Saturday, June 21
Ranya awoke before it was fully light, stiff from sleeping on the hard and uneven ground. She unwrapped herself from the blanket, stood and stretched while surveying the desolate landscape. She breakfasted on bottled water and saltine crackers from the pack, and then quickly brushed her newly cut hair and rolled up the blanket. She had slept fully clothed and was ready in a few minutes.
She walked back to the cracked asphalt road and picked a hidden location, sitting Indian-style behind the desiccated carcass of a road-killed steer, where she could observe any cars coming in the distance from either direction. The grim mound was disgusting, but there was not enough other natural cover near the road to screen her from view in broad daylight. The dried animal was literally skin over bones, and long past being a source of interest to either insects or vultures. The steer's skull had become detached from the rest of the remains, and was picked clean and bleached white. Only when she was certain that an approaching vehicle was not a cop, would she stand and step out to hitch a westbound ride. If the police had been alerted to her escape, she knew that a young female hitchhiking on a rural Texas two lane road would draw their immediate attention.
It was eighteen hours since Starr Linssen had drawn her final breath of water and foam. Ranya was guessing that by now the police in all of the states around Oklahoma would be searching for her, even if their hunt was not publicly announced on the radio.
It was over twenty miles to the safe haven the truck driver had suggested. If she had not heard any news accounts of escaped prisoners on her mini radio, then the odds were that neither had any other ordinary civilians who were out driving today, and presumably, it would be safe for her to catch a ride. Otherwise, it would be an all day hike across sage land and cattle country. She unzipped her tan pants legs, took off her black sweatshirt, and stowed them in her pack.
A dark sedan appeared from the east, a possible police cruiser, so Ranya lowered her head, her huddled form blending in with the steer carcass. A black Mercedes flew past at better than 90 miles per hour, the driver unseen behind tinted windows. Other cars passed but she was afraid they might be police, so she stayed hidden. Almost two hours later a camper came into view, a boxy RV with an extension over the cab. Ranya weighed her chances, and stepped to the edge of the blacktop, waving her arms enthusiastically. The camper drove past with a small push of air, and then came to a stop several hundred yards beyond her. The taillights blinked indecision as Ranya slung on her pack and ran after it.
The big camper had a faded green and white body like a bloated cocoon. A sleeping area extended out over what appeared to be the vestigial front of a full-sized van. The camper was made even taller by the addition of antennas and cargo on top. Metal and plastic Jerry cans and a pair of bicycles were strapped in racks along the back.
The front side window was down when Ranya jogged up alongside the weathered RV. The passenger was a plump black woman somewhere past sixty years old, wearing a gold velour tracksuit and a purple crocheted cap. The driver was a thin bald black man at least as old, staring out at her through gold-framed glasses. He was gawking and grinning through ill-fitting dentures, but his wife inspected Ranya more skeptically. She said, "Sorry to make you run so far, but we had to be sure you were alone."
"No problem, I understand." Ranya had already rehearsed what she would say. She assumed the most fresh-faced college girl smile possible under the circumstances, considering that she had slept on the ground in the same clothes she had worn since yesterday. A tiny statue of Jesus glued to their dashboard buoyed her spirit. "You wouldn't be heading to Barlow's Creek by any chance, would you?"
The old driver said, "We sure are, Missy! You're in luck, because that's right where we're going today." He was wearing a white short-sleeved shirt and gray pants. His left hand was on the steering wheel; his right hand was out of sight behind the woman's ample hips. No doubt he was prudently holding a gun, Ranya thought.
The woman looked Ranya up and down and asked, "Lord, what happened to you?"
"My car died last night, back on 287. I walked as far as I could. I have friends at Barlow's campground. If I can make it there, I'll be fine."
The husband was nodding, already convinced. The wife studied Ranya and then said, "Well...I see. It's tight up here in front--there's no room for your pack. So let's throw it in the back, and then you can sit up here with us. How's that sound?"
"Wonderful!" She put her hand out, and shook their hands through the open window. She understood that they wanted her sitting in front with them, to keep an eye on her. It didn't matter, she was just glad for the lift. She would have cheerfully sat on the roof with the other strapped-on cargo.
"Well, okay then," said the woman. "And I can get you some orange juice and something to eat. I don't guess you've had breakfast yet today?"
"No ma'am, just crackers and a little water. Breakfast sounds great."
"I'll bet it does, honey, I'll just bet it does."
In a minute, her pack was in the back of the RV, and she was up front sitting in the middle between them. There was a cloth napkin spread across her lap, she was enjoying canned juice and biscuits with strawberry jelly, as they rolled west at a steady sixty miles per hour.
The woman said, "By the way, my name's Olivia, and that's my husband, Melvin."
Ranya didn't hesitate to give them an assumed name, her last false name from before her arrest. "I'm Diana. Diana Williams." This was the name from her long-gone counterfeit Canadian passport. Now the name held only sentimental value to her, from her last period of living in freedom, down in Colombia on the sailboat with Phil Carson.
"Pleased to meet you, Diana. We're coming from Houston, heading to Utah. We just couldn't stand living around Houston anymore. We just couldn't take it. It got too dangerous, too crazy. No way for civilized folks to live. We lived in New Orleans all our lives until the flood in oh-five, and then we thought we'd finish our days in Houston, but there's no way, no way at all."
"You were in the flood?"
Olivia answered, "No honey, when they said get out, we got out. We were in Baton Rouge in this very camper when Katrina hit, but we lost our house. Thank God, we had some insurance so we could start again in Houston. But then Houston went right straight downhill too, even without a flood."
Melvin said, "We finally figured if we were going to get shot or stabbed anyway, it might as well be on the way to the free states. So we decided to go for broke and make a run for it. We hoarded up all the gas we could, and when we had enough, we loaded up and we left. We bolted. We just walked away from our new house, we just up and left it behind. Gave it back over to the bank, I guess. Or the looters? Now we're heading for a safe place to live out the rest of our lives. We hear Utah's a safe place, a God-fearing place, even if they have a funny religion. That's all we want--a God-fearing place."
