Chapter 37
A t the head of the valley, we watch from the road’s edge as spiraling clouds of smoke appear through the fir trees. There seems to be numerous cloud stacks, as if multiple trains are traveling through the small valley at the same time. The fumes grow at different speeds and spread like an uneven graph.
“We’d better head out,” Ben says. The smoke that fills the trees climbs in our direction and I nod in response, feeling unsettled about the chemical explosion noises continuing down the hill.
Another explosion hits as we pass the bend, showcasing the floor of the small valley and remnants of a building peek through a gathering of trees. In seconds we reach what looks like a lab explosion in the middle of a forest. Orange kite flames sail into the air between dark mats of black smoke. I feel my armpits sweating from anticipation even with the cool air and light rain pour.
As we lean into the curve of the valley, my gaze focuses on the mouth of the old mine, hollowed into the valley of the mountain, where a log sign burns to a crisp. I know this site to be a popular historic landmark with a view akin to the magical Hobbit shire tucked along the mountainside, but instead of hobbit villages, the structure is small sheds and sections of the mine that are collapsing before our eyes.
We’re too far out to see any human activity—if there is any down there.
Another thunderous croak echoes down the mountain and the whole mine entrance falls in on itself.
What did we just witness?
What could cause such an unnatural blow to a perfectly good historical landmark? If such an explosion was planned, it was a sour disappointment to see it happen. But something tells me that’s not the case. There weren’t any vehicles on location and no sign of anyone controlling the situation around that section of the valley. The fire hadn’t yet spread to the trees but it would soon if it wasn’t taken care of.
Twenty miles down the road we pass a police motorcycle followed by a small train of police officers. I can’t make out the rider's face from this distance but Officer Berrett is one of the few officers in Golden who rides a motorcycle. I try to make myself invisible, tucking my head behind Ben’s shoulders to avoid being spotted. The trees light up like a town Christmas festival as red, white, and blue shadows beam across dark green fir tree needles underneath a cloudy sky. When Ben and I complete the mountain loop and enter the legal limits of Golden a throng of fire trucks enter the forest.
The whole ordeal has us lost in thought and slow to make our way back. Ben drops me off at the house with only minutes to spare before Pops threatens to drive off without me. I’m notified I have five minutes to book it to my room, zip the back of my navy cocktail dress, and meet Pops in the volkswagen.
I run out the door with a hook and eye still left to clip, but the bulk from the ruffled over-the-shoulder sleeves—like feathery chickens on my arms—and the fact that my hands are occupied tying my hair into a French braid, prevents it.
“How’s your wife?” I ask on the way to the brewery.
Pops chuckles. “I haven’t seen her since she lost her marbles and tossed yesterday’s good mood to the crows,” he says. He looks extra trim in a suit and tie. He even went so far as to part his dark brown hair and gel it so that I can see the brush strokes through his set hair.
“I see,” I say, tapping my fingers on the dashboard.
We swing onto Ford Street from the freeway and pass Clear Creek where event security checks our wedding invite and sends us into the fifteen-thousand-acre lot to find parking.
As we close in on Coors’ main building, the brewery appears to have taken on a swanky force. The venue is all gussied up and the amount of balloons piled under large white tents increases as we get closer to our seats, eventually spreading across the venue like airborne piano keys with their singular monochromatic helium-filled color choices. By the time we pass through the intricately decorated ceremonial archway and a number of outdoor heaters, I’m no longer surprised by the aura of luxury brand labels dominating the atmosphere. We approach tables with hundreds of flutes of champagne and tables set up just to display beds and beds of peach flowers. Though it was quite intense, I liked the tacky affluence this eighties wedding was brewing.
Amidst all the eighties grandeur and wonderment, I search for my target amongst all of the guests; someone who looks like they might golf, but at the same time be in charge of an average-sized cult. I picture a lean man wearing a red mustache, but who am I kidding? I really have no visual to go off, considering I’ve never been able to put his name to a face. The newspaper articles never came with a picture.
