by Tony Peluso
“Welcome to the Cowboy Club,” a clean-cut adolescent-looking cowboy said as Gretchen and I walked in. “I’m Sean. Table for two? Or do you want drinks at the bar?”
“Definitely drinks. We’re meeting a couple of men.”
“Are you here to see Don?” the host asked.
“Don Hansen?”
“Yeah. He’s there in the back booth with another gentleman. He told me that Tony and his wife would be here to see him. I’m thinking that you’re Tony.”
“Guilty.”
“Go on over and get comfortable. What would you like to drink?”
“Have a good Chardonnay?” Gretchen asked.
“How about the Kendal Jackson Vintner’s Reserve. It’s layered with rich tropical fruit and has a lingering toasty finish,” Sean said.
“It’ll have to do,” Gretchen, the wine snob, said.
“Rogue Dead Guy on draft or Fat Tire, but no toasty finish,” I said.
“We have Oak Creek Amber on draft.”
“Better than perfect. We’ll be waiting.”
Gretchen and I walked over to the booth. Father Pat sat on the side facing us. He was wearing jeans and a light green pullover shirt. He looked normal—not like a priest at all. He conversed with someone on the other side of the booth. Due to the arrangement of the booth, I couldn’t see the other person.
When Father Pat spotted us, he said something to his companion. Father slid to his right to get out of the booth and greet us. The other person slipped to the left, exited the booth, and turned around.
“Don Hansen, I presume,” I said, as I offered my hand.
“You must be Tony and this lovely lady, Gretchen,” Hansen said.
Hansen was two or three inches taller, 20 pounds heavier, but he didn’t have one ounce of fat on his entire body. He looked mid-to-late 40s. He had long brown hair with a shock of grey on his left side. He wore it in a ponytail that ended at his shoulders.
Gretchen and I had showered and changed after our hike. Hansen still had on the hiking pants, shirt, and vest that he wore on his guided tours. I noticed a wide-brimmed safari hat stuffed over in the corner of the booth.
We shook hands and made eye contact. I look a man in his eyes when we meet. A man’s eyes can tell you a lot. Hansen’s were unsettling. They were grey, like a timber wolf’s. They bored into you. He evaluated me with the same intensity that I examined him.
For the second time that day, a strong feeling of déjà vu hit me. This time I didn’t shake, sweat, gasp, or fart at the strong, negative vibe.
“Mr. Hansen, I feel like we’ve met before,” I said as we shook hands.
“Call me, Don. I get that a lot. I’m an old soul. Maybe we met in a former life.”
“I doubt that, Don. Father will tell you that we don’t believe in reincarnation,” I said to Hansen, as I reached past him and shook hands with the priest.
“I know that. I was an Episcopalian priest. Our religions have many similarities. I’m in tune to Catholic dogma.”
Father Pat slid back in the booth. Gretchen slipped next to him. Hansen took his seat opposite the priest and my wife. I grabbed a chair from a nearby table, spun it around, and set it at the head of the booth. I wanted to look at both Hansen and Father Pat as we talked.
“I know less about Episcopalians than I do about the Catholics,” Gretchen said. “My husband indoctrinated me so our sons could go to a Jesuit high school.”
“That’s commendable,” Father Pat said. “It’s his duty.”
“Why?” Gretchen asked. “The Catholics tossed him out. What’s the word, honey?”
“Excommunicated, sweetie,” I answered. I’d hoped not to reveal that little tidbit.
“Yeah, Father. You guys excommunicated Tony for marrying me.”
“First wife wouldn’t go for an annulment?” Hansen asked, showing more interest than I would have credited.
“Gentlemen, let’s change the subject from my dispute with the Holy See and have something to drink,” I said as a cute female waitress arrived with the wine and beer that we’d ordered. “Father, Don, y’all ready for another round?”
“Sure,” Father Pat said. “I need to try something else. Your American beer leaves something to be desired.”
“Try Rogue Dead Guy,” I suggested. “It’s a red ale. Very good.”
