by C. J. Box
A Formica plate was bolted to the front door. It read:
DR. CLEVE GARRETT
ICONOCLAST SOCIETY
RENO, NEVADA
Joe turned off his motor and shut his door when the Airstream door opened and a smiling, owlish man stepped out.
“Cleve Garrett?”
“Dr. Cleve Garrett,” the man corrected, pulling an oversized sweater around him. Garrett was in his late forties, thin, with a limp helmet of hair that gave him a disagreeably youthful appearance. His mouth was wide, with almost nonexistent lips, and it turned down sharply at each corner. His nose was long and aquiline, and his big eyes dominated his face, appearing even larger through thick, round lenses.
“Joe Pickett. I’m the game warden and a member of the task force investigating the mutilations.”
Garrett tilted his head back, as if looking at Joe through his thin nostrils.
“I was wondering when someone was going to show up. I’m a little surprised they sent a game warden.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Joe said, although he wasn’t.
Garrett waved it away. “Never mind. Come on in, I’ve been waiting. Everything is ready.”
Joe hesitated. Everything is ready? He pondered revealing to Garrett that he had some background on him, and his “work” in Montana, courtesy of Dave Avery. Joe chose not to say anything yet, to let Garrett do the talking.
“Iconoclast Society?” Joe asked. “What’s that?”
Garrett’s large eyes widened even further, filling the lenses, unnerving Joe.
“Iconoclast,” Garrett said. “Breaker of images. Burster of bubbles. Denouncer. Decrier. Without passion. I’m a scientist, Mr. Pickett.”
Joe said, “Oh,” wondering why he had volunteered to Hersig to take this part of the investigation.
“Let me show you what you people are up against,” Garrett said.
Stepping into the Airstream was like stepping inside a computer, Joe thought. On three of the four walls were shelf brackets that held stacks of electronic equipment and gauges, monitors, and keyboards. There was the low hum of high-tech equipment and the hushing sound of tiny interior fans. Wires and cables bound by duct tape snaked through the equipment and across the ceiling.
On the back wall of the room was a closed door that obviously led to the rest of the trailer. On either side of the door were stainless steel counters and sinks, littered beakers, and glass tubing. The pegboard walls near the door displayed medical and mechanical tools.
Joe folded himself onto a stool on one side of a small metal table stacked high with files, folders, and printouts. Garrett took the other stool and started arranging the folders in front of him.
“Quite a place,” Joe said, removing his hat and looking around.
“The trailer was modified to be a mobile lab and command center,” Garrett said brusquely, as if he’d explained it a thousand times to others and wanted to get it out of the way quickly so they could move on with things.
“A million and a half dollars worth of the latest hardware, software, and monitoring devices. The lab takes up the front half of the trailer, living quarters take up the back. We’ve got an interior generator, although I prefer to pull into a place like this,” he gestured vaguely toward the outside, referring to the Riverside Park, “so I can plug in. All of our data and findings are synched via satellite to our center in Nevada, where half a dozen other scientists analyze it as well. I can be totally mobile and on the road within two hours to get to a site. I was here in Saddlestring, for example, within forty-eight hours of the first discovery of the mutilated cattle.”
Joe nodded. “Who pays for all of this?”
“We’re totally, completely private,” Garrett said. “We accept no corporate or government funds at all. Therefore, we’re not compromised. We’re a completely independent center devoted to impartial scientific research into paranormal activities.”
“So,” Joe asked again, “who pays for all of this?”
Garrett showed a hint of annoyance. “Ninety-eight percent of our funding comes from a single source. He’s a highly successful entrepreneur named Marco Weakland. You’ve probably heard of him.”
“I haven’t,” Joe said.
