by Tony Peluso
While we waited for the food, we changed the subject. Father told us a bit about himself. He’d grown up a Catholic in Northern Ireland. Later, he studied at Trinity University in Dublin. After graduation, he felt the tug of the priesthood. Four years later, his parents watched his ordination. In September he’d celebrate his fifth anniversary as a priest.
Father Pat was on assignment in America. The Bishop of Phoenix had met him in Boston and invited him to spend a few months at various parishes in Arizona. He’d heard how beautiful the southwestern United States was. He jumped at the chance.
During our dinner, Father Pat counseled me on the concept of annulment. He felt that I should straighten out my issue with the Church. I listened politely.
When we’d finished and the waitress informed us that a Jeep had arrived to take Father Pat back to the parish. We began our goodbyes.
“Hope you enjoy the rest of your American tour, Father,” I offered.
“And I hope that you unravel the mystery,” He responded. “Gretchen, you are a delight. You should consider converting.”
“Not a chance, Father,” Gretchen said. “I like being married to a Catholic wannabe. I’m not interested in becoming one. It’s too tough on the knees. Besides, I’ve got a feeling that I have more pluses than minuses in St. Peter’s Great Book. I’ll see you in Heaven.”
“By the way, Father, what do you make of the inter-dimensional beings? I’ll bet they didn’t address that little issue in the seminary,” I said.
“Tony, I think that they may be real. If they are, they could be angels. Some are good. They serve the Creator and protect us from the bad ones. What else could they be?”
“Father, you surprise me with your candor.” I said.
“You’re right, Tony. We didn’t talk about aliens, extra-terrestrials, or inter-dimensional beings at the seminary. I received two bachelor degrees at Trinity College. I have one in physics and one in mathematics. We did consider these issues at university.”
“Father, as a scientist, what do you tell your atheist contemporaries when they challenge the scientific basis for your belief system? You must have encountered that, even in Dublin,” Gretchen asked.
“I have indeed. I tell them that when they can demonstrate a valid, scientifically provable explanation for a non-Divine cause for the original Singularity—the minute, infinitely dense element with zero volume—that inflated faster than the speed of light and began the evolution into our vast universe at the Big Bang, I’ll consider questioning my Faith,” Father Pat explained.
“Stephen Hawking has tried,” I pointed out.
“Bless that man and his genius,” Father said. “Despite his great intellect, I’m not convinced. I don’t find his arguments to be compelling.”
“Father, you are a man of many parts, as well,” I said, as we shook hands.
“Watch your back, mate! Don’t follow in the footsteps of your college friend.”
I nodded and smiled, but had no comment to the priest’s warning. Gretchen and I slid out of the booth and made our way from the restaurant.
Chapter Seven
August 25, 2013, 8:30 PM
Monti’s La Casa Vieja Restaurant
100 S. Mill Ave, Tempe, Arizona
Gretchen and I were finishing up our dinner at La Casa Vieja, a restaurant that I’d frequented in the ’60s and ’70s while I studied at Arizona State. Parts of the building had been the childhood home of Senator Carl Hayden, a renowned statesman.
In the late 1800s, Hayden’s home sat on the banks of the Salt River. It served the tiny frontier community as a ferry crossing, general store, restaurant, and hotel. By the 1950s, a New Jersey businessman turned the old homestead into a fine steak house.
I loved the old restaurant, its history, its location near ASU, and its willingness to accommodate an adolescent suitor like me.
In the 1960s, I used it as an upscale place to take a special date. La Casa Vieja was the nicest place in Tempe or East Phoenix that would honor a Hawaiian driver’s license. It was pricey for a student with a part time job and a defective Corvair. If I saved my money, I could splurge there two times a semester.
My luck after a good meal and drinks at the La Casa Vieja was phenomenal. In baseball terms, I’d batted 1000 in this particular venue. This evening, my winning streak had ended. Gretchen was as mad at me as she has ever been. The traveling lingerie fashion show had closed for good.
