The Enigmatologist (22 page)

“Who told her to sleep with me?”

Leadbelly’s
head jerked back. “Man, that’s
not really for me to say.”

“The fuck you can’t.” John threw the journal at
Leadbelly
. He caught it, gently held the artifact. John
charged him while he was distracted. He grabbed
Leadbelly’s
lapels, swung him around, slammed him into the wall.

“Did Jonathon
Deerfoot
tell Rosa
to sleep with me?”

“Man, you’re worrying about the wrong thing.”

John reared back to punch
Leadbelly
.
His hand started to ache. The aching grew into biting pain as the bones in his
hand pushed their way to the surface, breaking through his skin, wrapping
around and shielding each finger and joint until his fist was gloved by an
exoskeleton.

“That’s awesome, man.”
Leadbelly
smiled.

“Fuck you.” John punched
Leadbelly
.
He’d never punched anyone before and was surprised at how it felt. He smiled,
exhilarated, but his smile faded as the adrenaline ebbed and he turned away,
feeling guilt, shame at hurting someone. Even if it was
Leadbelly
.

“Oh, Jesus. Are you alright?” John asked, his hand on
Leadbelly’s
shoulder.

Leadbelly
leaned over, his hand propped
against the wall, its textured wallpaper slightly peeling. He straightened up,
laughing, blood running from his nose to his chin.

“Alright, man, alright.” He held up a hand in mock
surrender. The blood retracted, crawling past his lip, returning to his nose,
healing.

“Why didn’t you do that the other day? after the bar
fight?”

“I had to be convincing, man,”
Leadbelly
said.

“I’m sorry,” John said, staring at the bones covering his
hand. “I didn’t mean…”

“Did you see what you just did, man? with your hand?”

The bones shrank back into John’s flesh. The splits in his
skin sealed, as did any doubts John had about his ancestry, his present. It was
the final piece of evidence that the journal and everything in it was real. He
rubbed his hand, checking to see if it was softer, or would crack at his touch.

“Man, you’re embracing your Sagittarian side. That’s
great.”

“Not if it means hurting people.” John sat on the bed,
wrinkling the newly straightened comforter. Slouching, he looked at his hand,
flexed his fingers. “This isn’t who I am.”

“This part of you, man. It can be whatever you want it to
be. It can be amazing.”

“I don’t want any of this.” On the small table by the
window. A pad of unused graph paper. His voice lowered to a whisper. “I just
want to do my puzzles.”

“Man, tell you what,”
Leadbelly
sat next to him, “you get me outta here and I’ll tell you everything you want
to know. Rosa, the pictures you took from my trailer. Man, I’ll even tell you
about your dad.”

“Fuck him,” John said, an automatic response, then added
in a whisper full of suppressed curiosity, “What do you know about my dad?”

“More than you, man. That’s for sure.”
Leadbelly
slid out a photo that was tucked in the journal’s pages, looked at it and
grinned. “You look just like him, you know.”

“Fuck you.” John’s eyes watered up. He always assumed his
dad was living in another part of the country with another family, and another
son. Then his dad would visit him in dreams and try to convince John that he
was the most important person in his life. Talking to
Leadbelly
,
it occurred to him that his dad might be out there, hiding, and the only person
who knew where to find him reeked of bananas, sex, and cleaning supplies. The
police station number was printed on the hotel’s phone along with a pizza
delivery place and other emergency numbers.

“Shirley? Yeah, this is John Abernathy. Is Sheriff Masters
there yet?”

The sheriff came to the phone. “John, what can I do you
for?”

“Well, how can I say this, our friend came to visit me?”

“Our friend?”

“Yeah, you know the one. He’s here with me right now.
Wants to see you.”

“Oh. Okay, I’ll be right over.”

John scrolled through his call history, not wanting to
dial the next number.

“Rex Grant, please. Tell him it’s John Abernathy.”

“John. What have you found out?”

“Rex, how would you like an exclusive with an Elvis body
double?” John didn’t need to sell the story. Rex Grant would have jumped at
anything Elvis.

Leadbelly
raised his hands, shook his head,
objecting.

John put his hand over the phone and whispered, “Don’t
worry. I’m just bluffing.”

John told him everything, the alien conspiracy, the Air
Force’s involvement, even the Elvis connection. He could see Rex drooling on
the other end of the phone, envisioning old women lined up at the supermarket,
issue in one hand, a couple of dollars and a pint of mint chocolate chip ice
cream in the other.

