by Bob Mayer
Kinsman had listened to all of this without comment. He finally spoke up. “Does anyone care about these people? The bikers? The Hmong?”
Caitlyn frowned. “What do you mean?”
“About their fate,” Kinsman clarified.
Caitlyn shook her head. “They’re all criminals.”
“Free fire zone,” Kane murmured.
“Good,” Kinsman said. “Then we will kill them all.”
22
Sunday Afternoon,
14 August 1977
DEVILS GARDEN,
GRAND ESCALANTE STAIRCASE, UTAH
“I will be back on the morning after next,” Kinsman told Caitlyn and Kane from his perch on the horse.
“Two nights?” Kane asked, surprised.
“It is a ways to Fiftymile Point and Hole in the Rock,” Kinsman said. He indicated the sun which was already arcing over to the west. “It’s also late in the day. And I am not sure how difficult the reconnaissance will be. Besides, Crawford will not be here until tomorrow afternoon and I must make it back here so we can plan.”
The three of them, with truck and trailer, were among a strange assortment of standing stones that Kinsman told them was called Devils Garden in English and something else in his native tongue, which he didn’t share. In the far distance to the south, the cliffs of the Staircase loomed, angling to the southwest. Fiftymile Point, which was part of it, was out of sight forty miles away.
Kane wore his usual: black jungle fatigue pants, grey t-shirt, denim shirt, and jungle boots. He had a camouflage boonie hat shading his face. Kinsman had on faded jeans, the same embroidered shirt and his Stetson. Caitlyn wore khaki pants and shirt, with sturdy brown work boots. The pants were baggy and too large for her slender frame, cinched in tight around her waist with a leather belt. She had an Australian style bush hat on her head.
Caitlyn had delivered on the logistics, having the jet land at the small airstrip in northern Arizona. A National Guard C-130 transport was already there. The pilot had talked to Caitlyn and gotten his orders and then disappeared back into the plane to wait.
Kinsman made a single call and twenty minutes later an old pickup truck pulling a horse trailer arrived. The Navajo driver shook Kinsman’s hand and gave him the keys. Kinsman drove it up the ramp and into the C-130 where the crew chief helped him secure it with chains.
From there, they flew to an unimproved dirt and rock airstrip just south of Boulder, Utah, which was along Utah State Highway 12, north and east of Escalante. They off-loaded from the Hercules cargo aircraft. The pilots had shut the engines and settled in to wait.
Kane, Kinsman and Caitlyn had driven onto the highway and turned off the State road onto a dirt trail some miles before reaching Escalante. Kinsman had navigated by memory. Kane had a map that was scarce on details. Caitlyn had the imagery which wasn’t as good as Kinsman’s memory because the photos were two dimensional and as the Navajo had told them, this land was anything but. The unimproved dirt road simply disappeared at times. At times they’d skirted the edge of washes and small canyons that were impassable. Some were so narrow they were impossible to see until one was upon them. Kinsman had driven the truck pulling the horse trailer slowly, avoiding raising a dust cloud until they arrived at this spot. He’d parked the truck and trailer among the standing stones.
It was already close to 100 degrees and the sun was searing. The land was brownish and the few trees were stunted, more like bushes. It was a beautiful place in a foreboding, empty, expansive way that was hard for Kane to process after his youth in the city and combat in the jungle, where seeing thirty feet clearly was a major accomplishment. Here one could see for miles and miles, yet not spot someone twenty feet away in one of the many folds in the terrain.
Kinsman had the M-1 in a scabbard, the forty-five in a shoulder holster and the Ka-bar on his belt. His Stetson shaded his face. He smiled. “I am home. I feel the spirits.” Then he rode off to the south.
Kane twitched, wanting to coordinate an emergency rally point, back up plans for if Kinsman didn’t return, but the Navajo had become single-minded and more taciturn than usual the farther they drove away from civilization.
“Might as well get comfortable,” Caitlyn said, sitting cross-legged in the shade underneath a misshapen rock that was part of a number of others, as if God had made his own Stonehenge from the terrain. “Going to be a long, hot day.”
