The Enigmatologist (16 page)

They
were a couple of blocks from
Leadbelly’s
when they
saw it, a tent of clouded plastic, its white canvas peak rising above the black
shingled roofs, a snowcapped mountain in the New Mexico desert.

“That wasn’t there when I left,” the sheriff said.

“Yeah, I’d hate to think you missed a clue like that,”
John said.

The displaced trailer park residents clogged the street,
blocking traffic on South Grand. Sheriff Masters turned on his siren. People
parted, clearing a path for the squad car. The sheriff rolled up his windows
and drove through slowly. Muffled shouts. A crowd in robes and tattered pajamas
pointed toward Alamo Street. Large, armored vehicles blocked the intersection,
barricading them. On the doors were stenciled stars with lines representing
wings, a shooting star crashing to town. Sentries guarded the trailer park
entrance.

Jimmy’s squad car was parked at the Stuff ‘n Pump. The
sheriff parked behind it and jumped out. “Jimmy, what the hell’s going on here?
I thought I told you to secure the crime scene?”

“Whoa, Uncle Lee,” Jimmy said. “I did. These Army guys
showed up after you left. Dude, they had these papers, yelling about ‘proper
jurisdiction’ or some shit. What was I supposed to do? They had papers.”

“They’re not Army,” John corrected him. “They’re Air
Force.”

“Bro, what’s up?” Jimmy said. He stuck his hand up for a
high-five. John ignored it. “So, you were talking to Rosa last night. She’s one
fine piece of
poonanny
. I’ve been trying to get up in
that for a minute now.”

“
Goddamnit
, Jimmy!” the sheriff
said. “You should have radioed in, stalled them until I got back. I’d drag you
out to the desert and tie your balls to a goddamn cactus if you weren’t my
goddamned nephew. Now, watch how a cop is supposed to act.”

“So, seriously, bro, you hit that? You give her a Tijuana
Toilet Seat?” Jimmy asked, his question reminding John that he’d never see Rosa
again, and that some people who would didn’t deserve to.

The sheriff stomped toward the tent. John made sure the
sheriff was out of earshot before turning to Jimmy, saying, “You remember that
guy in the bar, right?”

“Yeah, dude, he was fucked up.”

“You ever talk about Rosa like that again, I’ll rip your
fucking arms off. Got it?”

John didn’t remind him that it was Charlie and his friends
who beat up the man, and that John was unconscious when it happened. He just
walked away, leaving Jimmy standing alone by the cars.

John weaved his way through the crowd. They had surrounded
the sheriff and were asking him why armed men had yanked them from their homes.
The sheriff tried to be diplomatic, saying he’d get to the bottom of it, but
became impatient, agitated, and pushed his way through them.

John and the sheriff squeezed their way to a strip of
yellow caution tape that blocked the street. They bent underneath it and
stepped into the empty road in front of the tent’s entrance. The walls of the
tent were smoked, but blurred images moved behind them. A circus of muffled
voices accompanied electronic beeps.

A young soldier was posted by a metal barricade in front
of a slit in the tent, guarding the entrance. They tried walking past him.

“I’m sorry, sirs. I can’t let you pass.” The kid stared
straight ahead, into that space, the empty source of his courage. He was a few
years younger than John, but John sensed the age difference, like the extra
half-decade he’d lived gave him a natural authority over the kid.

“I’m the goddamn sheriff. Are you telling me you’re not
gonna
let me through? This is my goddamn town.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I have my orders.” His rifle shook in his
hands, slightly.

“Do you see this badge?” The kid stared straight ahead.
“Look at it!” The kid glanced at it, moving only his eyes. “Do you know what it
means?”

“Uh.” He finally looked up at the sheriff. “Yes, sir, I
know what it means, but, uh, sir, I have my orders. I can’t let anyone through.”

“To hell with your orders!”

“Sheriff.” John put his hand on the sheriff’s shoulder.
“There’s no need to yell. I’m sure we can work this out. Airman, I understand
you’re just following orders. Maybe it would be best if we spoke to your
commanding officer. Why don’t you find Colonel Hollister? Tell him John
Abernathy and Sheriff Masters would like a word with him.”

The sheriff gave John a subtle but curious look.

“The motel room,” John said. “Remember?”

The sheriff nodded.

The kid sighed, relieved. He said something into his
walkie-talkie, held it to his ear, deciphering squawking, the secret language
of airwaves. He didn’t question how John knew Colonel Hollister. It wasn’t his
job to question.

“The colonel will be right with you, sirs,” he said, a
receptionist with a rifle.

John leaned over the metal barricade, closer to the tent.
Behind the foggy plastic, men in hazmat suits ran to all the trailers, holding
devices to everything, outdoor furniture, trash, reading residual energy from
various types of radiation, then making notes on
iPads
.
One walked out with a box full of
Leadbelly’s
dirty
magazines. He put it in a van by the tent’s entrance. On the van’s side was
another logo: NASA.

“Mr. Abernathy, how good to see you again. I’d like to say
I’m surprised.” Colonel Hollister walked toward them, his tan arms swinging. He
wore an Air Force uniform, minus the jacket.

“But you anticipated me coming out here.”

“I told you, we’re not over.”

“You Colonel Hollister?” Sheriff Masters asked when the
colonel stopped at the metal barricade separating them. A young soldier with a
battered and swollen face stood behind the colonel, carrying an attaché case.

“That’s correct,” he nodded.

“You
wanna
tell me what the Air
Force is doing at my crime scene?” Sheriff Masters asked, pointing to the
tent-covered trailer park.

