CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
"An Offer"
Beadles phoned Panny. "Rolf. There was a kid in jail with me. Black kid. Ninja Preston. I need to talk to him. Could you track him down for me?"
"Not difficult. I can just check the jail records. They're public. You find Cerveros?"
"I found his kid. Cerveros killed himself." Beadles brought Panny up to speed.
"Wow," the PI said. "Looks like you've uncovered a snakepit. You got any money to pay me with?"
Beadles fingered the gold medallion in is pocket. "No of course not."
"Do you expect to have any money down the road?"
"Rolf, I'm more convinced than ever that the Azuma existed and that I can prove it. When that happens I'll be able to write my own ticket."
"I'll do this one thing for you, Vaughan, because I believe you were framed. But that's it. I have a family to support."
"I understand. And thanks."
Beadles thought about the five grand. Panny would run through that in a week. Beadles was ready to start camping to save money. His only other expenses included food, internet service, and insurance. He'd converted Potts' check into cash and that was what he lived on. He thought others might be after the Azuma. Mainly Liggett. Beadles was getting paranoid, signing motel registers with a made-up name and paying cash for everything.
Beadles was close. He could feel it. Maybe getting fired was the kick in the ass he needed to get out in the field and do his job. Sure. So it had cost him his marriage. That was going to blow up anyway. There were structural flaws. Betty had always kept her own checking account into which she deposited her earnings. Occasionally for no apparent reason she would give Beadles money or pay for something like a vacation.
There were weeks, sometimes months when she shunned physical intimacy. That didn't excuse the affair. Obviously there were trust issues. Beadles looked at other smiling couples and wondered what their marriage was really like behind closed doors.
Salvation lay within a couple hundred miles of where he sat in the Durango Public Library, studying ley lines in the Four Corners Region. Most significant Anasazi sites lay at the convergence of the ley lines. These had been tracked and quantified by scores if not hundreds of scholars over the years and virtually all major intersections had been thoroughly explored.
But still. It was like staring at one of those trick pop-art posters that initially appears to be a jumble of nonsense when suddenly the hidden message appears. Beadles hated optical illusions. He wasn't good at them and never saw the message even when others pointed it out.
The library closed at six. Beadles set up shop in a booth at Mel's Diner and ordered a cheeseburger. The waitress looked like a Will Elder drawing of an old woman. His phone rang as she plunked the burger down. Beadles thanked her and picked up his phone.
"Beadles."
"Panny here. The man with whom you shared a cell, his actual name is Arcel Preston and he has done time for hacking. I got in touch with him through his parole officer and gave him your number."
"Thanks, Rolf. How did they let him go if he was on parole when he was arrested?"
"The reasoning of the judicial system escapes me. This is the last favor I can do for you, Professor."
"Do you have his number?"
Panny gave him a number. "But it's probably no-good. This guy changes phones as often as most people change underwear. Don't worry. I told him there was money involved."
"Thanks, Rolf."
Five minutes later Beadles' phone rang again.
"This the cat I shared a cell with?" Ninja Preston said.
"Yes. Yes it is. Thanks for getting back to me. I wonder if you'd help me out with a scientific problem."
"A Sci-in-tif-ic problem? What that? Whatchoo got that I want?"
"I'm searching for an ancient civilization in the Southwest. I think maybe you can help me. As for what I can do for you, I can give you a stake in my enterprise. Sort of like investing in sunken treasure only the odds are better. I know what I'm doing. Google me."
"Done dat. Says you was fired from the u-ni-VER-sity for stealing that pot."
"I was framed!"
"Sure you were. All my friends be framed. They frame me!" Ninja sounded less manic than he had in jail. Maybe he was lucid.
Beadles laughed. Ninja chuckled. "Whatchoo likely to find?"
"Gold."
"Now you got my attention. Whatchoo need?"
"You mentioned hacking into a surveillance satellite. I'm trying to locate ancient ruins in the desert. Could you use spy satellites to look beneath the surface? Could you find ley lines?"
"Ley lines? Dat when you tell some hoochie you love her?"
Beadles explained.
"I can do dat for sure. Where you at, man?"
"I'm in Colorado."
"Well I'm in Springfield. You gots to come here. My la-BOR-a-tory here."
"I can be there in 24 hours. How do I find you?"
"Man, this better not be a set-up or you wish you never met me."
