This wasn’t very different; first he wrote the letter to her, then he scrawled out his handmade crossword puzzle. 15 across (the day of the month) was “orogeny.” He used the definition and the text after it as a key to code the letter he had just written. Sometimes he surprised himself at how fast he could do this drunk; Heather said it was good because he never shortened or simplified messages to make the coding easier.
It pissed him off, though, seriously, that she said he should use the crappy grammar and spelling that he’d have used texting his biker buddies; she said it made the code harder to break, but he thought if some enemy ever did break the code, they’d think he was an idiot.
He returned to his coding:
…rilly has talk himself n2 this idea tht him n his buddies r tha natch leaders n shud run USA. he wants 2 chg tha constitution n b the fuckin Duke of California. I cud of herd mor but wz gettin 2 mad so faked a snore 2get 2go…
When he had finished, he recopied the code, wrote a mawkish note about how they didn’t pay enough attention to him and how Heather was ignoring him, copied the handmade crossword puzzle and the “secret code for you to work out, just like when you were a little girl” below that, and put the finished letter between books on his shelf; he’d give it to Carlucci or Bambi whenever they passed through. Then he put the original into the split log in his fireplace; it was a good thing this summer was so cold and he had an excuse for a fire almost every night.
THAT EVENING. PUEBLO, COLORADO. 10:15 PM MST. TUESDAY, JULY 15, 2025.
When Heather couldn’t sleep, she’d go upstairs, roll out her chart, and study it. Tonight she felt huge, lonely, and miserable, and bitter experience had taught her that once it reached the point where she couldn’t find a comfortable position, she was going to be up for at least another hour. So she padded upstairs, feeling like a grouchy she-bear, lit a lamp, pulled out the chart, and let her eyes just roam.
If there was any consistent pattern in tribal attacks, she thought, it had to be that they were always bigger and sooner than anyone might reasonably have expected. She scrawled a note to Leslie, her librarian for intelligence reports, asking for the action reports on tribal attacks in the last ninety days. I suppose I’ ll be able to put Arnie on that one. Poor bastard, Mota Elliptica was such a good project for him, and now… well, poop. We had a solid five companies protecting it and we probably needed ten or fifteen. But it’s gone now, and God knows how many things we really needed with it.
She had pinned in more red cards, yarn, and construction paper blocking the DEFEAT MOON GUN path, and she had emphatically moved TRIBAL ACTIVITY way up on the priorities. Looking things over, she thought, Well, I had been thinking we needed to assert ourselves somewhere; Arnie tells me public opinion won’t stay with us if we don’t obviously do something to stand up to some bad guys. I was thinking it was time to move against the Castles, but we’ d better make it against the tribes. Her eyes fell on a deep red slash running across the chart. Now if Larry will just uncharacteristically call in and coordinate, and we get some cooperation from Olympia, I see my next move, plain as day.
With the choice made, she felt as if some hand had uncorked her head and poured a bucket of sleep into it. She barely made it back to bed before she was out for the night.
FOUR:
KING GEORGE’S BIRDS CAME ON
THE NEXT DAY. NEAR PINEHURST, IDAHO, ON US ROUTE 95. 2 PM PST. WEDNESDAY, JULY 16, 2025.
“’Bout eight o’clock behind us,” Ryan muttered to Larry. He fiddled with the harness on Mortimer, the most placid mule. “At least two.”
They’d been shadowed most of the day. Bambi must still be alive and negotiable-for; if she were already dead and war under way, they’d have shot Larry, Ryan, and Micah from cover and then taken their mules and gear.
The ground was dry, the afternoon was warm, and the little creek running through the meadow ahead of them was inviting. “Let’s let’em graze and drink a little,” Larry said. “We’ve got plenty of daylight left.” Give the other side time to decide to show themselves.
They unburdened the mules, tied them where they could reach the creek, and sat down to a late lunch on a big, comfortable, sun-warmed rock. They had just finished when the woman stepped out of the trees, her hands up.
“I make it three of them covering her,” Micah said, softly, looking down at the ground.
“Four,” Ryan said, behind his hand. “Bet you missed the one in the tall grass behind that stump. Mister Mensche, what do you want to do?”
Mensche shrugged. “I’m going to walk forward and talk to her. If they start shooting, shoot back and run. Count me dead unless I catch up with you. If any of the hidden ones move suddenly, give me a long whistle. Anyone acts like they’re about to use a weapon, shoot, but I think it’s going to be all talk for a while.” He stood slowly, raising his hands over his head, and walked toward the woman.
In my FBI days, I was assigned four different hostage negotiations and two ransom turnovers. Carlucci said he gave them to me because I moved slow and looked trustworthy. Hope I haven’t lost my touch.
When he and the woman were a few yards apart, Larry said, “My side won’t fire if you lower your hands.”
“Neither will mine if you do.”
They relaxed. Larry said, “I’m a Federal investigating agent; you can call me Agent Mensche, Mister Mensche, or Larry—any of those is fine. I’m here to inquire into the disappearance of a mailplane and its pilot, Bambi Castro.”
“I’m Helen Chelseasdaughter, it’s polite among our people always to use both names, and the Blue Morning People sent me to guide you to the place where we will negotiate. We are a people who think long before acting; there will be no quick response.”
“Then I won’t expect one, Helen Chelseasdaughter. Is it far? Our mules are tired.”
“About an hour’s walk,” Helen Chelseasdaughter said. “May I signal the people with me to come out of cover and join your party, Agent Mensche?”
“That will be fine, Helen Chelseasdaughter.”
She raised her arms and waved twice; six tribals broke cover quietly, with hands over their heads. At Larry’s signal, Ryan and Micah set their weapons down.
As the Daybreakers and Larry’s party continued up the road, no one seemed to have anything to say.
ABOUT 3 HOURS LATER. NEAR PINEHURST, IDAHO, ON US ROUTE 95. 6 PM PST. WEDNESDAY, JULY 16, 2025.
Wow, their weed sucks, Larry thought, taking the required fourth hit off the peace pipe. The council fire had been built in the trail ride center’s fire pit; Larry, Helen Chelseasdaughter, and Michael Amandasson were sitting in a row on what must have been the performer’s bench, and three hundred or so members of the Blue Morning People were facing them from the bleachers. I feel the strangest desire to start talking like a crusty old character to the little buckaroos.
The deal was done; now the tribe was having fun holding ceremonies. Larry was getting good at emphasizing the quality and wonders of the four hundred blankets, two hundred steel hatchets, three hundred pairs of new moccasins, and five hundred sweaters, every time his turn came up—the tribals always applauded. The peace pipes out there must’ve been being passed along pretty regularly.