The Traveler

“It’s okay,” Boone told Prichett. “There’s nothing to worry about.” He reached into his jacket, pulled out a fake federal warrant, and went up to the back porch.

“Good afternoon, Thomas. I’m Special Agent Baker and this is Special Agent Morgan. We have a warrant to search your house.”

Thomas Walks the Ground stopped tightening a bolt on the garbage disposal. He put down his socket wrench and studied the two visitors. “I don’t think you’re real police officers,” he said. “And I don’t think that’s a real warrant. Unfortunately, I left my gun in the kitchen, so I’m going to accept this particular reality.”

“That’s a wise choice,” Boone said. “Good for you.” He turned to Prichett. “Go back to the van and run communications. Tell Hector to suit up and use the sniffer. Ron stays on the front porch.”

“Yes, sir.” Prichett slipped the gun back in his shoulder holster. “And what about the suspect, sir?”

“We’ll be okay right here. I’m going to have a conversation with Thomas about his various options.”

Determined to do a good job, Prichett hurried back down the driveway. Boone pulled out a bench and sat at the table. “What’s wrong with the garbage disposal?” he asked.

“It jammed up and burned out the motor. You know what the problem was?” Thomas pointed to a small black object on the table. “A plum pit.”

“Why not buy a new disposal?”

“Too expensive.”

Boone nodded. “That’s right. We’ve examined your bank account and your credit card balance. You’re out of money.”

Thomas Walks the Ground continued his work, rummaging through the parts scattered across the table. “I’m very glad that a pretend police officer is concerned about my pretend finances.”

“Don’t you want to keep this house?”

“It’s not important. I can always go back to my tribe in Montana. I’ve stayed too long in this place.”

Boone reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket, pulled out an envelope, and placed it on the table. “This is twenty thousand dollars in cash. It’s all yours in exchange for an honest conversation.”

Thomas Walks the Ground picked up the envelope but didn’t open it. He held it in the palm of his hand as if he was judging the weight. Then he dropped it on the table. “I’m an honest man, so I’ll give you the conversation for free.”

“A young woman took a taxi to this address. Her name is Maya, but she probably used a false name. She’s in her twenties. Black hair. Pale blue eyes. She was raised in Britain and has an English accent.”

“A lot of people visit me. Maybe she came to my sweat lodge.” Thomas smiled at Boone. “There are still a few openings for this weekend’s ceremony. You and your men should join us. Pound on a drum. Sweat out your poison. When you step into the cold air, you feel completely alive.”

Sanchez walked down the driveway carrying a white biohazard suit and the sniffer equipment. The sniffer resembled a hand-held vacuum cleaner attached to a shoulder power pack. There was a radio transmitter attached to the pack that sent the data directly to the computer in the van. Sanchez placed the sniffer on a lawn chair. He stepped into the suit and then pulled it over his legs, arms, and shoulders.

“What’s that for?” Thomas asked.

“We have a DNA sample from this young woman. The equipment on the chair is a genetic data collection device. It uses a microarray chip to match the suspect’s DNA with the DNA found inside your house.”

Thomas found three matching screws and smiled. He placed them next to a new electric motor. “As I said, I’ve had many visitors.”

Sanchez pulled the suit over his head and began to breathe through the air filter. Now his own DNA wouldn’t interfere with the sample. The mercenary opened the back door, entered the house, and began to work. The best samples were found on bed linen, toilet seats, and the backs of upholstered furniture.

The two men watched each other as they listened to the muffled whirring sound that came from the sniffer. “So tell me,” Boone said, “did Maya visit your house?”

“Why is this important to you?”

“She’s a terrorist.”

Thomas Walks the Ground began searching for three steel washers to match his three screws. “There are real terrorists in this world, but a small group of men uses our fear of them to increase their power. These men hunt down shamans and mystics…” Thomas smiled again. “And people called Travelers.”

The whirring sound continued from inside the house. Boone knew that Sanchez was moving from room to room scraping the nozzle of the sniffer on various objects.

“All terrorists are the same,” Boone said.

Thomas leaned back in his lawn chair. “Let me tell you about a Paiute Indian named Wovoka. In the 1880s, he began to go off into other worlds. After Wovoka returned, he talked to all the tribes and started a movement called the Ghost Dance. His followers would dance in circles, singing special songs. When you weren’t dancing, you were supposed to live a righteous life. No drinking alcohol. No stealing. No prostitution.