“Among his many ventures, he has a particular interest in paranormal psychology and science. It fascinates him. He uses a very small part of his fortune to fund this project and to employ some of the best alternative scientists in the world. Our job is to get to the scene of unexplained activity and analyze it in pure scientific terms. Mr. Weakland doesn’t trust government conclusions, and frankly we’ve disproved and debunked more phenomena as hoaxes than found actual evidence of paranormal or supernatural activity. And we’ve found completely natural explanations for most of the phenomena we’ve investigated in the three short years we’ve been in operation. Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Weakland sincerely believes in the possibility of alien beings, civilizations, and incursions, as do I. But he wants them proven, scientifically, before he brings them to light. What I don’t quite understand, Mr. Pickett, is why I’m explaining all of this to you when I already went into it in some detail with the Sheriff’s Department.”
Joe had a mental image of Deputy McLanahan listening to Garrett over the telephone while doing the crossword puzzle in the back of the TV Guide.
“The deputy communicated very little of your conversation,” Joe said, not liking to make excuses for McLanahan.
“Well,” Garrett said, looking annoyed, “then that explains why I wasn’t asked to participate in your task-force meeting.”
Joe looked at Garrett blankly.
“In fact, if you people were really interested in getting to the bottom of these mutilations and murders, you would appoint me cochair of the task force.”
“You’d need to talk to the county DA about that,” Joe said. “His name is Robey Hersig.” Joe made a mental note to call Hersig as soon as he could and warn him that Dr. Cleve Garrett would be contacting him.
For thirty minutes, Garrett spoke nonstop and Joe listened. Cleve Garrett showed Joe photographs of mutilated cattle, sheep, horses, and goats that had been taken over the last four decades in the United States and Canada, and throughout South and Central America. Mutilated dairy cattle had been reported in the United Kingdom and Europe in the 1960s, often at the same time alleged crop circles were discovered. Official explanations for the mutilations were as varied as their geography, but most involved birds, insects, or cults.
The photos and case files—many of them ancient carbon copies and several written in Spanish and Portuguese—piled up on the table in front of them. The last few case files held photos and names of places Joe recognized. Conrad, Montana. Helena, Montana.
“Last winter, mutilated cattle were discovered in Montana,” Garrett said. “Someone up there was familiar with our group and called us. Unfortunately, they called us three weeks too late. By the time I got there, the local yokels had completely tromped all over the crime scenes, and they refused our assistance.”
Joe listened silently, not letting on that he had heard Dave Avery’s side of this story.
“We were able to obtain the heads of several of the cattle, but they were nearly two months old at that point. We shipped them to our facility in Reno for technical analysis.”
Garrett dropped a thick file of necropsy photos on the table. Joe opened the folder to see the skinless head of a cow with the top of its skull cut off. Someone probed a flat metal tool into the cow’s withered brain in a gesture that looked uncomfortably like the act of scooping peanut butter from a jar with a butter knife. Gently closing the folder, Joe felt his morning coffee burble in his stomach.
“What we found were levels of a chemical in the brains and organs in excess of what should be there naturally.”
Joe thought oxindole, but said: “What was it?”
Garrett started to answer, pulled back, and said coyly, “I’ll save the results for the task-force meeting.”
“
So we’re playing games here?”
“I don’t play games. I just don’t want to show all of my cards until we’re in an official setting and I’ve been given some standing in the task force.”
Joe nodded. “Go on.”
Garrett continued, “Some of the trace chemicals discovered were absolutely unknown to our scientists. You understand? Unknown! Poisons or sedatives not of this world were found in the brain tissue of Montana cattle. Not only that, but the incisions had been performed by ultrahigh-temperature laser instruments—instruments available only in leading surgical hospitals, not in the field. Certainly, this type of procedure could not have been done in the elements outside of Conrad, Montana.”
Joe was intrigued. He looked up, needing a break from the photos, which, in their quantity alone, were numbing.
“So what did you determine?” Joe asked.
Garrett sighed. “What we determined was that we were too late to do proper on-site analysis. We kept waiting for fresh incidents in Montana, but they never came. We were very disappointed. Our scientists were begging for fresher tissue to study before natural decomposition occurred. But whatever had mutilated the cattle had moved on.”
