TCI

I0

The town of Headwater, true to  its name, sat at  the source of the Squaw  River. Paved road ended there, as did  the railroad. There were no hotels. West, north, and  south of the  town was nothing but empty grasslands. No one from outside of town ever spent the night in Headwater because no one ever passed through. The Bureau had to  crane off a  trailer on  national grasslands just to have a place for its agents to sleep.

The Church of  Green  Dome had  steadily  lost adherents  since peaking in  1915  but   there  were  still  many  congregations scattered across America and even a few in Europe. When families of the deceased came to Headwater  for the Last Rite  often the only place for them to stay was the Temple itself.

The C Wing had six modest rooms which were  offered to visiting fami- lies for their brief stay  of a day or  two. Klaus Hansen had never giv- en them much thought. As far as he knew or cared the beds made them- selves,  so when  he arrived at  the temple with Paul Bergin in tow he was startled to find Dory and Gabriel cleaning the rooms.

"What is this?" he demanded.

"It went with the position of Extraordinary Lay Minister of the Last  Rite," Gabriel  replied. "Somebody has to  get the  rooms ready, and now I guess the Deacon does it."

"Then what's she doing here?"

"Cousin Dory is pitching in."

"I'm reclaiming Sundays  for the  White Wing.  I only  want Red Wingers to be here, if they must, on Wednesdays."

Dory and Gabriel,  being Red  Wingers both,  made as  though to leave, but Klaus said, "Not you, boy."

"I'll pick you up at five, cuz," said Dory on her way out.

"Where's the Golden Gift?" demanded Klaus after Dory  was good and gone.

"It's right here in the Temple, sir, just as we agreed."

"How do I know that's true?"

"This is the Temple of Green  Dome, sir. Liars have  no part in the life to come." I1

"Show it to me."

"Sir, my father told me to only bring it out at need."

"You need to show it to me."

Gabriel unlocked a supply room similar to the one downstairs in the temple basement. A red butter cookie tin sat on a shelf. It was empty but Gabriel needed  the can  for his trick. When che reached outside of the universe it always  looked like somebody chopped hez hand off with  an ax, which would  need explaining. Gabriel produced the relic. To Hansen's eyes it looked like che pulled it out of the tin.

"How do I know that's not just something you whipped up in metal shop and painted gold? Make this box disappear for me."

Paul Bergin set down a cardboard box he was carrying.

"What's in the box, sir?"

"Old clothes and shoes. Never mind what's in the box, just make it disappear with your alleged relic."

Gabriel squeezed the Artifact. The hissing shifted down in pitch as the black rip in reality grew, drinking in the light and air of the room. Hez ponytail tossed in  the growing breeze  as he lapped up the  box into nothingness. He tried not to damage the floor but it was unavoidable.

Neither Klaus Hansen nor Paul Bergin had never been so close to the Golden Gift  in operation. They were entranced by the sheer otherworldliness of it. Gabriel was amazed at hez self-restraint for not slicing the men in half where they stood.

When the thrill of the Golden Gift wore off,  Hansen said, "Put it back in the can and lock this room back up."

Gabriel gave  a  very  convincing performance  of  putting  the Artifact away. Slight-of-hand never entered the mind of Klaus.

When it was done Klaus  told hem to hand  over the key  and the look on his face seemed  to dare hem to  show even a  twinge of insubordination, but he got nothing. "Who else has a key?"

"Mr. Bergin never returned his key after he quit."

"I never quit," Bergin said. I2

"Oh, I almost forgot," Hansen said. "Your wife is dead."

"Oh, I know, sir."

"What do you mean, you know? You don't seem too cut up over it."

"Cut up. I get it, sir."

"The last thing I need from you is your mouth, boy."

"She predicted it would  happen, sir," Gabriel  said. "Besides, our Lord himself said, 'He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live, and whosever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.'"

"Do you know what I believe,  son? I believe the  death of your so-called wife makes me the Prophet of the Church. And I believe you still have some rooms to clean."

