Worst Case Scenario, page 8
Bishop stepped back from the door. He hadn’t planned on stopping here and now had a dinner invitation. Something felt wrong about the whole thing. Not wrong, like the way he felt around Minerva McFadden, but still uncomfortable. Cora’s anxious, girl-like expression could just be her nature. Introverts had their own way. He had to eat somewhere. Having dinner with a stranger was probably as good as any. At least she was an attractive stranger.
Bishop pushed the door closed. “Love to join you.”
Her shoulders relaxed, and a quick smile appeared. She brushed loose hair from her face. “Good, we’re going to my grandfather’s house; he’s grilling. We’re bringing the baked beans and potato salad.
Bishop took a step toward her, and she didn’t retreat this time. “You’re sure it won’t be an imposition? Inviting someone for dinner?”
She shook her head. “Not at all—we’d love the company.” Her lips flattened, and she lowered her head a moment before looking back up and releasing another quick smile. “Don’t get much company around these parts.”
Bishop asked, “Can I do anything?”
“Yeah, you can drive us.” She strolled into the kitchen and whispered into her cell phone. “Bringing someone to dinner, he’s driving me, that okay? Thanks.” She took a container of potato salad from the refrigerator and set it on the kitchen counter. After pouring the beans into a sealable dish, she announced she was ready.
The weather had changed since they’d been inside. The wind had picked up with sunset, and the once cool, comfortable breeze was now cold. The tall pines on top of the peak looked like drunken giants swaying in the evening twilight, their sweet scent filling the air. Bishop eased down the gloomy mountain road with the last traces of light struggling through the thick pine needles. Shadows streaked across the road as the trees moved in the wind, giving the place a threatening quality. This would be the darkest place on earth by the time they came back up.
She stared at him, the outline of her face fading in the darkness. “Why did you stop at my house today?” Her voice was just above a whisper, but it seemed to have an urgency. Reminded Bishop of someone who asks a question but didn’t want an honest answer.
He shrugged. “To tell the truth, I wanted to climb the fire tower—thought I should ask first.”
Her sharp laugh surprised him. She shook her head and covered her mouth with her hand. “I’m sorry—it just seems so improbable, that’s all.”
“What?”
She paused a beat before answering. “That someone with a gun just happened to stop at the exact time I needed help.”
“Everything happens for a reason,” he said.
She didn’t answer, and he couldn’t see her expression due to the darkness but got the feeling he’d accidentally struck a raw nerve. Her silence lasted a little too long. Something still felt wrong here. Probably should have skipped the dinner invitation.
She cleared her throat. “Why do you carry the gun?”
By her tone, he could tell she wanted a serious answer. “I always carry one when I go hiking.”
“Never seen you around. Are you new or passing through?”
“On vacation—just passing through.”
They drove in silence until he reached the bottom of the mountain.
“Turn left here at the highway,” she said.
Bishop drove through the night desert toward Corona. She directed him to turn left on Highway Forty-Two and back onto the gravel road he’d been on earlier. Soon the lights from the sprawling McFadden Ranch appeared on the left. Cora glanced at the ranch and quickly turned her head, looking out the passenger window.
She pointed. “Turn right into the next drive.”
Bishop did a double take as he rolled into the same drive he’d used to turn around a couple of hours earlier. The drive leading to the broken-down trailer and old Dodge truck.
Newman Smith marched down the brightly lit hall of McFadden’s home. He stopped at the entrance to his boss’s office. McFadden stood with his back to Smith, facing the vast picture window, looking out at the lights of his town in the valley. The town McFadden had built and continued to support with his wealth. For a seventy-year-old, he was in fantastic shape. On a good day, he could pass for sixty. Apprehension coursed through Smith. Knowing a great man was one thing, but when everything you are, or ever hope to be, was made possible by that man…
“You called, Clark?” Smith asked.
McFadden looked over his shoulder. “Come in.” He ran a hand across the top of his grey hair as he walked to his executive desk.
“Have they called?” Smith asked.
