It
was a snowy Boulder, Colorado Thanksgiving and the thin woman dressed in black sat
by the fire at the Residence Inn. She glanced at a man in the lobby and nodded.
The assassin recognized his contact and took the seat next to the woman.
Without a word, she passed him a manila envelope and a picture of a young,
angelic girl with brown hair. Her intelligent eyes stared into the camera. The
girl was the target.
“You
take her to Wilson Arch outside of Moab, Utah and leave her under the arch just
after sunrise….that’s important, under the arch and just after sunrise.”
Wicker
sat back and stared at the picture as he thumbed the bulky envelope containing
his money. The woman was an enigma, contacting him via a circuitous route. She
was paying 100% up front, which was unusual. “I have complete faith in you.” She
said, as if reading his mind. “Besides,,,” and she let the thought hang. Wicker
understood the unfinished sentence was a warning to do his job.
The
next morning Wicker ushered the girl to his SUV. She wore a tan parka, jeans,
and hiking boots, carrying a doll and a small backpack. “My name is Ida.” She
said as got into the driver’s seat. “I talk too much. Okay?”
Wicker
turned and gave Ida an icy smile, which he expected would quiet the talkative
girl.
“Good, we’ll get along.” She said in her annoying, little girl voice.
Taking
the Flatirons Freeway, Wicker proceeded to US 93, and finally onto I-70. They
had started late morning so it would be evening when they got to Moab. Wicker
had reserved two rooms at the Moab Best Western. He would deliver the girl to
the arch just after sunrise the next day.
Why and
what for was not Wicker’s business, but it was one of his strangest
assignments. His main concern was the girl would become frightened and try to
escape. But so far the girl was pliant,
humming to herself and playing with her doll. He glanced at Ida and smiled as she
held the doll to the window and pointed out Idaho Springs, a former mining town.
“In 1859 during the Pikes Peak gold
rush, George Jackson discovered placer gold here.” She explained to her doll. “At
first they used a rocker box, dipping water into it from the creek, and then
sorting the gold from the sand, placer gold.”
Wicker
looked at her in a new light.
“Yes,”
Ida said, seeing his expression. “I’m a know-it-all, a pain.” She sighed.
“That’s why I am being sent back to them.”
Them?
The
two were quiet until they came to Breckenridge, an upscale ski area and Ida had
another story. “George Spencer settled here to support the 1859 gold miners
swarming to the Rockies.” Ida explained. “The town was named after
Breckinridge, the 14th vice president of the United States. But in 1861
at the start of the Civil War, VP Breckinridge sided with the Confederacy, so
in protest the mayor altered the town’s name, changing the first i to an e and
renaming the town Breckenridge.”
And so
it went as they cruised past Vail and Aspen, one story after another. They
finally cleared the Rockies and at Grand Junction, Ida announced she needed the
rest room.
Wicker
found a Shell station and walked with Ida to the food mart facilities. He waited
outside the ladies room until she came out. As they went back through the
grocery, Ida took his hand and squeezed. Wicker glanced around noting the place
was half full with Thanksgiving travelers, but they were quiet, standing motionless and staring at Ida. The silence and stares unnerved Wicker and they hurried
back to their SUV, speeding off toward Moab.
As they
crossed into Utah, Wicker reflected on the food mart and the crowd. The
shoppers had stared at Ida not with amusement, or curiosity, but with reverence.
The next morning after a light breakfast at the Best
Western they left Moab and headed south on Route 191. Ida was quiet, taking in
the grey skies and the undulating road that snaked between the stark sandstone
cliffs.
After
a half hour they found the Wilson Arch and Wicker parked off the road, as the
sun hovered to the east. He reached behind for her backpack and
doll, but Ida shook her head.
Together
they crossed the blacktop and headed to the arch set back from the road.
Following a narrow trail, they made their way up the sharp incline until Ida stopped.
“I should go on alone.” She said, looking at her escort solemnly.
Wicker
nodded and let Ida go ahead. She clambered onto the base rock and stood under
the arch, calling for Wicker to come closer. As he stepped to the base, Ida
began to hum, then sang: “Ride on, see
you. I could never go with you, even if I
wanted to.”
And
then she hummed again the haunting tune.
“Sing
the rest.” Wicker called. “I like it.”
Ida
shrugged, saying there was no more. “The song is Celtic.” She said in
explanation.
Wicker
nodded and knew it was time to go. He waved and turned back toward the road. He
was halfway to the SUV when there was a shrill whistling like a Mississippi
steam boat horn, and then something blotted out the rising sun, leaving Wicker
in darkness as panic surged through him.
Suddenly
it was over and the sun reappeared, the whistling stopped. Fearing for the
girl’s safety, Wicker turned and ran back to the arch.
But
Ida was gone.
