Time passes. Maybe minutes, maybe hours.
She blinks, catching one last glimpse of Mark before he disappears, leaving the structure empty save herself. She can feel her mind begin to retether itself to the grounded anchors of reality, and she comes down.
In the darkness, she sees daylight, or the first whispering breaths of it, peeking into the lodge at the places where the wall meets the dirt floor. She sits down, legs crossed, and listens for the sounds of life beginning to stir on the compound. Sweat soaks her t-shirt and leggings, giving them the feel of wet plaster sticking to her skin. She basks in the moment, like a small snake absorbing radiant heat from a rock minutes after sunset.
Outside, a mild breeze cools her skin. A few people have begun to rattle around in various parts of the compound. In the still of the morning, she’s aware. Aware that there is a darkness surrounding the baby and aware that it has a name.
Tom.
IONE
The panhandle of the state embodies the edge of the southwest. I contemplate this as my wheels roll west, the tread of the tires bearing down on the scorching asphalt. This part of the country holds out no welcome to tourists. It’s a rough and barren landscape that begs you to turn back. But I don’t.
Tumbleweeds wash over the road like little dried up clichés. The biggest of them could outsize basketballs. A roadrunner darts in front of the car and I check the breaks, my stomach plummeting at the thought of hitting the bird. He escapes unscathed, but my heart’s a little worse for the wear. I’m jumpy, I think. The entire thing has me on edge.
Out here, the journey is marked in rock formations. As I draw closer to my destination, I spot things that I read about before coming: the Old Maid – a rock that looks like the bust of a woman—and the bridal party, or three rocks that could be construed to look like women in waiting. I think for a moment about the wildlife in this part of the country – what sorts of creatures lurk in these hills at night? Coyotes, no doubt. But we’re no stranger to those back in the city. Out here, though, I wouldn’t be shocked to see a bobcat or a mountain lion. But I have no desire to encounter either after dark. I’m already on the trail of one predator.
After a few more of the landmarks that I’ve heard about, I roll up on the town. The main drag stretches no more than three blocks. Houses populate it sparsely and a trailer that functions as a diner lies on the edge. Not far from there, a one room museum stands alongside a gas station and general store, from what I can tell as I drive past.
There is one thing that’s out of place here and that’s the sheer amount of people. Cars litter the sides of the road and people mill around outside both the diner and the general store. It’s the same collection of journalists and federal and local agents that I’d seen back in Guymon. I spot one of the guys from the table in front of me. He looks at me from behind aviator sunglasses and I wonder if he recognizes me, if he even saw me at all in the restaurant or imagined I could be anything other than another journalist eager to make her name.
I find a spot on the side of the road to park the car and get out. I slide on a pair of Kate Spade sunglasses to hide any intent that might be apparent in my eyes and I walk up to the store.
A few agents look at me innocuously, others suspiciously. Most of them give me the cold shoulder. I imagine that journalists aren’t their favorite. Though decades in the past, I can’t help but imagine the entire situation makes fresh images of a burning compound not so unlike Tom’s come to the forefront of their minds. A blunder on the part of the ATF and FBI from years ago. The image hovers on the edges of the activity. Waco, it whispers.
I’d wager the thought rings in each person’s mind, like a distant siren hailing a tornado the next county over, reminding all of us that we’re never too far from absolute calamity. There’s a tension in the air that betrays these thoughts. The journalists thrive on it, their energy frenetic and buoyant. That of the agents reflects a more somber nervousness. I find myself in the middle, disgusted by the fact that the situation is inherently exciting in the way that all fight or flight situations are.
After sidestepping several clusters of both journalists and law enforcement officials, I meander into the tiny general store. Bodies occupy every spare inch of the place, and I can’t blame them; it’s air conditioned. My mind drifts to Tom’s compound, knowing that they cut the power and water the previous day from a news bulletin. I imagine Birdie.
A menu hangs above a dusty set of shelves showcasing fossil finds from the area along with plastic dinosaur figurines. Cans from eras gone by—both of soda and vegetables long beyond their expiration date—serve as decoration. The one room building is a museum itself, it seems. Maps hang on the wall, pointing out just how close we are to the Black Mesa and boasting the stats of the panhandle’s famous landmark.
I find a place in line and soon step up to the counter. A grizzly old man with a lopsided dark brown moustache grunts at me in greeting.
“Just a Dr. Pepper,” I say.
He nods without a word and turns to a cooler. He pulls out a can and charges me a dollar. I gladly pay for the caffeine though he doesn’t seem