"We just want peace," said Olivia. "If we got to spend the rest of our days in this camper, then so be it. And if we don't make it, well, it's better than staying in South Texas, getting robbed every other week, waiting for one of them gangs to kill us for what little we got left in our pantry."
"I don't care if it does get cold up there in the free states," said Melvin. "I just want to live free again, that's all. Free from being afraid all the time."
His wife nodded agreement.
***
Barlow's Creek was a makeshift RV campground on a private ranch, visible from the state road. It stretched along one bank of a marshy stream that bisected endless miles of scrub prairie and cattle grazing land. Beyond the paved road, a dirt track led to a barbed wire fence, and a cattle guard made from pieces of railroad track.
Next to the break in the fence, a middle-aged guard sat on a lawn chair, beneath an awning made from a gray plastic tarp. A bike leaned against the last fence post. The man stood up from his chair at the approach of the new camper. He had a revolver openly holstered on the belt of his cutoff shorts, and he wore a gray Texas Rangers t-shirt tucked in under it. He carried a notebook and a walkie-talkie as he walked over to greet them.
"You folks ever been here before?" he asked the driver, studying the unusual trio composed of an older black couple and a young white woman.
"Nope, first time," Melvin answered.
"Where you coming from?"
"Down by Houston."
"Houston huh? Any of you all been east of the Mississippi in the last two years? No?" He studied them closely, gave each of them a long hard look, and they each replied that they had not.
"Well then, fine. Here's the camp rules. Read them, and then put your John Hancock here on the next line in my book. We don't have enough copies of the rules left to give you one to keep, so read it and hand it back." The gate guard passed over a well-worn sheet of paper with a dozen numbered sentences printed on it, and then he began to rattle them off from memory.
"You can only stay three weeks. If you like it, you gotta leave for a week, and then come back. This keeps the grass fresh, and we don't wind up with broken-down heaps that can't move. We don't want homesteaders or squatters--this here is a transit camp. Cost is eighty dollars cash a day, for now, subject to change any time the boss feels like it. If you want, we can take barter in ammunition, gold, silver, canned goods...all the usual stuff. We don't take credit cards, debit cards, E-bucks or bank checks, so don't even ask.
"It's an open-carry camp, but if we think you're unsafe with your weapons, you'll be politely asked to leave. You can carry concealed if you prefer, but nobody cares either way. You can drink, and you can shoot at our range, but if you drink and fool around with guns at the same time, you'll be run out of here pronto. You can only shoot on the range, during range hours, nowhere else. We got a mobile sewage pump out, the cost is reasonable, and if you dump on the ground--well, don't. We keep quiet hours from ten PM to seven AM, and that means no motorcycles, generators or loud music or even talking that bothers anybody. They're pretty reasonable rules, and you don't look like jerks anyway. I think you'll like it here. You plan on staying a full three weeks?"
"Not sure," replied Melvin. "We're heading to Utah, once we figure out the safest way there. New Mexico's out and we're not too sure about Colorado."
The gate guard offered, "Lots of people are heading that way, so you'll find plenty of company if you want it. Folks 'convoy up' here. Convoys leave all the time. You can even find gas, if you have enough cash or anything worthwhile to trade. I think you'll make out fine. You made it here from Houston, so the worst is behind you. If you can find gas along the way, you'll make it the rest of the way to Utah, no problem."
"Praise be! That's mighty welcome news, mister," replied the driver. Visible relief flowed into all three of the visitors at the prospect of a layover in a safe refuge.
"I'll lead you to your spot now; it's a nice grassy place. Just follow behind me, okay?" He turned and spoke into his two-way radio, then clipped it onto his belt and mounted his bike.
They drove in at the guard's unhurried cycling speed, jouncing down a dirt track with tents, trailers and RVs on both sides. Most sprouted a wide variety of antennas, solar panels and wind generators mounted on top. The wind generators all whirred madly, their sounds merging from one campsite to the next. Everywhere, flags were whipping back on the breeze: Texas Lone Star flags, the Stars and Stripes, several yellow Gadsden "Don't Tread On Me" flags, and other banners in every color and dimension. Specific state flags appeared among clusters of RVs, evidence of regional clannishness, or convoy intentions.
Ranya asked, "Why did he want to know if we'd been east of the Mississippi?"
"Are you putting me on?" asked Olivia, turning to look at her. "Cameroon Fever, what do you think? But ain't none of us got them poxy scars, thank the Lord."
Ranya simply said, "Oh, yeah. Of course," and let it drop. She had heard rumors from new D-Camp prisoners about a lethal epidemic that had swept through Florida and Georgia, but didn't know how far it had spread. Evidently, traveling east of the Mississippi put one into a greater risk category, at least as far as Texans were concerned. The RV continued to follow the gate guard on his bicycle, swaying and bumping along the path.
Kids rode bikes, chased one another on foot, played catch and threw Frisbees. Their camper passed a wide bend in the creek, where a few people waded and splashed in the sluggish water between cattail covered banks. They passed a redheaded woman riding a mountain bike in the other direction; she had an AR-15 carbine slung nonchalantly across her back, its muzzle down. She exchanged waves and hellos with the gate guard on his bicycle. The staccato popping sound of pistol and rifle shots could be heard in the distance.
The woman beside Ranya asked, "Honey, do you see your friends yet? What kind of a rig do they have?"
"Not yet," she lied. "They should be here, somewhere. At least, that's what they told me last week. We haven't seen half the place yet. They're around here somewhere, I'm sure. I'll just ask around, I'm sure I'll find them. So listen, thanks for the ride, but I don't want to impose on your hospitality?"
The woman smiled and said, "Nonsense, honey, it's no trouble. If you need?"
"If I know my friends, they'll be hanging out at the shooting range. If you let me out now, I'll just walk out there."
"Well that's fine, if that's what you want," said the woman. "But listen...first let me finish cutting your hair: it's kind of rough in the back."
"Olivia's right, honey," said her husband, chuckling. "If you're going on the lam, you'll need a better hair-do. If you didn't cut it yourself, I'd say your hair stylist needs to find a new line of work."
"Is it that obvious?"
"Sure it is honey child, but who cares?" responded the woman, turning more serious. "We're all escaping from something these days, ain't we? Well, join the club. And if you don't find your friends, you're welcome to stay with us for a time. We'll squeeze you in--it'll be tight, but it'll be all right. The good Lord will provide."
