Chapter 19: Basilisk

Construction on the Shipley mansion was delayed due to the logistics of transporting supplies and materials to the site. A new road had to be built for direct access to the north side of the Catskill Wash. Checkpoints, gates, and security huts were erected at key points to be manned later.

The dam and levee projects required a temporary ready-mix plant on the dry lakebed. The community routinely saw convoys of heavy tractor-trailers transporting raw materials and aggregate through town.

Two weeks after the Four Corners dedication, Kathy presided over the opening of the Whiteriver Youth and Family Fun Center. The skate park, known as ‘The Stomp,’ was packed with kids and adults on skateboards, skates, scooters, and trick bikes. Locals and visitors enjoyed games and free food. The Cool Zone had a splash park with fun ways to get soaked. At the far end were four baseball diamonds. The parking lot was full of attendees and visiting baseball teams for a special tournament. People also played basketball, tennis, volleyball, and soccer. County and tribal police were present.

The tribal council managed proceeds from the new park venue and the Four Corners project. One-third went to the education council for school improvements, study materials, free meals, and field trips—another-third funded the Tribal Police and drug/alcohol awareness. With expected funds, the police chief got a grant for more squad cars and officers—the final third supported community improvement and infrastructure. Some funds updated the fish hatchery and cleaned the river. Trink pushed Sue to propose and get approval for K-9 care stations for shelter, food, and water for wandering rez animals.

The dedication ceremony included local skydivers dropping onto the grassy soccer field with large targets. They trailed different colored smoke while weaving in their descent. Apache Bob flew over in his rebuilt Bearcat. Banners reminded everyone of his intention to ‘bring home the gold’ from the Reno Air Races in September.

“Your park attendance is probably twice Kat’s Korner,” Peter noted as they strolled along a wide pedestrian walk that intersected all of the huge lot’s features. Booths lined either side, offering food, treats, toys, and trading goods.

Charity manned a booth with other artists, offering free face painting to those willing to wait. She was the most popular, but a single line led to the canopy, and customers got the next available artist. She convinced the introverted Gilbert Reynolds to join, pulling him from the big mansion project. He painted faces alongside others, often getting older women in his chair instead of kids. The female artists enjoyed watching the uncomfortable architect and bachelor as he painted scantily clad ladies.

Next to them, Trink sat at a small covered table offering free chilled water bottles and collecting volunteers for the upcoming Winter Festival, which, with its expanded venue, was expected to dwarf all previous occasions.

“I’m so happy right now, baby!” Kathy replied as she strolled beside him hand in hand. “It started as a dream in Trink’s old studio, and now...” she turned around with a blissful smile. “Look at everybody! There are as many white people here as Indee!”

The boardwalk was finished in soft, rubbery material and was painted off-white to stay cool for barefoot patrons. It wound through the former dredge pit dump site to the skate park. They detoured around the Stomp with its walls, jacks, platforms, and popular half-pipe. They stepped over cords, leading to a DJ platform blaring music. An industrious group of in-line skaters was involved in a game of ‘Crack-the-whip,’ which launched a wide-eyed child down the long curving channel, squatting into a shrieking cannon-ball before circling the ‘toilet’ exiting the famed ‘butthole.’ The concrete maze would illuminate after dark with multicolored recess lights.

“Jesus Christ!” Peter exclaimed as the last ‘turd’ spun out and rolled onto the grass, giggling. “Maybe we should’ve parked an aid car here.” He referred to the volunteer EMTs who maintained a hydration station and first aid booth near the park entrance.

“God, we never had this kind of fun growing up!” Kathy laughed. Look! There goes Felicity!” she pointed as the rotating string of skaters cried out, “Crack ... The ... WHIP!” in unison and launched the fifteen-year-old down the chute. Rather than drop into a cannonball, she remained tall, her feet wide and her knees flexed as she angled herself up and around the winding tube.

“At least she’s wearing a helmet,” he muttered as she spiraled around the bowl several times, bleeding off her momentum before ‘catching air’ and dropping into the butthole.

