Dangerous Minds

  Emerson shrugged. “Taoists believe the greatest one to walk the earth is nobody.”

  “So you’re saying he can disappear because he’s nobody?”

  “I’m saying if he was nobody he could disappear.”

  Riley shook her head. “That almost makes sense.”

  The detective finished with the tourist, walked over to Riley, and handed her his business card. “I’ve already talked with museum security, and I’m guessing you’re Riley Moon. You were attacked first. Are you okay?”

  Riley looked at her skinned knee. “Just a couple bumps and bruises. Who was he?”

  “We were hoping you’d know. He didn’t have an ID. Hopefully we’ll be able to identify him once CSI has had a chance to examine the body. Is there anybody who would want to kill you? Any enemies?”

  “So you’re thinking this man who tried to attack the monk is the same man who pushed me off the balcony?”

  “We don’t know at this point, but it’s possible.”

  “I suppose I might have some enemies,” Riley said, “but the Buddhist monk standing over there hasn’t any. Or, rather, he hadn’t any until today.”

  The detective looked over at Wayan Bagus. “So you all know each other.”

  “His name is Wayan Bagus. He’s from Bali. He’s my employer’s houseguest,” Riley said.

  The plainclothes cop turned his attention to Emerson. “And Ms. Moon’s relationship to you is?”

  “She’s my amanuensis.”

  “Your what? Never mind. What you two do behind closed doors is none of my business.” The detective motioned to the police officer standing with Wayan Bagus. “I want to talk with the monk now.”

  Wayan Bagus approached them and bowed slightly.

  “So,” the detective said. “Is there anything you can tell me?”

  “Anything?” Wayan Bagus asked.

  “Yes, anything.”

  “Lord Buddha teaches that even death is not to be feared by one who has lived wisely.”

  The detective had a pained look on his face. “I meant about the dead guy.”

  Wayan Bagus nodded. “He fell.”

  “Some of the witnesses said you disappeared just before he was about to push you over the balcony.”

  “Nobody can disappear, though, can they?” Wayan Bagus said.

  EIGHT

  Riley and Emerson sat side by side on a bench outside the planetarium while they waited for Vernon. Wayan Bagus had gone off in search of a quiet place where he could meditate and pray for the dead man. It was near closing time, and the museum was almost empty.

  “I’m exhausted,” Riley said. “I expended a lot of adrenaline, and I’m toast.”

  “I have to admit, I’m also a little toasted,” Emerson said, “but I can’t stop thinking about the attacks just now.”

  “Hard to believe they were random. I think we were targeted.”

  “I agree,” Emerson said. “And I think this is the result of us asking questions about the stolen island and the unexplained disappearances and deaths at the national parks.”

  “I’m having a problem with that. The cause doesn’t justify the effect. Look at us. We’re ridiculous. A monk, an eccentric billionaire, a big goofy guy, and me. We barge into a couple offices, ask totally off-the-wall questions, and get shuffled out onto the street.”

  “You’re assuming that the questions are off-the-wall. Maybe the questions are spot-on.”

  “Even if the questions are spot-on. Someone tried to kill Wayan and me. That’s not an appropriate reaction to a spot-on question. That’s not normal.”

  Emerson nodded. “True, but what if there’s something happening out there that is so huge and beyond normal that it justifies murder at the slightest provocation?”

  “You have my attention. Keep going.”

  “I believe that the incidents we’ve been looking at, from our missing hikers in Yellowstone to our missing island in Samoa, are all the result of something occurring at exactly the same location. The earth’s core. Imagine lines from the earth’s core to each of the death parks, plus Wayan’s island.”

  “And?”

  “That’s the connection.”

  “That’s all you’ve got?”

  “It’s not sufficient?” Emerson asked.

  “It’s nothing,” Riley said. “You’ve got nothing but an idea. It’s not even an idea that makes any sense. I can draw lines from the center of the earth to anything. Anybody can. Even Vernon.”

  Emerson thought for a beat. “There are a few blanks to get filled in. Albert Einstein famously said if at first an idea is not absurd, there’s no hope for it.”

  “You got me there,” Riley said.

  “So we’re all on board,” Emerson said.

  “No.”

  “Partially on board?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Good enough,” Emerson said. “We’re going to Yellowstone to find the missing newlyweds.”

  “The ones that were boiled alive?”

  “That’s speculation.”

  “Have you ever been to Yellowstone?”

  “No, but I read Frommer’s Yellowstone National Park travel guide. It’s more than two million acres of boiling hot sulfuric springs, bubbling mud pots, vast lakes of brilliant blue, red, and yellow, huge geysers, and massive canyons and waterfalls. The entire Yellowstone National Park is an active volcano rumbling beneath the visitors’ feet. It has the potential for a magnitude eight eruption.”

  “And if one of these magnitude eight eruptions happened now?”

  “It’s an extinction-level event. The amount of ash expelled into the atmosphere would trigger massive climate change and could be the end of the human race. Most scientists predict that Yellowstone will erupt again in about sixty thousand years.”

  “Wow, only sixty thousand years.”

  “It’s a ticking time bomb,” Emerson said. “In 2013, scientists discovered a humongous blob of magma stored beneath Yellowstone. If that blob was released, it could fill the Grand Canyon eleven times over, but no one is predicting that will occur anytime remotely soon. Yellowstone is extremely stable, for an active volcano.”

  The planetarium was starting to empty. Vernon was one of the last to leave.