“This isn’t your crime scene. This is an official military
investigation and, as such, is under our jurisdiction.” He crossed his arms and
smirked, stiff with false authority, enjoying the metal leaves on his
shoulders.

“Like hell! I know a few things about military
investigations. The only way this could possibly fall under your jurisdiction
is if someone in the military was involved. Now, I know for a fact that no one
in that trailer park’s military. So, why don’t you tell me how this falls under
your goddamn jurisdiction?”

“Corporal
McGillis
,” Colonel
Hollister said, glancing over his shoulder, “please show Sheriff Masters and
Mr. Abernathy the letters from the State Attorney General, the governor, and
the president.”

“Let me see those goddamn letters,” the sheriff said.
Corporal
McGillis
pulled a few papers from a folder
in his attaché case. Sheriff Masters snatched them from him, his hand extending
over the barricade.

Sheriff Masters offered the letters to John, but he
brushed them away. He was interested in something else.

“How’d you get those bruises?” John asked Corporal
McGillis
.

The corporal started to step forward. His swollen left
cheek, shaded yellow and green, hid a smile. It caused his left eye to squint
and close. He cracked his mouth to speak, but Colonel Hollister interrupted
him.

“Don’t answer him, Corporal. Mr. Abernathy, Corporal
McGillis’s
appearance is none of your concern. Neither you
nor Sheriff Masters have any authority to question my men. Now, Sheriff
Masters, are you satisfied with the documentation?”

“Well, everything looks on the up and up. I’ll have to
verify these.”

“
Leadbelly
must have been pretty
important if you’re going to all this trouble,” John said.

“Gentleman, I have an investigation to oversee,” Colonel
Hollister said, turned and began walking away.

“You know, Colonel, something’s missing,” John said. “When
you came to my room the other night, there were two men with you. I don’t see
them here.”

“What are you talking about?” Colonel Hollister returned
to the metal barricade separating him from John. It was lightweight and
unanchored, and could be easily tossed.

“Last night Sheriff Masters arrested your two men in
connection with the murder of a kid outside Truth or Consequences. He was a
reporter for the
Enquirer
, was supposed to interview
Leadbelly
.”
John didn’t look around the street or at the tent. He stared into Colonel
Hollister’s eyes, watching the lines and wrinkles around them twitch.

“And?”

“I find it odd that this kid gets killed, now
Leadbelly’s
dead. And you’ve been here the whole time.”

“Was that a question or an accusation?”

“Why did you have
Leadbelly’s
place under surveillance?”

“Mr. Abernathy,” Colonel Hollister said, his voice
remaining steady, but agitated, “the desert is a dangerous place, occupied by
elements that don’t like questions, or people being where they’re not welcome.
I’m sure Sheriff Masters can tell you all about New Mexico’s criminal
underworld. And their body count. Or perhaps, since you’re employed by that
ridiculous tabloid, you’re convinced there’s something conspiratorial going on,
government agencies operating secretly, but the truth, Mr. Abernathy, the truth
is, and I suspect this is what your young reporter discovered…” Colonel Hollister
lowered his voice and leaned closer, “People die in the desert all the time.”

The colonel pivoted to walk away. Then he turned and said,
“Besides, who said those gentlemen are still the sheriff’s guests?”

Sheriff Masters rolled up the documents, slapped them
against the railing. He jogged to his car like a retired bull rider with bad
knees, looking over his shoulder, getting more upset with each look, watching
Colonel Hollister calmly walk inside the tent.

“Jimmy, go call your cousin and find out the legality of
these jurisdiction papers.” He tossed the documents at his nephew.

“Which cousin?”

“The goddamn judge! Which one do you think?” Sheriff
Masters threw his hat on the ground and kicked it. “And pick up my goddamn
hat!”

“And you,” he said to John. “Why didn’t you raise hell
about getting into
Leadbelly’s
place?”

“They weren’t going to let us in, no matter what we said.”
John leaned in, lowered his voice like he was sharing a secret. “You see that
kid’s face?”

“He was beat up pretty good.”

“He matches the description of the kid that got into it
with
Leadbelly
the other night at Levi’s.”

“
Leadbelly
was probably scared
shitless they’d come looking for him.”

“Looks like they got to
Leadbelly
before he could leave town.”

“Why the hell would they kill
Leadbelly
,
then start an investigation like this?”

“I’m guessing they’re covering up something bigger than an
Elvis photo.”

An explosion inside the tent. Smoke filled it like a
fortune teller’s crystal ball, spirits from the other side trying to make
contact, or a parlor trick. Men in hazmat suits rushed into the street,
screaming at everyone to get back.

The people in the street ran from the flames, house shoes
flapping on the asphalt, or tried to get into the tent, into their homes,
either to help put out the fire with garden hoses or to save photo albums,
scrapbooks, and other family memories. Sheriff Masters and Jimmy ran to the
middle of the crowd, ushering people away from the trailer park.

John checked for Colonel Hollister. He and his men stood
on the opposite side of South Grand, away from the smoky trailer, away from the
Stuff ‘n Pump, watching the smoke occupy the sky. Seeing that they were
distracted, John sprinted toward the tent.

John fought against the ragged house robes and plastic
hair curlers congesting the street, slid past the steel barricades, the
military vehicles, NASA vans. He slipped through a slit in the tarp. Smoke
plumed from
Leadbelly’s
trailer, filling the upper
half of the tent. A Ford
Econoline
cargo van, its
side door open, was parked in front of
Leadbelly’s
.
John ran to it, crouching, one sleeve covering his mouth and nose. Tripping on
a can of paint thinner next to a trailer, his sleeve slipped from his face. He
expected to choke on the fumes, but he breathed freely in the thick and oxygen
deprived atmosphere.