Robert Schills, what do you look like?
I picture some of the faces from the USB video. Thirty-some years had passed. Would a flicker of recognition even appear?
Pops finds seats with a nice view of the sun highlighting the top of South Table Mountain just across the road—the same mountain we ditched our class reunion for with the high school crew and Kenny in Non-80s-Land. I cringe thinking about how my conversation with Agent Maser that night catapulted this whole Marigold nightmare.
I take another moment to scope out the audience for a familiar face. And to my surprise I find one—though it’s not the criminal I’m looking for. He may be criminally minded, attending a wedding he wasn’t invited to. But it’s just effervescent Ben. He really managed to sneak in.
He sits at the very back with his leg extended into the aisle—making him easy to spot. I notice his pant leg because it looks like it’s been dipped in a pool of water. I catch his gaze and as we lock eyes, the prettiest head of curly black hair pops out from behind his shoulder. Diana gives a princess wave and I smile because she is in the seat next to Ben smiling fiercely back at me. Ben didn’t sneak into the wedding alone.
After the vows are exchanged, Pops leads me past the brewery’s cooling pond, getting straight to business and wasting no time to find our assigned seats in the dining area. I’m grateful for his no-nonsense, no-small-talk attitude. This way I’ll have time to scope out the place-setting cards before most guests find their way to their seats. I can do that while Pops is busy fiddling with his napkin, readily anticipating scarfing down some smoked salmon, veggie croquettes, and a variety of puddings with fancy names, like maple fig, honeycomb, and poached pear.
I weave around the circular tables looking for Robert Schills’ place card, keeping an eye out for Ben and Diana who could pop in at any moment, tipping off Pops to their unconstrained wedding crashing behavior. I’d already sent Ben the look—the one that said there would be some sort of consequence if Pops were to catch my friends sneaking into this exclusive event. We’d soon find out whether or not he got the memo.
A few tables in, I begin to notice the glass frames placed in the middle of each table. I’m shocked it took me so long to notice the happy newlyweds, brandishing guns in sexy western corset costumes, in their black and white engagement photo centerpiece. I mean, the groom is wearing nothing but jeans and chaps! I let out a slight chuckle, which turns into an audible gasp, as I read the place card name in front of the sexy western snifter.
“David Schills” it reads. A Schills sits here. I nearly trample over my own feet at the discovery. I find Robert Schills’ name just a few seats over. His assistant, Deanna Hurley, is seated between them. In the few seconds that I have before a crowd of guests shovels in, I commit the table to memory.
The table I plan to stare at is the table closest to the cheese fondue display and I’m elated at the discovery. They couldn’t have seated them in a better place. Now I have an excuse to test out all eight types of cheeses and listen in on a Schills’ table conversation simultaneously, hoping something influential will come of it.
Throughout my meal, my eyes stay locked on the Schills’ table. To my surprise, it isn’t Robert Schills that I recognize first from the video, but his assistant Deanna, who sparked alarm bells inside my head the second she sat down. I recognize this lady as the blonde, red-jacket-wearing woman closest to the camera in the USB video. My thoughts flash back to the bright conference room and the circle of Marigold jackets surrounding a body struggling to survive as blood pools around him. Why had each of these members participated in this—each of them taking a turn to stab this man?
I’m able to memorize Robert’s features from this distance. And though I couldn’t see the other half of the table’s faces I’m confident I could recognize Deanna and Robert if I happened upon them on the street. Robert. A man who wore a dark beard, not a red one. Who was slim but more built than I’d imagined—definitely not the lazy golfer type.
Recognition was key. I was that much closer to getting answers.
I excuse myself from the table to stock up on cheese fondue and head toward the Schills table where Robert’s assistant is meticulously chopping her salmon into small pieces with delicate silverware. She lifts the fork into her mouth, and I watch as her ruby lips stain the salmon as she bites it.