After our dinner at the Cowboy Club two days earlier, Gretchen and I returned to the room at L’Auberge. She crashed. She slept the sleep of the just for eight hours.
I couldn’t relax. I had a flashback to the incident at the chapel in 1966. I pondered every detail. I didn’t sleep a wink.
I felt haunted by Dan’s original, negative reaction to my suggestion that we report the events of that night. Even though he had warned me, he still made his anxiety-filled excursion to Sedona in 1998, 32 years later.
He must have kept our secret for decades. He initiated his own quest when he learned from the McMannes article that the Christus had disappeared. How or when he read the meditation, I couldn’t guess. Learning of the missing icon must have caused him the same discomfort that I’d experienced. It drove him to learn the truth.
There is something about Sedona that does that to people. The Internet is full of videos where folks admit that they felt compelled to go to Sedona. Many abandon comfortable life styles in nice places to move there.
It got me thinking. Until I learned of the missing Christus, I’d thought of Sedona as a special place of spiritual affirmation and renewal. I often reflected about the upper Verde Valley because it is so beautiful. I recommended that friends visit the area. I found satisfaction when all of them seemed pleased and thanked me upon their return. But that was all. I felt no passionate desire to return.
When I learned that the Christus had disappeared, I became more obsessed about this mystery than I had ever been about anything in my life.
As a prosecutor, I am known—perhaps not liked—for my intense focus on preparing to meet the heavy burdens to secure a criminal conviction. There is something in my personality that reinforces this compulsion. Now that I’m a senior, I sensed a limited amount of time to resolve the mysteries in my life.
After Gretchen awoke, we cleaned up for our trip to Flagstaff. We set off in the late morning for an abbreviated tour of central Coconino County. We had to prioritize because the county is huge. It’s the second largest county in the U.S. and bigger than the State of Massachusetts.
We brought our gear, but when we got to the Sunset Crater north of Flagstaff, we had no interest in any further trekking. Even from the roadways around the ancient volcano, you can see the extent of the devastation that the thousand-year-old eruption had caused.
Though captivated by the San Francisco Peaks and the mountains around Flagstaff, Gretchen seemed distracted and introspective. The discussion the night before had affected her. In the past, she’d never shown a concern for religion or philosophy. She viewed herself as a protestant, but no particular creed interested her. For 30 years, she’d avoided all discussions on these matters.
The night before our trip to Flagstaff, she’d participated in an intense teleological discussion for the very first time in her life. While we drove around Coconino County, Gretchen debated the issue of whether existence erupted from a Divine Spark or—as Steven Hawking suggests—happened spontaneously.
We interrupted our discussion with lunch at the Beaver Street Brewery in Flagstaff. After our meal, we drove around Flagstaff for another two hours and then headed to Sedona. We went the back way so we could go down Oak Creek Canyon again.
We planned on dining at the Asylum in Jerome. We were tired and agreed to a meal at the hotel. We got back to town and Gretchen said that she wanted to take a nap. While she slept, I walked over to Uptown Sedona and cruised around the shops.
After dinner, we turned in without the distrac
tion of expensive lingerie modeling. Despite her nap, Gretchen fell asleep at once, no doubt aided by her share of the two bottles of excellent red wine that we’d shared. Even though I’d had no sleep the night before, I tossed and turned for two hours before I got up and walked outside. I wandered over to the creek and stood by the rippling water, contemplating my life.
When I was about to go inside, a shooting star blitzed across the sky. Unlike the incident at the chapel, there were no further aerial acrobatics. Seeing that celestial event caused me to make a decision. I felt a profound relief.
I had crossed a line. If I went through with my decision, I’d disrupt my job, my marriage, and my life. I would pay a heavy price. I knew I had no choice.
The next morning, we checked out of the hotel. We had a flight back to Florida the following day, so we thought we’d stay in Tempe on our last night in Arizona.
Since we had so much time, I convinced Gretchen that we should drive south on State Road 89A so she could see the high plains and towns like Cottonwood, Jerome, and Prescott.
