Scarecrow Gods (34 page)

I don’t really disappear, I just get real thin. Comes in real handy when you don’t want things to see you
.

I never knew it was going to be like this.

It’s not like we advertise.

Still, this is incredible.

Enough ogling. Now that you’re here, there are a few things you need to learn. Come on.

Maxom soared off into
The Land
with Danny tumbling behind him.

CHAPTER 16

Wednesday—June 27th

Sierra Vista, Arizona

Brother Simon’s contact over at the FBI office in Tucson had finally come through. Not that the man had been completely ignoring him, but since it was a favor for a friend of a friend, it was mutually understood that the investigation was a spare time thing at best. Simon had received the call last night and arranged to receive a fax this morning at the Safeway service desk.

It would have been simpler for him to have received the fax at the Retreat House, but then Father Roy might have seen it. Simon just didn’t have the time to deal with the old man’s accusations. Politically correct or not, Simon needed to get to the bottom of the problems in his area of responsibility. He knew in his heart that Brother Dominic had given his life for just that. In the great grand scheme of things, lying to Father Roy was a sin he could deal with.

Simon pulled the station wagon off Highway 92 into the entrance to Carr Canyon. He drove to where he’d let Billy out earlier and coasted to a stop. Initially, Simon had searched for Billy Bones near the man’s Sierra Vista haunts, but neither the well-meaning assistants at St. Vincent De Paul nor the other Dirty Birds harvesting meals from various dumpsters had seen Billy in the past week. This worried Simon. One could usually set a clock by Billy’s actions. That the man had gone missing was desperately serious.

And just when Simon had finally learned the man’s real identity.

Simon turned off the ignition. Before the air conditioning belt on the eight-cylinder Detroit engine whined to a stop, Simon was trudging through the chest-high creosote bushes. He held his arms high, unwilling to touch the vegetation, especially the inch long thorns of the mesquite. So, dipping and slipping sideways, he made his way to the home of Billy Bones, which was just as he remembered it.

Bubble-shaped and covered in tattered white garbage bags, it was like a desert igloo. From his previous inspection, he knew the living space to be almost totally below ground level, so the comparison to an igloo wasn’t far off. The interior would never reach arctic levels, but the disparity in the conditions inside and outside was substantial.

As before, there was absolutely no sign of Billy. He poked his head inside and saw the dog sleeping atop a worn Mexican blanket. That was a good sign. Simon headed towards the Scarecrow Gods.

Keeping his eyes and ears attuned for the slightest hint of a rattle, Simon began picking his way towards the circle of saguaro. He wasn’t about to get bitten this far from medical attention. Especially wary of tarantulas, he began picking his way towards the grove. Twice he was almost victimized by the needle-sharp tips of yucca.

Staring up at the Scarecrow Gods, he realized he’d forgotten just how enormous they were. Even more than before, they reminded him of a living version of Stonehenge. Surely these had been planted here by some long ago Native American Shamans, unknowingly duplicating the efforts of Celtic Druids half a world away.

But was it for the same reason?

A nexus maybe?

Or a gathering place?

Simon realized that he couldn’t remember anyone else ever talking about the saguaros. Not a single person had ever mentioned the odd, supposedly naturally occurring formation—strange for a town that prided itself on knowing and reporting the interior workings of every family within the city limits.

As his breathing slowed and his heartbeat returned to normal, the sounds of whistling came to his ears—the voices of the Scarecrow Gods. He noticed a human figure kneeling in the center, swaying with the wind. The man’s position reminded Simon of a picture he’d seen in a book about World War II. In a grainy photo, probably taken by a Japanese soldier who believed in his cause, an American soldier had been forced to kneel. The photographer had captured the exact second before a Japanese officer’s sword fell and severed the head from the neck, the figure kneeling on the ground both defiant and proud.

This was how Billy Bone’s knelt, now. His back was to Simon. The ends of his lanky brown hair whipped gently in the wind. He wore dirty jeans, a shirt that had once been yellow and red flip-flops.

