Archangel of Sedona (14 page)

Do not stay at the Super 8 after
a week at L’Auberge
. Despite their zeal, the folks at Super 8 will not chill your imported champagne to the proper temperature or find the right crackers to compliment the Russian caviar. They do not have a resident masseuse, fluffy bathrobes, or a five-star restaurant on Oak Creek. On the other hand, they will keep you safe, warm, and dry without breaking the bank.

I settled into my room at the Super 8 by two o’clock in the afternoon after I put Gretchen on a plane for Tampa and drove back up to the Verde Valley. As I looked around my quarters, I felt quite lonely. Yet I knew that I had to be there.

Reclining on the comfortable king-sized bed, I consoled myself by cataloging a plan to proceed. I had one week. I’d try five separate strategies.

First, I’d try to contact Bishop McMannes again.

Second, I would research the background and fate of the sculptor of the Christus, Keith Monroe. I could do that with my laptop from the room.

Third, I’d try to contact the relatives of Dan Ostergaard in Scottsdale. I had no idea if any of his family still lived there. I’d start out by Googling Dan’s name and see where it took me.

If I could get a phone number, I’d call. I knew that contacting a widow or orphan carried the risk of opening old wounds. Call me inconsiderate and self-centered, but I was prepared to tear at scabs on this quest.

Fourth, I’d make an effort to learn who in Sedona had owned a mutt named Rommel in the ’60s. That seemed like a dim prospect. I thought I could use my law enforcement connections to ingratiate myself with the Yavapai and Coconino Sheriffs’ Offices and the City Police in Sedona. Through the cops, I’d try to find some local veterinarians who practiced back then.

If I could locate anyone who cared for small animals, I thought I had three excellent clues: the dog’s name, the husband’s name, and the fact that the mom had been a bona fide babe with a flirtatious manner. Maybe someone would remember her.

Finally, I would find a way to get Don Hansen to guide me to the Paleo-Indian ruins at Schnebly Tank. That was the one strategy that I knew would pay dividends.

Late in the afternoon, my son John called to check in on me. We had a good conversation, though I didn’t do much to make him feel better about my decision to stay in Sedona. A little later, Tim called. He was a bit less patient than John. I had to remind him of his own independent streak before he dialed it down a notch. Like I told you earlier, I knew that my boys wouldn’t be too happy about my choice, but I felt in my heart that I’d made the right decision.

To bolster my morale, I decided to lay in basic rations. I’d need water, snacks, sodas, good beer, and a couple bottles of excellent red wine. I might not be staying at L’Auberge, but I didn’t have to be in purgatory. I was still in my favorite spot on the planet: Sedona, Arizona.

When I was a senior at Brophy, I worked for the A.J. Bayless grocery chain in Phoenix. I bagged groceries 25 hours a week at their store on Central Avenue and Indian School Road. I did this work for $1.15 per hour. After taxes, I made $22.00 a week. I was damn glad to have that money.

Gas for my dad’s 1955 Chevy was $0.19 a gallon. The drive-in on 7
^th
Street cost $2.00 a car. A six-pack of beer was $1.50, if I could get someone over 21 to score one for me. I could have a passionate date with my girlfriend for $8.00. Being rich is having more money than you need. J. Paul Getty had nothing on me.

A.J Bayless went bankrupt in the ’80s. Bashas took over the Bayless stores, and their brand is known throughout Arizona. I found their market in West Sedona to be nice. The modest prices for wine surprised me. I expected that a grocery in Sedona would gouge the tourists. Not the case at Bashas.

I splurged. I would spend a week in Sedona at the Super 8, but I’d be sipping some excellent full-bodied Cabs and Syrahs.

After settling with the cashier, I walked out of the store into the overpowering scent of western barbeque. A vendor had set up a sophisticated open-air operation at the store’s exit. I had an overpowering desire for a hot dog.

I set my grocery cart to the side, stood in a line, and waited my turn. When I got to the front of the line, a distinguished looking black man waited on me. He had a baseball cap with the combat patch of the 101
^st
Airborne cocked back on his head.

