“Damn, dude,” Lindo says, eyes wide. This is all news to him, and not why the town’s name got him excited.
“The modern church denies much of this,” Young continues, “but no one can refute that the U.S. government forced the Mormons to ban polygamy in 1890. Utah wouldn’t have been a state if they hadn’t, and the LDS church would have been violently wiped out. All that is to say that there are families who still practice plural marriage in Colorado City, and other small LDS communities, usually run by a charismatic cult leader. There’ve been more than a few arrests and cult breakups in recent years.”
I remember seeing something about that on the news, but I keep it to myself.
“The cults are also responsible for the proliferation of homeless men in Utah. As birth rates of boys and girls are close to equal, the boys must be expelled from the community so that the older men can continue to marry. Hundreds of young men have found themselves on the streets over the years, many of them disappearing and never being heard from again.”
“Geez,” Lindo says. “All that for a little extra poontang?”
“Fifty-five wives is a lot of poontang,” Wini says. “But if they’re keeping it in the family, so to speak, that can’t be healthy.”
Lindo drum rolls on the steering wheel. “Oh, shit, is this going to be like a Hills Have Eyes sitch?”
“Yes,” Young says, “there is a high rate of deformity and developmental disability in the community. Some of the highest in the world, in fact. But no, it’s not like The Hills Have Eyes.”
Lindo is surprised, but not about the facts. “Preach, you’ve seen that movie?”
Young shrugs. “I like horror.”
“And religious history,” I point out.
“Part of the job.”
I’m quiet for a moment, pondering possibilities. Then I ask, “These LDS cults... They wouldn’t kidnap women to keep as wives, would they?”
“They’re run by men with a penchant for collecting women,” Young says, frowning. “Who’s to say what they would do? Adding women from outside the community could certainly help the gene pool, and I doubt there are women from outside the community clambering for a life of sexual servitude to an old man. But, they are also notoriously racist, so I don’t think that’s the case with your missing Latina.”
“Better not be,” Lindo says.
“Since all of that was news to you,” I say to Lindo, “what do you know about the town?”
Lindo’s grin returns. “Weird shit, man.”
“Weirder than polygamous cults?” Wini asks.
“UFOs.”
All hope in learning something useful dissolves. “UFOs…”
“Unidentified Flying Objects? You know.”
“I do know,” I say, and my voice tells him how unimpressed I am.
“I’m not making this shit up,” Lindo says. “Colorado City is in a hot zone for sightings. The county its in—”
“Mohave,” Young says.
“Right,” Lindo gives a vigorous nod. “They have tons of UFO sightings. Like hundreds every year.”
“Every year?” I ask. If hundreds of people are reporting something—anything—hundreds of times per year, there is usually something real behind it. Not little green men, but something.
“Hundreds,” Lindo says. “And Colorado City is at the epicenter.” I’m about to ask him to explain when he turns his lady-killing smile toward me. “Just like Santa Cruz, man.”
Now he’s got my attention. “What about Santa Cruz?”
“Same deal, man. Lots of weird shit. UFO sightings, like all the time.”
“He’s right about that,” Young says. “I’m frequently asked about the subject. I think most people in the congregation have seen something.”
“Have you?” Wini asks.
“No, and I pray that I don’t. UFOs and the like are most likely the visible, or tangible in some cases, manifestation of demonic activity.”
Young and Lindo are two very different but equal kinds of wacky. But if there is a connection between Santa Cruz and Colorado City, even if it’s batshit crazy, I want to hear it.
“I don’t know about that,” Lindo says. “Demons aren’t really my bag.”
“Which is what they want you to think.”
Lindo gives me a sidelong grin and an eye roll, like we’re on the same page when it comes to who is a nut job and who isn’t. Then he says, “Look, man, Santa Cruz and Colorado City are both on the 37th parallel.”
He waits for a reaction and when he doesn’t get one, he continues. “You know, the lines that go around the Earth? Like on a globe?”