McFadden took one last look out the window and sat in the leather chair behind his desk, motioning for Newman also to take a seat. A delightful grin spread across McFadden’s lips before saying, “Both Monk and Piedmont called. Neither Sandia nor the FBI has a clue. We’re in the clear.”
Smith released a breath. “Thank God.” This had been the only thing on his mind the last few days. Hadn’t been able to sleep or eat, waiting on the confirmation.
“I want you to notify General Shaw and Speaker Wilson. They’ve been on the same pins and needles we all have. Let’s not keep ’em waiting, okay?”
“I’ll handle it.”
McFadden’s brow crinkled. “Once we get through the reunion this Saturday, let’s button up the ranch. No one in or out. The feds have agents scouring this whole part of the state—especially up north. The reunion will serve as a good cover. After it’s over, we’ll go dark, and they should have no reason to come near us. After everyone’s in place, we’ll begin phase two.”
Smith had a giddy tingle of relief wash over him, mixed with the exhaustion from lack of sleep and stress. “I still can’t believe it.”
McFadden smirked and leaned his forearms on the desk. “You remember what I taught you growing up, right?”
Smith remembered and recited it. “Nothing beats having the right people, in the right place, at the right time.”
McFadden grinned and stood. “Happy I made an impression. Make the notifications. We’re on the threshold of building a new country, Newman.”
Bishop glanced at Cora. “This is your grandfather’s house?”
“Yes.” She opened the SUV’s door and slid out, grabbing the beans. “Would you carry the potato salad, please?”
The night wasn’t as cold in the valley—hardly any wind. A sky full of stars had blossomed as they drove down the mountain. They seemed to stretch to infinity.So close you could reach up and touch them. The complete silence of the clear desert night relaxed Bishop.
As they stepped on the porch, an old man opened the trailer home’s door, and the smell of grilled chicken filled the air. Smelled great. Cora kissed him on the cheek and gave him a big hug before introducing Bishop.
“Samuel Turner.” He pumped Bishop’s hand.
He reminded Bishop of the old Native American actor, Chief Dan George, his expression wise and noble. The old guy looked in his eighties with deep lines drawn into his face from age and sun. The bushy grey eyebrows, dark brown, leathery skin, and a broad welcoming smile put Bishop at ease. He was a few inches shorter than Bishop. The long, gray hair and deep-set, dark eyes gave him an authoritarian air.
The smell of fresh biscuits also permeated the trailer. Bishop’s stomach released a low growl, reminding him he’d only had a granola bar and bottle of water for lunch—he was starving. Cora and Samuel organized the food, and Bishop studied the home. The old trailer was spotless but had more knick-knacks than Bishop had ever seen in one place. Every shelf, table, and piece of furniture had more than its share: trinkets, pieces of prettified wood, and colorful rocks. Looked like a souvenir shop along I-40 exploded. The walls were covered with Samuel’s oil on canvas paintings. Many showed Gallinas Peak, but without McFadden’s house cut into the side of the mountain. Samuel took a seat and motioned for Bishop to come to the table.
“Mr. Bishop, please sit down.”
Cora poured iced tea for everyone, then joined them. Dinner conversation consisted mainly about who Bishop was and what he was doing in such a remote part of New Mexico. He stuck with his cover story and deflected questions about what kind of work he did. Cora never said a word about the snake.
After a long lag in table talk, Bishop said, “That’s a pretty big spread across the road.”
Samuel nodded and grinned. “Yes.”
Since that didn’t reignite the conversation, Bishop followed up with, “I’ve been invited to a party there tomorrow.”
Their heads turned toward him. Cora’s shoulders tightened, and beads of sweat sprouted on her upper lip before glancing toward Samuel. His dark skin was now pallid. He slowly sat his fork down, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and gave Bishop a quizzical look.
In a low tone, he asked, “Are you friends with the McFadden’s?”
