Lindo must sense my concern because he says, “I waited in the car. Preach did his shopping separate. Said he needed to try shit on. Little high maintenance if you ask me.”
“And the bullets?” I ask.
“That was all Win, man. Preach was against it, but looked pretty happy when he loaded those fifty cals. Have to admit though, I’m feeling pretty inadequate without a piece.”
“You ever fire a gun?” I ask.
“Have I ever…? Man, look at me. I…” He squeezes his lips together, eyeing me. Knows that I can see right through him. “Naw, man, but still.”
“You drive,” I tell him. “That’s it. Cool?”
His frown says it’s not, but he says, “Yeah, man. I’m good.”
“Good. Now, go get the others.”
“We heading out?” Lindo backs toward the door. “We gonna see some shit?”
“We’re going to where that happened,” I point to the blank television. “Where that really happened. From there, I’m not sure. We’ll go where the trail leads us.”
“Sweet.” Lindo exits the room, leaving the door wide open and missing the conclusion of my thoughts.
“If there is a trail,” I say to myself.
We gather by the car two minutes later, all of us in new clothing, three of us with loaded weapons I hope we won’t need. While both Lindo and Wini are dressed for the heat, in shorts and T-shirts, Young is dressed in a suit coat and tie. The outfit screams ‘federal agent’ and when I’m about to question his choice of clothing, he pulls out a wallet and flips it open. I catch a brief glimpse of a badge and what looks like an NSA ID card. Then he flips it closed. “Aaron Young, NSA. Thought it might get some answers.” I stare at him, letting discomfort blossom. “You know, if you can’t turn up anything.”
I answer by climbing into the car’s passenger seat. When everyone is inside, I turn around. “If you flash that to anyone else with a badge, you’re screwed. If you flash that to anyone without my say so, you’ll be babysitting the car for however long this shit-show lasts. Where’d it come from?”
“Thrift store,” Young says. “Same as the suit.”
“And the ID card?” I ask.
“Made it at a copy shop. Images are from Google. Added text in MS Paint.” The way his voice trails off answers my last question. He’s realizing just now that he made a mistake. But I need to hear him say it.
“And your photo?”
“Facebook,” he confesses. “But I wasn’t logged in. I swear.”
That’s good news, but not great news. I sit back, give Lindo a nod and close my eyes as the Charger roars to life. AC blasts from the vents, calming me. “Which way, man?”
“Southeast,” I say, and point to the stunning, sun drenched bluffs that I haven’t looked at in the daylight until this very moment. Colorado City is fairly run down, and not much to look at, but the founders certainly picked a stunning location to start their little polygamist hideaway. “To whatever is on the other side of those cliffs.”
12
What was on the other side of those cliffs turned out to be a whole lot of empty space. I’m not sure what I was expecting to find, but it was more than nothing. An hour into our search, with nothing to go on, I suggest we question people in town, and no one disagrees.
We start on the northeast part of town, which is actually Hildale, Utah. The 37th parallel that defines the border of Utah and Arizona cuts straight through the center with some buildings being in both states.
“This place is like a military base,” Lindo says, maneuvering the Charger down a neighborhood street. But it’s not like any neighborhood I’ve ever seen. Every single house is surrounded by an eight foot wall, impossible to see past. The residents are either extremely secretive or ready for a war. Given what I know about them, probably both.
“Pull over there.” I point to what looks like a normal house on a corner lot, if you ignore the wall. I get out alone and approach the solid gate. I push a small buzzer button and wait. No one answers the first buzz, or my second and third, but I know they’re home. I can hear the muffled voices and thumping feet. Sounds like children, I think, and as much as I don’t want to scare a bunch of kids, they tend to be more honest than adults.
I push the buzzer again and step back with a smile on my face. I’m going for non-threatening and kind, but if the people living here are part of the FLDS church, they’ve been steeped in mistrust for everyone outside the sect. A scrape of feet on the sidewalk turns me around. A young woman wearing a long, poufy-shouldered, light blue dress, rounds the corner, eyes on the sidewalk, a book clutched in her hands. Her hair is done up in some kind of colonial American schoolmarm style with a tight braid. She can’t be more than fifteen, but looks like she’s lived twice the years.
She doesn’t look up. Doesn’t see me. So I stop her with my kindest, “Hello.”
Her plain black shoes scuff to a stop. She cranes her head up, eyes widening as though the gears inside that operate neck and eyelids are interconnected. Then she just stares, like she’s never seen someone like me before.
“I’m looking for a girl,” I say, and when she blinks fast enough to create a breeze, I realize that was probably the worst thing I could have said. “She’s gone missing.”
Surprise is replaced by fear.
“Would it be alright if I showed you a picture of her?” I ask. “Maybe you could let me know if you’ve seen her?”
When I slide my hand into my pocket to fetch the photo, the girl takes a step back, ready to retreat. “You’re okay,” I assure her, taking my hand back out of the pocket. I take a step away from her, unsure of how else to put her at ease. “Those were some crazy lights last night. Did you see them?”
She glances back and forth, turns her head down and mumbles through barely moving lips. “You the fella staying at the motel with your mum, the black man, and the Mexican?”