“I know what they are,” I say, pretending like I knew what he meant the first time.
“The 37th parallel runs straight through both cities, man. Straight through.”
There’s some kind of significance here of which I am not aware. “And…”
“It’s the UFO highway,” Wini says.
“Yo!” Lindo directs his smile back at Wini. “I’m digging you, man.”
“What’s the UFO highway?” Young asks.
“The majority of UFO sightings, and other weird shit, happen along the 37th. All the way across the country from Santa Cruz to Williamsburg, Virginia. Animal mutilations, alien abductions, crop circles, earthquakes, you name it. All of it running along Highway 37.”
“How do they know they’re alien?” While I heard everything he said, only one word really stood out, and it fits with something Young said. Could this be my nugget of truth? “The abductions.”
“I don’t know, man,” Lindo says. “If there are lights in the sky and then someone goes missing, ipso facto.”
“First,” I say, “I’m pretty sure you’re not using ipso facto correctly. Second, how many abductions?”
“Beats me, man. But a lot, I think. And that’s just the ones being reported.”
I’m about to ask who wouldn’t report a missing person when I remember the pastor’s claims about young men being ejected from the cult. Who would report them missing?
I also know that there are, on average, a hundred thousand people missing in the United States at any given time. Many of them are never found. Some are abductions—by people—or unsolved murders. Some are folks just getting lost, or dying of natural causes someplace where they can’t be found. There are a lot of reasons why people disappear, but if there is a large number of people going missing in a narrow geographic location, there could be something larger at play.
Human trafficking is often thought of as being a sin of the past. In truth, there are more people in slavery now than ever before. And it’s prevalent in the smallest backwoods towns and the largest cities in the U.S. People are shipped, marketed, and sold right under our noses. The idea of an abduction-and-transportation ring centered around the 37th parallel feels like a stretch, but compared to UFOs, it’s not only possible, but quasi-likely.
The moment I find evidence of something on that scale, I’ll call the authorities in. Until then, I’ll try to keep us rooted in the real world.
“How long until we reach Colorado City?” I ask.
Lindo glances down at the GPS, and I realize I could have done the same.
“Ten hours,” he says. “Less if I speed.”
“Don’t speed,” I tell him. “Let’s try to avoid the police.”
“Story of my life, man. No problema.”
Twelve hours later, after several stops for gas, food, and bathrooms, we arrive in Colorado City, which in the dead of night is not much to see. But that doesn’t mean it’s not interesting. Just two minutes after pulling into town in search of a hotel, motel, inn, or B&B—which isn’t easy without a phone for research—I know our arrival hasn’t gone unnoticed.
“Turn right,” I tell Lindo.
“What? Why?” His confusion is understandable. We’re on a main road. There are bright signs ahead. One of them is probably a hotel of some sort. Despite my lack of answer, Lindo takes the next right into a resident
ial neighborhood.
Fifteen seconds later, the car behind us follows.
I watch it in the side mirror, maintaining a steady, non-threatening distance. “We’re being followed.”
9
“Turn left, up ahead. See it?” I say.
Lindo drives with both hands on the wheel and both eyes on the rearview. I snap my fingers, pulling his attention back to the road. “Yeah, man, but—”
“Once we’re out of sight, accelerate, quick as you can, but without screeching the tires.”
“And then?” Young asks, his voice tense. Moments ago we had all been somewhat delirious from the long drive. Now everyone is amped up and nervous. As they should be. We just drove nearly seven hundred miles without our phones in a vehicle no one could trace us back to.
Short of our faces being picked up by roadside cameras, or our progress tracked by satellite recon, we should have been invisible. And that makes me a little nervous. If the men chasing us had those kinds of resources, I can only think of one possible source: the NSA. And if that’s the case, we’re well and truly screwed.
Odds are, we’ll just disappear, like the people we’re trying to find.
