The GPS message blinks and updates, displaying, ‘Help en route.’
My instinct is to look behind us and search for signs of an approaching vehicle, or even a helicopter. But I suspect we’ll be better off if these guys don’t know what’s what. And since I don’t know if they’ll actually let us leave, I decide to stall.
“What changed your mind?” the oldest of them asks.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You were going to leave,” the man beside him says.
And then the next, on down the line, “and now you’re not.”
The last man asks. “Why?”
Before I can answer, I feel a kind of itch on my forehead. I scratch it, but nails on skin don’t help. The itch is on the inside of my skull. The intensity flares, making me wince.
Despite my strange behavior, the four men just stare.
As the itch overwhelms me, questions fill my mind.
Why am I here?
Who is with me?
Who else knows we’re here?
What is the girl’s name?
I know the answers to these questions, but I’m confused by the internal interrogation and I resist answering.
What’s in my pocket?
There are several answers, but something instinctual says to not think about the gun. To hide all my secrets. So I focus on my own nagging unanswered question.
What is in the envelope?
The itch becomes painful.
“Yo, you alright?” I recognize Lindo’s voice, but he sounds distant. I open my clutched shut eyes and see a haze. Within the haze is a shadow, its twitchy movements bringing it closer, filling me with a sense of dread.
What’s in my...
I have a vague sense that I’m groaning as I force the question to end with envelope. It is the solitary question that keeps me up at night, and I’m too terrified to answer it every morning. As long as that envelope stays sealed, two possibilities exist simultaneously, and I’m still not ready to deal with the potential pain.
WHAT IS IN THE—
The screamed question echoes unfinished, interrupted by the sound of tires crunching on rocks.
When the haze and itch fade, I find myself looking into the concerned eyes of Lindo. “You okay? What happened?”
I shake my head. “No idea.”
Was that a panic attack? I wonder. I’ve been in life-and-death situations before, including yesterday, and while I’ve experienced worry, fear, anxiety, and post-adrenaline shakes, I’ve never had a panic attack, or anything else similar to what I just experienced. It was like having a conversation with myself. With my very pushy self. “And I’m fine.”
“Company behind us,” Young says.
A police SUV pulls up behind the Charger, and I’m not sure whether to be worried or relieved. Colorado City has a marshal’s office that is operated by locals, most likely members of the Mormon sect. If this is the marshal…
I step back from the car, a little unsteady on my feet. The officer steps from the vehicle, sunglasses hiding his eyes, mustache hiding his lips. With a hand on his sidearm he looks over the four men in the pickup, then the Charger, and then me.
“Mind not moving?” he says.
I stop my slow retreat, lean back, and read the words Mohave County Sheriff. “Sheriff?”
He gives me a nod and addresses the eldest of the four men. “Harry, put those weapons down before I feel threatened.”
All four men seem to snap out of a stupor and then lay their shotguns down on the truck beds, out of hand, but not out of reach.
“Folks are trespassing,” Harry says.
“You have no private property signs posted,” the sheriff says. He’s a no-nonsense cop. That’s a good thing. “You have no gate at the end of the drive.”
“Never needed one before now,” Harry says.
“And you and I both know you sell enough pies to keep the population of Colorado City just slightly on the portly side. So why the rude welcome?”
“Ten fifty seven.” I whisper the code.
He gives me a once-over, then the car and its occupants. Then he steps closer, gun hand ready. When he speaks again, his voice is lowered. “What did you say?”
“Ten. Fifty. Seven.” As a detective I occasionally dealt with police forces from other states, as well as the FBI. Knowing the numerical codes for crimes in various states often made communication and paperwork more efficient and less confusing. The three-number code I’ve just relayed to him is for a missing person.
The sheriff steps closer still. “You’re a police officer?”
“Detective,” I say, memory guiding my words and forcing me to correct myself. “Former detective. I’m a private investigator now.”
He gives me a suspicious squint. “You’re not here because of…” He points at the sky and whistles two quick notes.
“Yes and no,” I say, digging the photo of Isabella from my pocket. “I was hired to find the girl.” Given the circumstances, I think being totally upfront with the sheriff is in our best interests. “The mother is illegal. That’s why they came to me.”
“And you think she’s here? Why?”
“Asked in town,” I tell him, adjusting my totally upfront policy to mostly upfront. “They sent me here.”
“Did they now?”
“These guys were waiting for us,” I say. “Knew we were coming.”
“In that case, welcome to shit-town. Looks like we’ve both stepped in it.”
“Been wading through it, actually,” I say, getting a smile out of the man. I extend my hand. “Dan Delgado.”
He gives me a firm handshake and says, “Sheriff Godin. You want to be cut loose, or you ready to get neck deep?”
How much does Godin know? I wonder. He believed my story a little too quickly. “Lead the way.”
“Harry,” Godin says, turning to face the four men. “These folks are with me, and we’ll be—”
“Gun!” Lindo shouts from the front seat, ducking down behind the dash as Harry and the three younger men raise their shotguns in perfect synchronization and pull their triggers.