He couldn’t tell if Billy Bones was alive or dead, so still and yet part of the wind was he. Simon squatted beside Billy Bones. Grasping the gaunt face, he turned it towards him. The man’s cheeks were hollow, his face was a mass of peeling skin, rough with the redness of windburn and sunburn. His blue eyes stared straight through Billy. If he hadn’t had his finger on the man’s pulse, he would’ve thought him dead.

Simon slapped Billy Bones twice, but it was like hitting a leather punching bag. Not a blink or twitch disturbed the placid countenance of a face that was usually a convulsive, eruption of animated responses.

Staring up at the sun, Simon had but to wonder. Brain fried is what the prospectors called it. Slobber-knockered is what his Dad would have called it. Living dead is what it looked like.

Suddenly, in the heat of the desert Simon felt a chill as goosebumps erupted along his arms.

* * *

The Lincoln Towncar slid sideways as it fought for traction. Horns blared as Fry Boulevard’s eastbound traffic swerved to avoid the long golden vehicle suddenly blocking their paths. Simon stomped on the accelerator. The huge 4.6 liter V8 engine roared, the rear wheels gripped the asphalt, and the Lincoln shot down El Camino Real.

Thirty seconds later, Simon staggered into the emergency room of the Sierra Vista Regional Health Center with Billy Bones in his arms.

“Can I get some help over here?”

The inside of the emergency room was brightly lit. The white floor shone from deep waxing. Simon stared at the squares, momentarily lost. The emergency staff converged on him. A doctor with stethoscope. Two nurses, one with a clipboard. An orderly pushing a portable bed. A moment later, Simon was relieved of his burden. So fast had everything happened, Simon was slow to catch up as they wheeled Billy Bones away. By the time he made it to the room the emergency staff had taken Billy into, they were fully engaged.

“Temp’s 104 doctor.”

“Patient’s unresponsive.”

“Hyperthermia. Let’s start with lactated ringers, wide-open. Let’s get a urine sample and do a drug screen. Ernesto, after you intubate, take a blood sample and run it over for a CBC, chem panel, coagulation panel, alcohol level, CPK, electrolytes, and a magnesium. Then let’s get him on ice. Susan, is the cooling blanket ready?”

“Sure is,” said a tiny red haired woman.

She’d rolled a cart over to the bedside and plugged it into the wall. Atop the cart was what appeared to be a blanket with tubes running its length.

Suddenly, Simon felt a hand at his elbow. He turned. An athletic black nurse, clipboard in hand, smiled at him, “Father, if you would, we need some information.”

“Brother,” he said, finding his voice.

She stared at him, plainly confused.

“I’m not a Father,” he explained. “Not a priest, that is. I’m a Brother, an Alexian Brother. Is Billy going to be all right?”

“He’s in good hands, sir. There’s nothing you can do now. Bringing him here probably saved his life.”

A commotion from the room made him turn around. Two people ran in, one ran out. He heard the unrelenting whine of a heart monitor and knew the worst. He felt a pain in his heart. He’d been so close to saving Billy. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost. Just as Simon had discovered who the man really was, the man had found death.

“Sir? Brother? Excuse me, but we need to fill out some forms.” She touched Simon’s elbow again, attempting to get his attention again. “I know it doesn’t sound important, but it is. We could use his medical history, if you have it.”

He gazed at the half open door of the room, reluctant to look away. A tall man with an air of authority entered the room and shut the door behind him. There was a glass, triangular-shaped window, but Simon was too far away to see in. He wasn’t sure if it was his mind playing tricks on him, wishful thinking or if he’d really heard it, but he thought that before the door closed, he’d heard the steady beeping of a heart monitor. Simon said aloud a short prayer.

There was some hope at least. Reluctantly, he turned to the nurse. Her nametag read
R. Maclin, RN.

“I’m sorry, nurse.”

“That’s fine. Now, if we can get started. What’s the patient’s name?”