Samuel’s question, while delivered in a relaxed voice, was laced with fear and curiosity. Somehow, Bishop had screwed up. He wasn’t sure how he’d offended them, but he’d waded off into something he didn’t understand. He answered honestly.
“No, we’re not friends. I fixed a flat for Mrs. McFadden earlier today, and she asked me to come by the ranch for a party.”
Bishop turned to Cora. She had stopped eating and refused to meet his stare. She had even stopped breathing and the hand holding the fork shook. Samuel’s expression gave nothing away. He nodded again and caught Bishop’s gaze.
“You never met either of them before today?” Samuel asked.
“No. Did I say something wrong?” Bishop looked to Cora again, who had recovered a little but still had a concerned expression. “I’m sorry if I offended.”
Samuel picked up his fork and took a bite of potato salad. “No, Mr. Bishop, you’ve said nothing wrong. The McFadden’s just aren’t very good neighbors—that’s all.”
Bishop started not to ask, but he was curious. “Why do you say that?”
“It’s a long story.” The old man’s warm smile returned.
Nine
After dinner, Bishop and Samuel sat on the tin-covered front porch listening to the muted sounds of the night desert while Cora put up the leftovers and finished the dishes. Bishop strolled out to his SUV and retrieved the gin and tonic bottles and mixed drinks for them. Cora declined and fished a half-full bottle of homemade honey wine from the back of Samuel’s kitchen cabinet.
Samuel lit his pipe and stared into the distance. A rich, woodsy smell enveloped the porch. Samuel preferred the gin with as little tonic as possible. He and Bishop sat for a long while, sipping the drinks and not saying a word. The chill of the night settled around them and finally forced Bishop back to his SUV to retrieve his jacket. As he strolled back to the porch, he stared at Samuel and his granddaughter, Cora. He had seriously upset them with just the mention of McFadden’s name. He was intrigued by Samuel’s comment. The McFadden’s just aren’t very good neighbors. It wasn’t the comment so much as the fear and doubt Bishop’s admission about going to the party engendered in Cora and Samuel. Bishop felt a little foolish. He was in New Mexico searching for stolen nukes, and all he could manage was to stir up an ongoing fight in the neighborhood. He’d just let the matter drop and be on his way tomorrow. Probably expanding his search east made the most sense. At this point, without more information, he was looking for a particular needle in a haystack of needles in any case.
Samuel appeared warm enough with just the pipe and gin. Bishop donned the Carhartt jacket and returned to his chair. The covered porch was dark; Samuel hadn’t turned on the outside light. The faint sliver of moonlight illuminated scattered shadows of plants and patio furniture.
Bishop gazed at the canopy of stars. “This is beautiful out here, away from the city.”
Samuel nodded but didn’t answer. Bishop got the feeling he wanted to say something but was working up to it. The awkward silence continued a little too long. The McFadden Ranch loomed bright and expansive across the road, and Samuel studied it with a sad smirk as he sipped his third gin and tonic. He finally spoke.
“The McFadden’s are evil,” he said in a tone of conviction.
Bishop wasn’t sure how to reply. He didn’t want to get back into the thing that gotten him into trouble earlier, so he didn’t answer.
Cora walked back out of the trailer with her glass of wine and an old jacket of Samuel’s draped over her shoulders. She stood beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder without speaking. He reached back and laid his hand on hers, and a loving smile crossed his lips.
Samuel slowly took a draw from the pipe and settled into his chair a little more. “About forty years ago, I lived on the Mescalero Apache Reservation, south of here.” His stare scanned the horizon, and he pointed the pipe in the direction of the reservation. He patted Cora’s hand, and she took a seat beside him. He cleared his throat and continued.
“There was a big falling out between factions of the tribe, and over a hundred of us left the reservation. Formed a convoy and headed north.” The trace of a grin swept across his mouth. “We called it the great migration,” he said. “We believed the tribe had drifted away from the true Apache ways. They were becoming too much like the white man, forgetting the language and traditions and the beliefs that defined us as a separate people. Our group had a more fundamentalist belief. So we left.”