14
Hitting the ground beneath Godin’s two hundred plus pounds hurts—a lot—but it beats being shredded by buckshot. I’m still not sure how I managed to grab the man and pull him down behind the car, but here we are, lying in the dirt like we’re posing for a romance novel.
In the silence that follows, I listen. For crying. For groans. For footsteps. But I hear no telltale signs of impending danger, or that someone has been wounded, which could mean that everyone in the car is dead. But I’m only really concerned about one of them. As fond as I’ve become of both Lindo and Young, it’s Wini I want to protect.
The car’s glass and Young’s body should have shielded Wini, but that was a lot of firepower from multiple angles. If all four fired into the car…
I shove up on Godin, who hasn’t moved.
Is he dead? Shot in the back?
“Godin,” I whisper, clutching his arms. “Up!”
He blinks, looks me in the eyes, and gives a nod. Moving slow and quiet, doing our best not to draw attention, we rise into crouches, hidden by the Charger’s trunk. It takes all of my willpower to not peek into the car. But that would both expose me and redirect their aim toward Wini’s seat.
When Godin draws his sidearm, I do the same. He gives me a wary glance, that morphs into outright suspicion when I remove the sound suppressor from my pocket and start screwing it in place. They’re not illegal in Utah, or Arizona, but there are not many uses for them that aren’t nefarious.
“Sheriff,” Harry says. “Got no choice but to show yourself.”
“Fuck you, Harry,” Godin says. He’s rattled, but still in control. “I’ve put up with your shit for years and this is how you repay me?”
“Ain’t you we have a quarrel with,” Harry says, “And I’ve warned you about that ungodly mouth of yours.”
“I’m a Mohave County sheriff. An
y quarrel you have with anyone outside your family involves me,” Godin says, and I respect his resolve, though his straight forward, black-and-white sense of right and wrong could use a little finesse.
“Nobody’s hurt,” Harry says. I’m not sure if he’s telling the truth, but just the possibility of it loosens the invisible fist clutching my chest. “Not yet, at least.”
“I can take two of them before they know I’m shooting,” I whisper to Godin, motioning to my now sound suppressed handgun.
“Killing these men would start a war,” Godin says. “Hundreds would die. Starting with us, and everyone else in my department. By the time help arrived, the whole city would be dug in. You want to be responsible for that?”
Our staring match ends when Godin shouts, “Everyone okay in the car?”
“They shot up my uncle’s ride!” Lindo shouts.
“We’re fine,” Wini says. “And up for however you want to handle this.”
The last thing I want is for Wini to go out in a blaze of bloody glory, but I admire her willingness to fight.
“Preach?” I say.
“Car’s dead,” he says. “We’re fine.”
“Who the hell do you have in this car?” Godin asks me, voice low.
“A preacher, an Uber driver, and a senior citizen,” I say.
“That a joke?”
“Wish it was.”
“Don’t see that we have much of a choice,” Godin says. “As good as you are with that…” He motions to my gun. “We’re not shooting our way out of this without taking casualties.”
“And that whole war thing you mentioned,” I say. “But if we give up our guns…”
“So don’t,” he says, tapping on the car’s rear bumper. Then he speaks up and says, “Harry?”
“Yuh?”
“We’re going to come out. My weapon’s going to be holstered, but I am not handing it over. That’d be something I couldn’t look past.”
“And you can look past what happened to this fancy car?” Harry asks.
Godin and I share another look. It’s an unfathomable thing to agree to, but what other choice is there? I give him a nod and he says, “No charges will be filed against you or your boys.”
“You called for backup?” Harry asks.
“I don’t have a reason to,” Godin replies. “Do I?”
While they’re talking, I slip my handgun up inside the vehicle’s bumper, lodging it inside. “Wini,” I say, quiet as I can.
“Yeah?” Her voice is barely audible.
“Remember the cookie jar?” It’s a reference to a case I worked four years ago. A man suspected of cheating on his wife was meticulous in every way. Impossible to catch until I found his storage unit, and the cookie jar it held, with photos of not just one lover hidden inside, but twenty-one. Since then, when Wini and I are talking about finding something elusive, we call it a cookie-jar. In this case I want her to hide something, and I hope she has Young do the same.
“Stand up slow,” Harry commands. “You all in the car go ahead’n exit, too. Hands where we can see them.”
I feel a little bit like I’ve got a hood over my head, like someone should be asking me if I want a cigarette or if I have any last words before the firing squad cuts me down. When I’m high enough to look over the Charger’s roof, I realize the analogy isn’t that far off. Harry and his three younger partners—who look enough like him that they must be his sons—look down the barrels of their shotguns.
And they’re not alone.
Young boys and girls along with six middle-aged prairie-dress-wearing women, and one matriarch in an apron, stand in the truck beds with the four men, on the sides of the blockade and in front of it. Each one of them, including the youngest, who must be no older than eight, is armed with an assortment of shotguns, hunting rifles, and handguns.
Godin was right about that war. These people are ready for it.
My thoughts drift to the GPS message. Help en route. Whoever sent that message knew we were in trouble, that Godin was on the way, and that the good sheriff possessed enough understanding of these people to prevent us all from being slain. But who is helping us? And why?
