The black Chevy Suburban fishtailed through the switchbacks, kicking up a wake of dust and bouncing gravel. Gryphus had the wheel. Jason Dayan rode shotgun, his gray eyes vacillating between the rear-view mirror and the dash-mounted GPS device. The road traversed a narrow ridge dividing two deep gorges, Little Blitzen to the north and Big Indian to the south. After a kilometer, the road emerged on a barren tongue of land rising gently beneath the leaden sky.
Dayan checked the mirror again. "There's a vehicle behind us, a half click back."
Gryphus glanced up. "I see it."
"They weren't behind us when we turned off the highway."
Gryphus understood. He pulled over to the right-hand shoulder, shifted into park but left the engine running. From the glovebox he took a crisp copy of The Sibley Guide to Birds and a pair of olive-green Leica 7 Ã 50 binoculars favored by serious birders. Climbing out, he moved to the passenger side of the Suburban and propped his elbows on the hood as he glassed a stand of golden aspens off in the distance.
A moment later, they were overtaken by the unknown vehicle, a late model white Ford pickup truck with Oregon license plates. It came to a crunching stop next to the Suburban, blocking Gryphus's view of the trees. Dayan slid over to the driver's seat and lowered the window.
Two men sat in the truck's cab, the bed apparently empty. The driver was Black, a little on the heavy side, probably strong and slow. The passenger was White, thin and wiry, undoubtedly quick of hand. But his clothes seemed bulky. On the rack behind their heads hung two medium-caliber rifles with scopes attached. The driver lowered his window. "Howdy," he said, nodding at Gryphus. "You see any chukars out there?"
"No," said Gryphus, evincing just the right amount of disdain. Chukar, he knew, were a partridge-like species introduced from Eurasia. They competed with native sage grouse for breeding territory. "I'm glassing these aspens for migratory accidentals."
The driver frowned. "Sorry I asked. Say, do you have a map we can borrow? There's no cell reception up here. We're trying to find a place called Wildhorse Lake."
Gryphus set aside his binoculars and unzipped his jacket half-way. Who hunted game birds with rifles? Moreover, the plural of chukar was simply chukar, not chukars with an S. Any hunter would know that.
The White guy was getting out now and taking up position behind the truck's bed. Gryphus reached inside his jacket, curling his fingers around the warm steel of his SIG Sauer P220.
"Freeze!" said the man behind the bed of the truck, aiming a submachine gun at Gryphus. "Hands in the air where I can see them! Both of you! Now!"
Dayan flung open his door and strode toward the truck, drawing from beneath his overcoat his double-bladed bronze knife, the metal green with patina, the edges bright and sharp.
Seizing the moment of distraction, Gryphus drew his pistol and fired at the man with the submachine gun. It was not his finest shot, but it was good enough: a hit just below the left collarbone. The submachine gun clattered into the bed of the truck and the man slumped out of view.
The truck's driver grabbed a sawed-off shotgun from the center console and tried to open his door, but Dayan stepped forward and held it closed. Panicked, the driver fired straight through the door.
The blast struck Dayan in the stomach, and he staggered back.
As the driver pumped his shotgun to load another shell, Gryphus took aim over the hood, drawing a bead on the base of the man's throat. He was just about to squeeze the trigger, when Dayan's dark figure swept into view.
Reaching into the open window, Dayan ripped away the shotgun and plunged his bronze knife deep into the man's throat, just above the sternal notch. Then he swiftly drew it out, uncorking a fountain of cherry-red blood.
Gryphus sprinted across the road to the far side of the truck, where he found the other man lying on his back, blood spurting from the little wound just above the collar of his bulletproof vest, soaking the dirt. "Who do you work for?" said Gryphus.
But the man had already lost consciousness.
Dayan approached, grimacing and clutching his stomach.
Gryphus nodded at the front of Dayan's tattered overcoat. "I see you decided to wear your body armor."
With a grunt, Dayan reached into the bed of the truck and retrieved the submachine gun. He held it up for Gryphus to see. "Israeli?"
"No. American."
***
The interior of Saul Gordon's living room reminded Brisling of his parents' farmhouse back in Iowa, that dark coziness of drawn curtains and cast-iron stoves, of threadbare Sears and Roebuck furniture, family photos on the smoke-stained walls. But something on the mantlepiece caught Brisling's eye, a silver candelabra, a menorah. Gordon was a Jew.
