The Laura Cardinal Novels (71 page)

Indiana would be nothing like this.

Something wailed inside him. He’d already put his lapidary equipment into storage. He might never get back here to retrieve them—he knew that.

And he’d already returned his desert tortoises to the government. That had been the worst.

But he would see Sarah grow up. He would start a new life. And he, himself, would be different after this.

“Here we are,” said Dell .

Mark had been through the inspection process probably thirty times in eight states, but today was different. He felt as if something full and viscous were blocking his throat. How would he act? He wasn’t good at deception, never had been. He kept reminding himself that Glenn had paid the guy off, but what if there was a last-minute change in personnel? What if this was a trap?

His heart started to pound. His stomach felt like it was snarled in piano wire, cutting the top part of him off from the bottom. He felt like the top half of him could float away if he didn’t watch out.

I’m going to blow it.

They drove into the truck lane.

The state inspector wore a dark blue uniform and matching baseball cap, and sunglasses like Bobby Burdette’s. The desert sunlight bounced off his badge.

Despite his fears, Mark was expecting to be waved through. Glenn had always been right before, and he’d put his faith in that.

But it didn’t happen. They were directed to park over on the right.

His breathing got shallow. His hands were sweating, and beads of perspiration ran down his face.

He wondered if he would ever see Sarah again.

“Stay cool, man,” Dell said. “I’ll do the talking.”

Dell looked cool. Twenty-eight years old and he acted like nothing could hurt him, like he was a super hero or something. He was the coolest liar Mark had ever seen.

Dell handed the inspector the clipboard with their itinerary. Mentioned casually that, as the guy could see, the casks were empty, on their way to Texas A&M. Even joked about it. How he thought Texas was “bigger than shit, but no better.”

Mark thought that was a little much.

Still, it looked like they would be waved through.

But the inspector surprised them by asking them to get out of the truck and walk over to the trailer while they did a Level One inspection and checked the load with a radiation detector for leaks.

This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen! They’d know, the minute they got to the first canister behind the truck cab.

As he and Dell waited on folding chairs in the shade of the trailer, Mark wondered what it would be like to be handcuffed, taken away in a squad car, booked.

In this post 9/11 world, he knew they would throw the book at him.

He tried to fill his eyes with the desert. The desert was impassive, her face beautiful. He remembered the one time he had ridden this road on a bicycle, a vintage Trek he had lovingly restored, part of a winter tour in what seemed like another life. That had to be seven, eight years ago? Sarah was only a baby then.

Sarah. The idea that he would never see her again—

Someone cleared his throat. Mark looked up, trying not to betray the fear he felt.

“All done,” the inspector said, handing Dell the clipboard. “Have a safe trip.”

When Mark stood up, his knees nearly buckled with relief. Dell gave him a funny look as they walked to the truck.

Pussy.

Mark didn’t care what Dell thought. He had come through. He had passed the test.

And Glenn Traywick had not let them down.

It was still early when Jon Service’s take-home car, a navy Taurus, negotiated the curves along Oak Creek, flickering in and out of the shadow cast by the Mogollon Rim. The few stretches of road where the sun reached the pavement dappled with the shade of oak, walnut, wild grape, and sycamore. The sycamore turning rusty, the walnut trees and cottonwoods tinged yellow-gold.

Glimpses of Oak Creek, at turns brown and hammered gold, rushing over the rocks below.

But Laura was preoccupied by the idea of transuranic waste casks and crazy people like Bobby Burdette and the creeping fear that maybe those casks weren’t as indestructible as they had been made out to be.

At least the bling-bling was gone. She’d ridden it out, and as usual it had gone away. Whatever it was, the lights didn’t stick around much longer than twenty minutes, and then her vision returned to normal.

Jon Service’s car smelled of pine air freshener. If Laura hadn’t already known that Jon was a devout Catholic, it would have been clearly evident from the inside of the car: rosary beads hanging from the rearview, a stick-on rendering of Christ in the garden on the dashboard. He took the curves capably and fast as he talked into his headset.

Laura thinking:
Jack Taylor
.

Jack Taylor, John Traywick.

Jack was a nickname for John, wasn’t it?