FIFTYMILE POINT, GRAND ESCALANTE STAIRCASE, UTAH
Forty miles away, Toni’s blouse was unbuttoned two below her breasts. She’d also surreptitiously ripped a slit along the side of her skirt so she could show her best assets, her long, lean legs. She knew Tsosie had taken notice but he hadn’t made a move. During the night, he’d handcuffed her to the bumper of the Defender while he’d unrolled a sleeping pad across the tunnel leading to the outside world.
Toni had waited, but he’d never arisen. She’s finally slumped back and fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion. Before dawn Tsosie had unlocked the cuffs, fed her, some lousy cold military rations, given her a canteen of water as her own and pointed out the five-gallon paint bucket behind a poncho strung between two metal stakes that served as the toilet.
He was currently seated at the plank table, playing solitaire with a tattered deck of cards. He’d just made an hourly radio check with the three guard posts.
Yazzie had not re-appeared since taking the bikers out and Toni kept expecting him to drive back in with Kane’s body in the back of his truck, like some hunting trophy. She had great faith in Kane’s abilities but she didn’t see how anyone could take on this number of armed men in the open terrain she’d seen before being brought into this mine. She knew there was only one way she was getting out of here and that was on her own.
She carried the canteen with her and walked over to the table. Tsosie’s hand slid over to the pistol grip of his M-16 as she approached, but he didn’t bring it up. Twenty-four hours of no threat had a cumulative effect. She swung her leg over the bench on the far side, making sure to show plenty of thigh and sat across from him.
“We could make the game more interesting,” she suggested.
He pulled the assault rifle closer and out of her reach. “Such as?”
“Poker,” Toni said. She leaned forward. “We used to play on Friday nights at my old firm.”
“How would it be more interesting?” Tsosie asked. He’d slipped, his eyes dipping to examine her cleavage for the briefest of moments. It was a crack in the wall and Toni had been known in the courtroom for exploiting similar legal openings. It was all the same: a game played out with emotions over-riding logic. Guilt or innocence was rarely decided by the facts of a case; it was the feelings that ruled in the end.
“We can wager,” Toni said.
Tsosie laughed. “Did you bring your purse?”
“No,” Toni said. She waited.
Tsosie’s eyes slid to the exit tunnel, to Toni, a sweep down to her cleavage. His tongue snaked out and licked his lips, an unconscious but such an utterly obvious tell that Toni knew she could win at cards or in a courtroom with him, but the stakes were different here. She was going to have to lose to win.
“What can you bet, then?” he finally asked.
She smiled. “What do you suggest?”
He laughed once more. “I know what I’d want. But what would you want if you won?”
“Food,” Toni said. “Not that army crap.” She pointed at a cooler. “Real food.” She indicated the small stove. “Cooked. I haven’t had hot food in days.”
Tsosie nodded. “I can make us a meal. But you have to win for it. If you lose . . .”
“If I lose, I owe,” Toni said.
“Yeah.” He gathered the cards, made a half-ass attempt at shuffling, then dealt. “Five card stud.” He laughed, which Toni forced herself to join in with.
It wasn’t hard to lose, but she was irritated at the slow pace of his demands. First hand, he had her remove the blouse, as if they were college kids playin
g strip poker and not two adults in a life or death situation, at least for her, but him too if Kane made it here.
She was naked from the waist up when he finally told her to come around the table and get on her knees. She was halfway there when the sound of a car engine reverberated out of the tunnel.
“Fuck!” Tsosie exclaimed, grabbing the M-16 and jumping to his feet. “Get dressed!”
Toni picked up her bra and blouse. Considered her options, then reluctantly put the bra on. She had the blouse buttoned up all the way by the time Yazzie appeared at the driver’s wheel. The Navajo parked the Defender next to the other one and got out.
He stared at Toni and Tsosie. Walked over to the edge of the table still without saying a word. Looked at the two hands of cards. At her, then him. He crooked a finger to Tsosie. The man came forward.