“We’ll find a driveway. Pull in. Turn the lights off,” I say.
“Hide in plain sight?” Young complains. “That’s the plan? In this car?”
I glance around the brand new, super cool car interior. It’s not the kind of vehicle you spot on the road and don’t look at again. I’m not a car-guy, but I’d double-take this beast out of sheer curiosity. Young might be right.
“So then we don’t hide,” I say.
Young leans forward, pleased that he shifted our strategy away from something that scared him. “And the alternative to hiding is…”
“Ambush,” I say, crushing his concerns with far larger ones. “We’ll park and hide. When they stop to look at the car…” I waggle my empty, sound suppressed Beretta M9.
“We’ve no rounds left,” Wini points out.
“They don’t know that.” I look in the side mirror. The vehicle behind us has maintained its distance. “And maybe we’ll get some answers.”
“Or get dead,” Wini says. “But hell, I’ve got a foot in the grave already.”
“I like the hiding in plain sight idea more,” Young says.
“Well, better say your prayers, because that’s not the way this is going to happen.” I turn to Lindo, who hasn’t voiced an opinion. “You good?”
“I’m your driver, man. You tell me where to go, how fast to get there, what music to play, and I’ll get it done.”
I like Lindo, but I haven’t figured out if he’s got a strong sense of adventure, or he’s four straight lines short of a cube. He’s been a godsend, and surprisingly knowledgeable—about weird and possibly insignificant things—but what kind of person agrees to go on a cross country jaunt in his uncle’s brand new, very expensive car, with strangers who are being chased by armed gunmen and a helicopter?
As he prepares to take the left turn, I decide I don’t care. I’m glad he’s part of our haphazard team.
His hands grip the wheel.
Foot to the gas pedal.
Eyes shift to the rearview, and then, surprise. “Yo, they’re gone.”
I turn around in my seat, scanning the road. It’s empty.
“Did they bug out?” he asks. “Know we were on to them?”
I give my head a slow shake. There’s no way…just like there’s no way we could have been tracked.
People gone missing, guns-blazing mercs, a black, unmarked helicopter; it’s all affecting my nerves. Making me paranoid. “I was wrong.”
“You said they were following us,” Young complains, his anxiety melting from him as sweat. He was a lot braver when his gun was loaded, which I suppose makes sense.
“Coincidence.” I shrug. “It happens.”
Not often, but it does.
I look in the sidemirror again, expecting to see lights, or the silhouette of a vehicle running with its lights off, but the street is empty. Over the next fifteen minutes, I direct us through a maze of turns, just to be sure. When our chaotic path is done, we’re parked in the lot of the Zion Motel.
The single story, concrete building is utilitarian and very solid looking, which I suppose is a bonus if armed goons track us down. When Lindo turns the car off, I turn around and ask, “Okay, who’s got cash?”
Lindo scoffs. “Cash? Man, this is the twenty-first century. Who carries cash?”
“Used what I had on gas,” Young says. “I’ve got three cards, but we can’t use them, right?”
Wini digs around through her purse, shuffling through makeup containers I’m not sure she’s ever used, pens, keys, and packages of mints. Her hand emerges with a money clip, plump with twenty dollar bills. When she sees the mutual surprise shared by the rest of us, she says, “Anyone as old as me knows it’s foolish to depend on technology.”
“And makes you a target for criminals,” Young says.
“Hence the gun.” Wini grins and hands the wad of cash to me. “Besides, it’s his money.”
I’m stymied. “What?”
“You give me a hundred dollars a week for office expenses,” she says. “Do you realize how few office expenses we have?”
How much money does she have? I wonder, and then I do a quick flip through. The twenties disappear after the first few bills. A disguise. The rest are hundreds. I’m holding something just shy of ten thousand dollars.
