Whack Job (17 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

“A Walk in the Woods”

Pawnee Grove’s lobby had a soaring, open-beam ceiling, a fieldstone floor, a chandelier fashioned from elk antlers, knotty pine paneling and Teddy Roosevelt’s bear upright and pawing. Other trophies glowered from the wall behind the registration desk. Witherspoon went behind the counter and brought out a heavy leather ledger and a bespoke pen, which he handed to Goldfarb.

“Gentlemen, if you would register please, and we’ll need a credit card for incidentals and room service.”

While Goldfarb registered Witherspoon sipped at a can of Mountain Dew and

produced pamphlets similar to the one Otto had obtained from Crystal giving a history of the Grove with a map in the center spread showing hiking trails. The trails dead-ended well short of the mountain tops.

Otto registered.

“Gentlemen,” Witherspoon said, “you’re our first guests today. We will be meeting at five on the veranda for drinks and hors d’oeuvres followed by our welcoming ceremony down by the lake. Dinner will be served at seven. The pamphlet contains a list of activities for the week. Please familiarize yourselves with the rules and by-laws.”

Witherspoon consulted a laminated map of the property. “I’m going to put you in Zachary Taylor. It’s farthest from the main building so you should have no trouble sleeping. Burt will take you to your cabin.” Witherspoon picked up an old-fashioned telephone receiver and pushed some buttons.

“Burt, I need you.”

Winner went up to the bear and read the plaque. “Colorado black bear shot by Theodore Roosevelt, Aug. 19, 1902. Height: Five feet two inches. Weight: 185 lbs.”

Otto examined old black and white photographs, sepia-toned rustics of manly men in hunting togs glad-handing each other or standing over their trophies. A minute later a man wearing a corduroy jacket with leather shoulder inserts, white shirt and khakis entered.

“Burt, will you take Mr. Winner and Mr. White to Taylor?”

Otto looked at Goldfarb.

“I always stay in the main building. Not so much walking.”

“We have a dozen rooms but most guests prefer the cottages,” Witherspoon said.

Burt introduced himself. They shook hands.

Minutes later, they were dashing through the fragrant pine forest in a silent golf cart atop buttery blacktop. A series of cottages lay on both sides of the road partially concealed by the forest.

“Welcome to the Grove, Mr. Winner,” Burt said, eyes on the road. “I’m a great admirer of your films.”

“Thanks, Burt. Call me Gabe.”

“You were with the agency, Mr. White?” Burt said.

“That’s right. Retired a couple years ago.”

Burt slowed way down and then stopped as a fawn wandered from one side of the road accompanied by its mother. Otto looked at a nearby cabin. James Polk. All the cabins were named after presidents.

“Me too,” Burt said softly so as not to startle the deer. “Retired six years ago. Been with the Grove ever since.”

“What do you do in the winter?” Winner said.

Burt laughed. “I ski. Between the Grove and my pension I’m pretty much free.”

The stocky crew-cut Burt looked to be in his mid-forties.

Taylor was a metal-roofed cabin tucked in among the pine with a winding flagstone path connecting it to the smooth blacktop, which ended ten meters on. Winner signed a boxed
Detonator
set and gave it to Burt.

“My kid is gonna love this. See you tonight then.”

Otto opened the unlocked door. The interior resembled an upscale bunkhouse with bedrooms off the main room, two metal-frame beds in each, a separate bath, hardwood floor covered with Indian scatter rugs and a stuffed wolf head over the stone fireplace. Their luggage had already been placed inside.

It took them less than five minutes to sort their gear. Otto waited until Winner visited the head. He quietly shut the door to his bedroom, pulled out the Ocelot, opened it and put it to his ear. No problem. The Ocelot relied on comsats, not radio towers.

Otto slipped it into his pants, went into the living room, sat on the cloth sofa beneath a mounted deer’s head and traded his loafers for hiking boots.

“Up for a little hike?” he said.

“One minute,” Winner said from the bedroom.

He emerged in hiking boots, cargo shorts, short-sleeved shirt and a Chargers cap carrying a small backpack and a big canteen. He tossed Otto a tube of sun screen.