Grabbing a large plate, I begin loading it with brie and stacks of crackers, then run the cheese fountain slowly over my blocks of food so that I can listen in on their table’s conversation.
“I haven’t been able to get a hold of Jonathan all day, have you?” I hear one of the men say to the man next to him. I could make eye contact with Robert right now but I’d have to turn around to see what the other men speaking look like. The man next to him responds, but I don’t catch a word of it. I finish drizzling the white cheeses and move in closer to the table, pretending I need some green olives to go with my pile of cheese.
“It’s all destroyed, the mountain-side inventory that is,” David Schills says to the men I can’t see. “We can try to recover some of it but my guess is it’s all contaminated. We won’t be able to use it.” My ears are completely tuned in. If I stay here much longer I'll be suspected of eavesdropping.
“Well, the BLM handled the cops when we arrived and Berrett took care of the loose ends. Nothing was leaked,” I hear one man say.
“That is why we chose the Bennett Mine. JD Hammer, the BLM State Director, is a friend of mine and he handles the area. It’s all about our connections, you know. That’s how we keep it safe in the event something like this happens,” Robert says, joining in on the conversation.
“Are you sure we won’t be able to recover any of it?”
“Not likely, when it comes into contact with Nixonab, it becomes explosive—the reason it wasn’t approved by the EPA until now,” Robert says with an air of superiority to his tone, as if this information is exclusively his and he knows it well.
“How did the Nixonab find its way up to the mine? It’s not used in much, is it?” Deanna takes a break from her unfinished plate to comment.
“Not much. Nixonab has been used to flavor resin and gum, a sort of natural sweetener if you will. A natural sweetener that turns out to be explosive if combined with random substances, including ours. The last it was used was in a gum brand that hasn’t produced anything since 1928. They banned it, as well as the substances that it interacts with, after the discovery in 1925,” he says with a sigh.
“So you see just how unfair it was?” Deanna’s comment seems to be directed to everyone but Robert.
I can’t help but shake my head. Her tone came with natural entitlement. So unfair that someone would want to prevent a reaction like the one we witnessed? The explosion in the mountain was theirs. The sign burning to a crisp was Bennett Mine. I was sure of it.
I feel a body approach me from behind, waking me from my green-olive-searching-stupor. It appears the Marigold table can feel my concrete stare, and three of the men at the table turn in their chairs to see my mouth agape, white cheese dripping from my round plate onto the brewery floor.
“Come with me. Time to go.” Ben’s familiar voice closes in on my ear as he grabs me with both arms and whips me aside.
“Didn’t you see Officer Berrett at that table?" he says with a tinge of anger, dragging me into the stairwell entryway.
“He’s here?” I panic internally.
“I can’t believe you were standing there for that long. I walked upstairs to see if you could sneak away, but the first thing I saw was that ratty mullet scumbag at the table near you."
Ben peers into the dining area. The hallway remains empty. Just the two of us alone.
“Diana’s at the bottom of the stairs,” Ben says.
We find her sitting at one of the round table tops with her long legs swimming in the air just inches from the ground. She’s dressed up in a drop waist ruffle dress that sits below her knees and her makeup makes her eyes pop like dark obsidian.
“The nut mix is good. Try some!” She spins the seasoned cashews, peanuts, and breaded crisps around so that they clank against the almonds as Ben and I make our way down the last of the stairs. I want to match her welcoming energy but all I can do is give her a blank stare. Nothing comes out and it's as if I've been swallowed up in thoughts over Officer Berrett's close proximity.
“Officer Berrett’s here,” Ben expresses his concern to Diana. “Atta, why don’t we hide out down here until it gets dark. If you go back up he might see you.”
I nod my head in agreement, then turn my head back to Diana, finally able to form a response.
“How did you two sneak in here?”
“Ben scoped out the layout from Lookout Mountain yesterday to make sure you’d be safe while trying to crash this wedding. He had the whole route planned.”