“Billy Bones,” said Simon. Then he corrected himself. “Sorry, I mean William R. Geddes.” He pulled a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. The reason he’d gone looking for Billy, this paper represented the man’s redemption. If only he could get the chance to deliver it.

Simon was able to answer most of the nurse’s questions, including home address and employer. Who would have thought that the babbling Dirty Bird who picked through the trash every day, talked to himself, and growled at shopping carts was, in truth, an actual rocket scientist with Raytheon.

* * *

Paradise Valley, Arizona

The thorns of the ocotillo bushes dripped green, winking moonlight reflections in the night. The bursage and bear grasses had become a vertical plain of knives split only by the monstrous creeping violence of a yucca or the insinuative prowling of the prickly pear cactus. These too were trapped in the green light of his vision; as was the sky, a vast palate of vague swirls, green upon green upon green, indiscernible and distant. The moon was impossibly bright. A security lamp for God’s plot, it was the moon that lit up the darkness augmented by the government-issued Starlight Scope, model AN/PVS-7. No longer was the night a wash of blues, deepening to purple in the shadows, nor was it red, the sand the color of old blood. With man-made technology, the scope strapped beneath Agent Gooly’s hat, soaked in all light and refined it to the putrescence of pure neon green.

Several things bothered him right now, not the least being how he was going to afford the dormitory for his daughter in the fall. He’d been unsuccessful in his attempts to talk her into attending the University of Arizona. He’d shown her the national rankings. He’d discussed academic and athletic superiority bringing home video tapes and magazines and folders filled with personal letters from Alumni detailing their wonderful, life-altering years at the U of A. He’d done everything but hypnotize the girl and still she wouldn’t be swayed.

It came down to two things. One, her best friend, Missy Applegate, was attending Arizona State in the fall. And two, his daughter didn’t want to live at home and be watched over by her ‘
Gestapo Father who never let her have any fun anyway.’

A rustling sound returned him to the Sonoran Desert. He adjusted the light level on the NVDs so the shadows grew deeper, improving his depth perception. A series of rough snorts erupted near where he’d heard the rustling. He went hard to a knee and pulled out his Glock 9 mm pistol. With a round already chambered, he placed his thumb on the safety release, ready to fire.

He smelled them first, a heavy musk as the breeze shifted. Javelina—nothing else smelled that bad. He was lucky they’d made a noise and that the wind had shifted. Blood would have flown had he stumbled into a herd of them. One or two wouldn’t bother him much, but sometimes they traveled in packs. Some grew to the size of rottweilers. Their tusks pointed downwards like fangs.

The way he saw it, he had four choices. He could stay where he was. Not a bad choice, but he didn’t particularly like being a motionless target. He could pack up his gear, get back into the van and high-tail it, he could move down into hollow of the San Pedro River, or he could go up onto the higher bank.

Considering his longer and more agile legs, he decided to move higher up the bank. If he was going to be charged, being downhill was a bad place to be. His original intention had been to skirt the edge of the property, keeping below the level of the bank. That way, if the members of The Church of the Resurrection did have surveillance, he’d be out of sight. Like most original plans, it gave way to a
B Plan
. Sadly, the
B Plan
wasn’t fully developed past the point where The Ghoul wanted to avoid the Javelina.

Just as he’d begun to half crawl through the bear grass up the side of the incline, a pack of seven javelinas burst from the undergrowth into the river area. There were two that looked large enough to ride. As they disappeared in the higher brush of the river’s edge, he decided that he definitely didn’t want to meet any of them face to face. He’d much rather meet a criminal or two—maybe even a hopped-up junkie. Those he could handle.

His over efficient mind reminded him that there were also mountain lions and Mexican Grey wolves in the area, not to mention myriad species of snakes, lizards and spiders that could even now be underfoot but invisible to the unique vision of the NVDs. He suddenly hated the vividness of his imagination. He forced his thoughts back to his own problems so he could forget about the dangers.