by Tony Peluso
Chapter Fourteen
September 2, 2013, 5:30 p.m.
1651 Rodeo Drive
West Sedona, Arizona
Sunday, September 1, turned out to be a day of rest. Eddie and I sat around his house licking our wounds. I took my meds, sipped on tea, and surfed the net for news of our deadly encounter. By Sunday afternoon, our adventure hit the major networks and blogs.
I tried to put the events of Schnebly Tank and their aftermath into some sort of lucid context. I typed up my best recollections. I added them to the draft of the story of the search for the Christus. After I saved the file, I attached a copy to an e-mail that I sent to Gretchen. As a precaution, I sent a copy to each of my sons.
Then I said ten rosaries and took a nap. I slept most of the day.
Monday morning became another thing entirely. Leaks from the state and federal agencies allowed the media outlets to pinpoint our position. Satellite trucks from Phoenix, Tucson, Las Vegas, and Los Angeles lined the suburban streets around Eddie’s home. Reporters clamored for interviews. Cameramen trampled all over Eddie’s xeriscaping. Crewmen focused their eavesdropping equipment on LTC Grimes’ private domain.
It was bedlam. The Yavapai Sheriff assigned more units to control the crowd of interlopers.
Eddie and I spent Monday morning watching the news and making as many insulting, ribald, disparaging, and offensive comments as we could concerning the parentage and sexual prowess—or lack thereof—of the reporters who had been filing stories about us with their respective stations. While we watched Eddie’s big screen TV in his great room, I surfed the news sites on my laptop.
All of the stories were long on gore and short on any facts regarding the cause of the violence. The reports agreed that the deaths were related to a large drug operation. The reporters couldn’t decide whether the people hiding inside Eddie’s house were potential defendants, accessories, victims, domestic terrorists, or undercover informants.
Gretchen had begun her trial in Tampa. She was unavailable for comment or moral support. Yvette filled in as the den mother, when she wasn’t talking on her phone to an unknown caller. I assumed that the caller was Randy Stone, who’d spent the entire day with us on Sunday. He was smitten. So was Yvette.
By mid-afternoon, Fox News had a breaking story. Unidentified, but reliable, sources revealed that a major person of interest in the Coconino National Forest homicides was none other than Don Hansen. Hansen had dropped out of sight.
Right after the news bulletin, Deputy Stone arrived. Yvette met him at the door and they chatted for ten minutes. He remembered why he’d come over. He walked into the great room and handed over my cell phone.
“We got everything off the phone that we needed. The Sheriff thought you might want this back,” Stone said, as he looked longingly at Yvette.
“Thanks,” I said. I closed my laptop, set it next to me in the chair, and started scrolling through the calls on my cell.
I noticed one local call from two days earlier. I had a hunch. I dialed the number. It rang seven times before a man answered. I identified myself. I asked who the man was.
“I’m Dr. Ben Davis. I’m a retired veterinarian. Julie Adams, the girl who bought my practice, said you wanted to talk to me.”
“I do. Thanks for calling. I hope you’re well.”
“I’m doing all right. Not up to practicing anymore. I still get around fine.”
“That’s good, doctor. I’m from Florida. I’m looking for information about a family that lived here in the sixties. They would have been a very pretty woman, a nice looking man, a little boy, and a dog that you might have treated. Dad’s name was Bob or Robert. The dog’s name was Rommel.”
“What’s your interest in them?”
“I met them in 1966. They made an impression. I’ve always wondered what happened to them,” I explained, since I’d decided not to lie about my motives.
“Listen, whoever you are,” Doctor Davis responded. “The couple that you’re looking for disappeared in 1978. It was local news thirty-five years ago. They were Bob and Cindy Stedman. No one ever figured out what happened. It was a real tragedy. Their boy was thirteen or fourteen when the Cottonwood police found him and the dog alone in the home. I cared for the dog before and after the disappearance, though the dog was getting very old. I lost track of the boy and the dog after the county put the boy in a foster home. Someone adopted the boy. I don’t know what happened to old Rommel. Neat dog, He was smart as a whip. Crazy loyal.”