There are too many variables. The mercs. The cult. The UFO. The mystery informant. None of it makes sense and all of it is beyond our ragtag group’s ability to handle. If I didn’t think going home was dangerous for myself, Wini, and Young, I’d shoulder the guilt of not finding Isabella and call it a day.
“Over there,” Harry says, and when he motions to the side, every other member of who I think are his immediate family—children and wives—motions as well, like they’re connected.
We follow the man’s order, making ourselves a very easy target. If the group decided to unload now, there wouldn’t be much left of us. Young looks nervous but has his chin up. Defiant. Wini kind of has a ‘just another day at the office,’ expression, but I know her well enough to know she’s nervous. Lindo looks almost calm, like he’s already forgotten that his uncle’s new Charger is steaming from the massive holes in its front end.
“What brings you out here today, sheriff?”
“You’ve seen the news,” Godin says. “About the UFO. Seeing as how that’s our running theory on your livestock mutilations, I thought I’d come have a look. See if any of your animals went missing. Or if you saw anything last night.”
“We were sleeping,” Harry says.
“That the case?” Godin says, speaking louder to address the whole group.
Nods all around, aim never wavering.
“Excuse me,” I say, stepping toward the group. Godin warns me away with a grunt, but I ignore him. The only place answers reside are on this ranch, and the only way we’re getting in is through convincing deception. “I’m an expert on cattle mutilations. I’ve investigated thousands of cases all along the thirty-seventh parallel.” I’m laying it on thick, but they’ve already bought into the whole alien concept, so I might be able to use that to my advantage.
“I’m the one who asked him here,” Godin says, adding some credence to my claim.
I give a nod and pat Godin’s shoulder like we’ve already met. “Before our unfortunate misunderstanding, I was asking about the UFO last night. I make a habit of checking with local ranchers after incidents like the one—”
“And the girl you were asking about?” Harry asks.
“Abducted,” I say, and point to the sky. “By them. I think. That’s the working theory. And despite what happened here, I’d still love to take a look around. Inspect your animals.”
“I can show him where we found the horse in that tree.”
“You found a horse in a tree?” My surprise is real, so I follow it up with a more thoughtful, “I’ve never seen that before.”
“You think it’s aliens?” Harry asks.
“Absolutely, and I think I’m close to proving it.” I’m a good liar, but this is stretching the limit of my abilities. I don’t think any rational person would buy what I’m saying, but these folks are 1) in a cult already, and 2) already believe aliens are visiting.
Harry lowers his rifle, but no one else wavers. “What group are you with?”
I’m about to ask what he means when Lindo says, “Mutual UFO Network.” Moving in a slow, nonthreatening manner, he takes out his wallet, and then an ID card. He steps forward, card held high. He approaches the truck with uncommon bravery and hands the card to Harry, who gives it a once over and then hands it back.
“Supposing he’s not a Fed,” Harry says, motioning to Young, and then to me, “And you’re not a child molester.”
“No, sir,” I say, noting Godin’s glare in the corner of my eye. “We were…intimidated.”
“As you rightly should’a been,” Harry says. “Now here’s what’s going to happen. You all can come in, have a look at the animals, and be on your way. I’ll arrange for a tow. We’ll have it brought to the motel, and I expect you’ll be leaving at first light. I find you speaking to my children or even lookin
g at the women—”
I divert my eyes away from the matriarch, whose cold gaze has remained locked on me since her dramatic appearance.
“—we’re going to have a problem.”
“Uh,” Young says. “How are we going to—”
“I’ll take you,” Godin says. He’s on edge. Still not sure of how this is going to pan out, but I get the feeling the less we say now, the better.
“Thank you for your kindness,” I say to Harry.
The man smiles. It looks unnatural on him.
“And Sheriff, I expect you’ll mind your language this time? No matter what you all find, whether it be a horse in a tree or a heifer with no eyes.”
Godin nods.
“Say it,” Harry says.
“You have my word,” Godin says, and he looks at the rest of us. “No one here will speak untowardly. We’ll just have a quick look around, let you know what we find, and be out of your hair.”
I’m fairly certain the only things keeping us alive right now are our paper-thin fabrication and the fact that the Sheriff’s office probably knows exactly where he is.
The large family moves as one, in perfect synchronization, stepping out of the trucks, putting them in neutral, and then pushing them to the sides. Harry motions for us to follow, and we pass through the trucks like ancient warriors being led through the enemy’s gate and into the stronghold. Our situation has improved in that we’re not dead, but if Harry isn’t a man of his word, or if he sees through our ruse, this ranch is going to be where we’re buried.
15
A sprawling complex opens up before us as we crest a hill and stroll down into a valley framed by orange bluffs to the east. They rise a thousand feet into the air. The main house is absolutely massive, but I wouldn’t call it a mansion. It’s not decadent in any way, just an oversized farm house with a footprint the size of a high school gymnasium. There are several other, smaller buildings, whose purposes I can only guess. Three industrial barns house cows, which I only know because I can now hear and smell them. Horses whinny from a smaller, more traditional looking barn. A few dogs mull about, one of which barks incessantly toward the empty sky.
The Others Page 9