“All the way!” I said in the traditional opening gambit of Paratroopers.

“Airborne!” He responded, sizing me up. “You a Screamin’ Eagle?”

“Nope. Served with the Herd in Vietnam, the 82
^nd
at Bragg, and 18
^th
Airborne Corps.”

“Vietnam with the 173
^rd
?” He asked.

“Yep.”

“Where’d you train?”

“Tigerland at Polk. Jump School at Benning,” I said.

“Me, too,” he said, smiling. “But along with the 101
^st
in the A Shau, I served with the 82
^nd
in Granada and Panama,” he revealed.

By this time, about eight customers had queued up behind me and had become impatient with our reunion. The vendor extended his hand to me and said, “I’m Eddie Grimes. Give me your order. It’s on the house. Hang around and we’ll chat.”

All of a sudden, I felt a lot less alone. I had an Airborne buddy in Sedona. The Army Airborne is a tight fraternity. It’s a lot like the Marines, but with only 73 years of gallant history, and without the utter shame of being a subservient branch of the Navy Department.

“I’m Tony Giordano,” I said, offering my hand. “I’d like a hot dog.”

“Don’t do dogs. How about an Italian sausage?”

“Already have one,” I responded.

“I’m sure,” Grimes said as he laughed. “Would you like it barbequed?”

“That would be a big no,” I demurred. “I’ll load my car and wander back.”

“I’m ready to close this down for the night. I’ve got a couple of cold ones at my place. You interested?”

“Absolutely.”

It took Eddie 20 minutes to serve the remaining customers and close down his operation. After packing up his gear, Eddie walked over to me and handed me a grilled Italian sausage on an excellent wheat roll. He had one for himself. He carried a six-pack of diet coke in the crook of his arm. We got inside his truck and began to eat. I’d forgotten how hungry I was. I inhaled the sausage.

“When did you retire?” Eddie asked me.

“1992,” I said. “I had my twenty and I got an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

“What was that?”

“After Vietnam, I got out, finished college, went to law school, and went back in as a JAG. So, in 1991, I was working at the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Tampa. They offered me a job as an assistant U.S. Attorney.”

“No shit? Tampa?”

“Yeah. Been in Tampa ever since,” I said as I finished my first Diet Coke and accepted a second from Eddie.

“My daughter used to live in Tampa,” Eddie said. “That was fourteen years ago. She went to U.T. Interned at HHS. She’s a special agent and works out of San Francisco now.”

I have to stop here. I told you earlier that I think everything happens for a reason. There is no serendipity. Sure, we have free will, but those choices occur in a context.

There is no chance that I would run into Eddie Grimes by mere happenstance. At that moment, I understood that I was meant to stay in Sedona and hook up with Eddie. I knew that I would get somewhere on my journey toward enlightenment.

“Eddie, you have a daughter in HHS?”

“That’s right.”

“She’s beautiful, intelligent, has a great sense of humor, works hard, and wears a nose ring.”

Eddie looked at me as if he’d seen a ghost. “You know Yvette?”

“She was an intern and worked on a fraud case that I prosecuted in 1998 and 1999.”

“You were the prosecutor on that case? The medical-fraud-of-the-century case?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Geez, Yvette talked about you a lot,” Eddie explained. “She said that you could be a real son-of-a-bitch. She told me that she liked you as a person, but was glad that she got to go to L.A. She said with you, it was always your way or the highway.”

“Gee, Colonel Grimes,” I said, remembering that Yvette’s father retired was a light colonel. “I suppose when you were in the Army, you’d gather all your soldiers, have them hold hands, feed them pie and cake, take a poll, and let them run your outfit in a kumbaya manner.”

“Fuck no! I told Yvette that I never tolerated anyone who complained about a competent leader and didn’t give a hundred and ten percent,” Eddie said, as we fist bumped.

“What did you retire at?” Eddie asked, wanting to know my highest rank.

“Light colonel, like you.”

“What’s your date of rank?”