“Thanks doctor. Do you remember the boy’s first name?”
“I think it was Ronnie. Yeah, Ronnie Stedman.”
“Thanks, Doctor. Appreciate your time.”
“Don’t mention it,” the veterinarian said as he hung up.
I got out of my chair and walked over to the long couch where Eddie sprawled with his iPad on his lap, while he watched CNN.
“I have some news.”
“This ought to be good,” Eddie said, looking up at me. “We’re the focus of international media attention for massacring twelve men, and you have news. Riveting!”
“What massacre?” I asked.
“A British paper calls the events in the forest massacres,” Eddie said, reading from an article on his iPad. “We are the unknown killers who wantonly murdered twelve peaceful hikers in the pristine western forests. They say that this serial shooting may be what the government needs to finally confiscate or regulate all civilian owned weapons.”
“That’s pretty far from the mainstream story on this,” I said.
“I know. I thought it might amuse you,” Eddie said. “What’s your news?”
“I talked to the veterinarian that I tried to reach a few days ago,” I said
“You mean a lifetime ago,” Eddie said.
“Eddie, he knew the family from the chapel. Their names were Bob and Cindy Stedman. Eddie, they went missing too. Sometime around 1978, the Cottonwood authorities found their little boy, Ronnie, living alone with his dog, Rommel. The authorities put the kid in foster care and someone adopted him. Everyone from that night, but that kid and me, has gone missing.”
Eddie stood up like he’d been blasted off the couch. Yvette and Randy, who’d been lost in their own conversation across the room, noticed. They walked over to us.
“Tony, did you say that someone adopted the Stedman kid in 1978. His name was Ronnie?” Eddie asked.
“Yes, yes,” I said.
Eddie held up his iPad. He manipulated the internal keyboard. He accessed Facebook and sought out a particular page. He found what he wanted. He looked at me.
“The authorities are looking for a person of interest in this nasty business, right? Your pal, Don Hansen?” Eddie asked.
“They can’t find him. We know that he’s slippery.”
“Tony, I went onto Facebook a couple of hours ago. Hansen has a major presence there. I looked at his profile.”
“You should friend him,” I said. “You two have much in common.”
“I open my home to this vagrant. What do I get? Abuse,” Eddie said, looking at Yvette for support. She smiled and shrugged.
“What about Hansen’s profile?” I asked.
“Look for yourself,” Eddie offered.
“No, Poppa. Read it so we can all hear,” Yvette insisted.
“OK. Mr. Hansen’s profile includes this statement: I’ll be forever grateful to the Hansens. They took me in at a difficult time. I’ll never be able to repay them.”
“No shit!” I said.
“Check this out,” Eddie said as he showed me his iPad, which had a photo displayed from Don Hansen’s Facebook profile collection, dated 1974.
I examined the picture. It depicted a handsome family standing on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. It was the same mom, dad, kid, and dog from that night in 1966, only eight years older. Framed against a wonder of the world, the photo showed a handsome man, a beautiful woman in her 30s, a boy nine
or ten years old, and a cute German shepherd mix. The caption said, Bob, Cindy, Donnie, and Rommel, South Rim, 1974.
“I guess the vet meant Donnie when he said Ronnie,” I deduced.
“Don Hansen was the little boy with you, the night that you saw the lights at the chapel,” Eddie concluded.
Like I’ve been saying, there’s no serendipity. Everything happens for a reason. There was no possibility that I stood in Eddie’s house in West Sedona, on the 47th anniversary of my encounter, learning that Don Hansen had been the little toddler who witnessed the 1966 sighting with me; and somehow all this had happened by mere chance.
“Eddie, we’ve got to get to the chapel at sunset,” I urged.
“Hold it.” Randy injected. “You guys are released on conditions. You can’t violate the Magistrate’s order. They’ll throw you in jail.”
“That’s right, Randy,” I said. “But we can go anywhere in Sedona, as long as we’re accompanied by two law enforcement officers. Which two officers would you choose to accompany us, Eddie?” I asked, as I nodded at his daughter and her new suitor.