Tashunka waited outside  the  sheriff's office  long past  when Roddy said he'd meet him, trying to stay warm inside his running truck. Roddy apologized for the delay and invited the old fellow to come indoors for some fresh coffee. "Doctor Wahkan had some interesting things to say," the sheriff told him.

Tashunka followed Walker inside and  sat shivering in  his seat until the coffee was ready. "And what of the three stupid boys who took  a bullwhip to  a plains  Indian and didn't  think he'd have friends who could do something far worse in retaliation?"

"The three  stupid  boys  were still  there  looking  perfectly miserable until they laid eyes on  the dead girl. That seemed to make  their  whole  day.  Would  that  Headwater  had  a  bigger hospital.  They wouldn't  tell me  what was  so funny.  I figure you're about to tell me."

Tashunka leaned back in his  seat nursing the coffee. His eyes landed on  a  photograph  of  the  elder  Sheriff  Walker,  now deceased. Two years already? "Everyone greatly respected your father, Roddy, both  White Wing and Red Wing alike.  I was there at his Final Rite."

Roddy flushed with  sudden  anger. "And I, his  son, was  not permitted to  be there  because I don't  believe in  fairy tales about angels  and sun  gods and  killing relics  and I  made the mistake of letting everybody know that." I3

"Sheriff," admonished Tashunka,"if you allow your heart to grow black you will take everything I say in a way I do not mean."

Roddy glared at him while he  took another sip of  coffee, then lowered his eyes. Soon he was  calm again  and said,  "You are absolutely right,  Tashunka. At a  minimum I know  how important the relic is in the life of your Church."

Tashunka said, "Red and White  wings swap power but  the Golden Gift stays  in the Red  Wing. God gave  it to Chief  Wanica, who gave it in turn to his son Jashen. Klaus Hansen says the Apostle should have it.  Jashen thought it would quiet things  to let it pass on, but he gave it to his son Gabriel Shybear."

"Gabriel Shybear. That explains how he got his whipping. And he said his house and the Temple  had been ransacked too. They must have been  trying to beat  the Golden Gift  out of him.  I count myself fortunate  I never embraced  the faith of the  Green Dome Church as my own, Tashunka. It's much too violent."

"It gets better," Tashunka  said. "Jashen said he  was setting aside the rule that Greendomites  must marry only their cousins, in just  one instance, so  that Gabriel could marry  Kim Zinter. When they  heard that Hansen and  half the Bunners stood  up and walked out of the Temple."

Roddy smiled   at  Tashunka's   use  of  the   word  'Bunners'. Greendomites had to wear their hair in a ponytail, even the men, but in the White Wing  this ponytail was done  up in a  bun. He shuddered at how close he had  come to being a  Bunner himself. But even people who had nothing to do with the Church knew about their biggest hobby horse: mandatory cousin marriage. Roddy knew a deep  current  of  racism  ran  among  the  Bunners  but  the requirement for consanguineous marriages had kept a firm lid on it. Kim Zinter was fourth generation White Wing at least, she'd have no kin among the Red  Wing. Her marriage and any subsequent children would have blown the door wide open.

As though he could  read Roddy's  mind, Tashunka  said, "Hansen would see  this marriage between  Gabriel and Kim as  a horrible disease infecting the  body of the Church.  Their children would have marriageable cousins  in both wings, and  with each passing year it would just grow worse."

"So now I have a possible motive," the sheriff said.

Deputies Bill and Bob rushed in just then and threw a Cellophane bag on the  sheriff's desk  containing the  murder weapon. I4

"We found it," Bob said,  "Just like you guessed,  Sheriff, not more than throwing distance from the body."

The blade was thin and flexible. It was just a steak knife.

Roddy picked up the bag and frowned  with disappointment. "This game isn't as fun when the other side isn't even trying to win. Not a Sears Roebuck kitchen knife: no, something handmade.'

Next came a  duty  Sheriff  Walker found  to  be  every bit  as distasteful as  his father described. Roddy recalled the recent death of Erik Zinter. How does one tell a  newly-widowed woman that her entire family has been wiped off the face of the earth?

