Worst Case Scenario, page 12
“Really, why?”
“Let’s just say, me and McFadden didn’t hit it off. You were right about him.”
She drew her legs under her into the oversized chair. “I watched you through my telescope.”
“See anything interesting?” He took a swallow of beer.
“They searched your SUV, Troy.”
He slowly lowered the bottle and turned her way. “Did they, now?”
“Uh-huh, just before you came out—two of them.”
“I locked it before I went in.”
“They unlocked it somehow—don’t think the alarm went off.”
Bishop nodded. Must have found the pistol. He propped his feet on a nearby stool and lounged back. This put a whole new twist on the thing. Mrs. McFadden appeared more flightily and a little zany. Hard to imagine her involved in anything sinister. But her husband… “Well, no harm done. Does McFadden usually search his guest’s vehicles—seems kinda rude?”
In a voice devoid of emotion, Cora said, “If you’re interested in seeing what McFadden really does, wait till dark. I’ll show you something that’ll creep you out.”
Clark McFadden stalked around his bedroom and gawked at Minerva sitting on the edge of the bed. He wanted to wring her neck. “What in the hell were you thinking? Inviting a stranger to our reunion? Are you crazy?”
Minerva didn’t answer but stared at the floor.
McFadden turned back to her. “You know they found a pistol in his car. One like cops carry. Did you know that?”
Minerva looked up and narrowed her eyes. “What are you up to, Clark? Mr. Bishop is no more a cop than you are. Heck, at least half the people in this county carry a gun in their car. Besides, so what if he is a cop on vacation—big deal.”
McFadden rushed her. He grabbed her with his vice-like grip around the chin and squeezed her cheeks tight. Pushing his face to within inches to hers, his voice low and threatening, he said, “And what if he’s not on vacation? What if he’s a spy?” He shook her hard. “You crazy bitch. You invited him right into our home. You still on your meds?”
A tear squeezed from Minerva’s eye and skated down her cheek.
He gave her a hard slap across the face, and she fell on the bed as he turned to leave. He hoped he left a good bruise on her flawless face. The one she spent thousands on every year.
When he got to the door, he turned and pointed at her. “You’d better hope he moves on soon. Accidents happen all the time around these parts.” He sneered before saying, “Now, get yourself ready for tonight. Your performance had better be your best.”
That evening, Cora made taco salad laced with spicy ground beef and shredded New Mexican chilies, cheese, and onions. She and Bishop dined, sitting on the back patio, and watched the sunset. The evening was perfect. The place sounded like an aviary, with dozens of birds singing a strange, enchanting melody. Bishop had caught up on all his missed sleep and was completely relaxed for the first time in weeks. This started to feel like more of a vacation than a P2OG assignment. Around eight o’clock, after darkness set in, a cold wind chilled him. Just before he started to grab a jacket, his cell rang—Colonel Maxwell calling.
Bishop answered, and Maxwell requested he go encrypted.
“Wait one,” Bishop said. He excused himself from Cora and walked to his SUV. He sat in the passenger seat and closed the door before flipping the switch on the side of the phone. The cell chirped, indicating secure mode.
“You on to something?” Maxwell asked before Bishop could get a word out.
“No, not really. Why do you ask?”
“Lesa said she was doing a work-up for you on someone out there.”
Bishop lowered his voice. “It’s more of a hunch, really—nothing firm.”
The sound of papers shuffling preceded Maxwell’s next comment. “Okay, keep us in the loop if you need something.”
“Thanks.”
“By the way, how’re things with the FBI—are they still not playing nice?”
Bishop massaged the back of his neck and stared at the back of the house. Cora had gathered the dishes and disappeared inside. “The FBI’s not interested in having me as a partner, sir. I’ve left contact information with their case agent out here, but I don’t expect to hear back from them. Right now, I’m off the beaten path, running down a lead I stumbled on. Don’t think the Bureau’s even searching this far south.”
There was a pause on the line before Maxwell asked, “Which FBI agent are you working with out there?”