"It's not."
Preston game him an address and a phone number. "You ain't here in twenty-four you find no one home."
***
CHAPTER FORTY
"Blanket Amnesty"
Vince knocked on the double-wide's tinny door. Shreds of plastic whipped through the scrub brush as a harsh wind blew through the desolate trailer park on the edge of nowhere. Hava hadn't been hard to find. Nothing was in the internet age. Vince had googled it and come up with "a mobile home park seeking township status on the fringes of the Navajo Nation."
Four brown boys were doing skate stunts on a bare concrete apron--foundation for a missing trailer--on which they'd set up a plywood ramp. Three of them had buzzcuts as seen in
Skate!
magazine while the 4th favored the traditonal long-haired savage route. It cost Vince five for them to point out the Funderburk manse. He thought of offering them meth but he didn't want to leave a footprint.
The door opened. A stupid young Indian with glazed eyes and a big nose stared at him smelling of weed. "What?"
"Summer here?" Vince said pushing his way inside.
The kid stepped back. "You must be the boyfriend. No she ain't here and I don't know where she went."
Vince looked around the trailer. What a shit hole. The TV was the nicest piece of furniture. Paid for with our tax dollars. "Where's my Camaro?"
"What Camaro," said stupid face.
Vince smacked him across the face and he went down like the little bitch he was. "You know what Camaro."
"Hey chill out, dude! She took it down to Bosselman's and sold it to some bangers!"
"Get up," Vince said. "Sit down over there." He indicated the sofa. He walked over to the refrigerator, opened it and found two Dos Equis. He took out one and cracked it. The kid looked stressed. He'd been looking forward to those beers. Vince saw the baggie and works on the table. Not smart enough to hide his shit when a stranger comes to the door.
That baggie looked familiar. Vince scooped it up and got a whiff. He must have made a face because the kid cringed like a whipped dog.
"She gave it to me! I didn't know it was yours!"
Vince stuffed the baggie in his pocket. "What happened after she sold my car?"
"I don't know, man," the kid whined. "She came back here, talked to the old lady and took off again."
"In what?"
"An old Ford pick-up!"
"What year?"
"Fuck if I know! I don't even have a driver's license!"
Vince turned toward the bedrooms. "What old lady?" But he was already back there. He opened the door and saw the old lady sitting up in bed, one hand to her throat in a stricken posture, staring at him. But of course she'd heard every word. The trailer was made of cardboard.
"You Summer's mother?" he said going in.
The old woman hunched back in the corner. "I don't know anything."
Vince sat on the bed. "Bullshit."
Ten minutes later he was on the road to Ned Lead's place. Summer had mentioned him. Some kind of shaman/grandfather figure. But of course the Injuns loved their mystic mumbo jumbo. It gave them something to hold onto after they'd failed at every other aspect of life. Vince was surprised the old geezer was still alive. To hear Summer tell it, he'd been ancient when she was a little girl.
A pair of bony cattle looked up from a stock enclosure as the big gray Humvee jounced down the box canyon. Vince was surprised at the dome but the property was as unlovely as he'd imagined, surrounded by junk, a couple beaters, rusting appliances and wood pallets. An old man sat in front of the dome beneath a makeshift awning. He wore those geezer shades that fit over regular glasses and his lap was covered with an Indian blanket despite the heat. A mangy dog lay at his feet.
Vince parked the car, drained a bottle of NOS, and laid out a line on the center console. He hoovered it up and was good to go.
The old man removed a pair of ear buds as Vince exited his vehicle. Vince opened the passenger door on the driver's side and grabbed a bottle of Cabo Wabo. Trading goods. He probably could have got away with the cheap stuff but what the hell. Vince was a good tipper.
The dog raised its muzzle and growled. The old man remained motionless behind the wraparound sunglasses.
"Hey there," Vince said. "You must be Grampa Ned."
"You must be the boyfriend," the old man replied.
"So she was here. Brought you some tequila." He held out the bottle. The old man didn't move.
Vince stood directly in front of him, the dog off to the side a little bit. "You are going to tell me what I want to know."
"Git off my property. Go on. Git."
"How'd you like me to smash this bottle over your head?"
The dog's hackles rose and it showed its teeth. Vince's right leg lashed out and kicked it under the muzzle. The old dog yelped.