***
The range was a half-mile walk down another dirt road, away from the creek into the scrubland, past scattered trees and immobile rocking-horse oil pumps. Ranya felt more confident with her hair trimmed evenly, and the residual ink on her neck scrubbed off with Olivia's cold cream. She had gratefully accepted the offer to wash up in their camper's tiny bathroom, and felt much better with a fresh face and clean teeth.
As she walked, she reflected upon the fact that all of the clothes she wore belonged to a dead woman, from her tan leather hiking boots, to her green ball cap and even Linssen's gold-rimmed aviator-style sunglasses. This was more than a little bit creepy, but after years of nothing but prison denim, it felt nice to be dressed in casual civilian clothes.
She walked on, enjoying her aloneness, reveling in her anonymity. There were no terrain features to speak of anywhere around Barlow's Creek, it was practically dead flat over vast expanses of land to the horizon. Willows, cottonwoods, and cattails defined the course of the creek to the east and the west. Only trees, oil pumps and occasional houses broke the monotonous uniformity of the land.
The slap-dash outdoor shooting range was like many she had visited in Virginia before the troubles. The firing line consisted of a dozen rough unpainted wooden tables, with a plywood roof extending above all of them to protect the shooters from the mid-day sun. Two hundred yards from the firing line, there was a bulldozed dirt berm for a bullet backstop. This berm was the only "hill" in the vicinity. A few cars, pickup trucks, motorcycles and bicycles were parked on the grass behind the firing line.
A red flag twenty feet up a pole announced that the range was open. Nobody paid her any attention as she dropped her brown pack on an empty table at the left end. There was a small plywood range shack behind them, with a hand-painted sign advertising reloaded ammunition and targets for sale. The firing line was hot. Four men were shooting rifles from sandbagged positions on the tables at paper and cardboard targets 100 yards away.
Ranya had only the Glock pistol and two full magazines of 9mm bullets, just thirty rounds in all, which she had taken from Linssen's bedroom. She had no plan, no itinerary, just a general desire to get to Albuquerque somehow, and the range had drawn her back to the sights and sounds of her youth. Any shooting range was familiar, friendly territory, a place where she felt that she had the best chance of making the kinds of contacts that she would need to assist her on her way.
A pair of men behind one table fiddled with a Mini-14 rifle, they couldn't get the stuck magazine out. The rifle reminded her of the 'gun guards' in the fields back at D-Camp, she wondered if they knew that she had escaped yet. A full size black AR-15 also lay on the table, along with gun cases and nylon zipper bags. Going back five years to the last she had heard, semi-auto rifles had been outlawed, but here they were, lying out in the open. A tall range safety officer wearing a red ball cap walked over. He tersely admonished the two for inadvertently pointing the muzzle of their rifle sideways down the firing line, while they tugged at the magazine. The lanky RSO appeared to be in his mid-fifties, she thought. The same age her father would have been, if he had not been murdered.
***
The range master finished with the two men, and walked over to Ranya's end table. "Howdy. You new around here?" He noted her pack, with the rolled-up blanket tied underneath.
"Just got in," she replied.
"What're you shooting today?" She had no visible gun case or range bag.
"Glock 19." She pulled the 9mm pistol from a side pouch on her pack. "I'd trade it for a .45 though, a model 1911. That's more what I'm used to. Anybody around here trade guns?"
The man laughed. "Anybody here trade guns? Who doesn't?" Random rifle blasts split the air just to their side. "Look, you need ear protection. We're not very formal around here, but we do insist on that. I'll cut you a break though--wait just a second." He walked over to the range shack and returned in a moment, and handed her a pair of plastic earmuffs. The man had sandy hair sprinkled with gray; he wore jeans and a faded blue polo shirt with the lightning bolt logo from Thunder Ranch.
A .45 caliber pistol, a model 1911, was holstered in leather high on his right hip. She gestured with her head toward the rifles on the nearby table. "Weren't semi-automatic rifles banned a few years ago?" she asked.
He took a half step back and regarded her carefully. Questions posed by strangers about firearms legality were regarded with suspicion at gun ranges. The realistic fear of ATF entrapment stings ran deep.
"Where are you from?" he asked her, his hands on his hips.
"Virginia."
"Virginia...back east. Well that explains it. Sure, semi-auto rifles were banned, after the Stadium Massacre. And they still are banned, I guess. But this is North Texas, not Virginia, and we sort of do things our own way out here. We're not too worried about the federal gun laws, as you can probably tell. I mean, if the feds tried to come out here on gun raids, they'd have a real time of it! Anyway, I'm thinking they've already got their hands full in Detroit and LA, places like that." The man snickered. "Yeah, they've got plenty enough on their plates as it is, without declaring war on Texas."
"So, there're no feds in Texas?" she asked.
"Oh, no such luck. I'd say we still have our share, but they tend to mind their own business. They don't get out of the office much, you might say. They're not stupid: they want to go home at night, like everybody else. Meaning no disrespect to Virginia, but trying to enforce the old federal gun laws in Texas these days, well, that would be just about purely insane."
She nodded, and then asked, "Say, I noticed those two guys couldn't even get the mag out of their rifle. Are there any instructors around here? I could stand to earn a few bucks."
He chuckled. "Yeah, you might say there're a few instructors here. In fact, you're looking at Numero Uno. But you seem kind of young to be a gun pro--you're a firearms instructor? NRA certified? Or maybe you're just some kind of a natural Annie Oakley?"
She grinned at the mention of one of her childhood nicknames. "Something like that. All of the above, I guess. I grew up around guns. My father was a gunsmith; he owned a gun store with an indoor range. Back in Virginia." She pointed to the logo on his shirt. "He even came out to Texas, to Thunder Ranch a few times, back when?" She cleared her throat, her voice cracking. "So yeah, I can shoot. I'm a little rusty, but I can shoot."
"Say, what's your name?" He put out his hand, and she took it.
"Diana. Diana Williams."