The young woman who answered the door was not Clara Zinter. Her hair was a rich, dark red. She had eyes that were a light, icy green, striking for being  so rare,  but she  was a  little too chubby even for a time before models made being  as skinny as a beanpole sexy. What stood out to Roddy, however, was the horns. She had two white horns  on her head  just like the  victim. In fact, Roddy was looking at the spitting image  of the deceased. She stood in the doorway patiently waiting for him to speak. He pulled out his file to be sure. Identical. So this must be Kim's twin sister. He cleared his throat and said,  "Good afternoon. I'm Sheriff Walker. Is Mrs. Clara Zinter at home?"

"Mother isn't here anymore," the  young lady said,  "She's with her own  folks in Pennsylvania. I'm  Robyn. Do you want  to come in?  I'm sure  you have  questions and  it will  be better  than standing here in the doorway."

Roddy took off  his hat  and accepted  her offer. The hardwood floors were covered with throw-rugs. He could smell the light odor of a gas furnace. A radio tuned to Headwater's one station was playing "I've Got a Gal  in Kalamazoo" by Glenn  Miller and His Orchestra. Robyn turned it down.

The sheriff said, "Please, Robyn,  if you could turn  the radio off entirely. I afraid I have very bad news for you."

The girl complied, then she invited the sheriff to be seated. He did so and got the overall impression that the Zinter family was firmly situated in the middle-class. Not destitute by any means, but not ostentatious either. A small coffee table  lay between them. Robyn smoothed out her plaid dress and Roddy saw that she wore bobby socks and saddle shoes. "You were about to tell me that you found the body of my sister," Robyn said, "and that she had been brutally stabbed to death." I5

On one  level  Roddy  felt  relief. His duty  to  notify  the next-of-kin had been mooted. But Robyn had stated  things she should not yet know. "You dont seem to be too upset about it," Roddy said, taking a small notebook  and pen out of  his jacket liner. The sympathetic bearer of bad news was a detective again. "When did you know your sister was dead, Miss Zinter? Did an old Indian fellow pay you a visit today?"

"Call me Robyn, please," she  said. "One name. Robyn. Not Miss Zinter. Nobody  else has  visited me today,  Sheriff. I  find it difficult to say  how I knew she  died. If I tell  you the truth you will probably think I'm a little crazy."

Roddy said, 'Robyn, this is a murder investigation  so I exhort you to hold to the thought that whatever you tell me must always be the truth. As for believing you  are insane,  frankly, I'm already having  trouble with  your attitude  toward the  news of your twin sister's murder."

"Sheriff, have you  ever  heard those  stories about  identical twins who seem to have a  link that defies any explanatio? Twins who were separated  at birth? They never met, yet  they they led lives  with coincidence  piled upon  coincidence, with  the same type of job, and even the same type of spouse."

"And the same type of horns, Robyn? Are you Begotten, or Made?"

"Made. Same way. I hated the idea of people telling us apart."

"Are you telling me you  have some kind  of radio in  your head that let you know what was  happening to your sister? Because if that's what you're saying, I wouldn't believe you were insane. I would run you in to the station for knowing material facts about this case with no plausible explanation why."

"Sheriff, there's no need  to do  that. I'm  going to  give you three tips that will break this case wide open for you in record time. If  they don't pan out,  I'll still be right  here because this is where I live. Then you can do what you will."

"I'm listening."

She held out a pinky. "One, the murder weapon was from  a set that is now missing one knife." She held a finger with a wedding ring. "Two, tomorrow is trash  day." She held out  her middle finger. "Three, someone clever enough to make this bigger than a local case is too  clever to  get his own  hands dirty,  but he might have a willing sidekick who is not quite so clever." I6

One summer head up the Big Muddy to St. Louis  and hang a left. Now you're on the Missouri, the longest river in North America. Go upriver past Sioux City, Iowa  and hang a left  again on the Niobrara River. Head west until you're walking in a  dry river bed. You missed it. Back up. The Squaw River  is a  shorter tributary of the Niobrara, yet it has a year-round flow despite winding across the  most arid  grasslands of  the high  plains. Bison used to reliably congregate at the edge of the Squaw River to drink, and the hunters of The People knew it.

