. I told Miakoda and Gwenda that Keezheekoni, was a big help.
After dropping them off at the winery, where I had picked them up, I drove to the hotel and called Kala. I told her I would be staying in Grand Junction for a few more days. I asked her to call me, when she got off work, and was at home. I would tell her everything, I found out today.
After I hung up with Kala, I pulled the Mesa County road map out of my duffle bag. I did a Google search for the name Douglas Brighton in Grand Junction, Colorado. There were two men named Douglas Brighton and one was a junior. I read about the elder Douglas Brighton and knew he would be in his mid-sixties now. The younger Brighton, was around forty.
Kala called me at nine thirty, Colorado time. It was eleven thirty in Florida. She said she has been staying at my house this week. I told her to consider it her home. We talked for over an hour, before my cell phone needed charging. She told me not to do anything, where I may get hurt. I told her I wasn’t sure, what I going to do. I wasn’t sure the local police, would be any help. I was a stranger and Douglas Brighton is a pillar of the community.
I slept little, Thursday night and rose early on Friday. I had breakfast at the hotel, before leaving around eight thirty. I drove through Grand Junction, until I reached State Highway 340, Broadway Street. I turned west crossing the Colorado River. I stayed on Broadway, until I arrived at a wide place in the road, just ahead of the Colorado River and the Interstate 70 interchange.
As I approached the area, on my right was Brighton Truck Service Center. On the left side of the road, was a Best Western motel and an old family style restaurant, named Granny’s Kitchen.
I pulled into the restaurants parking lot and backed into a parking space that gave me, a view of the truck center. The building had five large overhead doors, all were open. I could see men working on large trucks parked inside. Around the outside of the building, were a half dozen semi-trailers and several more trucks, parked in the gravel, on the east side of the building.
I wondered which one of the men in the garage was Douglas Brighton. My search on the Internet provided me with information about the senior and junior Douglas Brighton, but no photographs.
From where I was parked, it was probably a hundred and fifty to two hundred feet away from the service garage. Even if I knew what Douglas looked like, I wouldn’t be able to see him clearly, from here.
I sat in the parking lot for several hours, watching trucks stop in for fuel. A large tow truck with the Brighton name on it, towed a dump truck onto the site.
Around 11:30, the restaurant’s parking lot was starting to get busy, with lunch patrons. I decided to leave and pulled out on Broadway and headed back towards downtown Grand Junction.
I drove the twenty five minute trip, to the Mesa County Library. Inside I went to the same area where I found copies of old newspapers. There was a large area on the history, of Grand Junction, Colorado River and the surrounding communities.
I grabbed a large book tiled the Grand Mesa, thinking it was information on the county and its history. The Grand Mesa is one of the world’s largest flat-topped mountains. The whole area was cut out of the rugged terrain, by the Colorado and Gunnison rivers. The area was one of the last communities, in the lower forty eight states to be settled by pioneer, European Americans.
From the time settlers arrived in the 1880s until the 1960s, three of the main economic activities in the region, were farming, fruit growing, and cattle raising. Fruit orchards, particularly, between Grand Junction and Palisade to the east, remain important to the region's reputation and economy.
Fruits most often grown are peaches, pears, apricots, plums, cherries, and, particularly since the 1980s, grapes for wine. In this semi-arid environment, these orchards thrive from a combination of abundant sunshine and irrigation from a system of canals that divert water, from the Colorado River.
I pulled another book from the shelf that was titled Grand Valley, Who’s Who. I found the Brighton family name and almost a whole chapter on the family. The Brighton’s, were early settlers in the area. They were heavy into agriculture and cattle. They were the first families, to start growing fruit in the area.
There were a lot of great photographs, of all the family members. From the original pioneers, to the last surviving members. The book was copyright 2008. The younger Brighton’s photograph, showed him in his mid-twenties standing with his father.
I continued my research and found a photograph, in a local promotional pamphlet, of junior in 2011. He was photographed with a country western band that were performing at the annual Country Jam.
The photograph was perfect. I took the pamphlet over to a copier and copied the page. Now I knew what Douglas looked like and would be able to pick him out of the group, working at the truck service center.
I left the library and headed straight over to North Avenue and out to a Walmart Superstore. I grabb
ed a grocery cart and made my way over to the men’s clothing. I bought several pairs of black jeans and four black long sleeve shirts.
In the shoe department, I purchased a pair of hiking boots. On my way out the door, I stopped in the sporting goods and picked up a pair of standard and a pair of night vision, binoculars.
After dark I drove back to the truck service center. I pulled into the restaurants parking lot and parked facing the truck center. All the overhead doors were closed and most of the interior lights were off. Using my night vision binoculars I scanned the area for several minutes. No one was around. I drove across the highway and around to the back of the service center.
I sat in the SUV for several more minutes, contemplating what to do next. I got out and looked through a glass panel in a couple steel doors, on the back of the service building. The placed was closed and locked up tight.
As I was working my way back to the SUV, I heard dogs barking. I walked over to a guardrail running along a rocky ledge and looked down towards the Colorado River.
On a flat tree and grassy plateau, sat a house and large barn. I grabbed my night vision binoculars off the front seat of the SUV and moved as close to the guardrail and rock ledge as I could go. The house and barn, was surrounded by a high chain link fence. Looking through my binoculars, I followed a gravel drive from in front of the house to the edge of the fence. There was a set of unusually arranged double gates.
The driveway then curved slightly and ran up to the blacktop driveway that runs around the back of the service center. The double set of gates, at the bottom of the gravel drive, were closed. One set of gates sat about thirty feet back from the other set. It was like a prison setup, where a car would pull through one gate and then close the gate, before opening the other.
I had seen this type of setup where cattle were corralled in an enclosure. It was designed to allow a rancher to pull a vehicle onto the property, without allowing his livestock to escape from the corral. I scanned the area with my night vision binoculars, but didn’t see any livestock, only two large pit bull dogs.
Alien Among Us (TJ Steele Book 1) Page 18