"Diana, I'm Mark Fowler. I run this range, and I know everybody that matters around Barlow's Creek. Hey, you know what? If you can shoot, I mean really shoot, you might be able to make a little money, or maybe win some prizes later on this afternoon. There's not much to do for excitement out here but watch the grass grow and the wind blow, so shooting is pretty much the big sport. Of course, we encourage it: we keep the spent brass, and I get to reload it and sell it all over again. It's how we stay in business, you might say. Hey, you gotta be creative to make a buck these days." He paused, looking her up and down, considering. "You know, if you want to shoot for money, I might even lend you one of my .45s. You don't want to be shooting lead reloads out of that Glock, not even my reloads."
"No kidding--I don't want to lose any fingers. And I've only got two magazines of factory nine mill."
"Well then, let's see how you do with one of my .45s. If I think you can beat the local talent, I'll sponsor you, and spot you the ammo. How's that sound?"
"That sounds great Mr. Fowler, I appreciate it." She flashed him a toothy smile, forming cheek dimples, and he grinned right back at her.
"Mark. Please call me Mark...I'm not that old! Let me get a competition pistol out of my truck, and we'll see if you can shoot. None of the suckers around here will shoot against me anymore, so it might be fun to enter a ringer in the money matches. We usually have some macho men show up, and their pride just won't let 'em quit when a lady's whoopin' on 'em. Now let's grab my race gun, and see what you can do with it."
***
It took Ranya only a hundred rounds through Mark Fowler's custom-tuned .45 to get her shooting reflexes back up to speed. More shooters began arriving after lunchtime, mostly on foot or bicycle, or packed into the backs of trucks. It was becoming evident that gasoline was not only expensive, but it was hard to come by. She did as much listening and as little talking as she could, concealed behind her ball cap and aviator's sunglasses.
They started with a contest shooting steel targets for time. A judge with a stopwatch followed behind the competitors. Skillet-sized steel plates were balanced on steel bar frames, at ranges from ten to thirty yards from the firing line. When hit, they made a loud ringing clang and flopped over. Shooters had to run from position to position, firing at specific groups of targets, knocking them all down before moving on, changing magazines as needed.
If nothing else, she figured she would get in plenty of pistol practice, after five years without firing a shot. Practice that she might put to good use later, when it was time to rescue her son from his kidnappers.
***
The toy store was air conditioned, but not so cold that you would notice it. Not unless you had just walked in from the asphalt parking lot in back, where the temperature hovered around 95 degrees Fahrenheit. It was bearable inside, and in Albuquerque in June, that was enough, considering the frequency of citywide power outages. The shop's dusty ceiling was low, the aisles were cramped, the shelves half-filled with last year's toys and overlooked games. In its favor, it had entrances both in front on Central Avenue, and in the back behind the mini shopping center.
Luis Carvahal entered through the rear doors. He was wearing shorts, running shoes and a plain gray t-shirt that was dark with sweat. Carvahal had the physique of a much younger man, but his deeply lined face betrayed his late middle age. He propped his sunglasses up on his curly gray hair, and as his eyes adjusted to the relative darkness, he found his contact seemingly shopping in the middle of a center aisle.
His contact was more than a decade younger than he was, perhaps only in his mid-forties. Carvahal thought the man looked like a typical Telemundo or Unavision network newscaster. He was the standard clean-shaven and fair-skinned Latino from central casting, with wavy chestnut hair and gentle brown eyes. Both men were exactly the same height, five feet eleven inches, so when they met, they literally saw eye to eye.
His contact was an FBI Supervisory Special Agent named Alexandro Garabanda.
After the brief eye contact, he turned toward the shelves and stage-whispered, agitated. "I don't like meeting in stores. You know I don't like meeting in stores! You're supposed to be a pro at this--didn't they teach you this in spy school? And the Toy Hut? What am I supposed to be doing in a toy store? I'm 58 for God's sake--I look like a pervert trolling for kids in here. I stand out like a sore thumb."
They didn't shake hands, but pretended to be looking at games on the same shelf. "No Luis, you look like a grandfather. A grandfather, shopping for a special birthday gift for a favorite grandson."
"Well, I don't have a grandson. Or any son, not any more." He sighed, and grew pensive. He pulled off his daypack and removed a small white towel, and used it to wipe his face dry. "You know, after 300 years, I'm the last of the original Carvahals in Albuquerque. The end of the line." He took a clear plastic bottle of water out of a side pouch and drank from it.
"I'm sorry for setting up our meeting here, but this place was the best I could do on short notice. I had to bring my son, and he can play with the toys while we talk. Half of the time when I leave my house or I leave work, I'm getting plain-clothed Milicias tailing me. The Special Surveillance Group. I needed a decent cover, in case I was followed here. Father, son, toy store."
"I forgot: it's Saturday. You've got weekend custody, right?"
"Barely. I'm supposed to, but it hardly ever works out that way. It's not like I work nine to five, and my wife, my ex-wife--"
The toddler was near the end of the aisle, sitting on the ground playing with wind-up racecars, letting them go and chasing after them, smiling and laughing. The child was dressed in denim shorts and a camouflage pattern t-shirt.
"He's Brian, right?"
"Right, Brian. Five years old."
"I'm sorry Alex, I get so damned nervous. I always feel like I'm being followed. There are people in here..."
"Not on this aisle," said the FBI agent. He was wearing jeans and a Navy-blue polo shirt, with a brown vest on the outside. The unzipped vest resembled one that might be worn by an angler or a photographer. It covered his belt, and concealed his .40 caliber Sig-Sauer pistol. Thin layers of ballistic cloth sewn inside the vest would stop bullets from most standard pistols. "Don't worry, I checked the place out. Nobody followed me today, and nobody came in after me, or after you. It's clean. The Toy Hut's not a chain store, so it's not in the National Surveillance Network. It's too old, too small. Its cameras aren't linked to the NSN; they don't go anywhere. I checked."
"Well they better watch out anyway: they've still got 'Toy Hut' on all the big signs outside. Putting up a couple of 'Casita de Juguetes' placards, that won't satisfy the hotheads. The Spanish has to be on the biggest signs, not the English."
