Ancient Shores (16 page)

During the two years he’d served on the city council, Marv
Wickham had never seen more than a dozen people attend the monthly meeting. But tonight was different. Fort Moxie’s total population of nine hundred twenty-seven must have been at city hall, where they overflowed the spacious second-floor meeting room and spilled out into the corridors. (The presence of the New Agers to whom the mayor had rented the lower-level auditorium did nothing to alleviate matters.) They were still coming in when the council president, Charlie Lindquist, launched the evening’s proceedings.

There were several routine items on the agenda: a zoning ordinance request, a proposal to issue highway improvement bonds, and a suggestion that Fort Moxie participate in a consolidated school scheme. But the issue that had drawn the crowd, and which Lindquist consequently scheduled last, would be a request that the city approve a demand that the Johnson’s Ridge excavation site be shut down.

Lindquist, who considered himself the town’s Solomon, guided the deliberations methodically
through the preliminaries. At twelve minutes past nine he gave the floor to Joe Torres, a retired farmer now living in town.

Torres, reading nervously from a sheet of paper, described the chaotic conditions existing in Fort Moxie. Traffic had become impossible. There were drunks and fights and crowds of hoodlums. Visitors were parking their cars everywhere. They were overflowing the restaurants and stripping the supermarket so that ordinary citizens had to drive eighty miles to Grand Forks. They were even drawing lunatics with bombs, like the one who had taken out the Tastee-Freez the day before. “I know it’s good business for Mike and some of you other boys, but it’s pretty tough on the rest of us.”

Agnes Hanford stood up. “We need to take advantage of this while we can. In the end, the whole town’ll be better off.” Agnes’s husband owned the Prairie Schooner.

Joe shook his head. “That’s easy for
you
to say, Agnes. But it’s getting worse. And I think we need to do something.” As if to underline his argument, they heard an automobile roar past, horn blaring, radio shaking the building. “If we allow this to go on, we’re going to have to hire some police officers.” Historically, Fort Moxie had received what little law enforcement support it needed from Cavalier. “I therefore propose,” he continued, reading again, “that the council demand that the persons digging on Johnson’s Ridge cease and desist. And that the structure known as the Roundhouse be demolished.” He looked around. “Torn up and hauled away,” he added.

Lindquist recognized Laurie Cavaracca, who owned the Northstar Motel. Laurie had lived in Fort Moxie all her life. The motel had been built by her father in 1945, after he came back from the Pacific. Laurie was now sole owner and manager. “We have eight units at the Northstar,” she said. “Until two weeks ago, we never had consecutive days in which I could
turn on the N
O
V
ACANCY
sign. Now there is never an empty room. We are booming. Do I like the problems that we are currently having in Fort Moxie? No, of course not. None of us does. But the solution isn’t to close down and crawl back in our holes.” Her voice sounded a little fluttery at first, but she gained confidence quickly. “Listen, people,” she said. “Most of us have stayed in Fort Moxie because we were born here. We love this town. But the economy has always been touch and go. Now, for the first time in anyone’s memory, we have a chance to make some real money. And not just the store owners. Everyone will profit. Healthy businesses are good for everybody. For God’s sake, don’t kill the golden calf.”

“Goose,” someone said. “It’s a golden
goose
.”

“Whatever,” said Laurie. “This won’t last forever. We should milk it while we can.”

“Meantime,” said Josh Averill, rising with his usual dignity, “they’re going to kill somebody, the way they race around the streets. What happens then?”

“This town has never had two dimes to rub together,” said Jake Thoraldson, whose airport had suddenly become a hub. “What’s the matter with you people? Can’t you stand a little prosperity?”

“Prosperity?” howled Mamie Burke, a transplanted Canadian who worked for the railroad. “What kind of prosperity is it to have all these people running wild? Joe’s right. Close it down.”

Arnold Whitaker, the self-effacing owner of the Lock ‘n’ Bolt Hardware, argued against the proposal. “I can’t see,” he said, “where anyone is being hurt by current conditions.”