“You planned everything beforehand?” I say.
“He did. He even checked all the entrances and made the decision to hop the creek," Diana says, her tone carrying a mixture of gratitude and annoyance. “He carried me over the river. Such a good big brother!” she teases. Ben stays quiet at the revelation, as if he would've liked his careful planning and efforts to support my reckless ideas to remain a secret.
“Why is he here? Did he know you'd be here?" Ben asks.
"There's no way Officer Berrett could've known I would be here. I didn't even know, myself, if I'd be here. He came with them. The people at that table," I say.
"Who are those people?” His tone becomes wrecked with concern as if Officer Berrett is really starting to trouble him.
I know who they are, but I don’t know how to answer him truthfully without raising questions I cannot answer. Explaining this situation would be like trying to explain quantum physics while skydiving. It’s next to impossible and the thought is nauseating.
“I don’t know,” I say withholding the truth. “Whatever caused the explosive reaction is theirs though, and the BLM was protecting it, so they managed to avoid getting caught.”
“What? Are you saying Officer Berrett was up in the mountains with a girl again? Did he do something to cause a fire near the mine?”
“I think he went with the group of cops who raced up there to control the fire. I think he knew what was up there and helped hide it.”
“So that group at the table, they’re hiding something in the mountainside. Something that’s reactive?”
“Yes. Have you ever heard of Nixonab?” I ask.
“No. What’s that?” His face shows a look I haven’t seen for a month now. It’s that investigative concern. The look Ben wore most of the work day at the Bureau.
“I was hoping you would know. I gather it’s an old sweetener they don’t use anymore. Do you think the Bureau would investigate this if you brought it up to Mr. Jacobson?” I ask.
“I’m not sure I can bring it up to him. Maybe.” He stands stiff, contemplating the option.
“Because he hasn’t actually told you he’s an agent? Since there’s an unspoken understanding between you two about what he does, do you think you could do it?” I press him.
“I can try. He could see it as me taking an initiative, I suppose. You think by starting an investigation on Officer Berrett he’ll stop bothering you. Is that it?” He analyzes my face, looking for my motivation. “It’s not just because you're overly curious about the explosion?”
“Officer Berrett is up to no good and the explosion at that mine is partially his fault. It should be looked into.”
“I’ll try to talk to him,” Ben says. Diana nods. She seems to be taking the whole Officer Berrett issue quite seriously, especially because she probably thinks I’m his next target to take up to the mountain.
“We should be good to go back up soon. The sky is getting dark and he won’t be able to see you. Plus I want to dance. With you,” Ben says. His eyes light up, revealing fireworks of excitement behind his invitation.
I feel more hopeful, walking back up the stairs toward the music with my two best friends, than I’ve felt since arriving in 80s-Landia. Maybe this is my opportunity to put a squash to Marigold and the Sheriden Foundation through Tyler’s dad. His household held the newspaper clipping connections. He was already warm to the case. What if the mine explosion was the missing key this whole time? It had been hidden from history by a BLM director and Officer Berrett.
Marigold did one thing well. They had connections to the BLM state director, connections to my own department within the FBI. I can’t help but think the newspaper article announcement for Sheriden Foundation’s acquisition of the cleaning product company Clean Wave had something to do with the new EPA director’s approval. And the death of the old EPA director.
When I had read the article about the new EPA director’s approval of something called the MaG compound, I thought nothing of it. But now I can’t help but think this is all Marigold’s doing. They forced the approval of the MaG compound for Clean Wave. I’ve read hundreds of newspaper articles over the last few weeks while attending classes and this is one puzzle piece that seems to fit. There’s something highly reactive that Marigold has tucked away in a mine, possibly in multiple mines and undisclosed locations.
If Ben and I hadn’t driven by, it would remain a silent mark on history. Was it possible that Ben and I could resolve this through Mr. Jacobson thirty years before we even discovered it?