"Well, why don't you tell them, then?" Garabanda snapped. "Sorry, I know, it's not your fault. I mean, can you even believe this crap? Spanish Only--what the hell is that? Is this America, or not?" He shook his head slowly, resigned. "You know, a year ago when you told me that Agustin Deleon would be elected governor, I said you were nuts. But you called it Luis, you called it."
"Yeah, well, that and twenty bucks will buy me a cup of coffee. Alex, I don't want to complain too much, but at least you drove here. I had to ride my bike, three miles and every inch uphill. I can never get enough gas. I can't afford it, and I can't get enough gas coupons."
"What's the matter, the Mountain Lion can't toss some gas cards your way? I thought you were in tight with El Gobernador?" Garabanda was ribbing him--Deleon's stinginess was infamous. The governor retained the lifelong habits of frugality, which had sustained him during his years of exile, during his hard years in the wilderness.
"I am, but..."
"But no extra gas cards. I thought you were an insider now, Deleon's buddy?"
"Alex--enough joking around. I've got important information. You know the Democrats in the Senate--the U.S. Senate--they're supporting the revolution in Mexico."
"I look at the computer from time to time," said Garabanda. "Sometimes I even turn on the TV."
"Funny. You know I was up in Santa Fe yesterday, with Deleon. Anyway, he got a call from Senator Kelly while I was with him in his office, after dinner. He was showing off...he let me listen in on another line."
"Why would he do that, Luis?"
"Why? Because I'm ghostwriting his memoirs, why else? The man is 82 years old. He wants me to know everything, see everything from his point of view, right? He trusts me a hundred percent, and he's very, very serious about his memoirs. Believe me, this was a proud moment for the Mountain Lion, taking a call from the senior senator from Massachusetts. I mean, it validates him, he thinks. Everything from the courthouse raid in '70, to prison, to exile, to the election--his entire life! So of course he wanted me to hear it...for his memoirs."
"So what did Kelly tell Deleon, that the FBI should know? You don't actually think I can send up a report on it, do you? On a private conversation between a U.S. senator and a governor?"
"Shit. I didn't consider that. Well, I'll give it to you anyway. Do what you can with it. Kelly's not going to object to the New Mexico land reform laws. He's going to support them in Congress, so they're a done deal. The special tax on ranches over a thousand acres, the Spanish Land Grant Commission--everything. Looks like Washington's not going to oppose any of it, as long as the state stays away from federal land. And you already know the President won't say a word. With Los Angeles burning, she can't afford to alienate the Hispanics?"
"I could've told you that. Our instructions from headquarters have been the same ever since this mess started: New Mexico 'land reform' is not a federal issue. We've already been directed by the DOJ to stay out of it, no matter how ugly it gets. So it really doesn't matter if Senator Kelly confirmed it to El Gobernador."
"Alex, that's all just background. There's more. I haven't gotten to the interesting part. This is why Kelly called: there's going to be a conference next week up north, some kind of mega-meeting of big shots. Politicos and tycoons are coming from all over. Heavy hitters only. Senator Kelly is coming down, and he said Senator Montaine is coming over too! Imagine those two cooperating on anything! Deleon didn't even know about the conference before this call, but it sounded like Kelly didn't know that he didn't know. Kelly must have assumed that El Gobernador was already in the loop about the meeting. Well, you know how cagey Deleon is--he played it like he knew all along--he didn't miss a beat. It's going to take place up at Wayne Parker's ranch next week. You won't believe who's coming: Orozco?"
"Pascual Orozco's not in charge of Mexico yet--there's still a revolution going on! Zorrero is still El Presidente."
"Not for long," replied Carvahal. "Zorrero is going to go on a permanent vacation in Ireland any time now, that's the rumor. He already owns a castle there, or at least his brother does. Zorrero is finished. Orozco will be the next El Supremo, one way or the other, and he's coming to Parker's ranch next week."
"Then this meeting must have been cleared with the White House."
"That's what I think too. It must have gotten the okay from on high; it had to have. And you wouldn't believe the guest list--thank God Senator Kelly is such a namedropper. Actually, he sounded pretty drunk. Besides the Senators, Paul Warburg is coming, and maybe Nicholas Biddle and Norman Montague. Imagine those billionaires, sitting down for dinner with a socialist like Pascual Orozco! Something huge is going to happen up there, something important."
"Like the Davos meetings, it sounds like." Garabanda was referring to the annual meeting of the so-called "World Economic Forum," sometimes held in the Swiss town of that name.
"No, not like Davos. Not hundreds guests, only a dozen or so. And all in private, all in secret. You know, Wayne Parker's ranch has its own jet runway--I mean, the Vedado Ranch is almost a million acres. I'm guessing it has something to do with Orozco taking over in Mexico, or maybe it's about the Constitutional Convention in September. Maybe it's about the 'North American Community.' I'm just guessing--Senator Kelly wasn't specific. But whatever it's about, it's going to be major, judging by who's coming."
"Luis, what am I supposed to do with this kind of information? Send an Intel report to Washington, saying that a couple of U.S. senators are meeting secretly with foreign leaders and billionaires in New Mexico? Just because a well known drunk like Senator Kelly made a private phone call to the governor? I can't send a report like that. You could leak something like that to the media--that might work. Put it out on the internet, the blogs might run with it. But it's political--it's completely out of my area of responsibility, and believe me, it's way, way above my pay grade. I need something else, something tangible. Maybe more information on the foreign fighters you said are coming over the border. Something hard, with pictures, with names and some solid documentation. Then maybe they'll pay attention at headquarters. Maybe."
Carvahal stage-whispered, "My God, you already know they've practically got a damned Mexican Ho Chi Minh trail running straight across the border and up into Colorado, and that's not enough? What more does Washington need?"
"Calm down Luis, don't make a scene... I don't know what it'll take, I just don't know. I can't even tell who's really running the show back at headquarters. It seems like sellouts and UN carpetbaggers are in most of the key positions. The way I see it, nobody's left back there who gives a damn about a sovereign America any more. New Mexico? Face it, we're a backwater, a sideshow. Washington has bigger problems to deal with than tinhorn radicals in 'Nuevo Mexico.' As long as they fly the Stars and Stripes over the capitol in Santa Fe, I don't think Washington gives a damn what else happens here. Not with L.A. burning and half of Detroit in a state of siege."
