The Valley of Dry Bones (21 page)

“It work perfect at first. I see him comin' and he flash me, and I take off. It's late, you know, way after dark, but we makin' pretty good time.
You can't go fast but you keep it steady, and that's what we doin' most of the night till all of a sudden he flash me, like I said.”

Zeke looked at his watch. “We should go looking for him.”

“I wanna go,” Benita said.

“No!” Raoul said.

“I can shoot better than you!” she said.

“I know! But what're you gonna do? Shoot
los federales
?”

“Before I let them find this place or take one of us, yeah!”

“We're not going out looking to shoot anyone,” Zeke said. “If Danley's doing what he's supposed to, he's just making sure no one finds us.”

“Zeke, come in, please, over.”

“Go ahead, Elaine.”

“Lights on the horizon, looks like two sets of headlamps.”

“Say again, two?”

“Roger that.”

“On my way.”

“Comin' with you,” Raoul said, pulling on his boots.

Benita grabbed her holster and sidearm from a hook by the door. “Me too.”

“Keep up!” Zeke said, sprinting.

“R
EMEMBER OUR PROTOCOLS
,” Zeke told Raoul and Benita. “Don't draw unless you intend to shoot. Don't shoot unless you intend to kill, so—”

“Don't draw 'cept for life or death,” Benita said.

Zeke outfitted the couple with walkie-talkies and told them to wait inside the garage. “Obviously Danley's safety is your top priority. Second is keeping our location from whoever is following him. Go!”

As they jogged off, he slipped into Elaine's chair at the periscope. If the lead car was the new Land Rover, it was clear Danley was doing all he could to elude whoever was trailing him. He had gotten far enough ahead that he was now creating a colossal cloud of dust in a massive arc by spinning in circles so he could shut off his lights and make a straight dash through the blur to the compound.

“Get on the squawk box, Elaine, and repeat what I'm saying.”

“Ready.”

Zeke watched and dictated: “Danley's executing the shroud-and-elude maneuver so, Benita, be ready to open the door on my command. Raoul, gas up one of the dirt bikes and have it running next to the utility door for me. When his lights go off we've got less than a minute, and with him coming in blind we've got to get this right. Make sure he's in and I'm out and both doors are shut before you turn on the garage light. If whoever's following him sees anything, it's got to be me on the bike.”

“Copy,” Raoul crackled. “How about me on the other bike too?”

“Negative!”

“Roger,” Raoul said, disappointment in his voice.

“Danley's lights just went off!” Zeke said. “We're going dark! Get that door up and my bike ready!”

He lowered the scope, told Elaine to tell the other monitors to lower theirs, and ran toward the garage—already regretting denying Raoul's request. Having dirt bikes flying in different directions would be perfect. But Raoul had already driven five hundred miles over rough terrain in one day. That was a blueprint for failure.

The dirt bike stood
brr-acking
in the darkness as Zeke leapt aboard and guided it outside on his toes. He pulled the braided leather cord from the wide brim of his hat and tucked it snug under his chin. As the Land Rover roared ever closer, it sounded as if it were coming down the decline straight at him. At the last instant Danley jerked it sideways and it slid into the garage as the big overhead door descended.

Raoul slammed the utility door behind Zeke, who revved the high-pitched engine just as the headlights of a sedan emerged from the roiling cloud. Zeke let off the clutch, cranked the throttle, and the drive wheel tore into the parched floor of the California Basin, sending a rooster tail of dirt and powder flying. As the front of the bike lifted Zeke flipped on the headlamp, and as soon as the tire touched down again he spun in tight circles, amusing himself with what the feds had to be wondering. The Land Rover they had followed for hours had suddenly disappeared into a dust storm, only to reappear as a dirt bike?

And now the sedan was bearing down on him.