“I believe that a state and federal task force would work,” Eddie responded.
“What if I don’t agree to this ploy?” Randy asked.
“Sweetie, don’t you want to come with me?” Yvette asked as she pulled him close. “If it gets dangerous, I might need a brave deputy to help me.”
Randy looked at Yvette. He knew he was goner. Eddie recognized Randy’s capitulation. He could relate.
“Don’t feel bad, Son,” Eddie said. “I could never refuse Yvette’s mom anything either. Promise me that you’ll take good care of her.”
“What are you talking about, Poppa?” Yvette asked.
“A lot will happen tonight. I can sense it. Yvette, you’ve been alone since your divorce. I see the chemistry between you and Randy. He seems like a good man—for a Marine. Randy?”
“You have my word, sir!” Randy said.
“Good,” Eddie said. “Let’s go to my gun safe, then talk about getting to the chapel.”
Eddie planned the extraction from his home in five minutes. He’d have been the best G3 any Army division ever had.
At Eddie’s direction, Randy informed the Yavapai County deputies that we’d sneak out the back of Eddie’s house, hike to State Road 89A, and get something to eat in Sedona. The Sedona Police offered to distract the media and send a separate unit to pick us up. They’d transport us to Uptown Sedona, where we could blend in with the crowd. Randy agreed, but failed to tell the police officer that one of his CSO buddies would pick us up in town and transport us to the Chapel of the Holy Cross.
It took us longer than I expected to hike to 89A. It was sunset by the time we got to Uptown Sedona, and dusk when we made it to the chapel.
I felt anxious. Something was waiting for us. I knew we couldn’t miss it. I tried to call Gretchen. Her phone went to voice mail. I left her a loving message. I sent a text as we drove toward the chapel.
When we arrived at the chapel parking lot, Eddie asked the driver, Randy, and Yvette to drop us off and wait in the lower lot. Eddie and I would proceed alone. All three protested, but Eddie prevailed.
When we tried to walk up to the chapel ramp, a security guard stopped us. The chapel closed at Five p.m. No visitors were allowed. He was adamant.
Eddie and I had anticipated this. Google maps showed an alternative route along the rocks to the west of the chapel. It crossed the property of a home next door. We used that route to get to the courtyard.
The owner had posted a sign telling us to beware of his dog. After our adventure in the forest, we could deal with a guard dog. We were armed. Nothing would stop us from getting up to the courtyard. Eddie was a Screaming Eagle. Like the 101st Airborne, we had a rendezvous with destiny.
Our jaunt up the hill was a piece of cake. We made it without breaking a sweat. Once we got to the retaining wall, we climbed over it. We found ourselves in the courtyard, where I’d seen the lights five decades earlier.
We walked over to where Dan and I had perched in 1966. Eddie and I sat down on the stone bench. Eddie pulled off his backpack and reached inside. He produced two bottles of Rogue Dead Guy and a fancy Italian-made corkscrew and bottle opener.
“Eddie, I told you that I drank Coors on that night,” I reminded my pal.
“I’m sure any good beer will be fine. Don’t you think that Dead Guy is appropriate this evening?”
“Bring any chicken?” I asked.
“How about my signature barbeque chicken? If your alien angels are attracted to chicken and beer, we’ll have a gaggle here in minutes,” Eddie promised, as he passed me a breast.
The sky had no clouds that evening. The sun had set without fanfare. Nothing dramatic occurred as the sky turned black. Though it was painful for me, Eddie and I munched on our chicken and sipped our beers as day turned into night.
The security guard found us and tried to throw us out. While we argued with the older man, a tall leprechaun walked up the ramp with Adolf—the erstwhile attack dog. Father Pat observed our dilemma and came to our aid. After two minutes of conference, he convinced the security guard to leave us be.
“I thought you two would find a way to come here tonight,” Father Pat advised as he and the dog joined us on the Stone Bench facing west.
“You doing all right, Son?” Eddie asked the priest, as he handed him a Dead Guy.