“Slather up. You got water bottles?”

Otto nodded, smearing sun screen on his face with special attention to the nose and beneath the jaw. Otto filled his plastic water bottle at the kitchenette sink and looped it over his shoulder. He wore olive-colored cargo pants, a
Raiders of the Lost Ark
T-shirt and a ball cap, bill forward. He stood in Winner’s door.

Winner took out his Blackberry in Otterbox and set it on the dresser in his room. “Guess I won’t need this.”

Armed with their map, they left the cabin and headed counter-clockwise through the forest around the lake. Through the trees, the lake was the color of amethyst, butting up against the gray granite cliffs on the far side. In breaks in the rock they could see snow-capped peaks gleaming like diamonds in the sun. Awed by their surroundings they proceeded in silence. Winner pointed at a big buck picking its way through the trees. A trout broke the perfect surface of the lake and slapped back in, faint echoes whispering across the valley. It was difficult to believe land so beautiful could have anything to do with the killings.

Within a kilometer, the trail left the woods and followed a granite ridge toward Mt. Pythagoras. They paused at an overlook to take the view and drink. The scenery stunned them into silence.

Above the azure lake, Mt. Pythagoras gleamed phosphorescent where the sun struck snow. Winner pointed again. A curved-horn mountain ram plucked greens from a ledge 200 meters above the water.

The air was redolent of pine and sage. Winner inhaled deeply.

“If you could bottle this air you’d make a fortune.”

They picked their way past juniper and prickly pear until they topped a small rise and saw rocks piled in a berm blocking the path and a big black on white sign:

DO NOT PROCEED BEYOND THIS POINT

It was accompanied by a red skull and cross bones.

Winner and Otto exchanged glances. Without a word, they squeezed around the barrier and continued up the trail.

***

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

“Red Ball”

The trail was precipitous but not technical. The jagged granite provided plenty of handholds. As they rose, the land began to stretch before them until they could see across the lake to the lodge where tiny, ant-sized figures were setting up chairs on the lawn. Above and beyond the camp lay the Rockies, with Long’s Peak prominent. Despite the altitude, it was a warm, sunny day and both men were sweating. From time to time Winner would whip out a bandanna and mop his face.

Halfway up it turned into real work. They were now well above the tree line.

They paused at a granite escarpment leaning back against the sun-warm rock. Winner pointed to an eagle circling high overhead. He Who Spots the Wildlife. As they watched, the eagle dropped like a javelin piercing the mirror surface of the lake and emerging with a trout in its claws. As the eagle rose, the trout flashed its rainbow, a startling beauty born of nature’s cruel struggle.

Winner stood with his back to the mountain smiling at the sun. It would be so easy, Otto thought. One good shove. A tragic accident in the mountains. It happened all the time. Otto would have an unobstructed path to Stella.

He was immediately suffused with a deep shame.

God forgive me
.

He couldn’t stop the thoughts from coming. All he could do was handle them as a person of integrity.

They resumed their climb. Neither had breath for conversation. A pika emerged on top of a boulder and furiously scolded them. The final hundred meters were virtually vertical. Otto was glad he’d brought gloves to deal with the jagged shards. Winner was first to hoist himself over the top followed by Otto minutes later. Otto found Winner sitting with his legs splayed, panting, drinking water and staring at the spectacular view. Mountains marched away in waves to the west as far as the eye could see, many of them gleaming with snow. High above a pair of dissipating contrails crossed in the azure sky.

“Quite the view,” Winner said.

The top of the mountain was gently domed, sloping up to a center point that glowed carmine in the afternoon light. Winner got to his feet.

“Let’s check it out.”

“Be right with you,” Otto replied, squinting back the way they had come. The tiny figures on the lawn seemed agitated, the tall figure of Witherspoon unmistakable. Otto removed his binoculars from his backpack and zeroed in. Witherspoon appeared even taller in a black beaver skin hat, something a mountain man might wear. He was planted on the veranda behind a telescope trained on the mountain. On Otto. Witherspoon pointed toward the mountain, made an emphatic gesture, and a figure who stood close to the house went back inside.