“Hey, brother, how is—” Tsosie didn’t finish as Yazzie hit him in the solar plexus, knocking the air out of his lungs.
Yazzie grabbed Toni by the hair with one hand and pulled her with him, toward one of the tunnels on the other side of the chamber.
“You’re hurting me!” Toni complained as she shuffled awkwardly to go along with him, neck bent.
“Shut up,” Yazzie snapped.
As they went into the darkness, he pulled a flashlight off his belt with his free hand and turned it on. The tunnel ended in a vertical shaft. Yazzie let go of her hair. Shined the light down. “Look.”
There was an awful odor in the air and Toni didn’t want to do as ordered.
Yazzie grabbed her hair once more and jerked her head, forcing her to stare down the shaft.
Bodies lay on the bottom, fifty feet down. Mummified bodies, their skin grey and brown and dried out, pinched taut over bones. How many she couldn’t tell, but enough to cover the bottom. How many were below those?
“You won’t rot,” Yazzie said. “Your pretty face will just dry out. Like theirs.” He let go of her and she staggered back.
“They went in alive,” Yazzie said. “It’s almost funny to watch because the one already in there cushion the fall. Mostly. You might break an arm or a leg, but you’ll eventually die of dehydration. One guy lasted six and a half days. That was the record.” Yazzie faced her, shining the flashlight up between them, illuminating their faces. “Try something like that again, you’re going in there. The only reason you’re still alive is for when Kane asks for proof of life to negotiate for the ledger. He’s not stupid enough to have it with him. He’ll hide it somewhere to exchange for you. The thing is, Toni, I don’t really care about the ledger. Not as much as Boss does. I want Kane dead. I won’t mind tossing you in here and then killing him before we negotiate. I’ll tell Boss it went bad. These kinds of things go wrong all the time.” He reached up and gripped her chin between thumb and fingers. “Do you understand me?”
She tried to speak but could only manage a garbled “Yes.”
He let go of her.
“You don’t even know if Kane is coming,” Toni said.
“He’s coming, but we’ll know tomorrow for certain.” He pointed up the tunnel. “Get back there.”
DEVILS GARDEN, GRAND ESCALANTE STAIRCASE, UTAH
Kane lay on his back, eyes closed, in the shade. Caitlyn was eight feet away, also in the shade. Sitting cross-legged, reading a paperback.
Kane broke the silence. “You essentially told Kinsman that he can kill someone.”
“You misremember,” Caitlyn said. “I told him the people we’ll run into are criminals. I didn’t say he could kill them.”
“It was implied,” Kane said.
“It was interpreted.”
Kane opened his eyes and turned his head. “Is that what a Sanction is? An interpretation?”
Caitlyn closed the book and put it on her lap. “Ah yes, Plaikos mentioned the term to you. How did you meet Mister Plaikos?”
“You’re quite good at answering questions with a question,” Kane noted. “What’s a Sanction?”
“It’s when a subject has passed a certain threshold and authorization is given to a field operative to make the final determination on guilt and then implement resolution.”
Kane laughed. “That’s a mouthful of bullshit. Judge, jury and executioner. I don’t know why I should have expected more from you, Caitlyn, whose real name I don’t know.”
“Sometimes less is more,” Caitlyn said.
“Let’s get specific,” Kane said. “Are you supposed to Sanction Crawford?”
Caitlyn didn’t respond.
“I take your lack of answer to mean that I’m supposed to do it,” Kane said. “Like you left the IRA terrorists in my lap.”
“We’ve discussed that.” She shrugged. “This is an extension of something you started a month ago, Kane. Almost exactly a month ago, the night of the Blackout. Isn’t it strange how pulling on a single string unravels something so much larger?”
“I’m beginning to wonder if that first string was random,” Kane said.
Caitlyn had nothing to say reference that. “Best we get some rest. We’ll have to alternate security tonight.”
“Right.”