Ben bumps into a man at the top of the stairwell.
“Ben. Nice to see you.” Pops’ voice surprises the three of us.
“Hi, Mr. Atkinson,” Ben replies, holding out his hand to see if Pops will shake it. Pops refuses, instead turning his head back to me.
“I see you invited some plus-ones to your plus-one invite?” He sounds amused but strict, and I’m not sure how scared of this situation I should be.
“Something like that,” I manage under my breath.
“I’m heading out now. Don’t exactly want to dance with Bob from my table. Since you’ve been with your friends this whole time, how about you get a ride home with them and we’ll talk when you get home,” Pops says and gives a quick send off wave. I feel a sense of guilt. He seems to be in a sour mood. I fear I have some kind of scolding waiting for me when I get home.
The view outside is limited to a few spotlights on the dance floor. South Table Mountain blocks the light from the city, making the night pitch-dark with low visibility of anything, even three feet ahead. We choose the dark corner behind the historic brew kettle as our safety net. I was sure the danger had subsided; even if Officer Berrett was the type to stay for dancing he wouldn’t have the night vision to see me anyway.
The small clump of stars, which look as if someone had taken a handful of powdered sugar and sprinkled the night sky with it, serve as our only light as Diana breaks into the cabbage patch. She kicks off her heels midway through, then opts to vogue the rest of the song. Ben stands to the side observing our best-friend-energy and waits while Diana steals me for the first couple of slow dances.
Eventually, Ben slips in between the two of us, unable to third-wheel any longer. He rocks me left and right and holds me close as we dance together.
I feel a tap on the shoulder, unphased with the expectation that Diana would intervene not even a song later—as if she still hasn’t quite accepted our pairing. When I turn to give her a friendly shove back I notice the shadow of a man and set off running.
I make it to the edge of the cooling pond before Officer Berrett catches up to me.
“Agent Suarez, slow down,” says the man I’ve been trying to avoid for well over a week. “Let’s talk.”
I make out a long fence in front of me. I hear two sets of feet running toward us. If it’s Ben and Diana they’ve taken a right a tad too early. Officer Berrett is now within an arm's reach. I stop and turn to face him and find his hair is pulled back into a ponytail and he’s dressed in suit and tie.
“Uh hi, hello,” I stutter, feeling as if I’m sinking into a floor of quicksand. There is no escape, I can only feign ignorance until I’ve been submersed underground, no longer breathing. The fact that he had been searching for me for the past few days makes what comes next that much more frightening.
“You’re more connected than you let on. I didn’t need to take you to the flowers. You already know one.”
“Excuse me?” I say, feigning ignorance, although truthfully I am a bit confused at his statement. How am I connected to a supposed one?
“This whole time I was wondering who your connection was. How you knew about Marigold. It’s the groom, isn’t it? Most of the wedding guests on the groom’s side are members of Marigold.”
“The groom?” I hold a confused stare.
“That’s how you know Marigold. You recognized my Marigold tattoo a few weeks ago. I know a look of recognition when I see one.” He pauses for a second to read my stoic eyes. I don’t break my vacant stare. “You’re an Atkinson. You’re not an FBI agent. You’re not even listed on their payroll.”
“What makes you think that?” I say.
“You’re not the only one with connections.” He spits the words out as if they carry a significant amount of importance. “But whoever your connections are, they have you running operations with that fake FBI badge. I’m right, aren't I?”
I don’t say anything. I don’t have a good explanation for why I’m not on the payroll—also dumbfounded that a Golden police officer of only two months has access to the Denver Bureau’s payroll.
“Atta, secrecy is only important with outsiders.” He dares rest his hand on my shoulder. “You can discuss it within the foundation. You don’t have to be so unwilling to discuss it with me. Unless you’re with someone at the top. If that’s the case, well then I understand why you’re so hesitant.”
“The top?” I manage, taking a deep breath in and out trying to regain my composure.
