Let Them Look West, page 25
“They’re suing the state,” Justine concluded bluntly.
“Could be,” Banks sighed. “It is not unexpected, but now that things are in motion, I’m in agony. I’m going to get an ulcer from this.”
“Where is my uncle?” Justine asked.
“In the conference room with Walden and the lawyers from Oklahoma City.”
She marched past him toward the lodge, leaving Rob and Banks standing awkwardly a few paces apart.
Daniel approached in a leisurely manner once the helicopter had calmed. “What’s she running off for?”
“The feds are coming to talk about the Wyoming dollar,” Banks explained.
Daniel gave a youthful smirk and pulled a pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his bomber jacket. He offered it to both of them. Banks shook his head and Rob accepted.
“Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em,” the pilot remarked. “Those federal boys will be running back out of here with their tails between their legs as soon as they get a licking from Alexander and Walden.”
Banks shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, seemingly uncertain of what nervous conviction he was trying to convey. He left after a minute of kicking at the dirt while the other two smoked.
“You really believe that?” Rob asked after a minute.
“I do,” Daniel replied. “I’m only about as religious as one has to be to get along here, but I certainly do believe in the power of the right man and the necessity of his victory over those of lesser natures, bureaucrats being a primary example. It is by right natural order that Alexander will win this thing.”
“It’s an interesting theory,” Rob replied.
They finished smoking in silence before shaking hands and going their separate ways. Rob returned to his room in the lodge and caught up on the news, resting on the bed and scrolling through lists of headlines and social media timelines on his phone. The Times message group was all abuzz about the Wyoming news and asking him if he had anything from the inside. He sent a few messages to dampen their curiosity. After a few hours of such activity and some light work on the interview audio, he took his notebook and went out through the halls to the balcony overlooking the front of the lodge. He wanted to sit and collect his thoughts for a bit while there was still some daylight.
It turned out that there was not much to collect, and he ended up drawing a sketch of the monument with a cutaway of the hollow inside. When not drawing he stared out over the metal roofs of the camp buildings and noted each movement of the State Corps workers who came and went. Just as he was deciding to return to his room and prepare for dinner, he noted an increase in motion below. Two black SUVs meandered their way up the road from the highway. As they approached, the workers and cattlemen going about their business paused and cast sidelong and suspicious glances at the vehicles. Everyone seemed to be at least subconsciously aware of what was unfolding.
Rob could hear footsteps below on the porch and rose to step to the railing and peer over the side. Arthur Walden’s bald head bobbed along as he stepped down the stairs and onto the edge of the asphalt drive. Seen from above, the older man’s body expanded outward strangely with each breath, his belly forming a clear protrusion surrounding the front of his shiny head. In one sudden and swift motion, the skin on the cranium reared backward and shoulders slumped as the eyes rolled back to look directly up at Rob.
“Your friends are coming,” Walden stated after a brief instant of searching and then recognition. “I thought I heard somebody up there.”
“It seems a bit of extra effort for them to come here in person.” Rob observed.
“Tentatively it’s a good sign. If they did not believe we could present a real problem, then they would just send a letter or hold a press conference in DC. If it was shock and awe, then they would want it more public. This likely means they don’t want to look like bumbling fools on national television, at least not yet.”
“I have questions about Nico,” Rob stated, not bothering to segue. The hour was growing late on his time there. There was no sense in being subtle anymore. He had to be assertive and push away any reservations. He had a red-eye flight back to the city the next night.
“Depending on how this goes, we may have time to talk about that, but who knows?” Walden evaded, his head bobbing toward one shoulder and then the other. “Although I doubt it.”
The black SUVs were rounding the last curve in the road. Walden squared his shoulders and began deliberately walking to the spot where they were most likely to stop. Once stationary, the back door of the foremost vehicle opened and a man in a suit stepped out. The old lawyer said something to him gruffly and reached out a hand for a loveless shake. Rob watched for a minute as two similarly dressed men emerged from the second vehicle and they all stood to talk. After some gesturing and nodding, all four of them turned to walk toward the lodge. A younger man stepped out of the front SUV a moment later with a briefcase in either hand. Once he was gone as well, there was no further activity.
Rob slipped in the door above the entry as quietly as he could and managed to hear a little hushed conversation as they moved below into the halls of the lower floor. The older of the suited arrivals was saying that he wanted to wait to talk to the governor directly and Walden was assuring him that Alexander had all the time in the world to listen.
Rob returned to his room, washed his face, and went down to the hall for dinner. He ate roast chicken and a simple garden salad, sitting at the edge of the room by one of the crackling hearths. Banks had let him in on the secret of requesting an after-dinner cappuccino, which he did with satisfying results. He sat back and sipped and observed, pulling his lips back against his teeth with each bitter introduction of caffeine, knowing once again that sleep would not come easily. He sat and thought until the dinner crowd ebbed to a trickle of tired laborers, some still dirty and desperate to catch the last moment of the meal window. He returned his dishes and went back to the upper halls of the lodge.
When he neared his room, Rob could see that Banks was closing up his office for the day: organizing stacks of paper on the desk, filing away pages in the drawers and returning pencils to a cup on the corner. When he heard the soft sounds of Rob’s approach, he became animated.