“It’s a Maibock, Tony,” Hansen corrected, irritating the crap out of me.
“I’d love a Maibock. I’ll try this Dead Guy ale,” Father Pat said.
“I’ll have another double Macallan, eighteen years old, neat,” Hansen said.
“Guide work must pay well, if you’ve acquired a taste for single malts,” I said.
“I get by,” Hansen said.
“With a little help from your friends?” Father said, trying to be funny.
“I count heavily on support from special friends,” Hansen said.
While we waited for their drinks to arrive, Hansen and Father Pat made small talk with Gretchen. She provided more information about our lifestyle, jobs, sons, neighbors, dogs, and her mother than I thought prudent. Hansen appeared to be interested, though he seemed to know the answers before he asked the questions.
The beer and single-malt scotch arrived. Hansen took his glass and clinked each of our glasses in turn.
“Here’s to your trip to Sedona! May your quest be a success,” Hansen toasted and then sipped his drink.
“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate your willingness to meet with us. I hope it wasn’t too inconvenient.”
“Not at all,” he said. “Once Father Ted called me from California and told me that someone had been asking after the Christus, I was intrigued. Haven’t heard anything about that item in fifteen years.”
“What do you think happened to the Christ figure?” Gretchen asked.
“I don’t think it’s a big mystery. The Christus was so controversial that Ms. Staude came back into town and took it down in a fit of artistic pique. She was a sensitive artist and a sculptor. The criticism rankled her. There weren’t as many visitors to the chapel in those days. The priest was always traveling. She had plenty of opportunities to get inside, take it down, cut it up, and hide it,” Hansen said.
“You believe that?” I asked.
“It’s the most logical and straightforward explanation.”
“It’s the official position of the Diocese,” Father Pat said.
“That’s comforting,” I said. “The Church has always been so candid.”
“That a cheap shot,” Father Pat said, the freckles on his face merging into one large, red blotch.
“OK, Pat,” I said, ignoring his title. “What’s the Church’s official explanation for its decision to end regular religious services at the Chapel?”
Father Pat seemed surprised by that question. Though he should have been, he wasn’t prepared for it.
“I don’t know,” the priest said, his burst of anger quelled. “Father Ted doesn’t know either.”
“It can’t be manpower. Even with one priest in the area, you could have the occasional services there. Sedona is so beautiful that you must have lots of priests from tons of places who would do a voluntary tour here. You claimed that it would be a joy to say Mass in the chapel,” I said, piling on.
I’m a trial lawyer. This was my first chance in 40 years to cross-examine a priest. It was pure joy. The only thing better would have been a shot at Sister Mary Erintrude, the sadistic scourge of seventh grade at St. Francis.
“You don’t know why the Church stopped having services at the chapel?” Gretchen asked.
“I suppose that’s correct,” Father Pat said.
“Don,” I began, turning toward him. “You said that the last time you heard anything about the Christus was fifteen years ago. That’s after the article written by Bishop McMannes.”
“Tony, David McMannes created that presentation for a Good Friday Meditation.”
“You knew McMannes?” I asked.
“Who doesn’t? He’s been the Bishop of the Anglican Diocese of Arizona for twenty years.”
“Did you ever work with him?” Father Pat asked.
“No. Bishop McMannes is Anglican. I’m Episcopalian. He’s the pastor at St. Luke’s. It’s on SR 179 down the hill from the Chapel of the Holy Cross. When I worked out of Sedona, I helped to tend the flock at St. Marks in West Sedona. They are two entirely different churches in two different Christian sects. Since David named his church St. Luke’s Episcopal, some people get confused.”
“I’m sorry, Don,” Gretchen said. “Are you saying that the Episcopal churches in Sedona are different sects?”
“Yes, that’s right. I never ministered with David. After I was ordained, I served mostly in Episcopalian parishes in California and performed ministries north of here. I did come down and fill in at St. Marks from time to time.”