That remark infuriated Morris Jones, a ninety-year-old postal retiree known around town primarily for his interest in electric trains. Two inebriated Canadians had driven a pickup into Jones’s den, demolishing a forty-year-old HO layout. Jones sputtered and shook his finger accusingly at Whitaker.
“Attaboy, Arnie,” he said, “take care of yourself. Don’t worry about anybody else.”

The vote to demand a shutdown passed by a majority of eighty—seven. Floyd Rickett volunteered to head up the committee that would write the draft.

Lindquist took him aside when opportunity offered. “Keep it reasonable, Floyd,” he said. “Okay? We don’t want to offend anybody.”

The rain beat incessantly against the windows of the Oval Office. It was a sound that tended to heighten whatever emotion the president was feeling. Today he didn’t feel good.

A copy of the
Washington Post
lay on his desk. The headlines reported civil war in India and famine in the Transvaal. They also revealed the results of a new poll: “60% Think Roundhouse Is Related to UFOs.” An additional twenty percent thought it was a government project. Eight percent believed it was of divine origin. The rest didn’t know or hadn’t heard of Johnson’s Ridge.

Tony Peters sat disconsolately in his chair, one leg crossed over the other. “Almost everybody thinks there’s a government cover-up,” he said. “But that’s inevitable. We might as well get used to it.”

“Did you see the signs outside?” There were roughly six hundred pickets on the circle.
Come Clean on Johnson’s Ridge
, the posters read. And
Tell the Truth About the Roundhouse
. “So what
is
the truth? What do we know?”

Peters uncrossed his legs and got up. “We’ve talked to a dozen people in as many fields who have either been there or had access to the test results. They’re all having a hard time accepting the notion that it’s extraterrestrial, but there’s nobody who can provide a satisfactory alternative explanation.”

“I don’t think we care about where it came from or how it got there.” Taylor took a deep breath. “My
concern is, where do we go from here? What kind of power does the place use?”

“No one’s had a chance to look. All they’re letting people do now is walk around inside. Guided tours.”

“Okay.” Taylor pushed back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. Crunch time. “Prospects, Tony. What are we facing?”

“Hard to say, Mr. President.” Peters scrunched his face up, and pockets of lines showed at the corners of his mouth and eyes. “The experts do not agree about our ability to reproduce the new element. But they do agree that if we
can
, any products made from it will not decay.”

“Will they wear out?”

“Yes. Although most of these people think they’ll be a lot tougher than anything we have now.”

Taylor sighed. He would talk to his economists, but he knew what that would mean to the manufacturing interests.

“Something else, sir. Did you know someone saw the Virgin Mary out there last night?”

The president’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “What next?” he asked.

“Seriously.” Peters grinned, a welcome shift in the tension. “It was on CNN ten minutes ago. Woman saw a face in the lights.”

The president shook his head. “Goddamn, Tony,” he said. “What about the market? What’s going to happen today?”

“The Nikkei got blasted again. And I’m sure the slide will continue on Wall Street.”

Taylor pushed himself wearily to his feet and looked out the window. The grass was green and cool. Days like this, he wished he were a kid again. “We have to get a handle on this, Tony.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Before it gets out of control. I want to take it over. There should be a national security provision or something. Find it.”

“That might be tricky,” he said.

“Why?”

“My God, Mr. President, it’s Indian land. If it were just some farmer, yeah, we could declare a health hazard or something. But this is Sioux property. We try to move in, there’ll be a heavy political price. Your own people won’t like it, and the media will beat you to death with it.”

Taylor could feel the walls closing in. “I don’t mean we should simply
seize
it. We can recompense them. Buy them off.”

“Sir, I think our best strategy is to wait it out. Not get stampeded into doing something that’ll come back to haunt us.”

Taylor was by nature inclined to act at the first sign of trouble. But he’d been around politics long enough to know the value of patience. And anyway, he wasn’t sure of the right course. He didn’t like the idea of maneuvering Native Americans off their land. That had a bad taste. And it was bad politics. But so were collapsing markets.

“It’ll blow over,” Peters assured him soothingly. “Give it time. We may not really have a problem. Let’s not
create one
. What we need to do is concentrate on Pakistan.”

“Pakistan?”