Brisling laid his briefcase on the coffee table and sat on an orange sofa with a big curtained window at his back. To his right, an antique potbelly stove warmed the room, the fire within flickering cheerfully through a little mica window. On the partial wall behind it hung an odd display of rusty iron implements, shears, a leg-hold trap, a shepherd's crook. Brisling twisted around to part the curtains, cursing his sore back. He half expected to see Flaherty's men pulling up in their SUV. Instead, he found himself face-to-face with a strangely familiar plant growing in a half-gallon terracotta pot, dark-green leaves rimmed with blue. Tiny white flower petals littered the sill. He turned at the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and received a steaming mug from Gordon, no cream, no sugar.
The old man knelt before the stove, and taking a red bandana from his back pocket, he opened the little door and slipped in a piece of firewood. Struggling to his feet, he brushed off his hands. "I found this stove in an old Basque sheepherder's cabin on my property. The tools, too."
He settled into a chartreuse armchair close to the stove and picked up his coffee mug from a side table. "The wind turbines and solar panels don't generate enough wattage for central heat. But if we need to, we can draw down the hydrogen fuel cells to power forced-air heaters in every room."
Brisling had read about hydrogen fuel cells, how they would revolutionize solar and wind power by offering efficient long-term energy storage. But residential use was still decades away. "I see you're off the grid."
"The power grid, yes. And there's no cell reception up here, but we're still connected through satellite, for internet and TV." He took a sip of his coffee. "So, it was Senator Flaherty who gave you my name."
Brisling took a sip of coffee, rich but mild, just the way he liked it. "Yeah, it was Flaherty. He said you took custody of the Ice Man's body on behalf of the tribe."
Gordan ran his hand through his lush white hair. "What made him tell you? Those records were sealed."
"What do you know about Vice President Al Stone's death?"
"Just what I read online. He had a stroke."
"What would you say if I told you that was a lie?"
A pause. "Wouldn't be the first lie to come out of the White House."
Brisling set his mug on the coffee table. "What I'm about to tell you doesn't leave this room, do you understand?"
Gordon scoffed. "Hold on, doc. You're sitting on my couch, drinking my coffee. You can choose what you say, but I'll decide what comes and goes from my living room."
Fair enough. Besides, everyone was going to find out soon enough. Screw De Soto. Screw Flaherty. "All right. It turns out the vice president died from a virus, a virus we've never seen before. It's cropping up all over the world. Millions of people are infected with it. And I'm pretty sure millions of people are going to die from it." He had toyed with the figures ever since his experiment back in Seattle. But they had not sunk in, not really, not until now, hearing himself say it out loud. Millions of people. Jesus Christ.
"I read the news every day. How come I haven't heard anything about this virus?"
"You will, when more people start getting sick."
Gordon took another sip of coffee. "What's this have to do with the Old One?"
"You mean the Ice Man?"
"Yes."
Brisling waited for Gordon to set aside his mug. He wanted to catch the attorney's reaction. "The Ice Man was infected with the virus. That body was the source."
Gordon gaped. "Are you telling me the Old One was infected with some sort of bug?"
"It's a virus, not a bug."
He leaned forward. "People touched that body with their bare hands, tribal members. I touched it. Are you saying we were exposed?"
"Yeah, you were exposed. But you don't have anything to worry about."
"Why the hell not?"
"Funny thing about this virus. It's a death sentence, unless you happen to be either Jewish or Native American."
"What?"
"You heard me right. Jews and Native Americans are resistant."
"Are you joking?"
"I'm dead serious."
"How's that even possible?"
"Trust me, it is."
Gordon frowned.
"You can call Senator Flaherty if you don't believe me. I have his direct number. You can Google me too. I haven't published much in recent years, but I'm expert on this type of virus. I used to work at the CDC."
The attorney fell back into his armchair, his expression blank. At length, he spoke. "Native folk are no stranger to disease and genocide. Maybe it's about time one of God's plagues finally passed them over."
"This isn't God's handiwork."
Gordon looked up sharply.
Brisling twisted around and again parted the curtains. Outside, it had begun to snow, little white flakes fluttering like confetti in the breeze. Then he turned back so he could witness Gordon's reaction. "The virus was engineered in a laboratory. We have clear evidence."