“Who’s your contact?” he prods me. He has me backed up against the corner of the fence, giving cause for the belligerent feelings inside of me to burst. I hold them in. An unperturbed officer is going to be easier to deal with over a suspicious, agitated one. He’s unconvinced, no matter how oblivious I pretend to be. He’s adamant I know about Marigold.
I weigh my options. Pretending to be one of them would be better than to have him think I know about Marigold, use a fake agent ID, and yet have no intention to join Marigold—marking myself at variance with them and thus a potential target. Or is it?
“Jon,” I say quickly, giving the generic name I heard mentioned earlier at their table. If he thinks I know of Marigold and have the guts to pretend I’m an agent, he might consider me a threat.
“Makes sense. Jonathon likes to keep things quiet. There’s a reason Robert trusts him at the top.” Officer Berrett slides his fingers down my arm so that they now rest on my elbow. “I shouldn’t share this with you but not all of us are bent up on the secrecy of it all. We’re a group. A network of confidants. I’ll teach you there’s fun in sharing Marigold news.” His eyes light up with a dangerous glint. “Since you’re with Jonathan you may or may not have heard about the explosion in the mountain.” He waits for my expression to change. When I shake my head to confirm I hadn’t, he continues. “Someone who knows about the reaction between resin and MaG compound set out to sabotage us. How they got ahold of resin that hasn’t been used since the 1920s beats me. We’ve taken the necessary precautions to ensure it doesn’t happen again. I thought I should mention that in case it holds any weight in deciding whether or not you’re up for taking a ride into the mountains with me.”
“You think someone wants to sabotage Marigold?” I ask, ignoring his invitation.
“Yes, but those who try will always fail.” Another dangerous glimmer flashes across his eyes. “You really should take me up on the offer. I can show you headquarters. Jonathon’s so private he’d never be so bold as to show you the benefits that come from knowing someone at the top.”
“Headquarters is in the mountains?” I ask, knowing full well by the way his lips curl when he talks that he just wants to feel me once again at the back of his bike.
“Yeah. It’s where the MaG is stored before they take it down to the Clean Wave factory. I’ve taken a few other members up there. The substance is beautiful raw, the brightest orange-yellow, like looking at a field of marigolds. Come with me. Passing up the opportunity would be like passing up a chance to see the aurora borealis, if you have the opportunity it's something you shouldn't miss.”
At this he winks. His tenacity to flirt explains the success he had in getting the other women to ride into mountains with him. That or it’s quite possibly they’re sold on his deceiving good looks before he’s had a chance to flash that dangerous smile.
I suck in a deep breath and almost choke on the cool night air. They store MaG compound in the mountain near headquarters. MaG compound is used in Clean Wave products and becomes explosive with an old resin—Nixonab. They killed a man for EPA approval of this stuff. And he wants me to see it.
A flood of emotion pulses through my veins, igniting a hunger within me. My blood is humming. I can’t deny the curiosity flowing within me knowing I might have the chance to see headquarters.
“When can I go?” It's dangerous to lead him on like this. But a large part of me wants to scour the site—the head office that hosts people walking through a fog of past and potential crimes. The irresistible impulse sinking me so far deep in quicksand I’m not sure anyone can pull me out.
“I have time next weekend,” Officer Berrett replies. A satisfied smile settles under his golden brown mustache.
“I’d love to take a ride with you,” I manage to squeak the words out, hating myself as they leave my tongue. “But if you’ll excuse me I have to get back to my friends who know nothing of Marigold but have lots of questions about why an officer keeps following me. In fact, your presence is making it difficult for me not to keep my business with Jonathan a secret from them.”
“I see. I will give you space in exchange for an evening on the back of my bike,” he says.
“Looking forward to it,” I say, waiting until he leaves to exhale. My body’s lodged in the sand. There’s no way out now. I’ve secured a way to investigate Marigold at its core at the risk of my name being dragged through Marigold’s circle by no later than the end of the week.