Uh-oh
, Otto thought. He got to his feet, turned and climbed the final dozen meters to the summit where Winner stood with his legs spread, hands on hips.

“Look at this.”

Otto joined Winner and stared at the unnaturally smooth surface of what appeared to be a red globe, approximately forty centimeters in diameter, buried in rock to its northern latitudes.

For a moment neither spoke.

“What is it?” Winner said, kneeling and extending his hand.

“Careful…”

Winner touched the rock with his index finger, then splayed his fingers across the surface. “It’s warm--probably from the sun.”

“We’re in deep shit,” Otto said. “Witherspoon pointed at us and pitched a fit.”

Winner looked up. “Really? What do you suppose they don’t want us to see? This?”

Otto cautiously extended his own hand until it rested on the red stone. He rapped it with his knuckles. It felt like rock. He removed his pocket knife and tried to make a scratch. The rock was impervious. He picked up a shard of granite and tried that. Otto had never seen anything like it. It looked artificial, but why would anybody make such a thing, come up here and bury it? It looked like a bowling ball. And how had they done it? The top third of the stone protruded from gray granite as if it had broken surface from below. Just eased on through as if the rock were porridge.

Were there similar rocks atop Mounts Archimedes and Isosceles?

Winner saw what Otto was doing, picked up a jagged rock tooth and wanged it against the red stone. No mark.

“I wonder if it’s some kind of monument,” Winner said.

“To what? By whom? And how did they sink it in the rock like that?”

“Ancient cultures had a lot of knowledge which unfortunately just got lost. I believe that at one time Atlantis was the center of civilization, and their technology was far more advanced than ours. But all of it was lost, unfortunately, in some kind of cataclysm we can’t even imagine.”

Otto thought that was a lot of speculation but said nothing and reminded himself that although Winner seemed normal, he was still a movie star and they believed all sorts of crazy shit.

Let the brain waves wave. Think outside the box. He could use all the help he could get. Otto turned and looked south toward Mt. Isosceles where the snow gleamed in the lowering sun. He knelt, steadying his binocs on a natural cairn. Did he see a gleam of red at the summit or was it his imagination?

Otto rotated 110 degrees toward Mt. Pythagoras, Its summit was lost in a fluff of cotton candy. The eagle was back, circling over the lake. Winner tapped him on the shoulder and handed him a sandwich wrapped in foil.

“Had the Stanley make up lunch.”

They ate in companionable silence approached by several fearless pika to whom Winner tossed crumbs. When they finished Winner gathered the trash and jammed it in a paper bag, which he put in his knapsack.

They returned to the red dome like moths drawn to flame. Otto removed his cell phone and used the camera function to take several pictures of the rock from various angles. He immediately uploaded the image to the National Security Director.

“Gentlemen!” a man shouted. Otto quickly shoved the phone in his pocket.

Bob Casey and another man, a giant with a black beard who might have been Paul Bunyan strode toward them in camo outfits. Both men were red-faced and sweating heavily.

Otto and Winner waited like guilty school boys.

***

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

“Blood Oath”

Monday afternoon.

There was a road, if you could call it that, up the backside of the mountain. You could wrest a 4X4 to within two klicks of the top. The two employees said nothing as they led their chastened guests grimly down the back slope, rocks skittering with every step, to their bashed ancient Toyota Land Cruiser.

“Put on those seatbelts, gentlemen,” Casey said. “It’s a matter of liability. You should understand that, Mr. Winner.”

“I’m very sorry,” the actor said hanging his head.

“There’s a reason we have rules, gentlemen,” Casey said pedantically. Otto braced himself for a lecture but Casey fell into silence.

The road had a forty degree grade in places. Casey proceeded at a dead crawl. Several times Otto feared the old SUV would tip over.

Below the timberline the rutted path gave way to a gravel road that wound through the forest. It took a half hour to work its way back to where the pavement ended, by Otto’s and Winner’s cabin. The parking lot was now more than half full and men were heading toward the lodge trailing rolling suitcases or hefting backpacks. Casey pulled up beneath the log porte-cochere. “Mr. Witherspoon is waiting for you in his office. Arthur, would you show them the way?”