Again, the attorney gaped. Then his mouth closed, dark eyes narrow beneath his bushy red brows. "Hold on there. I may not be a scientist, but I'm no idiot, either. You just told me the virus was engineered in a laboratory. But that body was ten thousand years old."
"Was it?"
"Yes, it was. I saw the carbon-14 dating results."
"Alright. Let's assume for a moment that's true. What's to say someone didn't infect that body after it was pulled from the ice."
"Why would anyone do such a thing?"
"You tell me. You and the tribe you represented warned the scientists not to disturb the Ice Man's body, not to cut him open."
"We asked them not to. We asked them to respect tribal customs. And to follow the goddamned law. We had no idea that body was infected."
"Really?" Brisling opened his briefcase, took out the newspaper he had been reading over breakfast and slapped it down on the coffee table. "I think you knew."
Gordon picked it up and glanced at the article he had written.
"Wovoka's prophecy?" said Brisling. "A coming age when God will rid the land of evil-doers and return it to a chosen few, the meek and the righteous? That's precisely what this virus is going to do. It's straight out of the Old Testament."
Gordon set the newspaper gently on the coffee table.
Brisling jabbed his finger at it. "You and your Indian friends knew. You're stockpiling supplies, just in case. You said it right there in the article."
The old man shook his head. "Doctor, I live up here alone with my teenage granddaughter, fifty miles from the nearest hospital or police station. Of course, we stock up on supplies."
"What about the solar panels and the wind turbines and the hydrogen fuel cells? Seems to me you're prepared for Armageddon."
"A lot of people are moving off the power grid. For Native communities, energy independence is sovereignty." Gordon raised his mug to the wall of photos. "That's what he says, and I agree."
"Who says?"
Gordon indicated a specific photo showing a younger version of himself shaking hands with a tall, swarthy man.
Brisling got up for a look.
"That's Jason Dayan. He paid for our solar panels and wind turbines. And he's doing the same for Native people all over North America. There's a tribe in Arizona that's gone completely solar, some villages in Mexico too. I read the Flathead reservation is using geothermal energy now."
The doctor leaned close. The man had strange gray eyes. "Dayan. That's a Jewish name."
"It is. He also supports Jewish communities across the globe, including in Israel. Actually, my granddaughter is going to college on a Dayex scholarship for young Jewish women in STEM."
Brisling whipped around so fast that coffee sloshed onto his shoes. "Wait. Dayex, as in Dayex Industries?"
"Jason Dayan is CEO and founder."
"And how do you know him?"
"He funded the tribe's lawsuit, paid for all of it."
"He was part of that?" Jesus H. Christ.
"Now hold on, doc. If you think Jason Dayan had anything to do with this virus, you're dead wrong."
"Am I?" The pieces were clicking into place. "Dayex Industries was the only company capable of engineering a virus like this back in 1992. And now you're telling me Jason Dayan was involved in the Ice Man's case? Someone with his resources easily could have infected that body." Brisling stared at Gordon. "And he had a motive."
"What, because he's Jewish? Is that what you're saying?"
"You're damn right that's what I'm saying. Who the hell else would engineer a virus like this?"
Gordon struggled to his feet, stood before Brisling and met his eyes, brown against blue. "I'm going to ask you to leave now."
"What? Why?"
The old man clenched his arthritic fists. "I said leave!"
"Whoa, whoa." Brisling backed toward the entryway. "Look, I understand you wanting to protect your friend, but if I walk out that door right now, I'm going straight to Flaherty with this. So, if you have information that might exonerate Jason Dayan, you better give it to me now."
"I'm done talking to you, doctor."
"Fine. Have it your way. But the Feds won't take no for an answer."
"What Feds?"
"The meatheads Flaherty sent to keep tabs on me. I saw them down in Frenchglen driving a black SUV."
"I won't talk to them, either."
"Then talk to me."
"Why should I say another word to you?"
"Because I want the truth. That's all. No matter what it turns out to be, that's all I want, the truth."
For a long moment, Gordon stood tense, his dark eyes smoldering. Then with a sigh, he released his balled fists, staggered back and fell into his armchair. "I'm done. I'm done fighting you people."
"Then talk to me."
"If it'll help save lives, I'll tell you everything I know."
________________
Author's note:
Thank you for reading Chapter 38!
Did you already suspect Jason Dayan?
-Frode
Kiger Gorge, Steens Mountain, Oregon.
Photo credit: https://deighlight.wordpress.com/category/oregon-mountains/