What. The. Hell?
“How do you know that?”
“Whole town knows it,” she says, speaking to the pavement. “You best be on your way. It’s not safe.”
Instead of feeling concern for my safety, I’m now concerned for hers. “Is it safe for you?”
She says nothing, but makes little fists. “New Zion.”
“What?”
“New Zion Ranch. That’s where—” The gate buzzes and unlocks, and with a raised voice and head, the girl adds, “Please, mister, let me pass.”
In the moment of confusion that follows, I fail to notice the burly man thundering from the open gate. My subconscious brings me up to speed, shouting a warning that’s impossible to heed in time. But I see the meaty fist before it connects, and I’m able to turn with the strike, minimizing the damage done.
I sprawl to the ground, mostly for show, and resist the urge to reach for my gun.
The large man, dressed in black slacks and a green button down that might be homemade, stands over me. He’s beet red and fuming, but doesn’t move to kick me while I’m down.
I’m about to play the fearful mouse when he turns to the girl and says, “Get inside. Now. Ain’t no wife of mine gonna be talking to heathens.”
Wife? Wife?! Back on my feet and pissed off, the man doesn’t look so menacing. My instinct is to deliver a beat down of epic proportions, but I also know that won’t solve anything. If the federal government has trouble shutting these assholes down, there isn’t much I can do. And I’m not here for the backward Mormon sect, I’m here for Isabella Ramos.
I feel like a coward when the girl slinks through the gate. She gives me an apologetic glance and then disappears behind the wall that I have the sudden urge to tear down. When she’s gone, the man turns back to me like he’s going to give me a stern warning. Instead, he takes another swing.
This time, I’m on guard and amped. The fist misses as I lean back. “You don’t want to do this, buddy.”
He steps into another swing, his fighting style—if you could call it that—is all power and no skill. I ba
rely have to move to avoid the second punch, and he’s already projecting his third. It will leave him wide open and a single punch to his—
“Freeze!”
Aww, shit.
It’s Young. He’s behind the big man, gun raised. Then he does the worst thing possible in the middle of a town that loathes the federal government. “Federal agent!”
The big man turns around to find Young’s gun and open badge thrust out. Young wisely snaps the badge shut as soon as the man sees it. “Back away.”
“You’re a Fed?” the man asks. He was menacing before, but he’s reached a transcendent level of anger, giving him the calm vibe and voice of a serial killer. He glances up at the second floor windows of the homes on both sides of the street. I follow his eyes and find a small army of men and boys, some of whom are clutching rifles.
Young catches my eye, looking pleased with himself until I give a slow shake of my head and motion to the windows with my eyes. His pride takes a hard hit, but he manages to stay calm, and even improvises, though I can’t say I approve of his strategy.
“Yes, sir,” Young says. “And I’ve been pursuing this man all across God’s creation.” He redirects the .50 caliber Desert Eagle so that it’s pointing just to the right of my head. “Hands behind your head.”
I obey the command, trying to muster the indignant glare all criminals manage before they realize how long they’re going to be in prison.
“What’d he do?” the man asks, not quite buying it yet.
“This…man, if you can call him that, is a child molester.” Young delivers the lie with convincing emotion. I even feel a little guilty. “He picks up little girls like that one, and…well, I’m sure you can imagine the rest.”
I’m sure he can, too, and I wonder if Young would be so composed if he knew the girl he’d just seen was married to this forty-something year old behemoth.
“Some are never found,” Young says. “Now, I’m going to interrogate him, you better believe that, but if he doesn’t talk… Have you heard of any local disappearances lately?”
I’m both horrified and impressed by Young. He’s selling the story well enough, damning me in the process, but he’s also fishing for info and doing a good job of it.
“Girls or boys,” Young says. “This perverted slave to the devil has no preference. In fact, he often keeps photos of his recent victims.” Young works his way behind me, places the gun against my back and fishes into my pocket. He digs out the photo, looks at it, and shakes his head in dismay. Then he holds the photo out for the man to see. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen her around?”
The man looks at the photo, holds his breath for a fraction of a second, and then shakes his head. He looks Young in the eye and says, “I see you around here again, and we’re gonna have words.” By words, I’m fairly certain he means shotgun shells. Then he steps aside, allowing Young to head back to the car. As we walk past, I catch a glimpse of him shaking his head, looking at the people in the window. While I won’t be able to set foot in this city again, I’m pretty sure Young just saved our lives, though I don’t think he’s totally aware of that fact yet.
But he’s going to be the moment we reach the Dodge Charger and I climb into the front seat. “Put me in the back,” I whisper. “And not gently.”
“That’s the plan,” he says, and I notice that neither Wini, nor Lindo are visible.
He opens the back door, and shoves me into the back seat, thumping my head in the process. Then he slams the door shut behind me, gives the big cult member a nod and climbs behind the wheel.
“You so much as scratch my ride, man…” Lindo says, scrunched up on the floor of the front seat.
“Just drive,” Wini says. She’s seated on the floor beside me. “Old ladies weren’t meant to fold up like this.”
“Not what you said last night, chica,” Lindo jokes.