"Then what's the point, Alex? What are we doing this for?"
"What are we doing this for?" Garabanda repeated his question softly, taken aback. "Luis, that's a question I ask myself about a hundred times a day." He paused, and said quietly, "I suppose I'm just hanging on until retirement, is one answer. Maybe the only one..."
"Aren't you already over twenty years? I guess you got screwed on that deal."
"You got that right. I was at nineteen when they changed the minimum to twenty-five years. 'Take it or leave it.' Bastards!"
"Listen, you weren't the only one who got screwed. Remember, my entire pension evaporated into thin air when the Herald went belly-up. At least you feds will still get paid, even if they're only going to pay you in blue bucks."
"Luis, by the time I retire, they'll probably be pink or red or purple bucks. Worthless paper--just change the color, and whack off a zero."
"Tell me about it! You know what my IRAs are worth today?"
Garabanda muttered, "Yeah. BOHICA. Bend over, here it comes again."
"So what keeps you going Alex, why are you still working for the feds? I know why I'm here, why I'm doing this. My reporting days are finished, so if I'm anything any more, I'm an historian now. Deleon's confidant and biographer by day...and secret historian by night. At this stage in my life, it's enough for me to be where history is being made, and write it down. And maybe--just maybe--do what I can to keep New Mexico in the United States. But why do you keep at it? You're not even from here, so what do you care?"
"Shit, now you're getting all existential on me? Here in the Toy Hut?" Garabanda laughed quietly for a moment and gestured toward his son, playing on the floor. "Well, I've got Brian there, that's one reason to keep going. And besides the paycheck, as long as I stay in, I can get into the federal stores and shop on the Air Force base. And getting free gas for the bureau cars, that's another nice bennie. I can't imagine how you civilians manage it, without getting into the federal stores and the military bases."
"But is that enough?" replied Carvahal. "Enough to keep you working for the whores in Washington? Alex, that's like being a stoker on the Titanic, and staying in the engine room shoveling coal while the ship goes down. For what?"
Garabanda pulled a shiny black "Magic 8-Ball" from the shelf in front of him, and was slowly turning it over. "It's what I do, Luis. It's all I've ever known. Protect the country; try to warn headquarters...it's all I can do. Finish the career, hope for a pension, and raise Brian as best I can when I've got custody. It's all I've got left. Like your memoirs and your history of New Mexico."
"Speaking of which," said Carvahal, "There's something else: Deleon is seriously paranoid about the Vice-Governor. He's as much as told me he thinks Magon is planning something, maybe some kind of a move against him. Finding out about the Vedado Ranch conference back-channel from Senator Kelly--that really did it. Now Deleon knows for sure that Magon is operating behind his back. He thinks Wayne Parker set up the Vedado Ranch conference with Magon, making a private deal. Probably protecting Parker's million acres from the Land Reform Act."
"And Felix Magon is a total whack job," added Garabanda. "He's another Castro wannabee, if you ask me. He's worse than Hugo Chavez."
"You've got that right. You should see his 'Falcon Battalion.' They make the regular Milicianos look like Girl Scouts. Half of them are right out of the MS-13 and the Mexican Mafia--the worst scum from El Salvador to LA. They're not just another unit of the Milicia, they're Magon's enforcers. They'll do anything he says, anything at all. Deleon has no control over them at all. The Falcons only answer to Magon, and I don't think there's an American in the whole bunch. And Washington doesn't want to hear about it?"
The FBI agent stared intently at his informant, absorbing these latest rumors about the neo-communist Felix Magon. He was allegedly born in New Mexico and was therefore a U.S. citizen, but he had spent most of his adult life in Cuba, Bolivia and Colombia, before returning to America and entering politics. He replied, "Exactly right--Washington doesn't want to hear about it. DC is still in the PC lockdown mode. 'See no evil, hear no evil.' If Montana and Wyoming can pass 'English only' laws and start kicking out the illegals, then Nuevo Mexico can pass 'Espanol Solamente' and fire all the gringo cops. Washington doesn't see any difference at all. They don't see 'land reform' as confiscating private property--they prefer to think of it as 'helping the little guy.' Like they say: 'no justice, no peace,' right? Meanwhile, they've got a bunch of hard core neo-Marxists and narco-gangsters taking over an America state, right under their noses."
Carvahal added, "An American state, but for how long? Listen Alex, I'm going with Deleon up to Tierra Andalucia Monday. He's going to inspect the Milicia training camps with Magon. He has to show himself, make sure the Milicianos all know he's really in charge, and not just the party figurehead. I'll take some pictures, and try to get you something you can send back to headquarters. Something that might wake them up."
"What the hell Luis, give it a shot. Watch your back though--if Magon's gunning for Deleon, he'll take out anybody near him."
"I'll be careful. I'll be back sometime Tuesday. Let's meet again, maybe midweek, okay? But not in another store. How about the old Mount Calvary cemetery?"
"We've used it before," replied Garabanda, dubious.
"So what? It's huge, and I won't have to pedal five miles to get there. I've got enough gas left to drive there, from home. Say, Alex, about the gas?"
"Don't worry about it. I'll bring the hose; I'll fill you up. Bring some extra Jerry cans in the trunk, and I'll fill them up too."
"Thanks, I appreciate it," said Carvahal. "The blue bucks...they don't go far. Thank God I own my family home free and clear. But trying to find gasoline on the open market, it's tough. Nobody wants to sell gas for blue bucks, not with the price freeze, and the money going down by the hour. All the gasoline is winding up on the black market, and I can barely afford it. At least you feds can get gas, on the federal bases."
"Thank God for that. I know it's tough...I can't even imagine trying to live on the civilian economy. So I'll bring you some gasoline, that's the best I can do for you, my friend."