“Yeah, we need to enforce that better,” Kathy frowned. To the left of the skate park was a large grassy area where dozens were flying kites in the light breeze or sprawled out on blankets enjoying the sun.

Late evening, the clan returned to Casa Uglyhorse. Lenna was exhausted from the heat, having entered her second trimester of pregnancy. A middle-aged Hispanic man with short dark hair and prominent Latino features stepped from the black mobile home designated for the on-premises security detail and greeted them. His name was Teodoro Ramirez, and he joined the team three months ago.

“Hey, Tito,” Charity greeted him, carrying a bag of Fair food goodies she handed off. “How’s it hanging?”

“Estoy bien, amiga,” he replied amicably as he stepped forward to help the pregnant woman out of the truck. “You were on the News today,” he told them as he lent Lenna his arm to escort her onto the front porch while the four dogs ran around them.

“There were two news vans and a helicopter at the event today,” Peter replied tiredly.

“What’s this?” Charity asked, pointing at a brown-wrapped parcel on the table.

“It’s for you,” the bodyguard replied. “DHL came by early and had me sign for it. It’s from the UK.”

The girl forgot everything and picked up the package to examine the stamps and Customs declarations. A length of twine encircled it to keep it secure. “It’s from Celeste!” she squealed and dashed to the kitchen, returning with scissors. “I wonder what she sent me?”

They had been writing weekly and often included pictures or postcards. Two weeks ago, Charity sent an expensive, detailed woven blanket that Sue obtained from a Navajo trader. Tired, Lenna sat at the dining table to see the package’s contents while Peter made coffee.

Careful to keep all the postage stamps intact for her teacher who collected them, she excitedly tore into the paper until she exposed a gleaming black box made from hard-pressed cardboard. It was decorative and embossed with a strange logo, the words ‘Windlass Steelcrafts,’ and a registered trademark. A card was taped to the top with Celestes’s elegant spidery script, “Charity, dearest, please don’t be stupid and hurt yourself with this. I will be very put out if you are not intact when I visit in exactly 149 days! All my Love, C.”

“Windlass Steelcrafts?” she muttered and slit the ribbon seal securing the lid, slowly pulling against the tight vacuum seal. When she set the lid aside, her eyes flew open, and her mouth created an astonished O as the gift within took her breath away. “No ... Fucking ... Way!” she stammered as she grabbed the weapon reverently and lifted it out of the box.

“Jesus Christ!” Lenna gasped at the gleaming leather scabbard containing the curved knife. “What the hell is that?”

“This...,” the girl marveled as she unsnapped the retaining strap, “This is a Khukuri.” She lifted the huge knife and studied it under the table lamp. “It’s an official British Standard Issue Gurkha Khukuri knife, used by the fearless warriors for centuries. It even has a serial number engraved under this BGN stamp.”

“Oh, that’s freakin’ cool!” Kathy murmured. She removed another card and a small folded pamphlet from the inside of the box. “BGN stands for British Gurkhas Nepal,” she read. “This is the real deal, and according to your boo, it’s one of the last knives produced by this company before the contract was awarded to Khukuri House, LTD., last year.”

“Looks wicked,” Tito replied.

“With the right power, you can slice a man’s head off with this baby,” Charity cooed as she waved it around. “I love her!” She returned the knife to its scabbard and pulled her cell phone from her bag. She held the weapon to her chest as she opened her bedroom door and stepped inside. The nearly finished portrait of Celeste smiled back at her as the girl answered the call.

“I LOVE YOU!” she gushed.

“You got the kukri then,” the English girl replied across the Atlantic.

“Oh my God! It’s beautiful!” she whispered loudly. “Thank you!” She sat on her bed and gazed longingly at the blonde-haired image that seemed to stare into her soul with those crisp sapphire-blue eyes.

“How did the youth center reveal go?”

“Girl, there were a million people there! I must’ve painted over a hundred faces!”

“It sounds like a wonderful occasion! I wish I could’ve been there.”