“This is a small town,” Father Pat said. “You must know about this man. His article is fascinating and unsettling. I’d appreciate your evaluation of him.”
“I’d rather not. David has had his challenges,” Hansen said.
“What do you mean?” Father Pat asked.
“Let’s say that he had issues. Throughout his personal tests, he seemed to have the passionate support of most of his congregation. I’m far more controversial in my own way than he’s ever been,” Hansen said. “Have you spoken with McMannes, Tony?”
“I tried to call, but for some reason St. Luke’s has no voice mail. I tried to use the e-mail on their website, but all my attempts came back as undeliverable.”
“Interesting.” Gretchen said.
“Yes, I suppose it is. But we all do God’s work in our own way. Right, Padre?” Hansen said, looking for support from the Irish priest.
“What happened the last time someone inquired about the Christus?” I asked.
“Don’t know. After he made his inquiries, the man disappeared,” Hansen said.
“You mean that you never saw him again,” Gretchen said.
“No, I mean that he disappeared. I don’t know what happened to him.”
“Don, that’s vague. Tell us about it, if you don’t mind,” I said.
“I was filling in at St. Mark’s in late summer while the pastor vacationed. An accountant from Scottsdale came to Sedona. He walked in and said that he was looking for someone who knew about the piece McMannes had written. I tried to reach David at St. Luke’s, but he wasn’t available. So I talked to the man,” Hansen said.
“That’s pretty much what happened to me,” Father Pat said. “That’s how I met Tony.”
“The accountant asked a lot of questions about the Chapel of the Holy Cross and Ms. Staude. He wanted details about the architects and the sculptor. I did my best, but—even though I grew up around here—I didn’t know all of the answers.”
“What happened then?” I asked.
“I don’t know. He disappeared. He never went back to Scottsdale. I remember that it was in September, sometime during the week before the Labor Day Weekend.”
“Why do you remember that?” Gretchen asked.
“Labor Day marks a change in the nature of our tourists. In the summer, it’s Phoenicians who own property up here, or tenderfeet who want to escape the heat. When it’s one-twenty in Phoenix, it’s at least twenty to twenty-five degrees cooler here. The folks from the Valley of the Sun come up in droves. Try getting near Slide Rock. After Labor day, we start seeing tourists from everywhere else in the world.”
“Don, something else happened. Tell us,” I said.
“The guy’s family knew he was coming up here. They thought he was a little crazy. He seemed fixated on something that had happened to him back in the day. When he didn’t return, they started an investigation. He was an important guy—a senior partner in a big three accounting firm in Phoenix. I had a visit from detectives from both the Maricopa and Coconino County Sheriff’s Offices.”
While Hansen was telling the story, the déjà vu overwhelmed me. This time I did sweat and shiver. Everyone at the table noticed my change in demeanor.
“Tony, are you OK?” Gretchen asked.
“Are you sure that this occurred in September?” I asked Hansen.
“Positive.”
“What year?”
“It had to be 1998,” Hansen said after he thought for a moment.
I took out my cell phone and tapped the Safari app. I went to the Google search window and entered a query for a calendar for 1998. I had a strong premonition.
“Honey, what are you doing?” Gretchen asked, as both men watched me.
“Confirming a suspicion,” I said, as I brought the calendar up. “Just as I thought.”
“What are you talking about?” My wife said in a worried voice.
“Don, was the name of the missing man, Dan Ostergaard?” I asked.
“Yes, I believe it was,” Hansen said, while shaking his head. Those evil gray eyes bored right through me.
“Ostergaard went missing sometime around September 2, 1998?” I asked, as I began to sweat through my knit shirt.
“After all these years, I don’t recall the exact day. The second seems right. I presume that would be the week before Labor Day that year.”
“Did they ever find the man?” Father Pat asked.
“Not to my knowledge. They kept the case open for a while. In 2003, a Maricopa County detective called and said that unless I had something more, they would close the case. I’m not positive, but I recall that Ostergaard’s wife had a court in Phoenix declare him to be deceased a year or two after that.”
