The next morning, Joe headed out to the Riverside RV Park to pay a visit to Cleve Garrett, self-proclaimed expert in the paranormal. Joe prayed that his mother-in-law would never find out about this. He cringed just thinking about the multitude of woo-woo questions she'd have for him. The RV park was located on the west bank of the river and was surrounded by three acres of heavily wooded and seriously overgrown river cottonwoods.
As Joe nosed his pickup onto the ancient steel bridge, he thought that the RV park looked like the aftermath of a giant garbage can tipped over in the wind. Bits of glass, metal, weathered plywood, and old tires looked like they were caught in the spidery silver trees that had just lost the last of their leaves. On closer inspection, however, he saw that the trash was actually a number of aging mobile homes tucked into alcoves among the trees. The old tires had been placed on the tops of the mobile homes to keep the roofs from blowing off in the wind.
Under the bridge, he noticed a single fisherman in the water below, and smiled. It was the man known as Not Ike, who since his arrival in Saddlestring, had become the single most dedicated fly-fisherman Joe had ever seen. Not Ike was the "slow" cousin of Ike Easter, the county clerk. Because Ike Easter had been the only black face in Saddlestring for ten years, when his cousin the fly-fisherman moved to town he found himself being called Ike everywhere he went, so he had a sweatshirt printed up that said I'M NOT IKE. But instead of being called by his actual name, which was George, he became known as Not Ike.
Along with a couple of retired local men named Hans and Jack, Not Ike worked the pocket waters near the two bridges that crossed the Twelve Sleep River for trout, and Joe had seen him out there in every kind of weather. Because Not Ike couldn't yet afford an annual nonresident license, he bought cheaper, three- and five-day temporary licenses, one after the other, as they expired, so he could keep fishing. At least Joe hoped Not Ike was still buying the licenses, and made a mental note to check him out later.
As he reached the other side of the bridge, Joe turned left and passed under a faded hanging sign announcing his entrance to the Riverside Resort and RV Park.
Although once conceived as a "resort," the Riverside RV Park had declined and amalgamated into a sort of idiosyncratic hybrid. Most of the spaces were occupied by permanent residents; retirees from the lumber mill, service workers for the Eagle Mountain Club, transients, and now CBM crews. A few new model mobile homes with strips of neat landscaped lawn sat next to sagging, dented trailers mounted on cinder blocks, with out-of-plumb wooden storage sheds occupying every foot of the property. From the entrance, the road branched into three lanes, with mobile homes lining both sides of the lanes.
Joe had been to the Riverside two years before, following up on an anonymous poaching tip, so he was somewhat familiar with the layout. He had caught two employees of a highway construction crew skinning prong- horn antelopes hung from trees behind a rented trailer, and he had arrested them both for taking the animals out of season. The RV park had changed very little since then, although due to the influx of CBM workers, it now looked as if most of the spaces were occupied.
He stopped at the first trailer, the one with RESORT MANAGER in sculpted wrought-iron above the gate. The trailer had been there long enough that the silver skin of the unit had oxidized into pewter. A basket of frosted plastic flowers hung from a sun porch near the door.
Leaving his truck idling with Maxine curled and sleeping under the dashboard heater vent, he swung out and clamped on his gray Stetson. It was a cold, still morning, and the park was silent. He zipped his coat up a few inches, and thrust his hands into his coat pockets.
He could smell coffee brewing and bacon frying from inside the manager's office as he approached the door. The doorbell rang, and he stepped back on the porch and waited, wishing the bright morning sun could find him through the trees and warm his back.
The interior door clicked and opened inward, then the manager pushed the screen door open.
"Good morning, Jimbo," Joe said.
Jimbo Francis had been the manager of the Riverside since Joe had moved to the Saddlestring District. He was a big man with a massive belly. His face was as round as a hubcap, with protruding ears and a band of wispy, white cotton under a bald dome that expanded into a full mustache and beard stained with streaks of yellow. Jimbo had once been a government trapper, in charge of eradicating predators in the Bighorns and valleys by shooting, trapping, or poisoning them. When federal funding was withdrawn, he had taken the job of managing the "resort" temporarily, until funding for the program was restored. That was twenty-five years before, and he was still waiting. Jimbo was also a self-proclaimed patron of the arts, and was the chairman of the Saddlestring Library Foundation. He had once told Joe and Marybeth that his passion in life was "reading books and eradicating vermin." Now that he was in his late seventies and his eyes were failing-he had been instrumental in creating the books-on-tape section in the library-both of his passions were waning. As was his sanity, Joe suspected.