“Here’s the catch, Rex, you
gotta
get us outta the state. The Air
Force’ll
lock up
Leadbelly
the minute they see him, and you’ll be out a
story.”

“Hold on, John, I’m looking at a map right now. Can you
get to Santa Fe?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“If you can get to
Sante
Fe, I
can meet you there with a chartered flight to L.A.”

Rex Grant told John to take back roads in case the Air
Force was watching the highway. He suggested which roads to take, planned their
route. John wrote them down and hung up.

John quickly texted Rooftop, telling him the case had
taken an interesting turn, that he’d be a few more days. Rooftop wouldn’t mind.
A few more days meant more money. John debated telling him what was really
going on, but knew what his response would be, that John should drive to Denver
and leave everything in the hands of the police. John knew that leaving wasn’t
an option, that there was nothing for him in Denver, nothing that could help
solve the Sagittarian conundrum. Only
Leadbelly
could
help him with that, and he’d given John another incentive to help him. He’d
promised to tell John about his father, and to take him to Rosa.

John went to the window, peeled back the yellow curtain.
The lot was empty. Every now and then, on the road, a truck going nowhere.

They heard the sheriff’s siren down the block. He sped
into the motel parking lot, parking next to John, taking up a couple of spaces.
Leadbelly
and John ran out the door, not giving him a
chance to get out of his squad car.

“What’s he doing here?” John asked as Professor Gentry got
out of the car.

“I thought he and
Leadbelly
could
talk about Elvis.”

“I know you.” Professor Gentry stared at
Leadbelly
, pointing his stubby finger.

“Professor Gentry. Al
Leadbelly
,”
John said, introducing them. “He was an Elvis body double.”

“We met a couple a times at Graceland, man,”
Leadbelly
said.

“Where’re we going?” Sheriff Masters asked.

“Santa Fe,” John said. “
Enquirer’s
gonna
meet us there. I told them about
Leadbelly
,
the Air Force, everything.”

“Man, that’s not our main worry,”
Leadbelly
said. “We
gotta
get past the Air Force.”

“In that case, John,” the sheriff said, “we’re taking your
car. It’ll attract less attention.
Gimme
the keys.
I’ll drive.”

Sheriff Masters went to the back of his squad car and
popped the trunk. “John, get over here.” Sheriff Masters strapped on his gun
belt. He pulled a Remington 870 12 gauge shotgun out of the trunk and handed it
to John. “You know how to use this?”

“Yeah, I think I remember.” John
rubbed his shoulder, recalling the bruise the kick of a shotgun can give a
skinny teenager. And smiled remembering Rooftop’s bribe of an Xbox if John
promised not to tell his mom.

The sheriff handed John some
shells.

“Good. Load it in the car.”

The
sky around the trailer park was pink and blue against the brown desert and
rusted portable homes. Although barricades still sealed Alamo Street, the road
around the entrance to the trailer park, blocking residents from returning to
their homes, the tent that had covered it was being dismantled, folded and
collapsed. The soldiers that had guarded the tent and protected the crime scene
were packing their gear, checking their ammunition. The sliding doors of vans
filled with boxes, artifacts taken from
Leadbelly’s
trailer, were being slammed shut. Standing next to a Hummer, arms crossed,
Colonel Hollister admired the crisp and efficient movements of his men.

They’d arrived early that morning, the science team and
the platoon, when the sun barely hovered above the ground and the sky had begun
to brighten. Colonel Hollister requested them after he received an alert in the
middle of the night that the local sheriff’s office was running the
fingerprints of one of his operatives. He immediately sent Private Ramsey to
Leadbelly’s
trailer to check on the old drunk, see if he
was passed out. Colonel Hollister watched through the monitors in their
converted command center as Private Ramsey rushed from the trailer, shrieking.
When he returned, breathless, talking about blood and a dead body smell,
although it was only cheap cologne and dirty clothes, Colonel Hollister thought
about John leaving
Leadbelly’s
, how calm he’d been.
He scratched his head. He was actually beginning to admire the Abernathy boy.
At least he didn’t embarrass himself like this.

Colonel Hollister called Los Alamos and requested
everything he’d need to initiate the next phase of his investigation. He almost
giggled when he hung up the phone, excited that a dead lead had been revived,
his investigation renewed. He felt rejuvenated, like an aging artist that had
rediscovered their love for creation.

