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 re no, 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. De-nouncer. 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 su-pernatural 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.
or thirty minutes, Garrett spoke nonstop and Joe listened. Cleve Garrett 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 in-volved 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.”