As we pull away from the curb, I do my very best to not smile at the joke, or in relief that we’ve survived the surreal encounter. Despite being in the United States, this city feels not just foreign, but unearthly.
“Where to?” Young asks.
“Southeast,” I say. “Again. We’re looking for New Zion Ranch.”
Lindo slides back up into the passenger’s seat. “That connected to the hotel or something?”
“Zion, in the Bible, refers to Jerusalem,” Young says, making a left turn. “To Mormons it represents the gathering of church members, so any place, or land where God appoints people to gather, can be deemed Zion.”
Wini grunts as I help her up, and then asks, “Like a seedy motel?”
“Who do you think stays there most of the time?” Young asks. “How many outsiders do you think vacation here?”
We all pause to look out at the walled-in homes.
“What about the ranch?” Lindo asks. “Isn’t that like, a gathering place for cows and shit?”
Young shrugs. “We’ll have to ask when we get there.”
Finding the ranch isn’t hard. The entrance is so close to the border of town that we’d driven past before without giving it a second thought. And since the dirt drive isn’t gated, we head straight in. The winding road, framed by electric fencing, heads southeast and wraps around the tall bluffs. This is definitely the right spot. But how would a random girl I met on the street know about it?
If everyone knows about it, I realize, and then I wonder just how fast the FLDS news hotline moves. The girl knew I had stayed at the motel. And knew that Wini, Lindo, and…
Oh, shit.
“Oh, shit,” Young says.
The car comes to a sudden stop. We’re cloaked in dust for a moment. When it clears, we’re faced with two pickup trucks turned sideways in the drive, and four shotgun-wielding men, slacks and button up shirts across the board.
The girl didn’t put us on the right path. She sold us out.
13
“I’d take UFOs over cult members, man,” Lindo says. “Look at these dudes.”
I am, and I don’t like what I see. The four men standing in the pick-up beds haven’t moved. They’re just staring at us, waiting. But for what? If we move will they open fire? Do they want to talk?
We have enough firepower to put up a fight, but I’m not sure how good Wini and Young’s aim is, especially under fire, and those four shotguns at close range…well, they’re not going to miss. Fighting is not an option.
I roll my window down slowly.
“What are you doing?” Young asks.
“Talking seems like a good place to start,” I say.
“They might shoot you.” Young’s hand reaches for the gear shift. We’re still in drive, his foot on the brake holding us in place.
“Just let me try,” I say. “We’re not going to find answers in town, and we can’t really go back to our lives until we know what’s going on and separate ourselves from it.” Or tear it to the ground, I think.
I unlatch the door and push it open, slow and easy, extending my hands out and up before sliding out the door. I emerge from the car like a newborn sloth, smooth and non-threatening. The summertime heat slaps against my skin and sucks it dry. The air smells like desert flowers, but there’s something else in the mix…like burned meat. “Hi there.”
No response.
“Is this the New Zion Ranch?”
Stupid question. The sign was hard to miss.
“We’re…” I’m not sure which story to go with—the missing little girl, or the UFO sighting. “…lost. Well, not really lost, but we’re trying to find something…someone…”
As I bumble through an amalgam of sentences, the men’s expressions don’t shift. Not even a little. By now, they should be thoroughly confused, but I’m not sure they’re even hearing me. I consider trying to throw in a little improvised sign language, but if the men really are deaf, I think my attempt might just offend them.
“Leave,” says the oldest of the four men, his voice emotionless and monotone.
“Go home,” says the
man beside him. He’s a good twenty years younger than the gentleman who spoke first, but his voice has the same dead quality.
“There is nothing here for you.” The third man is younger still, and equally creepy.
The fourth man is the youngest of them, perhaps still in his teens. He manages to give his shotgun a pump for effect, but when he speaks, it’s the same voice as the others. “The girl you are looking for is not here.”
News does travel fast. I decide to ignore the statement, wondering if redirection will stumble up the stoic routine, which is both intimidating (as I’m sure it’s supposed to be) and comical. “Actually, I was wondering about the UFO spotted last night. I thought it—”
“The aliens.” The eldest of them changes facial expressions from nothing to an exaggerated look of disgust. “They visit all the time. See ’em up in the sky. They mutilate our livestock.”
“It’s no good,” says the next man, and then on down the line. “No blood.” “Happens all the time.”
The strange conversation propels the four men straight from the ‘dangerous cult member’ category into ‘batshit crazy town.’
I glance inside the car. Lindo broadcasts what he’s thinking. Probably something like, ‘Yo, what the actual fuck?’ Wini is even easier to read as she slides her revolver out of her purse. And that’s as far as I can take this. I’m not going to put Wini in any more danger if I can avoid it.
I’m about to tell the stalwart sentinels that we’re sorry for the trouble and will be on our way when Lindo says, “Hey man, check this out.” He turns the GPS screen toward me. A line of text reading ‘Stand your ground’ covers the map.
What the…
Is this the same mystery man who warned us of the impending mercs?
If so, how the hell did he find us, let alone send a text message via a GPS device not designed to receive them?
And while the first message prevented us from being captured, I don’t see how standing my ground against four armed cult members is going to benefit anyone.
The Others Page 8