“With all the commotion I forgot to ask you what you thought of the monument.” Banks moved into the doorway and leaned one shoulder against the frame. The older man looked to have calmed since his earlier despair.
“It was something else.” Rob stated cryptically. It was more of a deflection than anything. He was too burned out on sustained willful suspension of disbelief.
Banks folded his arms and raised his brows slightly. It was perhaps as close as he could come to outright rejecting the reply.
“I’m not playing coy,” Rob insisted haltingly. “There was a lot to take in, and I think any subtle layers of significance are lost on someone like me. In purely spatial terms, however, the monument is undeniably impressive.”
Banks nodded with a satisfied smile before smoothing his features and then finally jerking into a spasm of realization. He turned back into his office and dug through the drawers for a moment before returning with a manila envelope.
“I found them.”
“Found what?” Rob asked, genuinely confused.
“The Nico editorials. These are paper copies of all of them.” He smiled again at Rob’s clear loss of basic social functions. “It was easy actually. Both Walden and Alexander had digital copies they had requested from The Star-Ledger a while back. All I had to do was print them out.” He held out the envelope.
“That’s very thoughtful,” Rob managed, taking the packet and sticking it under his arm. “I’ll make good use of it.” He realized that sounded strange and added, “It will be helpful for context.”
Banks shrugged. “Personally, I never read more than the first few. Not very engaging reading, in my opinion.”
The stroke of good luck was animating Rob, and the caffeine was taking effect. “Are you busy tomorrow?” he asked.
“Not really. Who knows with all the activity around here today?”
“If the offer still stands, then I think I’ll take you up on looking through those campaign videos.”
“Well, even if I’m not here, if the door is open, then help yourself,” Banks offered.
“You seem in better spirits now,” Rob remarked. “After we talked earlier.”
“When I saw Alexander and the Treasury guys meet for the first few moments and the way they held themselves and interacted, it put me much more at ease.” The older man waved a hand as if to dismiss a flight of fancy. “It may be shallow of me, but after that moment I felt better. I think we will be alright.”
Rob held up the envelope. “Thank you again. I’m going to tear into these.”
“No problem; you have a good night,” Banks urged, and turned to finish his end of the day routines.
Rob unlocked his room and surveyed the dim corners. He had left a lamp on by the window. Ever since he had come in to find Walden sitting on the bed the day prior, he was no longer taking any chances with potential ambushes. He passed over the obscured garden’s geometry of the rugs to the bed, where he heaved his body and squirmed over to reach the lamp. He opened the envelope and a stack of pages spilled out onto the comforter. They were arranged chronologically. The first editorial was dated a few days before the election, and it was titled “An Appeal to Fellow Americans of Wyoming.”
PART IV
A Stillborn Lie
CHAPTER
13
T
he first editorial began with a brief overview of the history of infrastructure in the state of Wyoming, recounting all the difficulties of reaching a point where a decent economy could emerge. Nico reminded readers that isolation from the nation’s markets had kept Wyoming oil prices low and warded off capital and investment. The resulting desperation made the citizens of the territory vulnerable to those who would come in and make bold promises of wealth or other utopias. One particular passage read:
Patience, industriousness and time made our modern state, with all its modest blessings, possible. The last thing we need is to turn back to isolation or stubborn illusions of self-sufficiency. This is not to say that we are not a strong or capable people, but to mistake this for absolute autonomy and shut the door on opportunities for cooperation would be an error that could very well cause us to recreate the same climate for malaise which troubled us so much less than a century ago.
It was all very reasonable and measured, but it lacked the flair and bombast of Alexander or Stevens. Rob could see immediately why Nico’s articles had not roused any sort of popular electoral resistance to the new politics that had entered the state. The first editorial was a long one. The second half pivoted to an analysis of the people’s reaction to the start of the Second World War. Nico recounted the high percentages of Wyoming volunteers and enlisted men when compared to the other states and their enviable level of competence and readiness when put up against other regions.
Wyoming is perhaps one of the most American states when defining such things by the measures of patriotism, sacrifice, and other classic definitions of American virtue. Wyoming punches like a state twice its size. We have reaped many benefits from this. Although many make the argument that we received more in federal aid than we contribute, this is not wholly the case. In the fifty-five years following the Oil and Gas Leasing act of 1920, Wyoming put nearly one hundred-million dollars more into the reclamation fund than was spent on projects in our state. This is not to say that one side is wrong or right to argue that something is owed, or someone is short changed, but that there is nuance and give and take. We cannot cast aside opportunity for the sake of ideology masquerading as state pride.
What was clear from the opinion pieces was that Nico had certainly done the research and truly wanted what was best for the state in the long run. In the face of a charismatic movement none of it would be overly convincing, but it was a good try. Rob flipped through to a later article that seemed to address the ousting of the college president. It was titled, “Shades of Mao from Alexander.” The piece recounted governor Nels Smith’s successful packing of the university board of trustees to oust the popular Arthur G. Crane. Nico then wrote:
Although Alexander’s strong-arming is only as unsophisti-cated and crude as Smith’s, it is even more dangerous in that he does not try to hide his intent. Clearly his brand of politics will not allow for dissenting voices, even those typically protected by the respect given to academic pursuits. Alexander seeks a revolution which cannot endure intellectual criticism. If we allow him to accomplish this silencing of voices without consequences, then likely nothing will be beyond his grasp.
