In the Time of Man

Chapter 12

(As has been requested by readers of this novel, I am posting chapters randomly when they are edited. My plan remains to publish the full novel in digital form for download on here, and I will read the entire manuscript into audio book format. Both will be available to paid subscribers and offered for purchase to anyone else at a modest price of probably $1.99. - JM)

The book tour was a grind.  Elliot Anders did not remember the cities any more than he did the endless string of superfluous questions by television and newspaper interviewers. Generally, they treated him as an oddity, a man whose science was not believed to be disciplined and whose conclusions were dubious. His mind, subsequent to the haze of travel, was not bothered by these slights but was instead cluttered with the sensual memory of hotels and the food, expense account meals in five star restaurants paid for by his publisher and luxury accommodations in the major cities. Going back to Africa to complete his research on the Dogon was going to be a major act of will. Elliot had always loved living in America and being an American and he was only productive when he stayed out of the country.

Protestors had appeared at a few of his interviews and book signing events. There were not large numbers but they were vocal and reporters tended to interview one or two from each group. Usually, the angry folks thought Elliot was being sacrilegious and was discounting god’s invisible hand in everything involving humans. Elliot was able to avoid these people and their comments, in his opinion, added intrigue to his book and helped sales.

His return ticket to London and then onto Dakar was open-ended. The publisher had purchased the London segment as a round trip to and from Phoenix because that was where the book tour launched. At the conclusion of his promotional schedule, this meant Elliot had to return to Arizona to begin his trip back to Africa. In Dakar, he would get a charter out to the Cliffs of Bandiagara in rural Mali. 

Phoenix, he thought, was quite alluring and Elliot considered lingering at the Arizona Biltmore and attempting to get his publisher to pick up the bill. Besides, he had yet to decide on how he wanted to unveil the video of the Dogon’s Sigui masks and the glowing Yougo Rock. Phoenix was probably a good location; especially given the great national response there had been to his book after the KSUN interview. The city also appealed to his penchant for the extravagant and luxurious with its spas, lush golf courses, and countless resorts. He loved its orderliness, neat, straight boulevards and clean paint on stucco, an attribute missing from most of the developing countries where he labored. Traffic jams and smog were unsettling by-products of Phoenix’s economic expansion but he dealt with that by avoiding local travel in any other manner than a taxi or Uber or Lyft. 

On his second night back in the city, Elliot treated himself and an old colleague from the University of Arizona to an exquisite celebratory meal at a Scottsdale restaurant.  His book about the Great Pyramid at Giza, Monumental Proof, had debuted at number eleven in non-fiction publications on the New York Times Bestseller List and had been moving up steadily during the weeks of his tour. Although he had spent his career at the margins of academia and science, pulled away from the mainstream by his eclectic curiosities, Elliot Anders knew his life was quite good compared to most anthropologists, sociologists, and archaeologists laboring at universities and government institutions around the U.S. There were sufficient reasons for him to feel professionally fulfilled, regardless of the rejection by most of the intellectual leaders in his field.

After the evening concluded, Elliot went to his casita along the Biltmore golf course to relax, order room service coffee, and read the two day old Sunday New York Times.  He clicked on the television with the intention of switching to CNN but instead pulled his laptop out of its travel case and booted up to check e-mail. Phil Traynor had not written in a few days and Elliot was anxious to learn of his assistant’s latest endeavors. Phil had been fulfilling the more conservative project outlines that Elliot had included to get funding for the Dogon research. As a result, Traynor spent much of his time studying familial structures and relationships in the village of Yougo Dogouru.

As his computer beeped, Elliot heard the words “fatal” and “deadly disease” coming from the television. On the screen, he saw the graphic logo of the local news station and mentally dismissed the story almost immediately as attention-grabbing hyperbole until he heard the distinctive voice of Barton Crawford. A man with a Nobel was on local news talking about an out of control virus? Elliot had always admired Crawford, not just for his scientific achievements, but his polish and sophistication and the Cambridge education that had led him to corridors of influence denied to Elliot with his degrees from land grant institutions in the Midwest. 

Crawford’s explanation of a designer virus was shocking enough but the scientist’s association with the cattle mutilation phenomenon profoundly struck Elliot. This was Elliot Ander’s domain, the inexplicable and sublimely absurd and now the esteemed Barton Crawford had ventured out to the perimeter where the lesser credentialed were laboring. A confession Crawford made on air was even more surprising to Elliot.  Crawford acknowledged that he had encountered evidence that there was technology operating in the world that went beyond the bounds of conventional science. All of a sudden, Elliot thought, the credibility gap between himself and Barton Crawford had closed. If Crawford was running around the Intermountain West gathering data from dead cows and it showed there was advanced technology in existence, Elliot figured that meant the great man’s work could no longer be differentiated from his own efforts on projects like the Dogon and their Sirius mystery and the Great Pyramid. 

After he had connected to the hotel’s wireless Internet and logged onto his computer’s operating system, the messaging screen popped into the corner of Elliot’s display. Under his friend’s list, he saw that Phil Traynor was online with the satellite hookup in Mali. Given the time difference, he was probably checking e-mail and news sites prior to beginning his day. Elliot decided to ping him for an update. Typing out conversations was tedious but there was no real broadband in that part of Africa that made it possible to use any of the video communications software tools.

Seeker57: U there?

Illinifarmboy: Hey perfesser. What’s up? Been wondering about u. Too busy to email?

Seeker57: Nope. Lazy. What’s latest?

Illinifarmboy: Same. Place mostly crazy over Sigui and Nommo. Ceremony’s moved about 20 kilometers distant. I followed thru 5 villages. Got lots of good stuff.

Seeker57: Good job. Anything come up with me ‘n masks? 

Illinifarmboy: No. But Hogon’s kinda cold. Don’t think you’ll get much out of him when u get back.

Seeker57: Shud I come back?

Illinifarmboy: Think so. Yougo Rock still glowing. Weirdest thing ever in world.

Seeker57: Yeah. Wonder if it proves anything, tho. Guess we have to see if Nommo shows up.

Illinifarmboy: Yeh. Ds seem to think he’s coming. Course, lotsa folks in states think Rapture will happen soon, too.

Seeker57: Ha.What’s new with u?

Illinifarmboy: Got my case of Tecate from my buddy in TX. Came in on latest supply charter. Wish I could keep it cold.

Seeker57: Warm Mex beer better than no Mex beer, tho?

Illinifarmboy: Yep. Agree.

Seeker57: Weird thing on TV here just now. Barton Crawford talking.

Illinifarmboy: Nobel guy?

Seeker57: Yeh. Been doing research on cattle mutilations. Ever heard of ‘em?

Illinifarmboy: Sure. Several of ‘em in counties around Flanagan. Hometown of dad. Don’t believe cult stuff, tho.

Seeker57: Don’t think Crawford does, either. Says they prove advanced technology exists.

Illinifarmboy: What? Why looking at cut cows by such big shot?

Seeker57: Virology. Says incurable deadly virus being covered up by govt. always fatal. Says he’s been working in secret project to find cure. Involves cattle. Said it all on TV.

Illinifarmboy: Whoah. Crawford?

Seeker57: Yep. Why?

Illinifarmboy: Just seems weird. What disease do to ppl?

Seeker57: Eats ‘em up. Waste away. Like cattle disease. Look starved to death. Saw one interviewed on TV.  Scary.

Illinifarmboy: Really?

There was a pause in their exchange and Elliot watched his screen waiting for the window to show that Phil Traynor was once again entering text. In a few minutes, he’d heard nothing.

Seeker57: Phil. Where u go? Lose connection?

Illinifarmboy: Nowhere. Just thinking.

Seeker57: ????

Illinifarmboy: Had Muslims through here from Bomako. A few Jihadis. Many spoke English. Said starvation spreading faster than ever. Many don’t believe food is prob.  Think it’s disease. Said govts won’t look at. Easy to ignore cuz looks like starvation.  War bigger worry to govs and politicians they say.

Seeker57: Any of them have it?

Illinifarmboy: Don’t think so.

Seeker57: Keep eye out for it in Ds. Be careful. Need to learn more. Think I will stay here longer and try to talk to Crawford.

Illinifarmboy: Prolly good plan. How book doing?

Seeker57: NYT bestseller first week. You might get a raise.

Illinifarmboy: Nowhere to spend it. Ha. 

Seeker57: Don’t worry. Won’t be much.

Illinifarmboy: Knew that.

Seeker57: Smartass.

Illinifarmboy: What u doing with DVD? Make plan yet?

Seeker57: No.Still worried about. Need to make smart move. Big moment. Might do symposium. Crawford’s work might be opening door. Not sure. Thot about giving to L.A. Times guy during interview. But dint.

Illinifarmboy: Yeh. Talk to Crawford first. Might have good advice. 

Seeker57: K.

Illinifarmboy: Lemme know your sked. I’m carrying sat phone case you need me.  Email only in a.m.

Seeker57: K. Keep me posted. Especially if you see any Ds getting weak and skinny.

Illinifarmboy: Will do. Gotta go turn off gen. Running low on gas.

Seeker57: L8r.

Illinifarmboy: Cya.

Elliot closed out his instant messaging program and shut down his laptop. A knock came at the door for the delivery of his coffee service. He picked up the sumptuous Sunday Times with its elaborate details of life’s richness and tragedies and spread it across the table. He was going to relax a week or so before seeking out Barton Crawford and he needed some time to figure out how to share with journalists the DVD on the Sigui masks and the Yougo Rock. In the interim, however, the Biltmore and surrounding environs had much to offer and Elliot Anders intended to enjoy himself a bit more before surrendering again to the hardships of Africa. 

                                    *                                  *                                  *

No morning commute had ever been filled with more anticipation. Becky Acuna was trying not to think about the professional possibilities engendered by her exclusive report on Slims Disease but she could not stop from envisioning a happy second day filled with personal acclaim. Although she would never admit such a thing to anyone, she expected New York to call and ask for a re-cut of her story for NBC Nightly News. As a minimum, she assumed, excerpts of the piece would end up on NBC and CNN. Of course, it was a virtual certainty that the wire services and the big city daily papers already wanted to talk to her and ask for contact information and background on her sources.

Entering the building through the news department door off of the parking lot, she spotted Mike Burke sitting at the assignments desk. As she walked across the room a reporter and photographer team leaving for a story passed her and said nothing more than a polite hello. She could have used an attagirl from colleagues. They might not have seen the late news, Becky guessed.

“Hey Mike, what’s up?” Becky asked.

Burke looked up from his computer screen. “Nothin’ that I know of, Acuna. What’s up with you? You got a story for today?”

“Uh, no. Not yet. I was hoping to follow up on last night.”

“How?”

“I don’t know yet. I was hoping for some kind of reaction piece.”

“Well, think fast. We are short of content.”

“You hear anything from New York?” Becky did not understand why Mike Burke was playing games.

“Regarding?”

“Oh come off of it, Mike. You know regarding what.”

“I got nothin’ for ya,” he said.

“Did the wires pick anything up? I didn’t check before I left the house.”

“Nope. I’ve seen nothin’ and I’ve checked ‘em all. Probably on some of the alternative news Web sites, I’ll bet.”

“Yeah, well that’s not what we need.”

“Nope.”

“Did you send the piece out on the feed, Mike?”

Burke was growing exasperated. Becky saw that he was pretending to be detached from whatever situation was developing regarding their work and he was covering it with his usual gruffness. 

“Look, Beck, there’s no good news there, either. We e-mailed the lead, CGs, full script with track narration, hit times, and everything else. We got an e-mail from the exec producer saying that they weren’t interested. Period. I called up and asked him if he was out of his goddamned mind, and before he hung up on me he just said he thought it was irresponsible reporting.”

“Irresponsible reporting? Good god. That story is as journalistically sound as anything I’ve ever done.”

“Yeah well, they’re in New York and they’ve got their degrees from the network’s asshole school, so they’re smarter than us little folks down here burning our brains out in the desert.”

“Shit.” Becky shrugged. “Shit. Shit. Shit.” 

She turned and went to her desk to see if anyone had left voicemails since she had not forwarded her office phone last night to her cell. 

“Get me a story, Acuna,” Mike Burke called after her. “I need something today and I need it pretty bad.”

“You need better grammar, too, pal.”

The three hour time difference from the East Coast provided a lot of time for interested writers and producers to contact her this morning with questions for their own stories but no calls were recorded on her voice mail and she had received no texts on her phone. She put down her cell phone just as Burke’s head appeared over the wall of her cubicle.

“Need you to go do this, Acuna.” Burke handed Becky a blue assignments sheet and as she read it furrows appeared in her forehead.

“A news conference on another Indian casino? Shit. Shit. Shit. And shit.”

“Economic impact,” Burke sniffed. “Redman’s revenge. The new buffalo. Frame it up however you want. I gotta have it. Uncle Pierre’s waiting outside in his news unit.”

She walked away from the managing editor without saying a word. 9:14 a.m. Mountain Standard Time the morning after doing the biggest story of her career and Becky Acuna’s life was already back to being perversely normal.

                                    *                                  *                                  *

The next week and a half was conspicuously weird for the KSUN veteran correspondent. At news conferences, Becky’s colleagues avoided speaking with her, almost as if there had been a death in her family and no one knew what to say. A few of them offered condescending smiles or clipped hellos but not even her photographers engaged her on the subject of Slims Disease, in spite of the time spent together in news trucks driving back and forth across the valley. 

The only follow up on her story had been a news brief by the AP and it had run in the City-State section of the Republic on page B-3, below the fold and in the “Oddities” section on their website. Two short paragraphs had been written with information acquired from watching the KSUN news as it was broadcast. The article had given the station attribution but the small type headline was dismissive: “Nobel Winner Claims Research on Unknown Virus at Valley Facility.” 

At the end of another long day, Becky filed a story about a news conference with the Phoenix mayor, a man who had managed to find yet another technique for giving new businesses even bigger tax incentives for locating in the Valley of the Sun. She sat at her desk to watch the news on her monitor and wait for the rush hour traffic to thin out. Before the newscast started, Becky noticed the voicemail alert on her cell, which she had placed on silent. There was a long, rambling recording from Elliot Anders explaining who he was and that he had been trying to contact Barton Crawford. He had seen Crawford on the news a short time ago with Becky and he had a professional interest in having a conversation with his fellow scientist. Anders recited the cell phone number he had for Crawford and Becky recognized it as being correct.  He claimed to have left numerous messages there and at his home and he was certain that Crawford would have responded. Anders wondered if Becky might help him reach Crawford.

She saved Ander’s message and then quickly dialed Barton Crawford’s cell. Although he had asked her not to contact him at Bleak House, Becky assumed he would understand this intrusion on his cell number because of Ander’s call. Besides, their interview had been conducted over three weeks ago and this was hardly pestering.  She left a message for Crawford to call at his earliest possible convenience and, as much as she despised the idea, she had to speak again with Mike Burke about their Slims Disease story.

“Mike?”

“Yep.” He did not stop staring at the 10 p.m. show rundown on his display. “What is it now, Acuna?”

“You remember Elliot Anders?”

“Yeah, the pyramid guy. He was on Michelle’s show. What about him?”

“He’s still in town working on some project before he goes back to Africa.”

“So? That’s news?”

“Stop being an asshole, Mike.”

“Sorry. I’m stressed out by Smith. He’s always up my ass and it’s even worse today.”

“Don’t take it out on me.”

“Yeah, I said I was sorry. What’s the deal with Anders?” Burke turned around to face Becky.

“He says he’s been trying to reach Barton Crawford on his cell for over a week and he’s not returning his messages. He’s got his home number, too, and there’s no answer.”

“Maybe Crawford doesn’t like him, Beck. Simple as that.”

“And maybe Crawford’s in trouble for talking to us. Maybe something’s happened to him. That’s just as likely, isn’t it?”

“I doubt it. I bet winning the Nobel is kind of like wearing Superman’s cape. Nobody’s stupid enough to mess with you. Did you try reaching him?”

“Only just now. Remember, he said I could get in touch with him about the cattle mutilation story but not to try to reach him through Bleak House. I was actually hoping I’d hear from him after that story was broadcast. Anyway, I just got voice mail.”

“Doesn’t mean anything, Acuna.”

“Yeah, but I’m worried now, Mike. Worried and curious. And I need you to………”

Burke cut her off. “Oh come on, Acuna. I’ve had a long day. Let it slide, will ya? The last thing I need is another long drive that ends in a friggin’ dark canyon. I’m going down to the Elephant Room for a scotch. And then I am taking a Lyft home.”

“Guess I’ll have to go alone.” Becky knew he would not let that happen. “I want to know what’s going on.”

“Oh Christ on roller skates, Acuna.” Burke shook his head. “I’m gettin’ beers and dinner out of you before we go up there.”

“Good, follow me out to………”

“Yeah, yeah. I know the damned drill.”   

In the car, Becky had trouble restraining her imagination and the various worst case scenarios conjured up by her overactive mind. Over dinner at a roadside hamburger house, she kept reminding Burke that Barton Crawford had violated a top secret clearance. If the feds were determined to try to keep secret a disease that might threaten the entire country and even the world, they certainly would not be circumspect when it came to Crawford’s betrayal. Burke, who sloshed back five cans of beer with his burger, told her she had seen too damned many movies and read even more crappy airport novels. 

After dinner, there was still orange light in the sky but the roadway through the Superstitions was already dark and the yellow dots in the middle of the lanes reflected brightly in the news unit’s low beams. 

“You remember how to find this place, Acuna?” Burke was paying little attention to landmarks and Becky worried that she should not have let him drive, though she knew he would never surrender the keys and she had already agitated him enough.

“Yeah, it’s two white boulders on the left side about two miles after the rest area.”

“It’s friggin’ mountains, Beck. There’s lotsa boulders.”

“Just keep it between the lines, Mike. I’ll spot the turnoff.”

“Okay. Okay. But after we find out he’s okay I don’t want to sit and listen to the guy’s life story again or how you’re some great and brave reporter. I just want to get my ass home. I’m tired.”

“You’re damned near drunk, too. So be careful.”

They were silent for the next few miles and Becky kept checking the rear view on her side of the truck for any following traffic. If the man who had tried to bust down the door to her home knew she had been to Crawford’s mountain lab, it was just as possible someone was aware of their present course of action. 

"There it is. That's the cutoff." Becky pointed at a gravel path between two looming white boulders on their left."

"Got it. I recognize it.” 

Burke wheeled the truck to the left and beneath the canopy of cottonwoods. Beyond the range of their headlights, the darkness was almost overwhelming to Becky. She was pleased that within a few minutes Burke had flashed on the high beams and turned the truck again to make the lights sweep the small wooden porch. Becky saw no sign anyone was inside the cabin. Burke switched off the ignition and Becky opened her door. The engine’s ticking was the loudest noise in the canyon.

“He’s obviously not here, Acuna. Let’s call it a night.” Burke had reached over and touched her forearm.

“Probably not. But I need to go check to be sure.” She opened the glove box and took out a flashlight. “Don’t worry. You can stay here. I won’t tell anyone.”

“God, you are a smartass.” Burke swung open his door.

Outside of the car, Becky looked up and saw a row of stars in the narrow sky framed by the canyon walls.  She grabbed the rough plank handrail along the steps and heard Mike Burke stumble on the rocks and curse under his breath.

"I’m an idiot,” he said. “I ought to know better than to be doing this kinda crap.”

Becky ignored Burke and made her way carefully up the steps and found a buzzer along the right side of the door frame. She pressed and heard a mechanical buzz muffled by the walls. By her third try, Burke had reached her side. 

"I told you he's not here, Acuna. Let's go. I need some sleep."

"You're not a little bit timid, are you, Mike?" Becky made a fist and rapped on the door. When she knocked a second time, it was obvious the door had moved. "Hey, it's open, Mike. The door's open."

"You sure?"

"Look. Come on. Let's go in. Crawford doesn’t strike me as the absent-minded type but maybe he’s back in the lab and didn’t even know he had left the door open.”

They stepped into the darkness and Becky played the flashlight along the front wall until she found a rheostat switch and turned it up to make the room brightly lit.  Nothing appeared to have changed since she had been there the first time to tape the story with Burke. 

“Hello? Dr. Crawford? Are you back there?” 

There was no light in the rear hallway leading to the lab, either. Becky walked over and picked up a magazine on the coffee table and recognized it as a news weekly, which had been sitting there during their first visit. Burke stayed by the door, watching her.  She sniffed.

"This air smell a little stale to you, Mike?"

"It’s a laboratory, Beck. How’s it supposed to smell?”

“I don’t know; chemicals, maybe? But it smells kind of rancid in here, like he left garbage in the sink or something.” 

"Well, go look in the damned sink, Acuna, and then let’s get the hell outta here."

Becky dropped the magazine back to the table. "Relax, will you, Mike? Let’s go see if he’s in back. Might just have the lab door closed."

"Sure, as soon as you find another light switch. Guys my age get to be guys my age by staying out of dark passageways."

"Oh Mike, for God's sake."

If there was a control for the hall light, Becky was unable to find its location. The long hallway leading to the lab was cool, Becky assumed, because it was constructed so close to the rock wall of the canyon. 

Burke was behind her as she approached the door to the lab and found it opened and the work space containing the deadly viral tissues completely unsecured. Crawford, she recalled, was extremely security conscious because of the nature of his research and while he may have been in a hurry and left the front door unlocked, he would never have left the lab door unbolted while he was inside working. She stepped slowly across the threshold with Burke trailing her in the darkness.   

"Hey, back here, Beck." 

Burke had quickly moved off on his own search without a flashlight, probably trying to prove his bravura, Becky thought. She swung the flashlight toward his voice so that he was able to see a step leading up to a slightly raised work platform.          

"I gotta admit," Burke said. "This place is beginning to make me a bit uneasy."

"I picked up on that,” Becky whispered. “Me too, Mike. Let's just shine the flashlight around, see if we can find a switch for the overheads and then get out of here."

As Burke came back toward the flash light beam, Becky inched forward, trying to avoid knocking into any of the stainless steel tables she remembered being spread around the facility. A stand of glass vials flashed as she moved the light across them looking for any type of electrical switch. After a few minutes of searching in the most likely spots, she gave up and continued forward into the room. 

"Something smells pretty bad over here," Burke had gone behind one of the work benches. 

"Yeah, I know, but he cultures all kinds of growths in this place. God only knows what Crawford is growing in here at the moment and what we are exposing ourselves to."

"Well, it smells to me like he is growing shit, Acuna."

"Shut up, Mike."

Everything she saw within the blade of light appeared as she remembered. No one had broken in and tossed the place. She stepped forward again, slowly; her stomach fluttering. No reason to feel that way, she reminded herself, but she did. 

"Hey, Acuna, over here."

"Mike, where the hell are you now? I thought you were gonna stay behind me."

"I was. But that got boring. Hey, shine the light over here. I've stepped in something.  I don't know what in the hell it is. Might be that shit I smelled."

"Just a minute. I've got to spot you. Oh, there you are. I'm coming."

Burke put his hand on her shoulder when she reached where he was standing. He acted as if he were trying to gain some equilibrium.

"What's wrong, Mike? What is it?"

"Point that thing at the floor, will ya? My feet feel like they're stuck to the concrete."

A black gooey substance was spread in about a three foot area near where Burke was standing. As he lifted a shoe, Becky heard a sticky sucking sound when the sole separated from the floor, tarry black tendrils hung from his feet.

"What in the heck did you get into, Mike?" Becky began to kneel and reach her finger to touch the goo.

"Hey, don't, Beck." Burke almost yelled. "I am pretty sure I know what it is."

She stopped. "What?"

"It's blood. Old blood. I remember this from my days covering the cop shop. This is what it gets like."

"Blood? Whose blood? Jesus. Is someone in here? Hello, can anyone hear us?"

"If there is anyone in here, I doubt they are in any condition to hear us, Acuna."

Becky was almost in a state of panic now and whipped the light beam around to scan the room. Only when she had lowered it to her side, did she notice the feet pointing straight up at her. Burke saw the motionless body at exactly the same instant.

"I guess we better see if that's your scientist friend."

"Oh God. This can't be."

Burke reached over and took the flashlight from Becky’s hand and pointed it at the dead man’s face. Becky was reluctant to look.

"It’s him. Dead,” Burke rasped through a dry throat. “Been dead a while, too. No need for you to see this, Acuna, but I suppose you are gonna wanna look just to be sure.  But there is something else you ought to see."

Burke gently took her arm and Becky turned in the direction that he was pointing the flashlight. Barton Crawford’s eyes were open and even in rigor and decomposition his face was fixed in an expression revealing that his death had been a complete surprise. A small dark round hole was located just left of center in his forehead.  Blackened blood spread in a velvet sheet from the back of his skull to near where Mike Burke had initially stopped. Across the scientist's chest, someone had left a poster board sign with one word smeared in the dead man's blood. 

The rough script read, "Traitor."

Becky grabbed the railing around the workbench and tried to stop hyper-ventilating.  In all her years as a journalist, she had managed to avoid seeing a murder victim. 

“What do we do now, Mike?” she panted. “What do we do?”

“First thing we do is get the hell outta here. The next thing we’ll do is go somewhere and figure out what to do. Come on. Take my hand.”

Along the highway, the mountains did not appear to be moving behind them and Becky was anxious for a sign of progress that they were actually coming down out of the Superstitions. Even though Burke was driving twenty miles per hour over the speed limit, the roll of the truck’s tires was imperceptible and Becky felt chained to a false motionless.         

"I've got blood all over my shoes," Burke moaned. "It’s kind of hard to control the accelerator. It’s gonna be on everything in this damned truck.”

"Don't worry about it, Mike. We didn't do anything wrong. We've got nothing to hide."

"Yeah, I'm sure that's what Crawford was thinking when the bullet entered his brain."

A pair of headlights slipped past them going in the other direction and Becky found herself checking each car to see if it had that non-descript government appearance or if it was a law enforcement vehicle. She tried to convince herself she was being foolish. 

"Do you think we panicked, Mike? I mean, we didn't do anything too stupid, did we?"

"Hell, I don't know. But given the fact that someone had been there and killed one of the world's most well-known scientists, my gut was telling me it wasn't wise to wait around for them to come back and ask us for an assessment of their handiwork, regardless of the fact that he had been dead a while."

They found the burger joint where Burke had earlier in the evening insisted they stop for dinner and Becky was comforted by the warm yellow sign leaning out over the road. Inside, Burke went to the counter and ordered two 20 ounce drafts and brought them back to the wooden table where Becky was waiting.   

“Gimme your cell,” he said. “We’re calling the cops.”

“What? I thought we were going to talk this through. Are you sure? Aren’t they going to suspect us?”

“And what do you suggest we do, Acuna. Pretend like we haven’t seen what we just saw? That’s hardly responsible, especially for a couple of journalists.”