“My parents were part of the group,” Cora chimed in. She pulled the jacket tighter. “Even though my dad was Anglo, he went with my mother and her people.”
Samuel continued. “We came to settle on that land,” he pointed again with his pipe toward the massive ranch across the road. “When our group left the tribe, we didn’t have much of a plan. Stopped for the night right over there and decided to stay awhile. Everyone agreed just to stop,” he sighed, taking another sip. He was quiet for a while, perhaps recalling those days. He cleared his throat again, the emotion swelling. “We lived in tents and pop-up trailers for close to a year. We planted gardens, and a few of us found work with the railroad in Corona.”
Bishop understood from his tone the memories were disturbing. His voice cracked several times, and Cora squeezed his shoulder. Seemed like he was leading up to something. Something so painful he hated to think about it. Perhaps it was the gin or their earlier dinner conversation, or a combination of both. “What changed?” Bishop asked.
Samuel looked his way, the glow of the tobacco in the bowl of the pipe highlighting his face. “McFadden, that’s what changed. The man who owned the land lived out of state, didn’t care if we squatted there or not. He never intended to keep it anyway. Then he sold it to McFadden. We didn’t see much of our new landlord for the first few months. Too busy making money and had no time for a bunch of Indians. That was fine with us. We didn’t own the land, so every day we stayed was a gift. Finally, he began work on his castle in the mountain—that’s what he called it—his house.”
Bishop only nodded. The house cut into the side of the peak might be considered a castle. Cora refilled her wine and mixed another drink for Samuel. He took a long swallow. Yup, the gin had loosened the old man’s tongue. Perhaps a little more than Bishop would have liked. He didn’t want to get involved with a neighbor-to-neighbor squabble. An uncomfortable air settled over the trio as the old man kept speaking.
Samuel grunted. “McFadden ignored us for the most part but finally got around to making his pitch. He asked for a meeting, and we all attended. Told us he planned to turn this desert,” Samuel spread both hands wide, “into a world-class ranch. Said he intended to stock it with Angus, Brangus, and Beefmaster cattle. He told us he’d need all the help he could get once he was up and running. Wanted to know if we’d be interested in working for him? Said he’d build housing for everyone that wanted to stay and work on the ranch—even promised a school for the kids.”
Bishop leaned closer; the story now started to interest him. Samuel again sat silent for a while, and Bishop still had no idea why he thought McFadden evil.
Cora spoke up. “I was born on the ranch—in the clinic McFadden built.”
Bishop could wait no longer. “I’m not clear—if he built houses, a school, and a clinic—what’s so wrong with that?”
The outline of Samuel’s head turned in the pale moonlight. He slurred a little from the liquor. “Because in exchange for those things, he wanted our souls.” His voice broke, and he coughed to cover it. Samuel sighed. “He also took something from me I loved the most.”
Cora reached over and rubbed his shoulder once again. She said, “McFadden built his ranch and made it clear that anyone wanting to stay and work could live for free with a school and health care, but they must follow his rules.”
Samuel let out a tired sigh. “We were fools ever to believe him. Fools to think we could get something so big for so little. He’s had a plan for forty years. We were the disposable part of that plan.”
Bishop still didn’t understand. Everyone who had a boss had rules. Why should this McFadden guy be any different? Samuel said nothing more. There was much more to the story, but the old memories were too hard for him. They sat a while longer, and the silence began to take a toll on everyone’s nerves.
Cora stood. “Ready to go?”
“Anytime you are,” Bishop answered.
Samuel struggled from the low chair, and Bishop lent him a hand.
“Thanks,” Samuel said. “Have a good time at the party tomorrow.” His weary voice finished with, “Don’t make any deals with McFadden.” He nodded, and the smile returned.”I’m going to bed.”
Ten
It wasn’t that late, but the day’s drive and big meal worked on Bishop. He yawned on the way back up the mountain to Cora’s house. He looked forward to a hot shower and soft bed. He’d check in for updates with General Cook tomorrow before starting his eastward search.