"No my friend, the best you do for me is listen to my stories. You take the time to listen to an old reporter." Carvahal paused, looking briefly at Garabanda, and then turned back to the toy shelf. "You know, I used to admire a lot about Agustin Deleon. I still do, in some ways. I used to be such a star-struck lefty, in my younger days...such a naive idealist. Oh, what a fool I was!" Carvahal smiled weakly, and shrugged. "You know, the Mountain Lion and I, we go way, way back together. All the way to Tierra Andalucia, and the courthouse raid. He's actually mellowed in many ways. At least he's not completely crazy. But the people around him today, oh my God--it's like being trapped in a Marxist insane asylum, up in Santa Fe. They think it's Barcelona in 1935, or Havana in '58. You wouldn't believe it, the lunacy of them. They're trapped in a time warp."
"They are?" asked Garabanda. "Or we are? Maybe we are."
"Us? Trapped in a time warp? My God, maybe we are. Maybe we all are. But who's going to stop this merry-go-round? And how the hell do we get off? Where does all this insanity end?"
"That, my friend, I haven't figured out. Not yet." Supervisory Special Agent Garabanda turned over the Magic 8-Ball. "Where does this insanity end?" he mused to himself.
He read the secret message that floated up into view.
It said: "Better Not Tell You Now."
***
The tin-roofed two-story farmhouse had a screened-in veranda, which extended completely around the first floor. The private RV campground spread along the bottomland almost a mile away to the west. The sun was lost in gunmetal overcast across the creek, near setting. The dozens of trucks and campers were dark blocks silhouetted across the fading horizon.
A ceiling fan circled quietly above the polished pine dinner table, which was located just outside the kitchen on the side of the house facing the campground. Brass hurricane lamps suffused the screened-in porch with a soft golden glow. The dishes had mostly been cleared away after a dinner of steak, salad, and fresh corn. Four diners remained from the original group, including Caylen Barlow. His family had owned all of the land to the horizon for a century and a half.
Barlow sat in his wheelchair and stared intently at Ranya, while sipping bourbon from a heavy glass. He had a full head of snow-white hair, combed straight back, piercing blue eyes, and a face chapped red and deeply lined from a lifetime spent outside in all seasons. It was his house, the house he had grown up in, moved away from, and returned to in his later years. He was seated in his wheelchair at the head of the table opposite Ranya. Mark Fowler, the range master, sat on one side facing the screens and across the fields. Another man sat across the table from him, he was a middle-aged black man with a shaven head, wearing a red Western shirt with blue piping.
After devouring a plate-sized steak and all the trimmings, Ranya had told them her real name and her story, going all the way back to Virginia. To before her escape to Colombia, her return to America, and her betrayal. Before her baby had been born in prison, and was then stolen from her.
Before D-Camp.
Before Brad Fallon.
Back to her father's murder, the week after the Stadium Massacre.
Back to the day her world had been turned upside down.
She didn't mention her sniper killing of Eric Sanderson. That secret had gone to the bottom of the Potomac with Brad, five years before. But she told them the rest.
Barlow said, "Come around here; let me see your hands."
Ranya got up, walked around the table behind Fowler, and extended her hands to the old man. He took them into his rough hands like a palm reader making an initial appraisal. He turned them over, stroked them, and fingered her calluses.
"Well," he said, "you certainly didn't just get these today. These are from field work, years of field work. I've never seen a government employee yet with hands like that. In fact, if you hadn't of had these calluses, you'd have torn your hands bloody today. What did you fire up there, 400 rounds?"
"At least," she replied, returning to her seat. "I lost count." She was wearing her khaki-colored nylon hiking pants with the legs zipped on, and a plain black t-shirt, which matched her dyed hair.
"Closer to 500," added Mark Fowler, beaming. "And she did pretty well, I'd say. She won a couple of pistols, a ton of ammo, and over nine thousand bucks. Those boys just had to keep trying again and again; they were regular gluttons for punishment! It purely kills 'em to get beat by a woman."
The black man in the fancy cowboy shirt raised his long neck beer bottle in toast to her and said, "You know what they say: 'your ego is not your amigo!' Those Tennessee boys just didn't know when to quit."
Ranya toasted him back, sipped her own beer and said, "I just sort of slipped into the zone. I was pretty much floating along after the first couple of steel plate matches. Mark kept me fed with fresh mags, and all I had to do was pull the trigger."
"Pull the trigger?" exclaimed the black man, snorting his beer. "Hell, you won everything from bowling pins on the table to long range metallic silhouette."
"I guess I had a good day, considering I haven't touched a gun in five years. But remember, I was raised in a gun shop with an indoor range. I mean, I was shooting against grown men since I was a little kid. I used to just shoot for free ammo; it was strictly for fun. I never won a pile of cash money like I did today! Not to mention the guns..." She took a pull off her own beer. "Pretty weird to see the new dollar bills though. There was no money at all in the camps. When did they switch over to blue money?"
"Blue bucks," said Mark Fowler. "They're new, just this year. All the old greenbacks had to be turned over in January. Everybody's bank accounts had a zero knocked off, just like that! Ten for one--and the prices are still going through the roof."
Barlow said, "You did well by yourself today, Miss Bardiwell. Very well. We're all impressed with your shooting skills, especially after not touching a gun for five years. I'll admit that had us all wondering about you, but our law enforcement sources confirm most of your story. A female prisoner did escape from a federal facility in Oklahoma yesterday. That's just gone out on the police wires."
The black man winked across the table at the mention of "law enforcement sources," but Mark Fowler kept a poker face.
The old man continued. "The police report says it was from the Federal Transit Center at Oklahoma City, but I suppose we can't expect them to blow the cover on your secret D-Camp. Your story holds up, what we can check of it. I'm real sorry about your father, and Mr. Fallon, and of course about what happened to your baby son."
Fowler said, "It just amazes me that I know Leo Swarovski personally, and that he told me years ago how he was tipped off about the ATF raid. It never made any sense, not until now. He never knew who tipped him off, or why. It's just the damnedest thing, and now it all fits, it fits right into your story. I suppose it's one of those 'six degrees of separation' things: me, Swarovski, your father, and you."
"So here we are now, Miss Bardiwell," said the white-haired Caylen Barlow. "We believe you. It's one hell of a story, but we believe you. We'll have a doctor carve that chip out of your shoulder tomorrow morning. That's no problem. In fact, we know some folks who would love to study it; we'll send it on to them. But I still don't understand what you want to do. Nobody in their right mind would drive straight through to Albuquerque from here. No gringos anyway. Say, how's your Spanish?"
