Zuni Stew: A Novel (19 page)

The only thing Knapp didn’t provide was a Geiger counter.

Diesel exhaust fumes belched. An oily heat haze wavered over the dry lake like a suspended mirage. Shift change. Men emerged from air-conditioned sleeping compartments in the trucks to swap places.

Knapp checked his blueprints. Half of the containers had been offloaded from the sidelifters, buried, and covered with salt. Empty trucks enroute to Chicago. He slapped the op-manager on the back. “Murphy, schedule on target. I’m proud of you. I’ll be back at the beginning of the night shift.”

His driver had the air conditioning on high, the back door open. As Knapp slid into the backseat, Mike handed him a leather pouch, saying, “I was talking to the caterer. Interesting fellow, married a Zuni woman. When she found out he was delivering stuff out here, she insisted he get her some salt. Said it has healing powers. The guy was also getting some for his mother, rheumatoid arthritis, can’t use her hands. I got some for you; maybe help your tennis elbow.”

Knapp loosened the strings, tasted the blue-tinted salt. “Indian bullshit. But I’ll keep it—a token of the op.”

35

I
t was early evening when Senator Richard Phillips landed in Santa Fe aboard a constituent’s twin-engine Beechcraft King Air 90. His black Cadillac sedan was spotted with rain. The fragrance of damp chamisa filled the mesa surrounding the small airport. He hefted his briefcase into the back seat. Sat heavily behind the wheel. One by one, he pulled his legs into the car. Two canes hit the passenger seat. He had business to take care of in the state capitol before heading to Taos, and he needed a drink.

Canyon Road. Left on a rutted driveway, gated condos, a dark gallery. Parking opposite the entrance to The Compound.

The maître’d was prompt. “Senator, your table is ready. Or perhaps a cocktail in the bar first?”

“I’m meeting someone. The bar. A vodka martini, Victor, you know how I like it.”

Twelve bleached-oak stools on three sides of a low pit serving station. A frosted glass appeared. Shaved ice, chilled vodka. Sheeting on the glass, a scent of lemon.

Ready for a second, his guest walked in. “Make that two martinis,” Phillips said.

Victor led them to the rear dining room to a banquette beneath a large brass sun sculpture. He stood to the side as the senator slowly made his way to the table. The long flight from Washington had taken its toll. The maître’d held out his arm to steady him and palmed the twenty-dollar tip without saying a word.

“I like this place, spare, clean design. Girard is a genius.”

“Richard, we’ve got to talk.”

Phillips didn’t like his tone. “It’s Senator. First names later. You and your board have your lease. Eighteen-thousand acres waiting to be strip-mined. Enough coal to last fifty years.”

“But...we’ve got problems. A hydrologist from the BIA has filed a complaint with the goddamn Equal Employment Opportunity office. Says your office harassed him after he found hydrological studies verifying our mine would damage Zuni Salt Lake.”

“No one from my office would be stupid enough to do that. Go after him. You can afford the best lawyer,” said Phillips. “I’ll get you the gold list.”

“We’re facing contempt of court. Goddamnit. Phillips, I thought you buried those BLM files.” The coal executive’s face reddened. “Senator, to process the coal, we’ve got to use six-hundred gallons of water per minute—all from that aquifer.”

“I know that! You’ve got the water rights—I came through. What are you so goddamned worried about?”

“You know what’s happening out there? Right now! Bunch of big rigs are messing around at the Salt Lake. Huge containers. They’re burying them in the salt beds.”

“So what? Doesn’t have anything to do with you. Or me.”

“My people investigated. Those containers are radioactive. The water in the aquifer will be contaminated. Drink the water anywhere on that reservation and you’ll glow in the dark. No good for our use. The deal’s off. And, forget any more contributions.”

A stunned Senator Phillips sat alone.

“Trask,” he said aloud when he finally reached his car.



Director Kelley had read the report from the Chicago Port Authority and he was not a happy man.

First, random sampling of cargo against bill of lading showed marked discrepancies. The cargo was reported to be shale gravel, but in fact, it was high quality uranium ore.

Secondly, several shipments, over three weeks in same time period, had come up with the same results.