All the way down 89A along Oak Creek Canyon, she thought about how easily she’d been taken in by Jack Taylor. Who wouldn’t be? There was no way she could have seen it coming. He was a grieving father of a murdered girl; that was the context she’d seen him in. But apparently, Kellee’s father was the head of the Earth Warriors.

“Keep trying,” Service said into the headset, then looked at Laura. “We’ve got a task force, but we’re still working on the warrant.”

“This is terrorism. How hard can it be?”

“You want the happy-crappy version or the awful truth?”

Laura shielded her eyes as the sun hit the back window of the VW microbus ahead of them—the damn thing had appeared out of nowhere and was going approximately twenty-five miles an hour. The Taurus put on the afterburners and swooped by the minibus to catcalling hippies and middle fingers.

Laura said, “He’ll know the minute he sees all of us what’s going on. Is there a place down the road we can park? I’d rather not tell the world about it.”

“There are a few places.”

Laura tried Richie again, on his way up to Williams from Tucson. He was having his own problems. He’d been playing phone tag with a judge in Williams, trying to get a search warrant for Bobby Burdette’s house.

Sometimes it seemed they had to do their job hog-tied and blindfolded.

Jon turned into a clearing at the entrance to a private cabin, which was hidden behind a tall fence with posts carved into totem poles. A Coconino County sheriff’s car was already there. “Taylor’s Creekside Cabins is just around that curve,” Jon said.

They gathered there for a short parlay, then started down the road.

The cabins appeared around a blind corner, drowsing in a patch of sunlight. Megumi Taylor was out front, tending the flowers that aproned the office. She wore a floppy straw hat, pink blouse, old jeans, and gardening gloves. When she saw them she smiled, waved her trowel.

Laura glanced at the sheriff’s deputies, nodded for them to stay back. She approached Megumi. “Mrs. Taylor?” She asked. “I need to talk to your husband.”

Megumi’s sunny smile turned to confusion. She knew immediately that something was wrong. Laura wondered what she knew.

Megumi glanced from Laura to Jon in his navy suit and tie, to the deputies standing behind them on the road. “Is this about Kellee?” she asked.

“Is Mr. Taylor here?”

Megumi stood. “He’s at cabin eight. I can call him.” She reached for her walkie-talkie.

“That’s okay,” Laura said. “In fact, I’d prefer it if you wouldn’t call him. Where is cabin eight?”

“Up the hill on the right—the far cabin. The guests who stayed there last night left early. They came in late last night and they left even before we opened up the common room for our continental breakfast. That doesn’t make sense, does it? Somebody spending all that money and coming to a beautiful place like this and not bothering to see—”

She stopped suddenly, realizing she was babbling. “Nothing’s wrong, is there?”

“We just need to talk to Mr. Taylor.”

“Okay, then.”

Laura nodded to one of the deputies. “Why don’t you stay with Mrs. Taylor?”

They walked up the winding road to cabin eight, Laura thinking about Megumi’s reaction. Shana swore that Megumi and Kellee didn’t know about the Earth Warriors; Jack had purposely kept them in the dark to protect them. But it was clear Megumi suspected something. Either that or she had a really good antenna for trouble.

An electric cart was parked down below the rustic cabin, the short bed behind the seats piled with sheets stuffed into pillowcases. The cabin door was open and a vacuum droned inside, vying with the blare of a TV set.

Laura kept her hand close to the paddle holster riding on the waistband of her jeans. She noticed that Jon and the deputy were also ready.

All of them hyperalert.

They went in under cover of the vacuum. The television was turned up loud, so it could be heard over the noise—an old gangster movie starring Jimmy Cagney.

Wearing one of those button-down, long-sleeved shirts they sold in L.L. Bean catalogs, Jack Taylor vacuumed around the other side of the bed, his back to them. Unaware, even though he should have noticed the change of light in the doorway. In his own world or just pretending not to notice? Laura couldn’t take a chance, so she moved fast. Cuffs ready, she caught up to him in a couple of strides, reached around his left side and grabbed his free hand, snapping the cuff in place, just as Jon Service’s voice cut through the vacuum noise and the movie: “FBI. Don’t move.”