On a ridge above Headwater is a pillar of rock carved by wind to look like an Indian  woman carrying a  papoose in  her papoose, hence the name Squaw River. Just west of town the  river bends around the south and west flanks of Green Dome and pours from an underground cistern.

Headwater is where the  river begins, but  it's also  where the railroad and pavement ends. Other than a few dirt roads and old wagon tracks,  the  land  north,  west and  south  of  town  is literally  the biggest  void  in the  lower forty-eight  states. Headwater has nothing for tourists, even when it wasn't wartime and there were tourists  to be  had. The view from the  top of Green Dome  was out  over thirty-five miles  of nothing. If you were from out of town  you were only  there to get  hitched and your extended family put you up.

Special Agent Mark Felt drove to the strip of land where Hoover told him the FBI had dropped a trailer. It was unoccupied. Felt let himself in  using  a spare  key he  had  obtained from  the Wichita field office.

The kitchen was  still a  kitchen, but  the living  room was  a workspace. He checked the trailer's  two bedrooms and  saw they contained two cots apiece. After he cleaned himself up  a bit Felt helped himself to the files  stacked on the desks. One of them, with  brittle  yellowed  paper  that  Felt  instinctively handled with great care, was a report on the final days of Fort Price, a former Army outpost a number of miles to the east.

The report contained pages from the commanding officer's journal and testimony of the six surviving soldiers,  including one who had been captured  and maimed. Felt stopped reading the  Fort Price file  when  he  heard  the sound  of  a  vehicle's  tires crunching up to the FBI trailer.

Felt had already met Clyde  Tolson at the  handshaking ceremony the previous year when Hoover inspected his graduating class but this fellow wasn't he. I7

When the agent came in Felt  thought the man looked  more movie gangster than g-man, investigatee  more than  investigator, and somewhat later he learned he was one of the very few members of the Democratic  Party to be  accepted into the Bureau. "Are you William Mark Felt?" the newcomer asked.

Felt, who had been  sitting ramrod straight  in his  chair, now stood ramrod straight on his feet and extended  his hand. "Just Mark Felt, please." And the newcomer remarked on  their mutual good fortune, as he was  Bill Sullivan, and two  Williams would have been confusing.

Sullivan approached the desk to see what Felt had been reading, amused by Mark's body language which seemed to dare  him to say something derogatory about the presumption. "Ah yes, Cowboys and Indians," he said when he saw  the material a bit  closer. "How far did you get?"

"The Indians dropped  a couple  cows," Felt  replied, "and  the Cowboys dropped a couple Indians.  If you hadn't shown up, Bill, I'm sure  I would have plowed  my way through to  the part where the US  Army lost  their fort.  A lifetime ago.  Is this  one of Tolson's special projects?"

"DECON,"  Sullivan   said. "Domestic  Enemies   Containment, Observation, and Neutralization. I'm  sure the Director told you this was Special Projects but my  advice to you is to play along with Special Agent in Charge Tolson  on this. At least until you break the murder case."

Felt silently absorbed this and nodded  once, clearly accepting the advice. He donned his overcoat and said,  "Where is Tolson, by the way? I've only just arrived from the Texas office and the Director gave me almost nothing in  the way of a briefing."

"Tolson is waiting for you at what qualifies for  a hospital in this tiny  hamlet," Sullivan said. "It's practically a one-room log cabin. He's with Dr. Ian Trochmann. I'll take you there, but I won't be staying. I've got tasking of my own."

As Sullivan drove Mark Felt  to the  hospital to take  over the investigation Felt said, "You got me wondering why Tolson gives a damn about the Army losing a fort way back when."