“Here to Twelve Sleep County,” Joe said.
“YES!” Garrett shouted, nearly upsetting the table. His sudden exclamation sounded like a gunshot in the silent room. “Now we’re right in the middle of it, right where it’s happening. Not only cattle and wildlife, but perhaps, for the first time, human beings! This is why I need to be on the task force. Why I need to be involved, and to be kept informed. You people have a resource here,” he thumped his chest, indicating himself, “that you can’t ignore, that you shouldn’t ignore. Look at the equipment in this laboratory. Can you even imagine a more fortuitous circumstance?”
Joe looked up. “I can’t speak for the task force.”
“From what we can determine,” Garrett said, plowing ahead as if Joe hadn’t spoken, “wildlife and livestock mutilations aren’t random at all. What we’re beginning to believe is that the mutilations are ongoing, and perpetual, and have been for at least forty years.”
“You lost me,” Joe said.
“You lost yourself,” Garrett snapped. He had been getting more and more animated as he spoke, and was now highly agitated. His hands flew about as he spoke and his eyes, if possible, had become even wider.
“What we’re saying is that the mutilations are like the worldwide circulation of the flu bug. They never really stop, they just keep moving around the earth. There are blank spots in time—years, in fact—where there are no reported incidents, but that’s because we don’t have information from places like Africa or the Asian continent or Russia. And we certainly don’t have data about the hundreds—or thousands—of incidents that are never even discovered or recognized for what they were. Do you know what this means?”
“What’s that?” Joe asked, knowing he sounded doltish.
Garrett rose and leaned forward on the small table. His damp palms stuck to papers and files, puckering them. “It could well be that beings are conducting full-time research on our planet. Whether they’re doing it for genetic or physiological reasons, we don’t know. But they’re digging rather aggressively in our own Petri dish, trying to discover, or confirm, or create something.”
Garrett let his words hang in the air, obviously hoping that Joe would understand their significance
“If they’re here now, we have the best opportunity we’ve ever had of contacting them directly. We can let them know we’re on to their little game, and maybe offer to assist them. Perhaps we can start to build trust, exchange ideas. What is happening out there right now may be one of the most important opportunities to happen in our lifetime!”
Or not, Joe thought.
“What about the human victims? Where do they fit into your theory?” Joe asked.
Garrett stifled a smile. Actually, a mad grin, Joe thought.
“This is where things get interesting,” Garrett said, his voice nearly a whisper. “They’ve obviously stepped up their research in one bold stroke.”
“Why now?” Joe asked. “And why two men, for that matter?”
Garrett shook his head. “That I can’t quite figure out, although I have some ideas on it. One of my ideas you’re not going to want to hear.”
He said it in a way that led Joe to believe that Garrett couldn’t wait to continue. Joe responded by raising his eyebrows.
“At least one of the two men was killed by other means,” Garrett said quickly for maximum impact.
Joe felt his stomach churn. He would have to get out of the trailer soon, he thought.
“What makes you say that?”
Garrett raised his hands, palms up. “From what I understand, the two men were killed at least fifty miles apart on the same night. Both were mutilated in similar fashion to the cattle and wildlife. But one of the men was dragged from the murder scene and fed on by a bear and the other was found in pristine condition.”
Joe nodded.
“Obviously, something is wrong here. One of the primary characteristics of cattle and wildlife mutilations has been the lack of predation. I’ve got hundreds of photos to prove it. But a predator fed on the corpse of one of the murdered men only hours after he was killed. Doesn’t this strike you as odd?”
“Yes,” Joe admitted.
“There’s more, much more.” Garrett said, his hands flying around like doves released from a cage.
“Yes?”
“I’ll save the rest for the task-force meeting.”
Joe noticed something different in the room, smelled something, and turned his head.