“Me too,” the native girl lamented as she touched the freshly oiled leather of the scabbard. “God, I miss you so much!”

“I miss you too,” Celeste replied after a pause. “Chin up, though; it won’t be long before we can be together for an entire fortnight.”

“I can’t wait to see you again,” she sighed, shaking off her sadness. “Fran just arrived from Denmark.”

“Did she? I was thinking about her. I’m not proud to admit I had reservations about her at first. How is she?”

“She looks fantastic!” Charity admitted. “You can tell she’s been eating right and working out. And she lost the mohawk!”

“Really? I bet she looks like a new person without the outlandish blue spikes.”

Charity giggled. “It’s quite a shock. Maggy put her up with Peter’s Sister Veronica, which is funny because Ronnie was a blue-haired pixie when I met her. Now she looks like Joan Jett with blonde hair.”

They talked for nearly an hour before hanging up.

Peter looked up from the computer when his cell phone buzzed on the desk beside his keyboard. He turned it over and noticed the blank caller ID with the UNLIST message for an unknown or overseas caller. He sighed and pressed the talk button, “Hello?”

There was a long, staticky pause, and he heard his voice repeat the greeting in the background.

“You have a collect call from...”

“Investigador Sargento Ramirez del Policía Federal Ministerial, Camalù,” a heavily accented male voice said in Spanish.

“Will you accept the charges?”

“Sí,” he replied curiously. “Hello?”

There was a second delay before he heard, “Hello?”

“Can I help you?” he replied, trying to remember if his sister had traveled south of the border.

“Disculpe! Por favor,” he heard. “Perdóname mi Anglaise is poor,”

“Está bien no to preocupes (It’s okay, don’t worry),” he replied quickly, “Puedo Espanol (I can speak Spanish).”

“Ah good, good. Thank you so much,” the man replied, relieved. “Who am I speaking to?”

“My name is Peter,” he replied. “You said you’re a Police Sergeant from ... where again?”

“Ah, yes, sir. I am Sergeant Franco Ramirez with the PFM, from Camalù, San Quintín Municipality, Baja California.”

Baja? “What can I do for you, Sargeant Ramirez?”

The man hesitated again. “I apologize for troubling you, but this phone number is probably the only lead I have on my investigation. It was found near a terrible crime scene; we suspect a Cartel hit. Have you traveled to Mexico recently?”

Peter leaned forward with his elbows on the desk, fully engaged now. “Nope, I assure you I’ve never been to Mexico.”

“Alas, I probably have wasted your time ... my apologies...”

“Hold up,” Peter interrupted. “I’m curious. How did you come across my number again?”

Another pause, “It is handwritten in ink on a ... I’m not sure what it is,” the detective said. “Some hard plastic disk with the letters, ‘Cl###nt E.’ on one side—they are worn.” He paused again, “It was in the pocket of a torn pair of pants near the ... victim ... what we found ... of them. What was your name again, Sir?”

“Peter,” he replied, frowning as he tried to understand what he was hearing. “Peter Shipley.”

“Huh,” the other man grunted. “Again, I am afraid I have wasted your time and money. I have a different name here. Do you perhaps know this person?”

“What name?” he asked as a chill swept over him. He remembered writing down his new phone number on the broken clip at the convalescent center where he was admitted after his accident three years ago. Clairmont East. Oh God! Dread consumed him as he held his breath.

“Sonny.”

The resilience of the human psyche is likely related to past trauma. Whether this was empirical or balderdash was lost on Peter as he sat in his chair gazing at the Genesis screensaver. His mind was a churning maelstrom of misery and despair as he tried to come to terms with one abstruse fact that battered his conscience. Alan was gone. Dead. Murdered.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t understand how or why this could happen. The shock hit him so hard that he barely remembered his conversation with the Mexican detective after his world imploded. He remembered providing his best friend’s parents’ contact information. Tears flooded his cheeks as he thought of the vibrant and loving Mrs. Jae Shoemaker and her husband, Roger. Oh God! This will destroy them!