"And a good morning to you, Vern Dunnegan!" Jimbo boomed.
"Joe Pickett," Joe corrected. "Vern's been gone for six years. I replaced him." Vern's in prison where he belongs, Joe thought but didn't say. No reason to confuse Jimbo further.
"I knew that, I guess," Jimbo said, rubbing his hand through his hair. "Of course I knew that. I don't know what I was thinking. Vern was here so damned long, I guess, that I still think of him. That just goes to show you that a man shouldn't open his door in the morning until he's had his first three cups of coffee. I knew Vern was gone."
"Sure you did," Joe said, patting Jimbo on the shoulder.
"Is Marybeth still working at the library?" he asked, as if trying to further prove he was lucid.
"Not anymore, I'm afraid."
"That's too goddamn bad," Jimbo said. "She was a looker."
Joe sighed.
"You need some coffee? You're here pretty early, Joe. I've got breakfast started. Do you want some eggs and bacon?"
"No thanks, Jimbo. I need to check with you on a new renter."
"We call them guests."
"Okay. On a new guest. The name is Cleve Garrett."
Jimbo rolled his eyes into his head, as if trying to find his mental rental list. Joe waited for Jimbo's eyes to reappear. When they did, Jimbo said, "It's a cold morning. Do you want to come in?"
"That's okay," Joe said patiently. He remembered the interior of Jimbo's trailer from before. The place was claustrophobic, books crammed among Jimbo's collection of coyote, badger, beaver, and mountain lion skulls, empty eye sockets of dozens of predators looking out over everything. "If you could just tell me what space Cleve Garrett is renting, I'll be off."
"He's got a girl with him," Jimbo said. "Skinny little number."
Joe nodded. He could have simply cruised the lanes, looking for the new RV. But he'd wanted to clear it with Jimbo first. Now he was regretting his choice.
"He's here, then."
"He's here, all right," Jimbo said. "Been a parade of folks through here lately, all asking about 'Cleve Garrett, Cleve Garrett.' They're all star- struck. He's some kind of big expert in the paranormal, I guess. He's giving lectures on it. I plan to attend a couple. Maybe we can get him to speak at the library while he's here."
"Maybe," Joe said, his patience just about gone. "Which space is he in?"
"Lot C-17," Jimbo said finally. "You know, I've seen him before, but I can't figure out where. Maybe on television or something. These mutilations in our community are weighing heavily on my mind. You want a strip of bacon to go?"
Chewing on the bacon, Joe drove down lane C. He tossed the second half of the strip to Maxine.
Cleve Garrett's trailer was obvious before Joe even looked at the lot numbers. It couldn't have been more out of place. Joe fought an urge to laugh out loud, but at the same time he felt an icy electric tingle shoot up his spine. The huge trailer stood out as if it were a spacecraft that had docked in a cemetery. A bulging, extremely expensive, gleaming silver Airstream-the Lexus of trailers-bristled with antennae and small satellite dishes. A device shaped like a tuning fork rotated in the air near the front of the trailer. The Airstream was unhitched, and the modified, dual-wheeled diesel Suburban that had pulled it was parked to the side. Joe stopped his truck briefly behind the Suburban, jotting down the Nevada license plate numbers in his notebook before pulling to the other side of the trailer.
A Formica plate was bolted to the front door. It read:
DR. CLEVE GARRETT ICONOCLAST SOCIETY RENO, NEVADA
Joe turned off his motor and shut his door when the Airstream door opened and a smiling, owlish man stepped out.
"Cleve Garrett?"
"Dr. Cleve Garrett," the man corrected, pulling an oversized sweater around him. Garrett was in his late forties, thin, with a limp helmet of hair that gave him a disagreeably youthful appearance. His mouth was wide, with almost nonexistent lips, and it turned down sharply at each corner. His nose was long and aquiline, and his big eyes dominated his face, appearing even larger through thick, round lenses.