The lumberjack got out and led them into the lobby, which contained a dozen men waiting to check in. They looked distinguished, semi-famous. Otto spotted a popular radio talk show host. The lumberjack hustled the boys through the lobby, walked down the hall and motioned with a ham-like hand to Witherspoon’s open door.

Witherspoon waited primly behind his desk, hands folded before him. He gestured for Otto and Winner to sit in captain’s chairs. The lumberjack quietly but firmly shut the door. Otto felt like a schoolboy called before the principal.

Witherspoon reached into his pocket and put on a pair of
pince nez
, resembling Uncle Creepy more than ever. “Gentlemen, there’s a reason we have rules. It’s a matter of liability. Did you read the by-laws as I requested?”

“We’re very sorry,” Winner said with genuine contrition.

“Several men have lost their lives attempting to scale those peaks.”

“I understand. It won’t happen again.”

“I hope not, Mr. Winner. It took some persuasion to get certain board members to approve your visit. The last actor we invited to the Grove was Ronald Reagan.”

Otto had been looking at Witherspoon the whole time. “I’m sorry too.”

“Look,” Winner said. “If you’re worried we’ll talk about what we saw up there, don’t.”

Witherspoon shifted his gaze back to Winner. “What did you see?”

“That red sphere buried in the rock. Come on. That’s why you don’t want people going up there. Let’s not pretend it’s not there.”

Witherspoon clasped his hands again and leaned back, weighing his words carefully. “Gentlemen, that sphere is believed to be an Anasazi artifact dating back six thousand years. It wasn’t discovered until after Pawnee Grove was established. We are an institution that puts a high premium on privacy. We choose not to make that artifact known to the scientific world not only to preserve our privacy, but to preserve this area which is virtually untouched since the founding of the Grove.”

Otto was unaware the Anasazi had ever crossed the Rockies but he said nothing. It was a plausible story. He badly wanted to ask about the other two peaks but he forced himself to remain silent.

Winner felt no such reticence. “What kind of ancient artifact has a perfectly smooth surface like that? It looked like a bowling ball!”

“Ancient peoples had far more skills than we credit them. Look at the Mayan calendar, accurate two millennia into the future. Look at the pyramids. A Mayan pyramid was recently discovered in Georgia. It’s entirely reasonable to suppose the Anasazi quarried the rock elsewhere, chipped away at it until it was spherical and then polished the surface until it was smooth.”

“Very possible,” Otto said. Left unsaid was how the stones had been sunk into the rock.

“Mr. Witherspoon, once again, we apologize. I appreciate the invitation and I will do nothing to jeopardize our stay here.”

Witherspoon smiled grimly. “Gentlemen, Pawnee Grove has always looked to our Native American heritage for guidance.”

He opened his top desk drawer and withdrew a sheathed hunting knife with a sheep’s horn handle. “Gentlemen, are you prepared to take a blood oath?”

Winner giggled. “You’re kidding.”

Witherspoon reached into a side desk drawer and withdrew a brass candle holder with a pan-like base and a three inch fat white stub. He set it on the desk and lit it with a kitchen match. He ran the edge of the blade back and forth across the flame, waved it around until it cooled and handed it to Winner.

“If you want to stay you’ll swear on the blood of your ancestors and the blood of your children that you will say nothing about the mountain top now, or ever.”

Winner ran the blade across the palm and held it up to show Witherspoon the bleeding cut. “I so swear.”

Witherspoon took the knife and handed it to Otto.

“Mind if I sterilize that first?” Otto said. “Not that I think my good friend Gabe has AIDS or anything.”

Witherspoon produced a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a box of tissues, which Winner used to clean his palm, and Otto used to clean the blade. Otto drew the blade across his left palm, feeling the razor-sharp steel brutally slice the flesh. He held up his hand. A drop of blood fell on Witherspoon’s desk.

“I so swear.”

“Well then, gentlemen, you may want to freshen up. We meet for cocktails in fifteen minutes.”

***