We spent so much time at the Burning Tree Winery in Cottonwood ordering cases of wine that we got to Prescott for a late lunch. We dined at the Lone Spur Cafe on Gurley Street on the north side of the famous Courthouse Square.
Gretchen grew up in Texas. She liked the place. She started coming out of her shell, when I dropped the bomb.
“Gretch,” I began. “I’ve been thinking.”
“That’s always a bad sign,” she said, trying too hard to be cute.
“You’re not going to like what I’m about to say. I’m staying in Arizona for another few days. I want to see the petroglyphs at Schnebly Tank.”
“Are you crazy? We broke the bank on this trip. We can’t afford for you to stay at the L’Auberge another week and eat at the five-star restaurants in Sedona.”
“Gretch, I can stay at the Super 8 in West Sedona. I can get a room for an entire week for the cost of one day at L’Auberge. The car rental is modest. I’ll fly back next Monday.”
“What about your job, damn it?”
“The Sheriff won’t mind. I have the time saved.”
“What if something happens to you?”
“Like what? It’s not like Sedona is a high crime area. I’ll be fine.”
“What happened to Dan?” Gretchen asked, emotion creeping into her voice.
“I don’t know.”
“Exactly. He disappeared,” Gretchen pointed out. “There’s more going on over this Christus than meets the eye. I have a bad feeling.”
“I’m not Ostergaard. I’m a trained Paratrooper. I’ve been in combat. I did twenty-three years in the Army with three Airborne tours. I was a deputy U.S. marshal. I can take care of myself.”
“Tony, you retired from the Army twenty years ago. They made you a special deputy marshal because we had death threats due to your prosecutions. Despite all the extra training, you never had to fire a shot in anger as a marshal. That was ten years ago. What in the fuck are you thinking?”
“If I stay, I may find out why the Christus is missing.”
“Tony, Hansen explained that. The lady who built the chapel snuck in and took the Christus down. Father Pat agreed. Your bishop in Phoenix agrees. I read the McMannes article. It makes the most sense. There is no mystery here, bub.”
“Gretch, you’re the one who said that there is a connection between the lights that I saw and the missing Christus, right?”
My wife looked at me with fire burning in her eyes. She was mad at me for making a stupid decision that would affect her life. She didn’t appreciate me turning her words at the chapel against her.
“Well, if there is a connection, it can get you hurt. Ostergaard put his nose in this business and he’s been missing for fifteen years,” Gretchen said, as her eyes began to fill.
“I’ve always been a lot tougher than Dan. I don’t know what happened to him, but it’ll take a lot to do me in.”
“The tragedy is that you believe that. Tony, with your exciting Army career, the long successful stint as a Federal prosecutor, your appointment as a deputy marshal, and your eight years with the Sheriff—where they let you play at being a deputy wannabe—getting old had been hard for you. I see the depression creeping into your personality. Despite your denial, you’re not prepared to trek across the desert in search of aliens, angels, or demons.”
While everything that Gretchen said was probably true, the fact that she said it hurt more than I anticipated. It made me angry.
“Maybe you’re right,” I lied. “Let’s pay the check and get on the road. I’d like to get down to Tempe and look around ASU before dinner.”
“OK. Promise that you won’t go all Don Quixote on me.”
“I give you my word that I won’t tilt at a single windmill,” I responded, a little surprised that Gretchen would cite Cervantes.
I handed her the keys to the rental car. “Here, you drive. I’m too old.”
“Fine.” Gretchen said, using that tone of hers.
We barely spoke on the road back through Phoenix to Tempe.
Toward the end of dinner at the La Casa Vieja, Gretchen revealed that she wanted me to seek counseling when we got back to Tampa. I chose not to tell her that while she was showering at the Airport Hilton, I’d contacted the Chief Deputy and secured an extension to my leave. I’d decided to reveal my final decision the next day, when it would be too late for her to have a meltdown or try to have me committed.
The next morning was anti-climactic. I hadn’t fooled her. When we got up to go to the airport, she dressed and then confronted me.
“Tony, I know you’re not coming with me. I’m worried about you. I love you very much. If you have to do this, I’ll have to accept it. But don’t stay too long.”