The strangest thing about the wad of cash in my hands is the lack of reaction from Young and Lindo. Granted, Young is the pastor of a mega-church and judging by the tailored suit, tithing is good. But Lindo, who was excited about two thousand dollars, doesn’t so much as flinch when he sees five times that.
Maybe he’s thinking about taking it? It’s possible. I don’t really know him, and he did take his uncle’s car. But then, he’s not really a stranger to excess.
When I peel out a thousand dollars and hand it to Lindo, his surprise kicks in. “Dude, what’s this?”
“Down payment,” I tell him. “The rest when we’re done.” I hand him another five hundred. “This is for gas, expenses, and your room.”
He takes the cash, smiling now. “Room service tonight, baby!”
“Pretty sure there isn’t room service here,” Wini points out. The motel isn’t exactly seedy, but if they had a kitchen, I wouldn’t use it.
“Also…” I hold my hand out to Lindo. “Keys.”
“Seriously?” Lindo looks both offended and amused.
“Two grand serious,” I tell him. “I like you, but haven’t known you long enough to trust you.”
He makes a sound like air escaping a tire, but then slaps the keys down in my hand.
I hand another five hundred to Young. “Same as him. Expenses. Food. Room. Go in separately. You don’t know each other. Don’t know us.”
“What about you two?” Lindo asks.
“Wini’s with me.”
“Oh, I see how it is.” Lindo, having a good laugh, turns around to face Wini. “You robbing the cradle over here, Win? What’s your secret? What’s my boy into, aside from, you know, the age thing?”
Wini stares at him so long, I think she’s not going to reply, and that would be fine by me, but then with a straight face, she says. “Detachable penis.”
The car is silent for a moment, and then we collectively vent our pent up anxiety from the day. It’s a good moment in an otherwise shitty day. Laughing feels good. Therapeutic. I don’t know Young or Lindo, but part of me remembers what it’s like to have friends. For the past five years, it’s been me and Wini. Kaylie’s family tried to stay in touch for the first year, but I avoided them until they gave up. Being part of their family—of her family—hurt too much. They look like her. They laugh like her.
“Good stuff, man,” Lindo says, and then exits the car, walking into the motel and emerging a few minutes later. He flashes the keycard, letting us know all went well, a
nd then struts off to his room, most likely for a night of pay-per-view porn on my dime.
Ten minutes later, I send in Young. When I see him headed toward a room near the end, I leave Wini in the car and enter the motel alone. I’m not being chivalrous, but I don’t need anyone else thinking the way Lindo does, to take note. The last thing I want to do right now is stand out.
When the short man behind the counter sees me and makes a face like the Devil himself passed gas in his face, I know I’ve somehow failed. I give myself a once over. Maybe there’s blood on my clothes? When the man groans as he stands up from behind a TV, I realize he’s just otherwise engaged and lazy.
“Busy night?” I ask, trying to be friendly.
“Least you’re white,” the man says, his blatant racism like a slap in the face. I’m about to say something when he leans in for a closer look. “You is white?”
The delay gives me just enough time to reign in my emotions. I’m not here to throw down with the locals, even if he is a bigot. I don’t even bother correcting him, as it would require explaining the concept of interracial couples, and I’m sure this guy hasn’t seen Jungle Fever.
“I is.” I manage to say it with a lopsided grin that convinces the man I’m not mocking him.
“How long?”
I nearly say, ‘one night,’ but then I realize that Young and Lindo probably did the same. Bubba here has already noted the uptick in customers from none to three. No reason to give him a pattern to notice. “Two.”
“How many in the room?”
“Two.”
He looks around me like he might have missed someone else entering the small, mildew-scented reception office. “Name?”
I’m pretty sure he doesn’t need a name and is really just fishing to see if I’m staying with a man, so I tell him. “My mother. We’re visiting family.”
He goes all squinty again and I realize I might have stepped in it. Colorado City is basically one big family. If I’m visiting someone here, he’s likely to know them, know of them, or maybe even be a direct relative.
The Others Page 6