"Joe Pickett. I'm the game warden and a member of the task force investigating the mutilations."
Garrett tilted his head back, as if looking at Joe through his thin nostrils.
"I was wondering when someone was going to show up. I'm a little surprised they sent a game warden."
"Sorry to disappoint you," Joe said, although he wasn't.
Garrett waved it away. "Never mind. Come on in, I've been waiting. Everything is ready."
Joe hesitated. Everything is ready? He pondered revealing to Garrett that he had some background on him, and his "work" in Montana, courtesy of Dave Avery. Joe chose not to say anything yet, to let Garrett do the talking.
"Iconoclast Society?" Joe asked. "What's that?"
Garrett's large eyes widened even further, filling the lenses, unnerving Joe.
"Iconoclast," Garrett said. "Breaker of images. Burster of bubbles. Denouncer. Decrier. Without passion. I'm a scientist, Mr. Pickett."
Joe said, "Oh," wondering why he had volunteered to Hersig to take this part of the investigation.
"Let me show you what you people are up against," Garrett said.
Stepping into the Airstream was like stepping inside a computer, Joe thought. On three of the four walls were shelf brackets that held stacks of electronic equipment and gauges, monitors, and keyboards. There was the low hum of high-tech equipment and the hushing sound of tiny interior fans. Wires and cables bound by duct tape snaked through the equipment and across the ceiling.
On the back wall of the room was a closed door that obviously led to the rest of the trailer. On either side of the door were stainless steel counters and sinks, littered beakers, and glass tubing. The pegboard walls near the door displayed medical and mechanical tools.
Joe folded himself onto a stool on one side of a small metal table stacked high with files, folders, and printouts. Garrett took the other stool and started arranging the folders in front of him.
"Quite a place," Joe said, removing his hat and looking around.
"The trailer was modified to be a mobile lab and command center," Garrett said brusquely, as if he'd explained it a thousand times to others and wanted to get it out of the way quickly so they could move on with things.
"A million and a half dollars worth of the latest hardware, software, and monitoring devices. The lab takes up the front half of the trailer, living quarters take up the back. We've got an interior generator, although I prefer to pull into a place like this," he gestured vaguely toward the outside, referring to the Riverside Park, "so I can plug in. All of our data and findings are synched via satellite to our center in Nevada, where half a dozen other scientists analyze it as well. I can be totally mobile and on the road within two hours to get to a site. I was here in Saddlestring, for example, within forty-eight hours of the first discovery of the mutilated cattle."
Joe nodded. "Who pays for all of this?"
"We're totally, completely private," Garrett said. "We accept no corporate or government funds at all. Therefore, we're not compromised. We're a completely independent center devoted to impartial scientific research into paranormal activities."
"So," Joe asked again, "who pays for all of this?"
Garrett showed a hint of annoyance. "Ninety-eight percent of our funding comes from a single source. He's a highly successful entrepreneur named Marco Weakland. You've probably heard of him."
"I haven't," Joe said.
"Among his many ventures, he has a particular interest in paranormal psychology and science. It fascinates him. He uses a very small part of his fortune to fund this project and to employ some of the best alternative scientists in the world. Our job is to get to the scene of unexplained activity and analyze it in pure scientific terms. Mr. Weakland doesn't trust government conclusions, and frankly we've disproved and debunked more phenomena as hoaxes than found actual evidence of paranormal or supernatural activity. And we've found completely natural explanations for most of the phenomena we've investigated in the three short years we've been in operation. Don't get me wrong, Mr. Weakland sincerely believes in the possibility of alien beings, civilizations, and incursions, as do I. But he wants them proven, scientifically, before he brings them to light. What I don't quite understand, Mr. Pickett, is why I'm explaining all of this to you when I already went into it in some detail with the Sheriff's Department."
Joe had a mental image of Deputy McLanahan listening to Garrett over the telephone while doing the crossword puzzle in the back of the TV Guide.
"The deputy communicated very little of your conversation," Joe said, not liking to make excuses for McLanahan.
"Well," Garrett said, looking annoyed, "then that explains why I wasn't asked to participate in your task-force meeting."
Joe looked at Garrett blankly.