An erection rose beneath the blanket on the old man's lap. "You got 'bout two seconds to get the hell out of here before I blow out your brains."
Vince pivoted on his left leg and roundhouse kicked the old Indian in the head. Ned Lead went down sideways like a slamming door. With a snarl the old dog attached itself to Vince's left calf, sharp fangs half-gripping the Tony Lama boots, sinking deep into the flesh.
Vince brought his right leg up and stomped straight down on the old dog's head, smashing it into the earth and busting its skull. It died without a sound. The old man grunted and struggled with the twisted blanket trying to free his pistol. Vince kicked him in the head so hard it bounced off the concrete base of the house.
The old man lay still. Breathing heavily Vince knelt and put his fingers to the old man's neck. He was dead. Useless.
USELESS! The whole fucking trip wasted because the old fool had to act the hero. Vince reflected way back in the brain's root cellar maybe he was doing too much meth but fuck it, he needed the energy to track the bitch down and reclaim what was his. He'd dry out later.
Well fuck. Maybe the old fool had something of value in the house. The interior of the dome was neat and well-arranged, in contrast to the grounds. Motes of dust hung in sunny beams coming in through the skylights. The ceiling fan was inert. Vince found the switch and turned it on. In fact there was a lot of worthwhile stuff. If Vince had paid a hundred bucks for an auctioned storage locker he would have been well pleased.
There were hand-carved animals. Soapstone with turquoise eyes. There was an exquisite Kachina doll with handmade clothes. Numerous Native American pots and some framed sandstone paintings.
Vince spent tenty minutes going through the place as only a meth addict can. He emptied boxes of Quaker Oats and graham crackers into the sink. He cleaned out the refrigerator and freezer. He upended the old box spring and mattress lying on the floor. He found $125.76 in cash. On the way out he grabbed the old man's 1911 Colt .45. He couldn't have asked for a nicer handgun.
As to the bitch's whereabouts, nada. He would just have to be patient. Sooner or later she'd turn up and Luca would send him a blip.
His phone buzzed.
It was Luca.
***
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
"Bingo"
It was an eighteen hour drive. Beadles drove straight through downing shots of 5 Hour Energy Drink every four hours, stopping only to eat and piss. He was wide-awake at two a.m. when Art Bell assured him that the UFOs were real and that the Air Force had been hiding definitive proof since 1954.
The address Ninja had given, 1442 K St., was in an industrial district separated from the river by a broad swath of railroad tracks. It belonged to a three-story red brick warehouse housing a half dozen businesses. Beadles parked directly in front of the building around six-fifteen, as the sun was rising. Carrying his laptop in backpack he entered the foyer and consulted the listings. A vid cam stared from the ceiling. He pushed the button for Global Consulting. A second later the inner door buzzed and he went in. He took the staircase to the third floor. As he exited the well, Ninja poked his head out of a door halfway down the hall.
"Yo."
He went back in. Beadles followed, finding himself in a broad loft with a steel beam ceiling criss-crossed with air ducts and filled with hard drives, monitors, routers and storage systems. Ceiling fans stirred the marijuana-scented air. An enormous black man wearing shades and a black skull cap lounged on a sofa. Ninja stood with hands in pockets.
"That my man Gregorio. Say hello to the professor, Gregorio."
"Hello," Gregorio rumbled in sub-bass frequency.
"You know what Beadles means, Professor?" Ninja said.
"No."
A parish officer having various subordinate duties, as keeping order during services."
"I did not know that."
"Tell me bout the gold," Ninja said.
Beadles sat at a a long table holding printers and scanners. He opened his lap top, plugged it into a power bar on the table, and brought up his notes from Balmora's diary. Ninja sat, pulled the laptop in front of him, and read through the diary entries.
"Mm-hmm. How I know you didn't just make all this shit up?"
Beadles stared at him in astonishment. "That would make me batshit crazy."
"I do my research, professor. You was just fired by Creighton University for stealing ancient artifacts."
"I was framed!" Beadles said surprised at his own vehemence.
"Mm-hmm," Ninja said with a knowing look. "Me too."
"Me three," Gregorio rumbled.
Ninja smiled revealing perfect teeth. "Twelve pounds of gold, huh? Well that beats a poke in the eye. Gregorio! How much twelve pounds of gold worth?"