“Guy by the name of Carpenter, out of the Albuquerque office. His card says he’s the office WMD Coordinator.”
The sound of pen scratching paper drifted over the line. “I’ll make a few calls and see if I can grease the skids a little.”
“Thanks.” Bishop disconnected but wasn’t a hundred percent sure he needed the Bureau at this point. He had expanded his search down here, looking for anomalies that could pinpoint the stolen weapons. McFadden was undoubtedly one, but was he the one. Was it unheard of that a guy involved in uranium mining all his adult life had a vial of U-235? Sure, it was technically illegal, but a lot of crazy souvenirs got passed around to people in high places. Of course, it also could have been a malfunction in Andy’s nuclear watch. Perhaps at least putting the Bureau on notice wasn’t a bad idea.
Bishop made his way to the house as Cora was coming out the back sliding patio door.
“Sorry about that,” Bishop said. “My people are working today and had a question.”
She shot him a look. “Must be important to call on a Saturday evening.” Cora checked her watch. “It’s almost time.”
“Where we going?”
“Back up the tower.” She slipped the heavy Forest Service coat on. “Better get a jacket; we’ll be up there a while.”
“Okay, let me grab a beer first.”
Her firm voice surprised him. “No alcoholic beverages allowed in the fire tower.”
They stood in the shadow of the house, and the darkness had closed in to the point he couldn’t read her features or expression. Was she serious? He dropped the thought, picked up his jacket, and followed her up the steps. Her pace was maddeningly slow, one careful step at a time. There was still enough moonlight to easily see the steps, but she wouldn’t be rushed. Bishop gazed in the direction of the McFadden Ranch. Someone had built what looked like a colossal bonfire way in the back of the property. Bishop was unsure if it was a real fire or just a cluster of bright lights from his vantage point.
Once at the top, Cora said, “Don’t turn on any lights or flashlights; keep it dark.” She claimed her usual seat and swung the telescope toward the part of the ranch where Bishop saw the fire. The regular bundle of lights from the residential and communal pavilion areas shined as before, but now there was this additional light from the most remote part of the property. What was Cora up to?
From this height, Bishop was now sure it was a large bonfire that glowed in the distance. He squinted to make out what was happening. It was the only distinguishing feature on the black landscape in that part of the ranch. That was the direction Cora aimed the telescope. She adjusted the rear dial then stepped aside.
“Settle in and enjoy the show—it lasts for some time.”
Bishop switched chairs and peered through the scope. He made another rear dial adjustment, and the fire in the center of the frame, with some kind of substantial wooden altar with steps off to the side, came into sharp focus. In a half circle facing the fire and altar were a group of perhaps fifty men sitting on the ground cross-legged, wearing Native American clothing. Shirts and pants made of buckskin with brightly colored beads sewn around the sleeves and necks. They sat motionless, as if waiting for something to happen. The red and yellow flames from the fire reflected off their faces, and their serious expressions were puzzling. Cora had a pair of binoculars leaning on the edge of the tower, following the goings-on.
“Okay, so what’s the deal?” Bishop asked.
“They do this every year, the Saturday night of the reunion,” she answered, never taking her eyes from the binoculars.
“Do what? All I see are a bunch of people sitting by a fire.”
“Recognize anyone?” Cora’s voice remained calm and patient.
Bishop focused on the individual faces. They were men from the party. The commissioner, the sheriff, the guy from Space Command… “Okay, a little weird,” he said, “but what’s wrong with former students around a fire?”
“You haven’t seen weird yet.”
Just before Bishop started to comment how boring this was, McFadden walked from behind the altar, also dressed in leather skins. His arms were outstretched, and he carried a large gourd. McFadden turned and faced the altar, held up the gourd with both hands, and spoke for a few seconds. Bishop would have given anything to hear what he said. McFadden approached each seated man on the ground. He offered the gourd, and they took a small sip. He took the last drink himself and again held the gourd up and spoke. McFadden sat cross-legged at the base of the altar facing the men. He talked for almost twenty minutes. Occasionally, one of the men would nod, but only McFadden spoke. Bishop longed for a parabolic mic with an extended range to listen in. As his patience wore thin, he asked Cora, “Any idea what he’s saying?”