The door at the end of the room near the sinks was ajar. He hadn’t heard it open, but the odor he smelled was cigarette smoke.
As he watched, the door pushed open and a woman stepped through it. She was young, pale, and thin, with straight, shoulder-length blond hair parted in the middle. She wore all black—black jeans, Doc Martens boots, long-sleeved turtleneck. Her lips were painted black and her dark blue eyes were bordered by heavy mascara. She is not beautiful, Joe thought. Without the statement in black, she would be unremarkable.
Garrett turned as well, angry. “Deena, what have I told you about letting smoke in here with my expensive equipment?”
Deena fixed her eyes on Joe, and when she answered she didn’t shift them.
“I’m sorry, Cleve. I heard loud voices, so I . . .”
“Please shut the door,” Garrett said sternly. As if talking to a child, Joe thought.
Joe looked back. Her eyes and expression were remarkable in their lack of content. But it seemed as if she were trying to connect with him in some way, for some reason.
“Deena . . .” Garrett cautioned.
“Bye,” Deena said in a little-girl voice, and stepped back through the door, closing it.
Joe looked to Garrett for an explanation. Garrett, again, looked agitated. His dramatic monologue had been interrupted.
“Deena’s been with me since Montana,” Garrett said, his eyes icy. But Joe noticed a flush in his cheeks, as if he were embarrassed to have to explain anything. “She’s a hanger-on, I guess you’d call her. My line of work attracts people who are a bit on the edge of the rest of society. I’m doing what I can to help her out with her journey.”
“Is she even seventeen?” Joe said coldly.
“She’s nineteen!” Garrett hissed. “More than legal age. She knows what she’s doing.”
Joe simply nodded, then pushed his stool back.
“What, you’re leaving?”
“I’ve heard enough from you for today, I think.”
Joe stood, picked up his hat, and turned for the door. Garrett followed.
“I think I know what’s happening out there, Mr. Pickett. I’m so close to it I can almost shout it out! But you’ve got to give me access to the task force and your findings. I need to see the case files, and the investigative notes. And you must make sure I’m notified im
mediately in the instance of another discovery.”
“I gave you Robey’s name, right? You’ll have to call him for all of that,” Joe said over his shoulder as he stepped out of the trailer.
“I need you to vouch for me,” Garrett pleaded. “I beg of you, sir!”
Joe opened the door of his pickup, hesitating for a moment. Garrett stood near the front of his Airstream, palms out, pleading.
“I’ll talk to them,” Joe said. “I need to settle on exactly what I’m going to say.”
“That’s all I ask,” Garrett said, his face lighting up. “That’s all I ask.”
He saw her in the heavy trees before he made the turn to leave the Riverside Resort and RV Park. It was a glimpse through the passenger window; amidst the tree trunks were her eyes, framed by dark makeup. Joe checked his rearview mirror. Cleve Garrett had returned to his trailer, and the front window of the Airstream was obscured by overgrown branches that reached down from the side of the lane. Garrett would not be able to see him.
He stopped and got out. “Deena?”
“Yes.”
He walked across the gravel lane into the soft mulch on the floor of the tree stand. She leaned against a massive old-growth river cottonwood trunk. She had no coat, and her face was even paler than he recalled from a few moments before. She hugged herself, her long, white fingers with black painted nails gripping opposite shoulders.
He asked, “Were you trying to tell me something back there?”
She searched his face with her eyes, trying to read him.
“I guess so.” Her voice trembled. “Maybe . . .” Was she cold or scared? he wondered.
Joe stripped his jacket off and fitted it over her shoulders.
“What year were you born, Deena?” he asked. As he suspected, he saw a twitch of confusion as she tried to do the math. Did she know that Garrett had said she was nineteen?
Deena gave up, not even trying to lie. “Please don’t send me back to Montana. There’s nothing I want to go back to. There’s nobody up there who wants me back.”