When his authorization came, Colonel Hollister dispatched
Private
Mulworth
to fetch his men from the town jail.
The story of how John Abernathy had interfered with the retrieval of Rosa
Jimenez, hospitalizing the other operative, was told to Colonel Hollister as he
ate a bowl of microwave oatmeal. He took a bite and burned his mouth on an
uncooled chunk of apple when he saw Sheriff Masters run from
Leadbelly’s
trailer, even though a convoy of Hummers and
cargo vans had just exited I-25, was turning onto South Grand.

After a long day, with some unexpected fireworks, his men
should’ve been returning to their families. But, as Colonel Hollister knew,
their job was never over.

“Sergeant
Portersley
, are your
men ready?” Colonel Hollister asked, shouting over the engine noise. He held an
iPad
, glancing at the image of a map.

“Yes, sir. The men are loaded up.” Sergeant
Portersly
said, dragging his finger along a scar that ran
next to his ear, from his blond crew cut down to his jaw, an unconscious habit.
He had served in Afghanistan before being transferred to Colonel Hollister’s
unit, and thought protecting an underground research facility, pacing on the
green and white tiled floor beneath neon lights, beat the hell out of getting
blown up in the desert.

“And you have the coordinates?” Colonel Hollister asked.

“Yes, sir. You’re sure the target will be there?” A few
ambushes on Afghani mountain roads due to bad intelligence caused him to
question his commanding officers. It’s one of the reasons he was transferred.
The other reason, the reason Colonel Hollister requested had him, was his
predisposition for malice and persecution.

“Our
intel
is reliable.”

“With all due respect, sir, you’re not really giving us
much to go on.”

“You have all you need,” Colonel Hollister said, glancing
at his map.

“The men have questions, sir,” Sergeant
Portersly
said, hooking his thumbs under his body armor.
“If we could just get a little more information about the target…”

“You’re dismissed, Sergeant.”

“Just telling us where to go isn’t…”

“Dismissed.” Colonel Hollister glared at him.

“Yes, sir.”

Sergeant
Portersly
stamped over
to where some of his men were lounging next to their Hummer. He yelled at them,
telling them to step it up, that they were moving out shortly and didn’t want
to be left behind.

Colonel Hollister tapped the
iPad
against his leg. He couldn’t tell the sergeant how he got his information, how
he knew John Abernathy and Al
Leadbelly
would be
leaving town, what route they’d be taking, or the significance of either man.
All Sergeant
Portersley
needed to know was where to
stand and whom to shoot.

Al
Leadbelly
.

It had been years since Colonel Hollister had heard that
name, not since the days when he visited Elvis in Graceland, sweating in the
shade, or when Elvis lived in the suite at the International Hotel, the room
smelling like stale cigarette smoke and air conditioning.
Leadbelly
would stand next to Elvis, whispering jokes about chocolate pudding and pussy.
Elvis would laugh hysterically, because he loved both of those things. Usually
at the same time. That was how he got close to Elvis, dirty jokes. But he
stayed close because he was reliable, talented, always there, ready to step in
if needed.

The first time he met Al
Leadbelly
was on August 6
^th
, 1969. Colonel Hollister was just a major then and
Elvis had finally convinced him to let him spend more time in the field
investigating alien activity. Elvis had just finished his dinner show at the
International Hotel in Las Vegas and was interviewing body double applicants,
singers, actors, and regular people who resembled Elvis, to perform in his
place. He’d seen several singers that day and didn’t like any of them. Some
were too short, fat, bald, sang off key, couldn’t do karate, didn’t like
Southern food, drove Lincolns instead of
Cadillacs
,
didn’t know any of Elvis’s songs, wore bad wigs that would spawn rumors that
Elvis wore a toupee to hide his drugs in, were missing three fingers on one
hand, had burns on half their face from blacking out next to a radiator, or
even worse, didn’t know who Elvis was. Reducing Elvis’s expectations. Elvis had
pointed out a table full of women during his first show to the stage manager,
had backstage passes sent to them along with shots of Southern Comfort. They
were waiting in the hall and Elvis wanted to take them to his suite before his
next show, but he had to listen to another hack from
Buttfuck
,
Nowhere butcher ‘Jailhouse Rock’.