“1 February 1988.”

“Shit.” Eddie complained.

“I’m senior, huh?”

“Yeah. But I retired as an Infantry officer. What are you doing in Sedona?”

“Do you have an hour? I’ll explain.”

“Sure, love to hear this. I’ve got nowhere I have to be.”

I started at the beginning and brought Eddie up to speed.

“Tony, that’s one wild story,” Eddie said an hour later, as he looked at the post card of the Christus.

“Eddie, one of the reasons that I remember your daughter so well is that she told me that after you moved here, you had a similar experience.”

Eddie jerked his head back so fast that I feared that he’d have whip lash. He turned toward me and glared.

“Yvette told you that I’d seen strange lights?” He growled.

“She didn’t say that it was a confidence. Your encounter was an affirmation. As the years passed, sometimes I’d wonder whether the whole thing in 1966 was a dream.”

“My experience in 1999 was real, all right. It was at dawn. Infantrymen get up at dawn. You JAG wimps sleep in.”

“That’s right, until 0500. What happened?”

“I was in the slot between Bell Rock and Courthouse Butte. It’s a beautiful little trail. Even JAGs could manage it. The sky was full of stars and the moon had set. It was calm and cold, a brisk morning.”

“Go on.”

“I saw a bright light off to the north, moving at a mind-boggling speed. Seconds later it hovered over my position. It began to descend until I could see a glowing disc about the size of a small pie plate. It emitted a pale, white light. It was eerie and hard to describe. I admit that I was mesmerized. I know I should have been afraid, but I felt calm and focused.”

“What happened next?”

“It hung over me for three or four minutes. I don’t remember a single sound. After a bit, it juked around a lot, back and forth and all around. Then it shot west out of sight.”

“Other than your daughter, did you ever tell anyone else?”

“No, of course not. I don’t want to spend my retirement in an asylum.”

“You’ve been here fifteen years now, right?

“Yeah, I guess. Boy, time flies.”

“Ever see the lights again?”

“Not like the first time, but there’s strange stuff in the Sedona sky, day and night.”

“You’ve never discussed your sightings with anyone?”

“You mean, other than my blabby daughter?”

“That’s right.”

“My wife.”

“Will you discuss them with me?” I asked.

“Maybe, but not now. You said that you’re here for another week?”

“Yep.”

“You still at that fancy resort?”

“No, I’m at the Super 8 down the street.”

“Not anymore. You’re staying with me. I’ve got a nice house with two spare bedrooms. You’ll be more comfortable there. It’ll give us more time to talk, coordinate, and execute our plan to find the Christus.”

“Our plan?” I asked, relieved to have discovered an ally.

“Yeah, it’s our plan now. You’re not doing this by yourself. I’ve got your back.”

Chapter Nine

August 26, 2013, 9:15 PM

1651 Rodeo Drive

West Sedona, Arizona

The folks at the Super 8 charged me for one day when I went in to check out. They were more than reasonable.

Eddie’s directions were convoluted, but Siri guided me. I wish that the Apple technicians would do a better job with her voice. I’d prefer something closer to Catherine Deneuve
.

Eddie lives in one of the western-most subdivisions of West Sedona. His house proved to be a delightful medium-sized, single-family stucco in the southwestern pueblo style. He’d painted it a mauve-toned brown, which complimented the red rocks, natural terrain, and desert flora surrounding his property. When I pulled into the driveway later that night, I saw his big truck close to the house.

After I knocked on the massive wooden door, Eddie opened it, let me in, and gave me a hearty welcome.

“How do you like Casa Grimes?” he asked as he slapped me on the back and thrust a cold Sierra Nevada into my hand.

“It’s very nice,” I replied as I looked around the foyer and into the great room, which sported an immense two-story window that faced northwest.

The view must be spectacular in the daylight,
I thought. “You furnished the place very tastefully, Colonel,” I said.

“Yvette’s mom did all of that. I’m a grunt. I don’t know anything about designer shit, but Mary sure did.”

“Did?” I asked, dreading the answer.