"Pretty good. Mas que bastante; more than good enough. I had a lot of practice in the camps--I always figured it would come in handy, eventually. Like when we were in Colombia. I can't pass for a native speaker, but I speak 'Spanglish' about as well as millions of American Hispanics can. I'm not afraid to go into New Mexico, if that's what you mean. Mr. Barlow, I intend to find my son, no matter what it takes. I'll walk to Albuquerque, if I have to."
"I'll bet you would, too. Hmm..." Barlow looked at his two friends. "Mark, Sam...you wouldn't mind going inside for another round of beers, would you? I'd like to talk to Miss Bardiwell for a little while, please."
When they had left, he paused, stared up at the ceiling fan, and then quietly spoke. "I can get you a ride in. Not all the way to Albuquerque, but close. Close enough. Close enough to get past most of the checkpoints and roadblocks, at least all of the ones we know about. The permanent ones. We can get you close enough for you to rendezvous with somebody we trust, somebody who can drive you the rest of the way into the city."
"How will I get through the checkpoints? I don't have any ID."
"Not through the checkpoints. Over them. In an airplane, a light airplane. You're game to fly, aren't you? If you can ride motorcycles, a little hop in an airplane shouldn't be a problem, right?"
"Oh no, no problem! No problem at all."
"Okay then, it's settled. You'll take off tomorrow night, at dusk. We'll have until then to get you ready. There's some folks in the camp from near Albuquerque; they got thrown off their land. Got 'land reformed,' you might say. They can fill you in on what to expect in the city. If we're lucky, we'll get an address for your son. We still have some good law enforcement sources in New Mexico, but I don't know about finding an FBI agent's home address..."
"That's all I really need: an address for Special Agent Alexandro Garabanda."
"We'll do our best. And we might be able to find you an ID card. I'm not sure, I'll have to ask around, see what's available on short notice. Nothing that'll stand up for very long, mind you. Not if they scan your thumbprint or your eyes. From what we're hearing, there's not too much of that. Just something to get you past a regular Milicia checkpoint. If you're lucky, if they don't have a print scanner. If they scan your prints into the wireless network, well?after that, you'll be on your own."
"Mr. Barlow, that's all I could ask for. More than I could ask for! I don't know how to thank you?"
"Oh, it's not much. The smile on your face right now is all the thanks I need. The plane is going in anyway; you'll just be a straphanger. Since you're bound and determined to get to Albuquerque one way or the other, I figure it's only fair to give you a head start. After what you've been through for the last five years, I guess you're in line for a break. And I'll admit it: I've always been a sucker for a good-looking gal who can shoot! You remind me of...well, never mind that." He looked away from her, toward the last fading light, beyond the RV camp.
"Mr. Barlow, if I could, I'd like to do something for you in return, to repay you for--"
"Repay? No. No need. But...something in return? In return..." He cleared his throat, and took a drink. "Miss Bardiwell, for at least thirty years I've watched the politicians of both of our so-called political parties selling our country like a twenty peso whore in a Juarez alley. America's being carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey, and sold out by political prostitutes for their own personal gain. I've watched it happening for most of my life." He slowly shook his head.
"Ranya, I do wish you well in your quest to find your son, and I'll do what I can to help from here." He hesitated, and cleared his throat again. "Now maybe, just maybe there is something you might be able to do for me. You'll hear about this tomorrow, when you talk to my friends from New Mexico." He took another sip of bourbon. "The University there is a magnet for radicals from all over America and Latin America. UNM has become a center of the radical Hispanic movement. The 'Aztlan' movement. Have you heard of it?"
"Aztlan? Sure. All that la raza crap. The new homeland for the Hispanics, after they ethnically cleanse out all the gringos."
"That's it. Well, if you have any chance of blending in, it'll be with that crowd, with what they call the 'Voluntarios.' You look Latina enough, and you can habla the old Espanol, so if you can spout off Marxist gibberish, you'll be able pass muster."
"I went to UVA for three years--most of my professors were socialists. I can spout off Marxist gibberish all day long. I had to, to get decent grades."
"Good. You'll need to, if you want to pass yourself off as a new Voluntario. And if you're questioned, that'll be your best cover for coming to Albuquerque. So, if you do wind up at the university...well, one of the professors there, you might say he's a personal enemy of mine."
Barlow's eyes and lips narrowed. He finished his whiskey and clapped the glass down on the table. "Robert Johnson. He's a gringo transplant from up north, but he's 'gone native' you might say. He's a complete America hater, what we used to call a crypto-communist in the Cold War days. If you find yourself near the university, you might come across him. I understand he's advising the state government on 'land reform' policy.
"This Robert Johnson--this so-called professor of American history--he's helped to poison the minds of thousands of students over the years. And believe me, that's bad enough, but then he made it personal. Very personal. He turned my only granddaughter against America, against her own family, and against me. Robert Johnson was her 'guru' at UNM. Her guru...and even more than that. He pulled her in, and turned her into a real one-worlder, a socialist true-believer. I haven't seen or heard from her in a couple of years. Last I heard, she was down in Mexico with the Army of the Poor. Before that, she was in Venezuela, and before that, Cuba. This Robert Johnson--to me he's the worst kind of traitor. He poisons our children, and turns them against their own country."
Barlow paused, and stared directly at Ranya. "So if, and I only say if...if you happen to come across him...well, let's just say I wouldn't mind hearing that he came to a bad end. Wouldn't mind it at all." Barlow placed his elbows on the dinner table, rested his chin on his knuckles, and looked hard at Ranya. "No, I wouldn't mind it at all."
"Mr. Barlow, I'm just going to New Mexico to find my son. I--"
He spread his hands and said, "It's all right, I understand. Forget I brought it up. It's only a personal family matter; it has nothing to do with you. Now if you're finished, Maria will take you upstairs and show you where you'll be staying tonight. You'll be sleeping in the girls' room. They've all grown up, and moved on."
Barlow made a mirthless chortle without smiling. "You know what's ironic? The last one who lived in that room was my own sweet granddaughter, before she went away to college. My granddaughter Jessica, the communist."
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