It would have been easy to elude, probably for as long as he cared to. The point was to lead it as far from the compound as he could and keep it there. His delicious secret was that with all four periscopes down, there was zero visible evidence of the compound, and a natural rock outcropping hid the decline to the subterranean garage. The rest was as flat as the desert floor and virtually undetectable without heat sensors or metal detectors.

After letting the sedan futilely chase him about the landscape in loops
and circles for twenty minutes, Zeke slowed to thirty-five miles an hour and headed east, back toward where the feds had come from. They fell in behind him, flashing their lights and honking, as he led them in a straight line for thirty miles before finally stopping, setting his kickstand, stepping off, and leaning back against the seat, arms folded.

The sedan stopped behind him, engine idling, lights lit. The driver and the passenger, dark-haired men in their late thirties, stepped out and approached. The driver was tall and thin with short-cropped dark hair, the passenger stocky and bald. The driver did the talking.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Good morning.”

“Duly noted. Are you armed?”

“I am,” Zeke said. “May I ask who's asking?”

In the light of the car Zeke saw the man pull a snub-nosed revolver from a holster on his belt. “Show me your hands, please.”

Zeke complied, then folded his arms again. “I carry a Glock 21 in back.”

“Aah, the forty-five automatic,” the second officer said.

Zeke nodded. “And if you'll reholster yours, and answer my question, I'll leave mine where it is.”

“Billy Fritz,” the first said, putting his gun away and producing his identification. He introduced his partner, but Zeke paid no attention. “We're police officers with the US Department of the Interior, Bureau of Indian Affairs. I am obligated to inform you that I am memorializing this conversation on a digital recorder located in my breast pocket, and I shouldn't have to tell you that drawing down on a federal agent would be a felony, not to mention would likely cost you your life.”

“No, you don't have to tell me that. And I shouldn't have to tell you that giving a law-abiding US citizen with a concealed carry permit a reason to do that would be royally stupid, so why don't we stop the posturing?”

“May I see some ID?”

“To what end?”

“So that I may know who you are and what you're doing in territory declared verboten to US citizens.”

“It's my understanding that I am breaking no laws as long as I stipulate
that I waive all protections afforded me under the laws of the US as long as I'm here.”

“True, but we also have a duty to determine that you are not a foreign agent or any threat to the United States.”

“May I reach into my pocket?”

“Slowly.”

Zeke produced his driver's license, and Officer Fritz read aloud, “Ezekiel Thorppe Sr.” and his mailing address in Arizona. “Occupation?”

“Hydrologist.”

“Not much for you to do here, is there?” said Fritz, handing it back.

“Not much.”

“So what are you doing, so far from home?”

“Minding my own business. How about you?”

“Our work is self-explanatory. You sure you want to be recorded showing disrespect to federal agents?”

“I mean no disrespect. I believe I have a right to do whatever I wish here, as long as I break no laws.”

“Do you interact with Indian tribes, Mr. Thorppe?”

“At times, yes.”

“In what way?”

“I minister to them. Trade with them. Teach them. Share with them.”

“Are you a medical practitioner?”

Zeke hesitated. What was going on? “No.”

“Are you aware of any Native Americans who have recently died?”

“No.”

“Do others work with you as you interact with Native Americans, Mr. Thorppe?”

“I don't care to speak for or about anyone else.”

“Anything else you'd care to share with us?”

Zeke was about to say no and consider himself fortunate that this had gone only as far as it had, but he found himself saying instead, “Yes” and was as surprised as Officer Fritz appeared to be.

“Oh, you do? And what is that?”

Yes, what is that?

“I, uh, I'd just like to say that, um, in the last days perilous times will come.”

“Perilous times? That right?”

“Yes, sir. Men will be lovers of themselves, lovers of money, boasters, proud, blasphemers, disobedient to parents, unthankful, unholy, unloving, unforgiving, slanderers, without self-control, brutal, despisers of good, traitors, headstrong, haughty, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God, having a form of godliness but denying its power.”

Officer Billy Fritz cleared his throat and looked at his partner. “Is that so?”