"At today's prices," Gregorio rumbled, "320 thou."
"Mm-MM," Ninja said. "That sound good to me!"
"If they're in the form of Anasazi artifacts they could be priceless," Beadles said.
"So what we talkin' bout," Ninja said. "Spanish conquistadors rippin' off the gold from Native Americans? And how they not bring that out with them?"
"Because they all died," Beadles said. "The Azuma killed them. That's who we're looking for. The Azuma."
"I be looking for gollld. You want a NOS or somethin'? You want to get mellow, do a line?" Ninja held up a pinkie. "Imbibe an adult beverage?"
Beadles noticed the slick under Ninja's nose. Looked like they had both pulled all-nighters. Beadles was too excited about his work to even entertain the idea of sleep, although he had been up for 24 hours. Best to push it through, then crash.
"Could satellite technology locate 12 pounds of gold in the desert?"
Ninja got up and walked among the work stations, sitting at a monitor mounted on an industrial cafeteria table. "Maybe. You gots to know where to look. We start with the National Recon. They the guys that launch the satellites. Spy satellites. They all kinds of shit up there now. HBO, weather, Sirius XM. We got to go where the money is which mean slipping into DARPA. We can't leave no fingerprints. That why they come to the ninja man."
"What's DARPA?"
"Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. Dat where dey got de good stuff!"
Beadles wondered if Ninja was putting on an act. The screen morphed beneath Ninja's hands. Numbers and warnings appeared and disappeared like carp surfacing in a pond.
"They launched these cubesats last Summer, each one with a special focus. One tracks maritime shipping. Another tracks weather. They got one that can see beneath the surface for certain geological concentrations. That's how they found that Mayan pyramid in Guatemala--by zeroing in on certain limestone composites the Mayan used to build. Lime seeped into the earth, turned the trees funny.
"Where zackly we lookin'?" Ninja said.
"Four corners region. Most likely north central Arizona."
"That's a big place."
"I can narrow it down some," Beadles said. "I'm pretty familiar with all the known sites, and which areas have resisted exploration. Can you draw up a map of that area?"
"Sheeit. You just want Google maps! Hang on."
Ninja saved his screen and brought up a satellite photograph of the Four Corners region overlaid with counties, towns and roads. Beadles directed him to the area he thought most likely to be the site of the Azuma civilization. Even in the 21st Century with the internet and globa communication, there were places that had never been completely explored. Places right here in the United States. Oh they'd been mapped, platted and photographed, but they all said the same thing. Nothing there. A barren desert where the only things that lived were rattlers and scorpions.
Ninja worked in silence for twenty minutes, got up, went to the john, got two Mountain Dews from the fridge, tossed one to Beadles, sat at the long table, rolled a doobie, lit it, offered it to Beadles who declined and Gregorio who took it. Ninja returned to the computer. A bewildering series of numbers scrolled across the screen followed by a warning in red letters. He restarted the computer and began anew.
"Ain't this a bitch," he muttered.
Fifteen minutes later he said, "We're in."
Beadles looked over his shoulder at a view from space of the southwestern United States. Ninja typed in commands and the view magnified a hundred times encompassing an area of approximately twelve square kilometers.
"This here shit goes beneath the surface to find ancient roads which are usually made of a particular type of stone. They find them pyramids in Mexico by lookin' for the limestone signature. The limestone leaches into the ground and affects the forest--they chemical composition changes and they ain't the same color as the surrounding forest.
"But we ain't got no forest. This here program sees fault lines, roads, anything ain't consistent with the surrounding shit. Uses an extreme low alpha waves to look beneath the surface."
Beadles thought Ninja had to work at appearing stupid. Ninja hummed to himself while he worked, adding a little rhythm with his fingers and toes. The focus on screen shifted as Ninja worked the area like a forensic scientist. The area was located in North Central Arizona on the Carson Mesa some fifty miles from Monument Valley.
Fatigue washed over Beadles. He was light headed and needed to rest. He wondered if he could safely drive to a motel.
"I need to crash," he said.
"Hold on, hold on," Ninja said. "I got somethin'."
Under his hands the screen changed color several times. Ninja zoomed in a blank spot on the map. "Lookit here," he said.
Beadles blinked. He didn't see it. And then he did. Ninja put his finger right on the screen. A series of squiggly lines in a sunburst pattern.
***