GRAND ESCALANTE STAIRCASE, UTAH
Kinsman doubled the blanket, then doubled it again. He’d ridden on and off for most of the afternoon. Besides the unending pain in his gut, he wasn’t used to the saddle. Muscles and joints ached.
He placed the blanket on the ground and knelt on top, sparing his old knees the hard rock. He was on the edge of a wash, shielded by higher ground from the cliffs far to the south. He’d built a small fire with brush. Now he rolled a cigarette, using paper and the pouch his mother had given him before going off to war. He leaned forward and lit it from the fire, inhaling the tobacco and the odor of burning brush. He took a deep drag, reflected this wasn’t exactly a prayer pipe, but it would do.
It was the end of the day, when the sun on the western horizon lit the landscape up with brilliant hues, not visible the rest of the day. He faced to the southeast, where the enemy awaited. Then he began a low chant he’d learned as a child:
“Comes the deer to my singing
Comes the deer to my song
He the blackbird he am I
Bird beloved sing my song
Down the mountain from the summit
In the blossoms through the dew
Stamping softly with your feet
Quarry mine where are you
Blessed am I in the chase
I thank the Spirit for my song
Comes the deer to my singing
Comes the deer to my song.”
He closed his eyes, took a deep drag on the cigarette while his other hand pressed on his stomach. He pulled a pill bottle out of his pants pocket and considered it. Put it back in the pocket.
23
Monday Morning,
15 August 1977
MEATPACKING DISTRICT,
MANHATTAN
“I would be serving Dai Yu peppers right now,” Thao said to Morticia as he came from behind the counter. “Go into the kitchen, please.” He looped the belt attached to the handle of his machete over his head, putting the weapon inside his shirt in the back. The belt in front looked like a harmless leather neckband.
Morticia spotted the inbound trouble: a large man wearing an inappropriate-for-the-hot-weather black leather jacket was swaggering down Washington. She went into the kitchen but looked over the serving wall to see what was going to transpire. There were a handful of early customers in the diner. They’d ignored Thao’s machete and were focused on their food and coffee.
The man entered the Washington Street door and looked about, as if evaluating what the take from the place would be.
“May I help you, sir?” Thao asked.
Leather Jacket looked down at him. “I’m looking for William Kane.”
“He is not here,” Thao replied. “Is there something I can do?”
“Where is he?”
“He is away on business,” Thao said. “Would you like a
menu?”
Leather Jacket reached down and grabbed Thao’s shirt with one large hand. “I don’t want a fucking menu. Where has Kane gone?”
Thao’s hand began to reach for the handle of the machete.
“He’s not here,” Morticia said cheerfully and loudly, coming out of the kitchen. “Please, leave the cook alone.”
He let go of Thao and faced her. “The gook already told me he’s not here. I gotta know where he went. And with who.” He reached into a pocket of the jacket and pulled out a lock of curly black hair. “I was told someone here might recognize who this come from. I was told to find out if this Kane joker is going to meet the woman this come from.” He sounded like a bad record skipping. “So, anyone gonna tell me? I was told if no one answers, that the woman is gonna get hurt.”
Morticia drew herself up straight, staring right into his eyes. “You, sir, are a pig and a disgrace to—” She stopped as Leather Jacket drew back a hand to slap her, but he froze as Thao lay the razor-sharp edge of the machete alongside his neck.
“Captain Kane has gone to meet her,” Thao said. “No one has gone with him. He is alone. You can leave now.”
The mobster rotated his eyes to see the steel. “Okay, guy, okay. Take it easy. We’re good. We’re good.” He backed up, out the door and walked quickly, with no swagger, up Washington.
Thao sheathed the machete. “When I ask you to go in the kitchen, Morticia, I mean stay in the kitchen.”
The handful of patrons went back to eating, given that they were native New Yorkers.
Thao and Morticia stood side-by-side watching the man.
“This isn’t good,” Morticia said. “They cut a lock of her hair? What kind of people are they?”
“Dai Yu knew it wasn’t good when he decided to go. He is very capable. He’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, but—” Morticia began but was interrupted by a cheery:
