Riddles that Kill Page 4

  Rod stared at her, his face anguished. He then nodded. “You’re right. You can take care of yourself. I’m sorry it had to end this way, Maria. I really am.”

  Maria didn’t even force a smile. “Me too.”

  Chapter Four

  Toward the end of the 13th century, some cataclysmic event forced the Anasazi to flee those cliff houses. Just what happened has been the greatest puzzle facing archaeologists who study the ancient culture. Today’s Pueblo Indians have oral histories about their peoples’ migration, but the details of these stories remain closely guarded secrets. Within the past decade, however, archaeologists have wrung from the pristine ruins new understandings about why the Anasazi left, and the picture that emerges is dark. It includes violence and warfare—even cannibalism—among the Anasazi themselves.

  “Riddles of the Anasazi” by David Roberts, Smithsonian Magazine, July 2003.

  Tears dripped from Maria’s cheeks onto the ground as she climbed further up on “K Hill,” which turned more into a mountain. It was pitch black and the stars were brilliant lights on a backdrop of nothingness. In between her sobs, the silence was tangible. There was no trace of human existence except her own miserable one.

  What would the mountain sound like if I stopped breathing? If my heart quit beating?

  Maria violently shook her head. She didn’t let thoughts like that in her mind—not even when she was in solitary confinement. Less than a year later and she’d gone weak. Just because some man dumped her didn’t mean she had nothing to live for.

  She’d been crying for hours. It had been a steady release of the betrayal and disappointment she felt over Rod’s announcement. At last there were no tears left. She was as parched as the desert around her. Perhaps now she could think straight. While her heart still ached, and would for a long time, at least her mind no longer was numb.

  What was she to do with herself? Where should she go?

  It was ludicrous she’d let herself get pulled in this far. Nothing and no one could dictate her emotions. Not starvation. Not a terrorist. And certainly not a man in designer jeans, a t-shirt, and a cowboy hat.

  Life had given her so much. Seven people went to Tehran. Only one came out. She wouldn’t squander that gift. She had to show herself and the world that she was grateful for the second chance.

  She would put Rod behind her and focus on what was important. The thing that really mattered—catching bad guys.

  Maybe it was time to leave the town of Kanab behind her. She was doing so much better. The hallucinations had stopped. Her PTSD seemed well under control. Perhaps the CIA would take her back?

  The thought generated a whirlwind of excitement and fear at the same time. She felt that she would make a better operative now than she had been before. She knew her strengths and her weaknesses. She was better with people—she hoped. And to top it off, she had some “gift” that Sierra Materfamilias had told her about in Arizona. The old woman had called it the “Sight.” Maria had looked it up online and read every conspiracy theory out there, but none of it made any sense. Certainly nothing sounded like it was written by logical, functioning human beings.

  Since Arizona, Maria hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. No dogs with human feet. No men who turned into birds. No 500-year-old Aztec ghosts. And no dead cousins of Rod’s ex-wife. Maybe the Sight wasn’t real. Or maybe she really didn’t have it. Maybe all of that had been a temporary glitch into the spectral world, but it was now over. Someday she’d like to ask Jim about the Sight. Jim was the government consultant on all things Native American and the one who had cured her of the hallucinations with his unconventional “cut-off-your-toe” therapy in the Moquith Mountains.

  Moonlight bounced off the white flowers blossoming on the small cacti scattering the ground. It was late and she was tired, physically and mentally. Her mother had always told her to never make big decisions when she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep. Deciding whether she should return to the CIA would have to happen another day.

  The ground was hard, but the surroundings so peaceful. Maria found a level spot of mountain-side and wrapped herself in a metallic emergency blanket she kept in her backpack. She positioned her arm under her to serve as a pillow and closed her eyes.

  Things would be better in the morning.

  Manila file folders holding the profiles of each member of Maria’s black ops team were splayed open on the table directly in front of her. Filthy, bearded men who sported rifles and machetes as carelessly as a child would carry a baseball bat stood at her side. “We know who you are.”

  Maria scanned the documents. The terrorists did know a lot. About all of them. They even knew each of the prisoners’ blood types. Why they wanted to know that was a mystery.

  Regardless, Maria did her best to appear unimpressed. But inside she was drowning in confusion and regret.

  How had things gone so wrong?

  “Read the files!” shouted the man closest to her. Spittle from his mouth landed on the folder closest to her. “I want to hear you read every word out loud!”

  Maria would play their game—for the moment. There was no reason to have them kill her yet. She needed to find out where the others were. How they were. Whether or not they were alive. She articulated every syllable, her own way of mocking them. “Maria L. Branson. Pittsburg, Pennsylvania. Age 31. Blood type O-.”

  “And this one.” Dirty fingers pushed another of the files toward her. “Read his name.”

  Maintaining a steady tone, Maria read the name, hometown, and age of each of her captured comrades.

  “Jerry C. Andres. Boston, Massachusetts. Age 33. Deborah K. Burrows. Stone Mountain, Georgia. Age 30.” Maria took a breath.

  “Continue,” came the thickly accented command.

  “Alex B. Cowan. Tacoma, Washington. Age 40.” Maria’s head hurt and her dry mouth tripped on her own tongue. “Gil A. Blake. Phoenix, Arizona. Age 27. Samantha Jones. Albuquerque, New Mexico. Age 26.”

  She bit her lip and read the last name. “Ryan Anderson. Houston, Texas. Age 33.” Inside Maria’s stomach twisted and convulsed, though on the outside she sported the best poker face of her life.

  Ryan Anderson was like a brother to her. At least he had been for the first few months they knew each other and then, well, even Maria was willing to admit an attraction had developed. Slowly. Nothing hot or heavy, but a mutual desire to be by each other. They had kept their feelings at bay because they worked together. But Maria had often entertained the thought that things might be different if a reassignment was made. When the arms deal had gone south and the sting had turned out to be a trap, it was Ryan who had stepped in front of her, trying to shield her so she might be able to get away.

  It hadn’t worked, but Maria would never forget his quick movements. His desire to protect her. He hadn’t thought twice. It was like that with Ryan.

  Maria clenched her fists. She would survive this ordeal. She would tell Ryan ‘thank you,’ and maybe, if he was still interested, they would take their attraction to a higher level. But for now, she had to not let these horrible men know what Ryan meant to her.

  A snicker came from across the room. “What do you think now? Do you believe us when we tell you we know who you are and why you are here?” The head terrorist stood up. The man obsessively picked at a sore on his face.

  “Actually,” Maria sneered, “you got my middle initial wrong,” she said. “It’s a ‘T’ for Tait, my mother’s maiden name.”

  It was a lie, of course. But she so badly wanted to swipe the smug look off his face.

  One of the men reached over and slapped her across the cheek. It stung, but only where she already had open cuts. The rest of her face was already numb.

  “We want to know where the other members of your team are hiding. Six is too few. There must be more.”

  Actually, six was all there were. Seven, including her, but there was no way Maria would tell them that. If they thought she had backup coming, maybe they’d be willi
ng to bargain.

  “I have nothing to say.” Maria waited for the backlash—a hit, a kick, maybe they’d pound her head on the table again. But nothing came.

  A man in the back grunted and the next thing Maria knew the door to her interrogation cell flew open.

  That was it? Just some slaps? A few whips? Could that really be all these terrorists had in them? Maybe they were just ordinary Iranians pretending to be terrorists. Perhaps they would take her back to her cell now.

  But the men didn’t hoist her out of the chair to which her hands and feet were tied. Instead, a six foot three inch man who was once solid muscle was manhandled into the room. From his frame Maria knew who it was even with the cloth bag tied over his head.

  Alex.

  He’d been one of the first people who volunteered to come to Tehran with Maria. They’d worked together before and he’d said he thought she ran a tight ship. A quick intake of air on Maria’s part was difficult to hide.

  “Any last words to your friend?” The man who had been interrogating Maria sidled up next to her in an inappropriate way and leered into her face. “What is it you Americans like to tell people before death?”

  “Alex?” Maria’s voice wavered slightly.

  The hooded man stayed still. The terrorist who had herded him into the room jabbed him under the ribs. “Tell her your name, pig.”

  The hooded figure bent over in pain, but stood back up, defiant in his posture. “My name is Alex.”

  “Bend over,” his captor commanded.

  Alex did as he was told.

  “I …” Maria stopped.

  These people liked to humiliate and instill fear first. Then negotiate. If needed, Maria could conjure up fake names and identities of other non-existent black ops members. It may keep the monsters busy looking for people who didn’t exist. But above all she had to bide her time. Every action needed to be deliberate. She had to sense their desire. How much they would give. What they would bring to the table. This was early in the interrogation. She had time.

  One of the terrorists who had been swinging his machete back and forth during the questioning took a step forward. He reared his left arm back.

  Why did Maria notice it was his left arm? Such a stupid detail, but she did.

  He brought the weapon forward with a hard swoosh. Moments later, blood was everywhere. On the executioner. On Maria. And on the decapitated body on the floor.

  Maria vomited.

  Again. And again. And again.

  They had not played the game according to the rules Maria expected. They had cheated, and now Alex was dead.

  Behind her people laughed and hollered at the same time. The room grew larger, more angular, and cold. So very, very cold.

  Maria turned, straining to see who was making such a racket. The voices were familiar. American. As she twisted more in her chair and five people came into view. They weren’t really bodies. More like projected images. But she knew each of them.

  Alex.

  Jerry.

  Deborah.

  Gil.

  Samantha.

  And … Ryan.

  They faded in and out of visibility, their translucent bodies mangled. Dead. Murdered. Literally every form of torture had been employed. Shot. Suffocated. Hung. Drowned. Beaten.

  One had no hands.

  Was that even possible?

  Most had lost teeth.

  Maria’s entire body shook. She heard their pleas. Their shrieks of pain. Their moans of defeat.

  She tried to reach out to them to help, but her hands were tethered to her chair.

  The room spun.

  Her friends faded.

  Into the crisp Kanab night air Maria screamed. A sound of desperation full of earth-shattering guilt.

  Awakened from the dream, Maria could tell she’d been crying. Chilly tears streaked her cheeks. She was cold, inside and out. The ground, though hard, was the only stable thing in her life. She wished to lie there forever and never face reality again.

  She remembered the last few thoughts she’d had before drifting off. Something about going back to the CIA.

  Ridiculous. She couldn’t go back there. Her sanity could never take it. Besides, they wouldn’t want her back. It’s not like she had some pristine record. No, her record showed that under her leadership six people were tortured and killed. Six skilled, brilliant, innately good people would never see their families again. Would never walk on American soil. Would never wake up with a bright morning ahead of them.

  Maria groaned and rolled over. She couldn’t squander another moment on this mountainside. Whether or not Rod wanted to be a part of her life was unimportant. At least she had her life. And that was enough motivation to get up, put her metallic blanket away, and use the flashlight feature on her phone to stumble down the mountain back home.

  She was a survivor, which meant she had to survive. And to do that she had to go through the motions of being police chief in Kanab for one more day. She would do it, and she would play the part well.

  She had to. She would do it for Jerry, Deborah, Alex, Gil, Samantha, and Ryan. And she would do it to show the loathsome men who had kept her captive in Tehran that they would never, ever get the best of her.

  Chapter Five

  Because of a popular and ingrained perception that sedentary ancient cultures were peaceful, archaeologists have been reluctant to acknowledge that the Anasazi could have been violent. [But] after excavating sites… archaeologist teams found the remains of individuals who met violent deaths—skulls bashed in—and others who might have been battle victims, their skeletons left sprawling.

  “Riddles of the Anasazi” by David Roberts, Smithsonian Magazine, July 2003.

  At 8:30 a.m. Maria’s cell phone chimed. She looked at the screen to see if it was possibly Rod calling to tell her he’d changed his mind. That he hadn’t been feeling well when he’d said the things he had last night.

  The screen showed Pete’s name. Her hard-working associate at the police station. “Hello, Pete,” she answered, no trace of last night’s disappointment in her voice.

  “Maria, I know you don’t get in until 9 a.m. today, but we’ve got some people from Nevada’s sheriff department here wanting to interview you about the incident in the creek. One of the perpetrators is back on the loose and they’d like to gather a little more info from you.”

  “Thanks, Pete. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

  “Great. See you then.”

  “And Pete?” Maria added.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for doing such a great job. I don’t tell you that enough.” Maria hung up and slipped the phone into her pocket. It was time to get to work.

  About once a week Maria had to actually pull the siren out from under the front passenger seat of her cop car and put it on the roof. That was how often she had the need to go fast in Kanab.

  Today was such a day.

  While the briefing from the Nevada police had gone well in the morning, ever since then things had been busy. First a shoplifting at the drug store and then a domestic dispute. The latest call had come from Beth about a disturbance at the reservoir, which was under construction.

  Maria radioed Pete as her siren blared.

  “Pete,” she barked, “get over to the new reservoir as soon as you can. I’m headed there now, and I hear it’s a nightmare. Total chaos.”

  A few seconds later Pete’s voice came through the receiver. “This is Pete. What’s going on at the reservoir?”

  “From what I can tell … a riot.”

  “What?” Pete’s surprise matched hers.

  “I got a call from Beth a minute ago. She said there was an elementary field trip today to see some of the unique rock formations out east of where they’re building the new reservoir. Apparently, while the kids were there, some protestors against the construction of the reservoir showed up and an altercation ensued between one of the protestors and a construction worker.”

  Pete whistled
long and hard over the radio. “My guess is Mrs. Wolfgramme has been up to her activist work again.”

  Mrs. Wolfgramme? Good grief. That woman had her fingers into everything. She was the one who led a picket line against the police department when they arrested Whitney Thatcher in connection with the mayor’s murder.

  “Okay, that’s making more sense,” said Maria. “Heaven knows no one in their right mind would want to make Mrs. Wolfgramme mad.” She flipped on her blinker and made a right turn to get onto the state highway leading to the reservoir.

  “How did Beth know about the altercation?” asked Pete.

  “A bunch of the kids texted their parents photos of what was going on, so then half the parents in town, including Beth, drove over to make sure their kids were okay and check on the situation.”

  “Great,” Pete mumbled. “Grumpy parents. My least favorite kind of people.”

  “Oh, it gets worse,” continued Maria. “Beth said not too long ago the developer showed up as well as some officials from the EPA along with a Tribal Representative. I think it’s an all-out free for all.”

  “Gotcha. I’m on my way.” Pete’s voice was tense.

  “Thanks, Pete,” Maria said. “I’m headed there now as well. I’ve got a feeling I may need back up, especially if Mrs. Wolfgramme is involved.”

  Pete snorted and signed off.

  Maria hung up her own radio and pushed on the gas pedal.

  It was like the town had decided to hold its own version of Woodstock, minus the flowered tie-dye t-shirts and incense burners. With only a cursory glance, Maria found it hard to distinguish between protestor and parent, construction worker and government official. Maria opened the car door and stood up, using the edge of her vehicle to gain a few feet of added height. She wanted to get a full view of the situation.

  Parts of the reservoir had already been filled with water that gave off a faint sewer smell. The hot afternoon sun was strong enough to melt plastic. Maria wiped the perspiration from her forehead and looked carefully into the crowd.