"In fact, if you people were really interested in getting to the bottom of these mutilations and murders, you would appoint me cochair of the task force."
"You'd need to talk to the county DA about that," Joe said. "His name is Robey Hersig." Joe made a mental note to call Hersig as soon as he could and warn him that Dr. Cleve Garrett would be contacting him.
For thirty minutes, Garrett spoke nonstop and Joe listened. Cleve Gar- rett showed Joe photographs of mutilated cattle, sheep, horses, and goats that had been taken over the last four decades in the United States and Canada, and throughout South and Central America. Mutilated dairy cattle had been reported in the United Kingdom and Europe in the 1960s, often at the same time alleged crop circles were discovered. Official explanations for the mutilations were as varied as their geography, but most involved birds, insects, or cults.
The photos and case files-many of them ancient carbon copies and several written in Spanish and Portuguese-piled up on the table in front of them. The last few case files held photos and names of places Joe recognized. Conrad, Montana. Helena, Montana.
"Last winter, mutilated cattle were discovered in Montana," Garrett said. "Someone up there was familiar with our group and called us. Unfortunately, they called us three weeks too late. By the time I got there, the local yokels had completely tromped all over the crime scenes, and they refused our assistance."
Joe listened silently, not letting on that he had heard Dave Avery's side of this story.
"We were able to obtain the heads of several of the cattle, but they were nearly two months old at that point. We shipped them to our facility in Reno for technical analysis."
Garrett dropped a thick file of necropsy photos on the table. Joe opened the folder to see the skinless head of a cow with the top of its skull cut off. Someone probed a flat metal tool into the cow's withered brain in a gesture that looked uncomfortably like the act of scooping peanut butter from a jar with a butter knife. Gently closing the folder, Joe felt his morning coffee burble in his stomach.
"What we found were levels of a chemical in the brains and organs in excess of what should be there naturally."
Joe thought oxindole, but said: "What was it?"
Garrett started to answer, pulled back, and said coyly, "I'll save the results for the task-force meeting."
"So we're playing games here?"
"I don't play games. I just don't want to show all of my cards until we're in an official setting and I've been given some standing in the task force."
Joe nodded. "Go on."
Garrett continued, "Some of the trace chemicals discovered were absolutely unknown to our scientists. You understand? Unknown! Poisons or sedatives not of this world were found in the brain tissue of Montana cattle. Not only that, but the incisions had been performed by ultrahigh- temperature laser instruments-instruments available only in leading surgical hospitals, not in the field. Certainly, this type of procedure could not have been done in the elements outside of Conrad, Montana."
Joe was intrigued. He looked up, needing a break from the photos, which, in their quantity alone, were numbing.
"So what did you determine?" Joe asked.
Garrett sighed. "What we determined was that we were too late to do proper on-site analysis. We kept waiting for fresh incidents in Montana, but they never came. We were very disappointed. Our scientists were begging for fresher tissue to study before natural decomposition occurred. But whatever had mutilated the cattle had moved on."
"Here to Twelve Sleep County," Joe said.
"YES!" Garrett shouted, nearly upsetting the table. His sudden exclamation sounded like a gunshot in the silent room. "Now we're right in the middle of it, right where it's happening. Not only cattle and wildlife, but perhaps, for the first time, human beings! This is why I need to be on the task force. Why I need to be involved, and to be kept informed. You people have a resource here," he thumped his chest, indicating himself, "that you can't ignore, that you shouldn't ignore. Look at the equipment in this laboratory. Can you even imagine a more fortuitous circumstance?"
Joe looked up. "I can't speak for the task force."
"From what we can determine," Garrett said, plowing ahead as if Joe hadn't spoken, "wildlife and livestock mutilations aren't random at all. What we're beginning to believe is that the mutilations are ongoing, and perpetual, and have been for at least forty years."
"You lost me," Joe said.
"You lost yourself" Garrett snapped. He had been getting more and more animated as he spoke, and was now highly agitated. His hands flew about as he spoke and his eyes, if possible, had become even wider.
"What we're saying is that the mutilations are like the worldwide circulation of the flu bug. They never really stop, they just keep moving around the earth. There are blank spots in time-years, in fact-where there are no reported incidents, but that's because we don't have information from places like Africa or the Asian continent or Russia. And we certainly don't have data about the hundreds-or thousands-of incidents that are never even discovered or recognized for what they were. Do you know what this means?"