“Thanks, Gretch. I’ll stay for one more week.”
“Honey, why don’t you keep my Smith and Wesson .38?” Gretchen asked, as she handed me the small, snub-nosed revolver. Since Gretchen and I are law enforcement, we take weapons with us on our trips. It’s a hassle to check them in, but they were a comfort on this sojourn.
“You’ll need it in Tampa. Besides, I have my Glock,” I reminded her.
“I don’t want to go through the nut roll to check it in. I have the Model 27 subcompact at home. I’ll carry that while you’re out here. I’ll feel better if you have a backup. I’m worried about what’s in store for you. Whatever’s going on in that feeble old mind, you’re too old to brawl anymore.”
“OK, babe. Thanks, I’ll take good care of it.”
“I hope it takes care of you. Remember: double tap, center mass.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I said, as I snapped to attention. “Any other instructions?”
“None that I can think of. Here’s your boarding pass. Do you want me to make your reservations, like always?”
“Sure,” I said, taking the boarding pass, folding it up, and putting it in the pocket of my sports coat.
Gretchen set down her suitcase and looked at the calendar on her iPhone for a long moment. Her face went white. “Next Monday may be a problem, honey.”
“Why?”
“It’ll be Labor Day. September 2nd.”
Chapter Eight
August 26, 2013, 7:15 p.m.
Basha’s Supermarket, 160 Coffee Pot Drive
West Sedona, Arizona
I’m not an elitist. The Super 8 Motel in West Sedona is a fine place to stay. It’s clean, comfortable, inexpensive, and has a cheerful, energetic staff. However, if you learn anything from this tale, take heed.
Do not stay at the Super 8 after a week at L’Auberge. Despite their zeal, the folks at Super 8 will not chill your imported champagne to the proper temperature or find the right crackers to compliment the Russian caviar. They do not have a resident masseuse, fluffy bathrobes, or a five-star restaurant on Oak Creek. On the other hand, they will keep you safe, warm, and dry without breaking the bank.
> I settled into my room at the Super 8 by two o’clock in the afternoon after I put Gretchen on a plane for Tampa and drove back up to the Verde Valley. As I looked around my quarters, I felt quite lonely. Yet I knew that I had to be there.
Reclining on the comfortable king-sized bed, I consoled myself by cataloging a plan to proceed. I had one week. I’d try five separate strategies.
First, I’d try to contact Bishop McMannes again.
Second, I would research the background and fate of the sculptor of the Christus, Keith Monroe. I could do that with my laptop from the room.
Third, I’d try to contact the relatives of Dan Ostergaard in Scottsdale. I had no idea if any of his family still lived there. I’d start out by Googling Dan’s name and see where it took me.
If I could get a phone number, I’d call. I knew that contacting a widow or orphan carried the risk of opening old wounds. Call me inconsiderate and self-centered, but I was prepared to tear at scabs on this quest.
Fourth, I’d make an effort to learn who in Sedona had owned a mutt named Rommel in the ’60s. That seemed like a dim prospect. I thought I could use my law enforcement connections to ingratiate myself with the Yavapai and Coconino Sheriffs’ Offices and the City Police in Sedona. Through the cops, I’d try to find some local veterinarians who practiced back then.
If I could locate anyone who cared for small animals, I thought I had three excellent clues: the dog’s name, the husband’s name, and the fact that the mom had been a bona fide babe with a flirtatious manner. Maybe someone would remember her.
Finally, I would find a way to get Don Hansen to guide me to the Paleo-Indian ruins at Schnebly Tank. That was the one strategy that I knew would pay dividends.
Late in the afternoon, my son John called to check in on me. We had a good conversation, though I didn’t do much to make him feel better about my decision to stay in Sedona. A little later, Tim called. He was a bit less patient than John. I had to remind him of his own independent streak before he dialed it down a notch. Like I told you earlier, I knew that my boys wouldn’t be too happy about my choice, but I felt in my heart that I’d made the right decision.