“Isn’t someone else going to find him, eventually?” She took several deep swallows of her beer, gulping it like water on a hot afternoon. “I don’t see why it has to be us.”

“It didn’t have to be, Beck. But it was. You were the one who wanted to come up here, remember?”

“Yep.” She slid her cell phone across the table. “But what if the cops had something to do with it?”

“I doubt that. Probably somebody higher up the food chain. I’ll call the sheriff’s office.  Isn’t anybody in the Maricopa County office smart enough to find that place, much less kill Crawford.”

“Okay, then.”

Burke had two more twenty-ounce drafts while they waited for the sheriff’s department officers. By the time they walked in the door, he was suitably drunk and disinclined to listen to anything accusatory. Two deputies were followed by a couple of plainclothes types in suit pants and white shirts with red ties.

“You two the reporters?” 

The deputy asking the question stood at the end of the table with his hand resting on nightstick hanging from his belt. He reminded Becky of a blonde and blocky pro football player who had come to the station for an interview.

“Yep, we are,” Burke answered.

“You wanna take us up there?”

“That’s why we called.” Burke stood and pointed at the plainclothes stiffs standing near the door. “They with you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who are they?”

“Feds. They’ve been working out of our office. Said Crawford was a government employee on a special project and they have jurisdiction. We’ll work that out later but I understand you already know about his secret work.”

“Yeah, well, so does everyone who watches the news on our station,” Becky said.

Suddenly, Mike Burke raised his voice and began speaking to everyone in the restaurant. 

“Hey everyone, I’m Mike Burke, managing editor of KSUN news and this is Becky Acuna. You all probably know her from TV. These nice gentlemen in the ties over by the door are from the federal government and they’re taking Becky and me up to a canyon not far from here to look at a murder victim. Just wanted to let you all know in case you don’t see Becky on the news any more after tonight.”

“He’s drunk, huh?” the big deputy asked Becky.

“Yeah, but pretty smart even when he is.”

“Well, let’s get this over with.”

Becky took Mike Burke by the arm and led him out to the police cruiser. They rode up the mountain in the back seat with the steel grill between them and the two deputies.  The federal agents followed in a dark blue Town Car. They had not spoken a word prior to leaving the restaurant.

At Crawford’s cabin, the deputies found the light controls easily after a brief search.  They did a cursory examination of the crime scene and then went out to their cruiser to radio for forensic assistance. The two government agents struck Becky as completely incurious as they stood with their arms folded on the other side of the room. Burke waited on a couch in the living area at the front of the cabin, smoking. 

“It’s late,” the blonde deputy said. “When forensics gets here, I’ll run the two of you back down the mountain to your car. But you’ll need to come in for extensive questioning first thing tomorrow.”

“That’s not how this goes.” The fed with the oily face and dark glasses had spoken.  Becky watched him take one step toward the sheriff’s deputy. 

“How’s that?” the deputy asked.

“You arrest them and cuff them and haul them downtown on suspicion of murder.” 

“These people aren’t suspects.”

“That’s not how the federal government sees it.”

“What do you mean ‘how you see it?’ You haven’t even looked at the crime scene or asked them a single question.”

“We’ve seen enough.”

“Well, I’m not arresting a news reporter and her boss,” the deputy said.

“Either you do it or we do it but it’s going to happen, deputy. The federal government will exercise jurisdictional authority here. This is U.S. government property.”

“You sonsabitches are somethin’ else.” The deputy shook his head, angrily. “I’ll take them downtown for processing after forensics gets here.”

“Very good. We’ll follow you so we can issue a full report to Washington tomorrow.”

 In a few hours, Becky Acuna, suburban professional and mother of two, married 22 years, Emmy award-winning TV news correspondent, and Mike Burke, Vietnam veteran who had a Peabody and Murrow in a box in his condo closet, were both sitting on cots behind steel bars at the Maricopa County Jail. They had been booked on suspicion of murder.