It was clear that, as Alexander’s reign in Wyoming continued, Nico became more and more agitated and concerned. By the last editorial there were allusions to an attempt to uncover his identity:
Not even the peaceful criticism allowed by my anonymity can be allowed. On all counts I have wished to be wrong, but I do not see my political opinions lasting much longer in this venue.
Rob glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was nearly eleven PM and he was feeling tired enough to sleep. He changed into his athletic shorts and undershirt before washing his face and brushing his teeth. The editorials went in a neat stack on the wooden table by the window. He would give them a closer look in the morning. After he crawled into bed, images of Mount Calvary and the bizarre show on the summit crawled back into his mind and began dancing on the periphery of his attempts at sleep. He could hear unfamiliar gospel songs and hymns that meandered into odd combinations of verses and choruses never put on a page.
Rob spasmed at the sound of deliberate knocking. He opened his eyes in the darkness and rolled over to face the door where a little bit of warm light pooled under from the hallway. He was unaware whether he had imagined the sound while on the verge of sleep. He often thought he heard noises while drifting off. He held his breath and waited. He hoped earnestly that it had been a confabulated creation of his mind under the auspices of shallow REM sleep. He gripped a knot of blankets in his hands and entreated all of reality that it had been nothing. A second round of knocking followed.
He fumbled feebly at the bedspread until he was free to sit up on the edge of the mattress. The red letters on the clock read after midnight. He made no noise and continued to watch the bottom of the door where two darkened areas morphed and shifted to indicate the feet of some intruder.
A deep voice leaked through the cracks between the door and the frame. “I’ll huff and I’ll puff, Coen. I know you’re in there.”
Rob’s organs squirmed against one another. It was the voice of Arthur Walden. Silence followed the initial warning, and the two shadows moved off to the side and out of sight. Rob had nearly breathed a sigh of relief when they returned and passed by to the other side. Clearly the man was pacing outside and had no intention of leaving.
“You’re a journalist, for God’s sake. You can sleep when you’re back in the city. Besides, I have a bottle of whiskey to share. You won’t say no to a nightcap, will you?”
Rob let out a sigh and crossed the room to the door. He opened it about six inches and peered out into the hallway. Walden had stopped pacing and was leaning against the opposite wall. His arms were folded atop his belly and, true to his word, he gripped an amber colored bottle of whiskey in one hand.
“What do you want?” Rob asked impatiently.
Walden smiled. “A truce, a summit, a drink.”
“I’m guessing you want to come in?” he asked. Then he remembered the stack of Nico editorials on the table and was not sure what sort of a reaction they would garner, so he suggested: “Why don’t we go down to the meal hall?”
Walden’s eyes narrowed in suspicion and then clouded briefly as he considered the suggestion. Then he smiled wolfishly. “Yes, the meal hall. We can raid the kitchen.”
Rob turned to retrieve the room key from his pants, joined the other man in the hall, and locked the door behind him. They headed downstairs, Rob a little behind as Walden hummed an unfamiliar tune in the back of his throat. They pushed through the large doors into the massive, dark hall, and Walden fumbled at the wall for a moment before finding the light switch and illuminating about a quarter of the chandeliers.
“Let’s keep it dim,” the older man remarked. “No use in drawing any attention or waking anyone up.” His voice echoed in the far reaches of the dim and cavernous room.
Rob followed as he crossed the room to one of the great hearths and stooped to grab a poker and dig around in some remaining embers. Walden made a triumphant noise.
“Still some life here. Let me get this going. You check the kitchen for some soda water and something salty. Pretzels or nuts. I’m not picky.” He paused and grunted while grabbing a narrow piece of kindling wood from the side of the stone hearth. “And get a pitcher of water too.”
Rob begrudgingly agreed and meandered between the tables across the echoing expanse toward the counter. He slipped around and entered the black space beyond, stopping short to let his eyes adjust. After some counter edges and door frames began to creep into view from the saturating dark, he could see some switches on the wall. With a little trial and error, the room was light enough to begin the search.
As far as he could tell, the refrigerator’s contents were all meat and dairy. The cupboards beneath the stainless-steel counters contained assortments of pots, pans, and utensils that all stared out at him from stacks made with military precision. The cabinets above held coffee mugs, plates, and glassware. Finally, after making a few lazy circles around the room, he noticed a row of tall doors on the far side of the room. He pulled open the closest set to reveal a walk-in pantry. A small row of lights came on, beckoned by the sudden motion. Rob stepped in, his eyes roving over row upon row of flour, oats, shortening, molasses, sugar, oil, jars of preserves, canned goods, nuts, bread, and everything else one could imagine. He took some pretzels and peanuts in the shell and put them on the counter before entering into the next pantry where he found drums of coffee, stacks of bottled water, and the soda water Walden had requested. He retrieved a pitcher on his way out.