Jack Taylor stiffened, his back still to her. Turned his head slightly and saw Special Agent Service, gun at the ready.

Laura reached around and shut off the vacuum.

Taylor stared at Jon in bewilderment as Laura took his other hand and cuffed it to the first one behind his back. She steered him around the bed and marched him outdoors.

“What’s going on?” He sounded puzzled, scared, and innocent.

Special Agent Service read him the Miranda rights. Inside the cabin, there were shouts and gunfire. Laura recognized the dialogue; it was from the movie
White Heat
. The police commissioner yelling into a megaphone, exhorting Jimmy Cagney to give up.

Laura leaning Taylor or Traywick or whatever-his-true-name-was against the side of the cabin, asking him if there was anything sharp in his pockets, anything she should know about.

Inside cabin eight, Jimmy Cagney shooting back at his tormentors and the chemical tanks around him.

Laura knew how it ended. Pretty soon he would yell, “I made it, Ma! Top of the World!”

And go up like a Roman candle.

“I’m willing to talk,” Jack Taylor said.

His shoulders had slumped, and his hands had gone slack.

Laura had never heard a suspect say that before. She’d heard people come in and confess to things they had not done, but this complete capitulation took her off guard. So much so, in fact, that she almost suggested he get himself a lawyer. She stopped herself, however. She glanced at Jon, who raised his eyebrows and smiled.

Taylor added. “I want to talk.”

“Why is that?” Jon asked.

His voice was resigned. “I’m glad you caught me. I was thinking about turning myself in anyway.”

That left Laura nonplussed.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking the last few weeks, after—” He swallowed. “After what happened to Kellee.” He turned his face to Laura’s, and she saw the agony in his eyes. “This was my thing. I kept my wife and daughter out of it. I did my best to protect them both. You can ask my wife. She didn’t know anything about it.” He looked up at the sky, and Laura saw his eyes shine with tears. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know. It’s the least I can do.”

They walked him down to the sheriff’s car and put him in the back.

Laura said to Jon, “He seems sincere. While we’re waiting for the warrant, we should question him here. We have no idea what kind of timeline they’re going on.”

Jon produced a digital recorder from his suit pocket.

“You get everything?”

Jon played it back.
I want to talk. I’m glad you caught me.

“That takes care of one headache.”

They took him to the small room off the office where the continental breakfast was served. The room was paneled in pine with gingham curtains and homey plaques on the walls, at odds with the dark slashes on two canvases in the hallway. Big scrawled signatures on the right-hand side—Janet Weir.

The long table by the wall had been cleared away except for the coffee, for which Laura was grateful.

Laura and Jon sat him down at one of the little, round, oak tables near the communal TV.

Jon turned on the digital recorder and gave his name, date, the name of the suspect, read him his rights again. “Do you agree to waive these rights?”

“Yes, yes!” he said impatiently. “I already told you that. Where’s my wife?”

“She’s been asked to stay in your place. A deputy’s with her.”

“She had nothing to do with this. Nothing. I never told her what I—what we were doing. Never. Kellee and Dan didn’t know either. I would never put my wife or child in jeopardy in any way; I would never do that. I love them.”

And so he told them about the Earth Warriors in fits and starts. Laura noticed he would give them a piece of information, almost off-handedly, and then work his way back to the rationalization that he was not a bad guy because he would never expose his family to this kind of thing.

He told them he had headed up the original Earth Warriors from 1968 to 1972. They’d been on the run since their biggest coup—the torching of a ski resort under construction in the Sierra Nevada. In Jack Taylor’s parlance, he had “just walked away. I decided that it wasn’t worth it. No matter what we did, it was only a drop in the bucket compared to the destruction that was happening all over the country. I wanted to settle down and have a family, and I knew they’d chase me to the ends of the earth, so I changed my name and left California.”

A little melodramatic, Laura thought, considering she had not been able to find anything on the old Earth Warriors except for one blog. Then he launched into an impassioned diatribe on the Kyoto Accord, the Gulf spill disaster, the Endangered Species Act, ANWR, SUVs, a dozen other acronyms.