"What's that?" Joe asked, knowing he sounded doltish.
Garrett rose and leaned forward on the small table. His damp palms stuck to papers and files, puckering them. "It could well be that beings are conducting full-time research on our planet. Whether they're doing it for genetic or physiological reasons, we don't know. But they're digging rather aggressively in our own Petri dish, trying to discover, or confirm, or create something."
Garrett let his words hang in the air, obviously hoping that Joe would understand their significance
"If they're here now, we have the best opportunity we've ever had of contacting them directly. We can let them know we're on to their little game, and maybe offer to assist them. Perhaps we can start to build trust, exchange ideas. What is happening out there right now may be one of the most important opportunities to happen in our lifetime!"
Or not, Joe thought.
"What about the human victims? Where do they fit into your theory?" Joe asked.
Garrett stifled a smile. Actually, a mad grin, Joe thought.
"This is where things get interesting," Garrett said, his voice nearly a whisper. "They've obviously stepped up their research in one bold stroke."
"Why now?" Joe asked. "And why two men, for that matter?"
Garrett shook his head. "That I can't quite figure out, although I have some ideas on it. One of my ideas you're not going to want to hear."
He said it in a way that led Joe to believe that Garrett couldn't wait to continue. Joe responded by raising his eyebrows.
"At least one of the two men was killed by other means," Garrett said quickly for maximum impact.
Joe felt his stomach churn. He would have to get out of the trailer soon, he thought.
"What makes you say that?"
Garrett raised his hands, palms up. "From what I understand, the two men were killed at least fifty miles apart on the same night. Both were mutilated in similar fashion to the cattle and wildlife. But one of the men was dragged from the murder scene and fed on by a bear and the other was found in pristine condition." Joe nodded. "Obviously, something is wrong here. One of the primary characteristics of cattle and wildlife mutilations has been the lack of predation. I've got hundreds of photos to prove it. But a predator fed on the corpse of one of the murdered men only hours after he was killed. Doesn't this strike you as odd?" "Yes," Joe admitted. "There's more, much more." Garrett said, his hands flying around like doves released from a cage. "Yes?" "I'll save the rest for the task-force meeting." Joe noticed something different in the room, smelled something, and turned his head. The door at the end of the room near the sinks was ajar. He hadn't heard it open, but the odor he smelled was cigarette smoke. As he watched, the door pushed open and a woman stepped through it. She was young, pale, and thin, with straight, shoulder-length blond hair parted in the middle. She wore all black-black jeans, Doc Martens boots, long-sleeved turtleneck. Her lips were painted black and her dark blue eyes were bordered by heavy mascara. She is not beautiful, Joe thought. Without the statement in black, she would be unremarkable. Garrett turned as well, angry. "Deena, what have I told you about letting smoke in here with my expensive equipment?" Deena fixed her eyes on Joe, and when she answered she didn't shift them. "I'm sorry, Cleve. I heard loud voices, so I…" "Please shut the door," Garrett said sternly. As if talking to a child, Joe thought. Joe looked back. Her eyes and expression were remarkable in their lack of content. But it seemed as if she were trying to connect with him in some way, for some reason. "Deena…" Garrett cautioned.
"Bye," Deena said in a little-girl voice, and stepped back through the door, closing it.
Joe looked to Garrett for an explanation. Garrett, again, looked agitated. His dramatic monologue had been interrupted.
"Deena's been with me since Montana," Garrett said, his eyes icy. But Joe noticed a flush in his cheeks, as if he were embarrassed to have to explain anything. "She's a hanger-on, I guess you'd call her. My line of work attracts people who are a bit on the edge of the rest of society. I'm doing what I can to help her out with her journey."
"Is she even seventeen?" Joe said coldly.
"She's nineteen!" Garrett hissed. "More than legal age. She knows what she's doing."
Joe simply nodded, then pushed his stool back.
"What, you're leaving?"
"I've heard enough from you for today, I think."
Joe stood, picked up his hat, and turned for the door. Garrett followed.