“Yes, and from such people you should turn away.”

“Should we?”

Zeke nodded, feeling bold but also foolish. “Yes. This sort are those who creep into houses and make captives of gullible women loaded down with sins, led away by various lusts, always learning but never grasping the truth. Others also resist the truth: corrupt men, but they won't get far, for their folly will be obvious to all.”

“Will it?” the officer said, peeking at his partner again.

Zeke nodded. “It will.”

“If I have more questions, where might I find you?”

“I don't know. You might find me here. You might not.”

“You trying to be smart again, Mr. Thorppe?”

“No. I'm just not sure where I'll be and I don't feel obligated to tell you. No matter where I am, I receive mail at the address I gave you.”

“That where you're going now?”

“I'm going wherever I want to now.”

“You've been heading east.”

“I go where I want, which is my right.”

“I don't understand why you want to be uncooperative, Mr. Thorppe.”

“What is it you want me to say?”

“Whatever you want to tell us.”

“I've told you all I care to. And now I am leaving.”

“You are not free to go.”

“You have no cause to detain me.”

“I can detain you for suspicion of criminal activity.”

“Good-bye, Officers.”

“I said you are not free to go.”

“Then inform me of my crime and arrest me for it.”

“Harassment of Native Americans, exploitation, and intolerance of their religion, a hate crime.”

Zeke mounted the bike.

“Do not make the mistake of adding flight from prosecution, Mr. Thorppe.”

“Do you have a warrant for my arrest?”

“Easy enough to obtain.”

“You didn't even know who I was, let alone have cause to stop me. And now you would unlawfully detain me?” Zeke kick-started the bike.

“Wait one moment!”

“No, sir! Not without cause!”

And Zeke raced off into the night, bent low and flying from zero to nearly seventy in seconds, praying he wouldn't hear the crack of gunfire.

This time he made sure they had little chance to follow. Peeking back to see the car had just begun to move, he lost them by slowing, darting around cacti and rock outcroppings, and then putting as many miles as he could between him and them. Dousing the headlamp, he carefully logged a couple of dozen more miles before realizing he was in territory he didn't recognize.

Zeke slowed and stopped, hoping his dust trail would soon dissipate. It had been years since he'd made the supply run, and while he may have made a mission trip or two in this area in the past few years, it had never been after dark without a compass.

The agents, if they were determined to locate him, would have an endless expanse to explore, and without a light or cloud of dust to focus on, they would have to be remarkably lucky to choose the right one from the dozens of tracks he had left. There was no way they could see him,
but he waited another half hour for safety's sake, watching for any sign of their lights or dust. Finally he began to worry about causing concern to his mates back at the compound.

And now he felt dumb. How was he supposed to find his way back? Leading the agents on a wild-goose chase had been all well and good, and hadn't he brilliantly exposed their buffoonery? But Zeke hadn't thought to leave bread crumbs in his wake.

Straddling the rattling machine, he assessed his assets. He had the right gear, all black from boots to hat. Raoul had filled the tank, so that would last a few hundred miles—not that he needed that much. He had his fully loaded Glock, slightly more than half a bottle of water, and a switched-off walkie-talkie with good batteries that he'd learned the hard way was easily intercepted by interlopers when used outside the compound.

It would reach inside only when he was close anyway, and he had no idea how far away he might be by now. Dawn would come in three hours, so maybe in the meantime he could use the stars to help him keep moving west. But being off by ten feet here could make him miss by miles rock formations he knew on the other end.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. He was supposed to be the leader of this brave little band of missionaries. Only he and his family and his former pastor knew Zeke had been chosen of God, set apart for some lofty role.

Well, if he'd entertained the idea that he had somehow brought an iota of value to the equation, he was disabused of that notion now. He who had just held forth for the Creator Himself to two agents of the United States federal government (who had to think he had just punched his ticket on the Disorient Express) was—there was no way to sugarcoat it . . .