Cora sat back. “I talked to one of the guys who attended this ceremony when I still lived on the ranch. Monk told me—”
“Monk Cole?” Bishop interrupted.
Only the dark outline of Cora’s head nodded before asking, “How do you know about Monk?”
“Minerva mentioned him during the party. Said he worked at Sandia National Lab.”
“Oh.”
“You were saying?”
“Anyway, Monk told me about some nonsense McFadden was spouting concerning returning the Apache to their ancestral homeland. An independent Apache nation within the United States. Monk didn’t believe it could ever happen but just went along with the group to be one of the boys.”
“Really, where is their native homeland?”
“Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas. McFadden told them he would arrange for the Apache to reclaim all of the state of New Mexico as theirs.”
Bishop would have laughed at such a suggestion a couple of days ago, but now… “So, how does he plan to accomplish that?” He didn’t mean for the sarcasm to seep into his voice, but it did.
Cora shrugged. “Never said, just that he had contacts and a plan to accomplish it.”
Bishop pointed at the bonfire. “And those highly educated men believed him?”
Cora lay the binoculars on the counter. “Remember I told you they all held McFadden in a god-like status. They attended the academy and went through his brainwashing. Yes, of course, they believed him. Everything he’s ever promised he’s done—all their lives, he’s kept his word. No other white man has ever done that. Why wouldn’t they believe him?”
Bishop’s mind drifted back to World War II, Joseph Goebbels, The Big Lie. Tell a big lie often enough and loud enough, and people will start believing anything. “He can’t be telling the same story every year over and over,” Bishop mumbled.
“He probably does but keep watching. I think at some point he’s giving them instructions or a pep talk of some kind.”
Bishop pushed his eye against the lens and tried lip-reading but had no talent for it. McFadden spoke and pointed to select members of the group. Sure, this was weird, but no stranger than other things practiced by many guy fraternities .Several came to mind—Skull and Bones, Masons, and Knights of Columbus. “So, is this it?”
Cora again had the binoculars trained on the group. “Wait for it, Troy.”
He was about to make another sarcastic remark when two of the men turned and vomited on the ground behind them. Others began wobbling and were steadied by fellows to their left and right. Another turned and threw up.
“What tha…” Bishop glanced at Cora.
The moonlight allowed him to see a shadowed smile spread across her lips. “Told you it got weirder.”
Every few minutes, another one or two men vomited until at least half the group had been sick.
“What was in that gourd?” Bishop asked.
“Probably Mescaline—what you’re witnessing is a perverted version of the sacred Peyote Ritual. It’s part of the ancient Apache religion. McFadden has revived the old ways. There are no practicing Christians left on the ranch anymore; he’s made sure of that.
Bishop directed his attention back to the scope just before McFadden stood. He turned to the altar, and the others stood as well, all raising their arms toward it. A blinding flash of light exploded from the altar. Bishop jerked his head back—his night vision gone and his right eye stinging from the flash. Cora sat with the binoculars in her lap.
He rubbed his eye. “You could have warned me that was about to happen.”
Cora put the binoculars back up to her face. “Check this out.”
Bishop again looked through the scope, but with his other eye, trying to blink away the twinkling stars in his head. McFadden and the other men continued standing with their hands outstretched. Bishop didn’t notice her at first until she moved. Minerva now stood at the center of the altar. She must have entered from some hidden door after the flash, when everyone was temporarily blinded. Dressed in an all-white leather robe, her skin painted a white color, she looked like a ghost. Bishop focused on her face. The eyes were dilated, and her head swayed back and forth—drugged. She held out a hand and said something.
McFadden climbed the altar steps. He took her hand, and they turned to the men on the other side of the fire. He spoke for a few seconds.
“Look away,” Cora shouted.