“No voters in Pakistan. But a lot of people are getting killed. Make another statement. Deplore the violence. Maybe offer to act as an arbitrator. It looks as if it’s going to play out soon anyway. Both sides are exhausted. We might even be able to get credit for arranging a settlement.”

The president sighed. Peters was a hopeless cynic, and it would have been easy to dislike him. It was a pity that American politics degenerated so easily to such blatant opportunism. Even where good people were concerned.

Arky Redfern grew up near Fort Totten on the Devil’s Lake reservation. He was the youngest of five, the first to collect a degree. That his siblings had pursued early marriages and dead-end jobs had broken the heart of his father, who’d promised to do what he could to support any of his children seeking a higher education. Redfern was given his father’s bow to mark the occasion of his graduation from the law school at George Mason University.

He had also received encouragement from James Walker, one of the tribal councilmen, who had remarked proudly that the government no longer had all the lawyers. Redfern was fired with the idea of becoming the defender of the Mini Wakan Oyaté, as the Devil’s Lake Sioux called themselves in their own language. (The term meant
People of the Spirit Lake
.) He’d passed the bar exam on the first try, and he returned to North Dakota to establish a practice writing wills and overseeing divorces, which paid reasonably well. He also became the tribal legal representative, which didn’t pay so well. But it had its rewards.

At about the time Matt Taylor was looking for a course of action, Redfern was taking Paxton Wells into the reservation to make a new offer in person. Wells, wrapped in a somber mood, had apparently decided that the lawyer was hopelessly against him and had given up all efforts to placate the younger man. He sat staring moodily out the window at the flat countryside.

It had finally turned warm. Piles of melting snow were heaped along the side of the road, and there was some flooding.

The tribal chambers were located in a blue brick single-story structure known as the Blue Building. Old Glory and the flag of the Mini Wakan Oyaté fluttered in a crisp wind. Redfern pulled into the parking lot.

“This it?” said Wells, gazing at the open countryside stretching away in all directions.

Redfern knew Wells’s type: Unless he was dealing
with those he knew to be his superiors or those in a position to injure him, he wore an air of restrained selfimportance. That attitude was in place now because he perceived the lawyer as no more than a means to an end, a guide to the Sioux equivalent of a CEO. That was, of course, a mistake.

They climbed out of the car, and Redfern led the way inside.

The Blue Building was home to the post office, the Bureau of Indian Affairs, the Indian Health Service, and the tribal offices. Redfern let the tribal secretary know they were there and headed for the chairman’s office.

James Walker would not have been easy to pick out of a crowd. He was less than average height, and might have struck Wells as a man more likely to be at home in a grocery store than in a council hall. There was no hint of authority in his mien or his voice, nor was there a suggestion of the steel that could manifest itself when the need arose. His eyes were dark and friendly, his bearing congenial. Redfern believed Walker’s primary strength lay in his ability to get people to tell him what they really believed, a talent as rare among Native Americans as among the rest of the population.

Walker rose from his desk as they entered and offered his hand to his visitor.

Wells took it, pumped it summarily, commented on how happy he was to have a chance to visit the reservation, and sat down.

The office was decorated with tribal motifs: war bonnets, totems, medicine wheels, and ceremonial pipes. A bookcase and a table supporting a burbling coffee pot flanked the desk. Sunlight flooded the room.

Wells cleared his throat. “Chairman,” he said, “I represent an organization that would like to help the tribe achieve prosperity. Great possibilities are opening before us.”

“Arky tells me,” Walker said, as if Wells had not spoken, “you have an interest in buying some of our land.”

“Yes, sir.” Wells looked like a man trying to appear thoughtful. “Chairman, let me not mince words. The National Energy Institute is a consortium of industrial and banking interests that would like to offer you a great deal of money for the property known as Johnson’s Ridge. A great deal, sir.”

Walker showed no expression. “You wish to buy the property outright?”

“That’s correct. And we are prepared to pay handsomely.” He smiled. It was a thin smile, and conveyed no warmth. Defensive. Redfern decided that Wells had been one of those kids whom everybody beat up. “Let’s put our cards on the table,” he said.