Then Al
Leadbelly
strutted into
the dressing room. He complimented himself in the mirror, patting his hair into
place. Major Hollister wanted to kick him out, but Elvis saw something familiar
in
Leadbelly
, the inexplicable charisma, the
irreverent way he asked Major Hollister to get him a French dip sandwich, that
he wasn’t intimidated by the most famous person in the world, and that
Leadbelly
didn’t wait for an invitation to sing. He belted
out ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ with all the awkward gyrations, hand gestures, and
perspiration of a grown man trying to recapture his youth.
Leadbelly
stopped after one verse, then suggested that if they wanted to hear more,
they’d have to pay him. Major Hollister moved to throw him out, but Elvis
stopped him, saying
Leadbelly
was perfect, just what
they needed. He even suggested that
Leadbelly
do his
midnight show. Major Hollister started to protest, but Elvis hurried past him,
to the group of women in the hall. He put his arms around them and walked off,
telling Major Hollister not to wait up.
Leadbelly
sat
in Elvis’s chair, opened a beer, and called for the next impersonator.

Leadbelly
performed Elvis’s midnight show
flawlessly, wearing Elvis’s white herringbone suit, a perfect fit. He even
hired seven more body doubles, convincing them he was Elvis. Over the next
couple of days, he helped Elvis hire the other four body doubles. Standing next
to his Hummer, Colonel Hollister wondered if
Leadbelly
knew the other body doubles, if the whole thing was a set-up so they could get
close to Elvis. Or maybe it was that years of working covertly had made him
paranoid.

But that wasn’t what truly bothered him. It took him years
to admit it, but he was actually envious of
Leadbelly
and the other body doubles. He had trained Elvis, nurtured him, treated him
like a son. And that was the problem, by being a father figure to Elvis, he
could never be as close to him as he would have liked. Their relationship would
always be two-tiered, master and apprentice, teacher and student, commanding
officer and top-secret-operative-that-spied-on-extraterrestrials. They could
never be equals. Not like with the body doubles. They gave Elvis what Colonel
Hollister never could, someone to party with, someone who mirrored Elvis in
every way, shared his self-destructive need for drugs and women, the need to
get as fucked up as possible every night. As much as he hated to admit it,
Colonel Hollister wished that person could have been him, but that never would
have happened. Even though Elvis loved him like a father, Colonel Hollister was
not cool. He was still just a square.

Colonel Hollister strapped on his gun belt. He tightened
it, feeling the pistol’s weight on his right hip and leg. He checked his clip,
made sure there were enough rounds. He’d only need one.

“Sir,” a man said. He stood behind Colonel Hollister.

“Lieutenant Grant, out of the office at last,” Colonel
Hollister said, putting his gun back in its holster. “Your first field
assignment. Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Rex Grant said. “I just wanted you
to know that I appreciate the faith you’ve shown in me.” The other men wore
desert camouflage, browns and tans, but Lieutenant Grant wore a dark blue suit
and a thin black tie. He adjusted the Half Windsor knot.

“Well, you deserve it. We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t
for you.”

“It was luck, sir. That’s all.” He was still young, early
thirties, but his hair was turning gray. He ran his hand on top of it, combing
it forward.

“Nonsense. Luck is just a word used by people with no
initiative. You showed what you can do with a little responsibility. We haven’t
been this close to winning the war since…” At his feet, a pothole had cracked
and eroded the street. It had been patched with asphalt and tar, patted down
with a shovel. A black lump in the road.

“Sir?”

“This is a great night,” Colonel Hollister said, putting a
hand on Lieutenant Grant’s shoulder. “Just remember that. Whatever happens,
whatever you see, this is a great night.”

“Yes, sir, I will. Anyway, I just wanted to come over here
and thank you for the trust you’ve shown in me.” His thumb brushed the tips of
his nicotine-stained fingers.

“And the promotion doesn’t hurt either.”

“No, sir, it doesn’t.” He tried to smile, but kept his
mouth closed. He whitened his teeth with each cleaning, but they were starting
to stain.

“You’ll find that now, with your clearance raised, you’ll
start to see the world differently, like you’re looking through a window that
has just been cleaned.”

“That’s very poetic, sir.”

“You would know. You’re the writer. Now, the Abernathy
boy, he doesn’t suspect anything?”

“How could he, sir? To him, I’m just someone who sells
gossip at the supermarkets. He has no idea what I really do.”

“Then he won’t know what’s waiting for him.”

“And you’re sure he’s who you’ve been looking for?”
Lieutenant Grant searched the pockets of his tailored suit for a pack of
cigarettes.

“I made a promise to his father that I’d leave his son alone,
assuming his son stayed out of New Mexico, but he’s here now, and with Al
Leadbelly
, so I have no choice. Now, go get ready. We have
a car to catch.”

Lieutenant Grant hopped in a Hummer that was loaded with
armed men and smelled of gun oil, gasoline, and sweat. He lit a cigarette, blew
the smoke out an open window, and draped his arm outside, his hand tapping the
thick metal door.