Bishop turned his head just in time. The intense flash could be seen without the aid of the scope.
“Okay, it’s safe.”
Bishop took another look, but both McFadden and Minerva were gone—disappeared. A drummer sat on each side of the altar, slowly tapping out a beat on the ancient leather drums. The group of men began milling around the fire in a circle. Some wobbled, being supported by others. Their mouths moved in a chant-like manner.
“Okay, you’ve won. That’s the weirdest thing I’ve seen for a while.” Bishop sat back in the chair. “What was Minerva supposed to be with all that white makeup?”
“I believe she’s representing the mythical character of White Painted Woman, or the first woman—mother to all Apache. It’s an old legend. Anyway, she has a bad spirit.” Cora slid from her chair. “Show’s over. Those fools will stagger around until they pass out or recover from the psychedelic high McFadden’s got them on.”
They started the walk back down the tower. It became clear to Bishop that McFadden was a man who made up his own rules. Laws prohibiting possession of WMD components and the use of illegal drugs apparently did not apply to him as long as he was on his ranch. An unsettling feeling lodged deep in Bishop’s gut. This assignment was far from over, and it wasn’t going to be a vacation.
After walking back into the house, Cora strolled into the kitchen. “I’ll get us some wine if you’ll start the fire.” The night had a romantic feel about it, and Cora was happy she was spending it with Bishop.
“Will do.” Bishop stacked a few small logs in the fireplace on top of some kindling.
She eyed him as she pulled the wine cork. Why hadn’t he made a move on her? She brushed back her hair with her fingers and allowed her palm to caress her cheek. He’s already seen me naked. He must have a girlfriend or fiancé back home. Or even a wife, who knows?
She poured two glasses and strolled back to the sofa. Bishop dusted his hands and joined her, accepting a glass.
“I assume you’re staying another night?”
“If that’s okay.” He took a sip and settled into the couch.
The flames highlighted his face, and the two-day beard growth—gave him a sexy, rugged appearance. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.” There, that was an open invitation. Cora wanted him to do so much more than just spend the night.
Bishop stretched out his legs. “Tell me more about what we just saw.”
Cora tasted the wine and paused—formulated her thoughts. Guy’s more interested in McFadden than her. “From the time the boys start school at the academy, they’re being evaluated. I learned this when I taught there. The first four years, they’re given IQ, aptitude, and physical agility tests. This fosters a very competitive spirit and sets the tone for the rest of their education. At least that’s what I witnessed as a teacher.” Cora shifted and leaned back, taking another drink. “They’re always being pushed to excel at anything they do, be it academic or athletic. Their after-school activities consist of rough play and sports—that’s also encouraged.”
Bishop’s expression made her feel a little self-conscious.
“Sort of a leave it all on the field attitude, huh?” he asked.
“Yeah, I guess.” What was he thinking? She just couldn’t read him. She raked her fingers through her hair again and extended her arm along the sofa to within inches of his shoulder. “McFadden has a youth program with his most trusted people acting as leaders. All the boys start as Braves in first grade. They can’t wait to join. You’d think they were Cub Scouts in waiting. By the fifth grade, about 25% get promoted to Warriors—best and brightest. In the ninth grade, the top 10% of Warriors get promoted to Scouts. These are the ones who’ve scored the highest on their exams and show the most promise.”
Bishop sipped the wine and stretched his legs out a little more as he sunk deeper into the sofa. A flashback from his years at West Point crossed his mind and caused a smile. “Sounds like a military school?”
“It is—discipline can be brutal. Anyway, the Scouts are the crème de la crème of the students. Once they leave the ranch for college, everything is free—all the financial aid McFadden can offer—sky’s the limit. The men you met at the party and around the bonfire are some of the Scouts.” There was something that constantly nagged Cora about this crazy child promotion idea. She never fully understood the rationale behind it. She cleared her throat. “Thing is, very few full-blood Apache ever get promoted to Scout. Mostly the boys with mixed blood. The ones who could pass for dark-complexioned Anglos.”