In conclusion, the findings had been forwarded to the Chicago office of the FBI.

He hit the intercom button and told his secretary to get someone from Cointelpro. An expert on uranium toxicity.

Clarence M. Kelley was new to the FBI as top boss, but had actually entered the FBI as a special agent in the fall of 1940. The year he took over was chaotic. A bungled burglary occurred in June of 1972. Less than five weeks after Hoover died in his sleep. Next two acting directors didn’t survive the ‘politically sensitive’ climate on the Hill, so the Bureau chose
an insider to take on the challenge.

A thirty-ish kid in a black suit stood in front of the director fifteen minutes later, reading from a notepad. In a flat voice typical of the special agents chosen for the agency’s high-threat team, he told Kelley that the Senate Committee on Government Ops had oversight of the AEC.

“Over the Atomic Energy Commission?” Kelley said rhetorically. “Well, I’ll be damned. Who heads that up?”

The agent responded immediately. “Senator Joseph Trask, sir.”

“Well, well.” A smile crossed the director’s face. “I didn’t come out of retirement for this kind of crap. First Watergate, now this. I’m going to make a friendly call to the illustrious senator from Illinois.”

36

T
ito moved his foot. Grinned.

“Be careful,” said Jack. “You’re going to pull something loose.”

“No. Must start moving ankle,” said Louis Paul in a soft monotone. “Almost dark. Let’s go.”

Bill touched Jack’s arm. “Take these,” he said, handing up a pair of binoculars. “We’ll catch up, Tito knows the long way.”

Louis Paul bounded up the shale deposit, threw a rope back to Lori. Reeled her up, then Jack. No talk. Flat on the ground out of sight, they studied the activity below.

Men worked as a unit. What trucks weren’t excavating or hydraulically unloading were idling, cooling the cabs.

Shift change. Rested drivers on the night shift exchanged places. A small white van arrived, delivering boxes of what appeared to be dinner and cold drinks to the now off-duty crews. Two boxes were also deposited at a trailer.

Jack passed the binoculars to Lori, whispering, “See the two guys by the car. Recognize either?”

“Maybe, the shorter man. The one walking away toward that trailer. It’s pretty dark, but I think I know who he is. If it fits in with what I’ve been thinking, his name is Anthony Knapp.”

“Mr. K?” said Jack. Vaguely familiar. Then he remembered. Intermission at the Lyric Opera. In the men’s room. Jack was the on-call house physician. When he took his aisle seat, he watched the guy glad-hand his way to a fifty-yard-line seat. Seemed everyone knew his name. What the hell was Anthony Knapp doing in New Mexico?

Bill and a pale Tito appeared beside them.

“This is very bad,” said Louis Paul. “We got to stop them. They are desecrating our land.”

“We only have two weapons,” whispered Lori.

“Give me one of them,” said Jack.

“No,” said Lori. “You’re the magnet. We stand a better chance of
getting him if you stay out of it.”

“She’s right. There are other ways,” interjected Louis Paul, nodding to his son.

“That bastard down there may have ordered the killing of my entire family. The pieces are coming together. You’re not going to keep me from...”

“Keeping you alive is my job,” said Lori.

“Listen to her,” repeated Louis Paul.

Jack dropped his head on folded arms, his nose inches from the red soil.

Louis Paul motioned to Lori and Bill. Bending one finger and gesturing toward Jack, he signaled his son. Tito pressed both hands on the base of Jack’s spine.

Jack could not move.

Louis Paul silently worked down the hill toward the sacred flats, using sparse clumps of chamisa as cover. He pointed to Bill, then to the man who had just gone into the trailer, signaling an arc.

To Lori, the backhoe. She moved quickly to a newly created pile of salt near the Caterpillar. Louis Paul slithered onto the open flat salt bed, watching Lori, his eye also on Bill. Both moved into place.

She was first to make a move. In a crouched position she slipped toward the belching Caterpillar, coming up behind the cab. Just as she started to grab the side rail and climb up, the 4 x 4 loader backhoe coughed. Shut down. The operator stepped out of the lighted cab. She crouched down, but the driver spotted her. He took two huge steps forward, before flying toward her. She fired.