"I think I know what's happening out there, Mr. Pickett. I'm so close to it I can almost shout it out! But you've got to give me access to the task force and your findings. I need to see the case files, and the investigative notes. And you must make sure I'm notified immediately in the instance of another discovery."
"I gave you Robey's name, right? You'll have to call him for all of that," Joe said over his shoulder as he stepped out of the trailer.
"I need you to vouch for me," Garrett pleaded. "I beg of you, sir!"
Joe opened the door of his pickup, hesitating for a moment. Garrett stood near the front of his Airstream, palms out, pleading.
"I'll talk to them," Joe said. "I need to settle on exactly what I'm going to say."
"That's all I ask," Garrett said, his face lighting up. "That's all I ask."
He saw her in the heavy trees before he made the turn to leave the Riverside Resort and RV Park. It was a glimpse through the passenger window; amidst the tree trunks were her eyes, framed by dark makeup. Joe checked his rearview mirror. Cleve Garrett had returned to his trailer, and the front window of the Airstream was obscured by overgrown branches that reached down from the side of the lane. Garrett would not be able to see him. He stopped and got out. "Deena?" "Yes." He walked across the gravel lane into the soft mulch on the floor of the tree stand. She leaned against a massive old-growth river cottonwood trunk. She had no coat, and her face was even paler than he recalled from a few moments before. She hugged herself, her long, white fingers with black painted nails gripping opposite shoulders. He asked, "Were you trying to tell me something back there?" She searched his face with her eyes, trying to read him. "I guess so." Her voice trembled. "Maybe…" Was she cold or scared? he wondered. Joe stripped his jacket off and fitted it over her shoulders. "What year were you born, Deena?" he asked. As he suspected, he saw a twitch of confusion as she tried to do the math. Did she know that Gar- rett had said she was nineteen? Deena gave up, not even trying to lie. "Please don't send me back to Montana. There's nothing I want to go back to. There's nobody up there who wants me back." "What did you want to tell me, Deena?" Joe searched her face, looked her over. Beneath the cover of foundation was a road map of acne scars on both cheeks. A smear of shiny, black lip gloss dropped from the corner of her mouth like a comma. "I didn't hear very much of what you two were talking about," she said in a voice so weak he strained to hear it, "but I know there's more to Cleve than meets the eye. And there's less, too, I guess." She looked up and smiled hauntingly, as if sharing a secret. Unfortunately, Joe didn't know what she meant. "You don't understand, do you?" "Nope." She looked furtively over her shoulder in the direction of the Air- stream, as if calculating how much time she had. "Do you have an e-mail address?" she asked Joe. He nodded. "I'll e-mail you, then. I don't think we have the time to get into all of it here. I have an e-mail account Cleve doesn't know about." "Deena, are you being held against your will?" he asked. "Do you need a place to stay?" She grinned icily and shook her head. "There's no place in the world, in the cosmos, that I'd rather be than right here, right now. I'm no prisoner. Cleve will help make things happen, and I want to be here to see it. To experience it. The other stuff doesn't much matter." "What other stuff? And what will Cleve make happen?" She shifted away from the trunk she was leaning on, stepping back from Joe. "I can handle Cleve, don't worry," she said, smiling provocatively. "I can handle most men. It's really not that tough." Joe started to speak, but she held up her hand. "I've got to go. I'll e-mail you." He wrote his address on the back of a Wyoming Game and Fish business card and handed it to her. "Thank you for the coat," she said, before shrugging it off and turning back to the Airstream. As he pulled it back on, he could smell her inside of his coat. Makeup, cigarette smoke, and something else. Something medical, he thought. Ointment, or lotion, he thought. When he looked up she was gone.
As he crossed the bridge, Joe glanced over the railing. Jack, the retired guy, was fishing upstream near a sand spit. Not Ike was still down there, completing a long, looping fly cast into ripples that flowed into a deep pool. There were some big fish in the pool, Joe knew. Twenty-two- to twenty-four-inch browns, three to four pounds, big enough to be called "hogs" by serious fishermen. Not Ike looked up, saw Joe, and waved. Joe waved back and made another mental note to check out his license. Later, though, after he sorted out what had just happened in the Riverside Resort and RV Park. Later, when he could get back to being a game warden.