Sullivan shrugged. "It was the little brother  to Custer's Last Stand. One  thing that really  strikes me about the  Indian wars was how the Indians gave as well  as they got. We only beat them with numbers." I8

"Numbers, time,  and  the  fact that  they  weren't  really  as blood-thirsty as people  make them out to be. Did  you ever hear of something  they did  called 'counting coup'?  No? It  was the wartime equivalent of  touch football. They went to  war like we go to ball games."

At Headwater's  only hospital  a  plump  nurse in  her  fifties wheeled out a shivering boy with bandaged stumps where his feet should have been. She was followed by  Deputies Bill  and Bob wheeling out one boy apiece, each with identical injuries.

Sullivan led   Felt  up   the  walkway   and  made   the  first introductions. "Felt, this is  nurse Ella  Fader,  and in  the wheelchair is  young Scott  Hilling. Ella,  this is  FBI Special Agent Mark Felt."

Felt couldn't help grinning at her name. She saw that and shook her head to warn him off.

After that Sullivan introduced Deputy Bob  Lurz, pushing Johnny Sunkel, and Deputy  Bill Holsinger  pushing Larry  Porter. Felt wondered aloud why they were being rolled out to see the snow.

Deputy Bob said, "Special Agent  in Charge Clyde Tolson  was of the mind they needed fresh air for about an hour."

Agent Sullivan told Felt, "The Indians here used  to believe if they  could make  a  captive  scream his  shade  would be  their servant  in  the  afterlife.  Some  still  remember.  Not  quite the  touch football  you mentioned  earlier. There  was a  young Indian  fellow in  this little  clinic a  few days  ago who  was horsewhipped. Goes by the name of Gabriel Shybear. I think these three boys  did it,  and I think  Gabriel's friends  worked them over with knives as payback. But nobody is talking, not Gabriel, and not these kids. Nobody wants to name names."

"Oh, there you  are Felt,"  SAIC  Clyde Tolson  said when  they arrived indoors. Felt remembered his  oblong face  and searing gaze from last year at Quantico when he inspected the graduating class 15 with Director Hoover.

The sheriff was also there and Sullivan  made the introduction, "Special Agent Mark Felt, this is Sheriff Roddy Walker."

Mark decided to hit the ground running. Even as he shook Roddy's hand he looked at his watch and said, "Sheriff, it's quarter of four and  I am  assuming responsibility for  this investigation. The Bureau expects your full cooperation." I9

"Special Agent Felt, this department will pull out every stop to cooperate with your investigation. But  I am curious  about one thing: why  start now?  Ten years ago  there was  another murder victim found just a few yards over the state line. My father was the sheriff  at the time.  He reported it  up to the  Bureau and expected a  federal response but he  was just told to  handle it locally."

Felt said, "I don't know the particulars of your father's case. In  this  one  the  deceased  is already  involved  in  a  DECON investigation  by Special  Agent in  Charge Tolson,  and whoever perpetrated the  crime arranged  her corpse in  such a  way that deliberately goaded the Director."

As Hoover had cautioned him, he refered to the Special Projects section by the acronym coined by Tolson. Hoover had told him to mesh with Tolson's investigation  where practical but  that his reports were  to  go  directly  to  DC. This particular  case irritated Hoover so much he even issued a Bureau sedan so Felt's wife could proceed to  DC as  they originally  planned, knowing this would  smooth over  any  resentment  Felt had  over  being diverted on this side  trip. That was uncharacteristic  of the Director. More typically, Hoover deliberately imposed hardships on his agents in the field to "toughen them  up" without regard to what it might do to their marriages.

For his part Tolson appeared pleased by  Felt's can-do attitude and that he didn't need to be reminded of his preferred term for the Special Projects  section. Unaware of Felt's  conversation with the Director he suspected Sullivan was instrumental there.

Sheriff Roddy introduced  Dr. Wahkan to the  federals. A man donning scrubs was introduced in turn as as  Dr. Ian Trochmann, part of Tolson's  DECON project. He said he was  preparing to perform the autopsy  all over again for the federal  side of the house.

"There's not going to be much of the girl left after that," said Dr. Wahkan, in a vain attempt to call the whole thing off.