The bullet grazed his neck but he kept coming. She attacked, sending a pant-busting crush to his crotch, and bashed her gun against his face, breaking his nose. The driver screamed, both hands clenched her windpipe. She fired a lethal round into his heart. His dead weight knocked her to the ground, a leather-gloved hand smothered her face. The smell of his sweat, oil and grease was overwhelming. She struggled to push him away but his work boots trapped her legs. Breathing heavily, using all her strength, she edged the bulk of his two-hundred-fifty pounds off. She rolled away.

Louis Paul saw everything. He rose to his feet as another engine rumbled to life. Over the bucket, the driver had him in a clear line of sig
ht and nimbly turned the twenty-thousand-pound machine toward him. Standing in the headlights, Louis Paul watched the driver shift, increasing torque to twenty-five miles per hour, leaving huge, welted tracks on the lake bed. The driver activated the joy stick manipulating the extendable bucket, repeatedly snapping and shutting the serrated-fork edges.

A gang of off-duty workmen jumped from their semi-trucks and ran in her direction. Lori stood, legs apart, both hands on her pistol, firing precisely at each man. Five went down, their bodies a tangle. Her remaining shots pinged off yellow steel.

From his vantage point, Jack saw the backhoe thundering toward the outline of Louis Paul. He ground his teeth, clawing his nails into the clay soil. He growled, tried to bolt, but Tito’s pressure on his spine paralyzed his entire body. Frozen in place.

Louis Paul stood as tall as if he were a ponderosa guarding the entrance to Zuni, silver-streaked hair flowing. The monstrous machine was so close he could see the driver’s face, his day-old beard, the lowered black cap. The trenching bucket opened. A shrill screeching noise blasted forth. Bucket locked.

An ear-popping crack of lightning filled the air, overshadowing the roar of the diesel engine. The sound was huge. The salt bed gave way, a massive crevasse opened, swallowing the backhoe. The driver swiveled in his seat. Screamed. He disappeared into the rapidly flooding pit. Water frothed, waves rose. In moments, a shelf of salt developed, closing the lake’s gaping wound. No sign of the giant piece of machinery.

At the trailer window, Knapp saw the brilliant flash of light. Transfixed, he listened as the sounds of the growling, groaning engine were gradually smothered. The machine was sucked into the earth.

Bill took aim at the figure in the trailer, fired. The window blew to pieces, embedding shards in Knapp’s left shoulder and neck. Body hunched, gun down, Knapp dove for the door. Rolled out and under the railing, hunched under the steps. Pain registered. He pulled a leather glove on to his right hand, clenched his teeth. Pulled two jagged slivers of glass from his shoulder. A long, deadly piece in his neck. Missed the principal vessels, but bleeding was severe.

Mike fired at Bill. A miss. He dove into the back seat, scrambled to the wheel. Ignition.

Knapp fired from a
crouched position. Bill sensed the blast wave preceding the hammer-like crush. Shredding a path through a kaleidoscope of nerves. Instantly, paralyzing cramps dropped him to his knees.

A second hammer punch struck Bill’s right cheek, crushing his jawbone, ripping through the lower portion of his tongue, tearing the lingual artery. Blood swamped his mouth.

Louis Paul turned away from the carnage to focus on the ridge above the salt bed. Tito lifted his hands. Jack was released. They sprung in unison, ran the perimeter of the mesa, leapt over the edge. They both flew. They both knew they were flying.

Numbness crept over Bill’s body. He was helpless, but managed to kick the pistol at his feet. Jack reached him, scooping up the gun just as piercing cracks punctuated the air. Lori fired at two drivers, both went down. Another returned a shot at her before swinging his semi-truck in a wide arc heading for the exit. The remainder of the sidelifters followed, red taillights disappeared into darkness.

Legs pumping, pistol leveled, Lori ran back toward the car, judging caliber and distance.

“Lori! Get down!” yelled Jack.

The bodyguard reached under the seat, pulled out a pistol-grip shotgun, and managed to get off a shot at Jack. Shot peppered the ground, sending white dust devils into the air. Jack dodged right/left/right, then somersaulted to the corner of the trailer. Simultaneously, Knapp ducked and ran, diving into the back seat of his car.