“I can sure use a good red ale right about now,” Father admitted.
“It’s a Maibock, Father, remember,” I said.
Father Pat looked at me for a moment, then smiled and winked.
“I love a Maibock. And I think I’m OK, Eddie, but I never expected the wild ride.”
We sat on the stone bench facing west for at least a half an hour. The nature of our quest and the danger we’d shared caused us to become close friends in a very short time. A violent rite of passage—where character, courage, and commitment count—can do that to the men being initiated.
“What have we learned from all of this?” Eddie asked.
“I’m convinced that aliens from somewhere visit the planet. Sedona is the site of one of the portals,” I said.
“I have more questions than answers,” Father Pat said.
“Like what, Pat?” Eddie asked.
“I want to know the exact nature of our universe and it’s place in God’s creation.”
“That would be good to know,” I admitted. “I’d like to know why God created dogs like Adolf with one-seventh of the life span of humans. Whose fucking idea was that?”
“I’d like to know how to win the Power Ball Lottery. I could get by in Sedona on a quarter billion dollars,” Eddie said, smiling as he peeled off chicken and offered it to Adolf.
“I’d like to know what part of the Grand Plan caused us to come together like this. How did our adventure advance the Design?” Father Pat asked.
“Life is full of mysteries,” I injected.
“So true!” a voice behind us offered.
Eddie, Father Pat, Adolf, and I spun around. Don Hansen stood in the center of the courtyard. He smiled at us, but his expression seemed menacing. Adolf growled and bared his teeth.
“Look who the devil drug in,” I said, my anger rising.
“Tony, is this your good buddy, Donnie Stedman-Hansen?” Eddie asked, as he reached for the .45 Commander that he’d stuffed in his belt.
“Mr. Grimes, no need for that. Besides, a gun won’t do you any good here,” Don said, surprising us with the fact that he knew Eddie’s name.
“We’ll see about that,” Eddie said, as he drew his weapon.
“Be reasonable. You’ve come looking for answers. I have them. Put that weapon back in your belt. We’ll discuss the mysteries of the universe like civilized men.”
“Eddie, he appears to be unarmed. If he betrays us again, we’ll beat him to death or sick Adolf on him,” I promised.
&n
bsp; “That’s a much better idea. I wanted to blow his balls off for deceiving Fleet and the rest of us. We’ll do it your way—for now.”
“With these ground rules, are you ready to proceed?” I asked Hansen.
“Sure, ask me anything. Unburden yourselves.”
“What happened to the Christus?” Father Pat asked, as he stood up with the dog.
“My stepfather—Jim Hansen, a workman—and I hauled it down on a rainy day in September, 1979.”
“September 2nd?” I asked.
“Correct. The workman dismantled it with a cutting torch and hauled the pieces away in his pickup. He buried everything but the head of the statue in the desert. I have the head in a special place where no one can find it.”
“Why did your stepfather and his workman destroy the Christus?” I asked as I got up from the bench.
Reacting to my movement, Hansen put up his hand, palm facing me. “Tony, maintain your distance. Let’s keep this chat nice and friendly.”
“OK,” I said, stopping about 15 feet from Hansen. “Answer my question.”
“While it’s true that the Christus received a lot of negative comments because it was grotesque, a small cadre of folks around here began to make the same connections that you’ve made. They realized that the figure in the chapel bore more resemblance to possible alien life forms than the traditional vision of the Savior,” Hansen explained.
“Why would that matter to you and your stepdad?” Father Pat asked.
“The inspiration for the Christus came from a local artist who claimed to have had a miraculous, personal encounter with the Holy Spirit. The encounter stimulated several drawings that Keith Monroe used to create the iron sculpture,” Hansen continued.
“The encounter wasn’t with a deity,” Eddie concluded. “This artist saw one of the inter-dimensional beings.”
“My stepmom was the local artist. Once she and Jim realized the truth, they became allies of the inter-dimensional beings. When the beings transported my real parents to the next level, the Hansens took me in to watch over me.”
“What do you mean by the next level? What’s that?” I asked.