“Tony, Ostergaard was your high school buddy, wasn’t he?” Gretchen asked.
“Yeah,” I said, startled by the turn of events.
“What is all of this?” Father Pat asked.
Gretchen looked at me. She knew that I wanted her to keep quiet and not explain. She couldn’t resist the impulse to reveal everything to these men.
What would follow would usher in the most momentous time of my life. Part of me wanted to bolt from the Cowboy Club and run all the way back to Tampa. Another part of me wanted Gretchen to explain, so I could watch these two men as she spoke. I’m much more of a fighter than a fleer.
I recognized that I would face my life’s biggest test. How I fared would determine my fate, maybe for eternity. I suspected that one of these men would try to destroy me and the other would try to save me. I had to learn which was which.
I smiled at Gretchen. Understanding, she went into her information dump mode.
“Tony and Dan were friends in high school and college,” she said.
“Are you saying that you knew this missing man, Tony?” Father Pat asked.
“Yes, Father. I did.”
“What’s the connection to the Christus?”
“Tony brought him up here in September of 1966 to see the Christus. While they were at the Chapel of the Holy Cross, they had an encounter with a UFO,” Gretchen said.
“Is this true?” Father Pat asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“Were there any other witnesses?” the priest asked.
“Yes. A husband, wife, their kid, and a dog were there too. After a time, the parents took the kid and the dog and ran for it. I never saw them again.”
“Do you remember their names?”
“No,” I lied. “Father, that was forty-seven years ago.”
I dissembled because I didn’t know which of these men I could trust. I knew the husband’s name was Bob and the dog’s name was Rommel. Those facts were two very slim reeds, but they were all that I had. I didn’t want to give that information up yet.
“Honey, don’t you remember, the dog’s name was Adolf Hitler?” Gretchen offered.
“Thanks, baby,” I said, grateful that she got the name wrong, but with enough sarcasm that she’d see that I didn’t want any more personal or priva
te data revealed.
Don’t get me wrong. Gretchen is a five-star prosecutor. She’s very careful and circumspect in her cases. She’s a great chess player.
This wasn’t her case. It was mine.
“I can see why you’d remember that. I never heard of anyone naming a dog after Adolph Hitler,” Father Pat said.
“What kind of dog was it?” Hansen asked. His eyes had narrowed even further. He focused on me like a laser.
“It was a mutt, intelligent, obedient, and playful. German shepherd mix.”
“Sounds like a perfect dog for that kid,” Hansen said.
“I suppose.”
“So you’re saying that you encountered aliens at the chapel in ’66, and now this friend of yours is missing,” Father Pat asked, pulling us back from the tangent.
“No, Father. In 1966, Dan and I saw lights do things that were impossible, but we encountered no live alien life forms. I lost track of Dan decades ago. I didn’t try to contact him when I started obsessing over this issue. I first learned that he disappeared five minutes ago—during this conversation.”
“That’s interesting, Tony. But you shouldn’t worry too much. UFO sightings are quite common here. Most people in the Verde Valley have seen unexplained objects in the sky and strange lights,” Don said.
“Fine, Don. How many of these observers vanish without a trace?”
“A few. The trails, canyons, and wild country outside the small towns and villages from Prescott to Flagstaff can be unforgiving. We lost twenty brave and dedicated firefighters down in Yarnell. Tourists, those who are unprepared, unfit, and unwise lose their lives in mishaps every year. If you take the wrong step on the wrong trail and don’t make it back, we may never find you because the wild country is full of critters that will recycle you back into the environment.”
“How serious can it be, if you’re a mile from an upscale neighborhood like Little Horse Park and you run out of water?” Gretchen asked.
“That happens all the time around here. Sometimes it doesn’t end well. The intelligent hikers prepare,” Hansen explained. “Have you ever read Jack London’s To Build a Fire?”
“I don’t think so,” Gretchen admitted.