  “That was a real good show,” Vernon said to Emerson and Riley. “I hardly slept at all.” He looked down at Riley’s bloody knee. “What the heck happened to you?”

  “A maniac threw me off the balcony.”

  “No kidding. Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Fortunately I fell onto a plane that was hanging from the ceiling.”

  Even as she said it she realized the whole thing sounded ridiculous. It was almost as if she’d dreamed it.

  “Did they catch the guy?” Vernon asked.

  “Yes and no. He sort of flew over the second-floor railing, smashed onto the ground floor, and died,” Riley said. “At least we think it was the same guy.”

  “What did this guy look like?” Vernon asked.

  Wayan Bagus joined them. “I took a picture with my iPad. It was accidental but the quality is actually quite good. I was taking a picture of a plane when the unfortunate man came up behind me. After he fell I leaned over the balcony to see him, and my iPad snapped another picture.”

  Wayan Bagus brought the picture up on his iPad and showed it to Vernon.

  “Oh man,” Vernon said. “That’s awful. His head exploded. There’s brains all over the place. And I think I see guts squishing out of him. Did he poop himself? I bet he pooped himself. Dead guys always do that. ’Specially if you crush them. I mean I don’t know firsthand, but it seems reasonable, right? This is making me sick. I might hurl. I feel faint. I gotta sit down.” He did some deep breathing. “Okay, I feel better now. Anyone want an ice cream sandwich? If I hurry I might get to the snack bar before it closes.”

  “We’ll meet you outside the front entrance,” Emerson said.

  Vernon ran off to get ice cream, and Emerson studied the photo on
the iPad.

  “Interesting,” Emerson said. “Very interesting.” He enlarged a part of the picture to show Riley. “You have to see this.”

  “I don’t want to look if there are brains or guts,” Riley said. “I haven’t totally got it together. My heart is still skipping beats, and my stomach is queasy. It was awful to get thrown off the balcony. Seeing a dead guy with an exploded head isn’t going to help my stomach.”

  “I want you to look at a close-up of his hand,” Emerson said.

  Riley looked at Wayan’s iPad.

  “He has the same tattoo as Tin Man,” she said. “Two crossed sabers and a number one above them.”

  “It’s a symbol for the 1st Volunteer Cavalry Division in the United States Army.”

  “So, they’re both military?”

  “Not unless they’re both 120 years old. This insignia hasn’t been used by the army in about a century. It’s the insignia of the Rough Riders,” Emerson said.

  “As in Teddy Roosevelt?”

  Emerson smiled. “Precisely. The same Teddy Roosevelt who led the Rough Riders in the Spanish-American War. The same Teddy Roosevelt who, as president, signed the Antiquities Act of 1906, allowing the president, with the stroke of a pen, to seize control of any lands he deems of natural, cultural, or scientific importance. It’s been used hundreds of times since 1906 to create national parks and federal monuments. Millions of acres have been put under permanent conservation. That’s why Teddy Roosevelt is often seen as the father of the national parks system.”

  “It’s a pretty cool emblem,” Riley said. “I could see why someone might want it as a tattoo. Not me, of course, but someone.”

  “It might be more than that. The Rough Riders were officially disbanded in 1898, but maybe Teddy Roosevelt had some use for them other than fighting Spaniards. Something important. Something he wanted kept secret.”

  “Oh boy,” Riley said. “Now you’re going to drag poor Teddy Roosevelt into this.”

  “Yes,” Emerson said. “I think it might have all started with Teddy. Although at this point in time there’s no way to know for sure if it was the man himself or someone close to him.”

  “And you think Tin Man and the dead guy are both members of some underground Rough Rider society?”

  “That’s my theory.”

  “Seems like a stretch,” Riley said. “One hundred twenty years is a long time to keep a secret.”

  Emerson did a full-on smile. “It must be a real doozy!”

  —

  Riley spent the night at Mysterioso Manor. She didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts, and Emerson’s house felt safer than her apartment. She woke up slowly, assessing her injuries from the day before. Her knee had scabbed over, and she was generally achy. All minor issues. Her life’s direction was more serious. Her life’s direction was panic-attack material.

  She got out of bed and saw two suitcases in the middle of the floor. Medium size. Black. New. The nice kind that rolled around on four wheels. One had an orange tag that said “Yellowstone” and the other had a red tag that said “Hawaii.” She looked down at herself and realized there was a Post-it note stuck to her pajama top.

  Flight for Jackson Hole, Wyoming, leaves Dulles at noon.

  “Crap on a cracker,” Riley said. And she padded off to the bathroom.

  A half hour later she was showered and dressed in new undies, new bootcut jeans, a new plaid flannel shirt, and new Ariat cowboy boots that she had found in the Yellowstone suitcase.

  Emerson, Wayan Bagus, and Vernon were already halfway through breakfast when Riley walked into the kitchen. Vernon’s and Emerson’s packed bags and three backpacks were sitting by the table. Wayan Bagus was trying to fit an assortment of supplies from Emerson’s guest room into his little duffel. L’Occitane shower gels, bath salts, and Charmin Ultra Soft toilet paper.

  It was clear it wouldn’t all fit.

  “The root of suffering is material attachment,” Emerson said.

  Vernon was eating a big stack of waffles smothered in butter and maple syrup, with orange juice, bacon, and sausages on the side.

  “Well, I’ve got to differ with you there, Emerson. I kind of like all my attachments.”

  Riley sat down next to Emerson. “Do you think it’s weird that you’re a multimillionaire with lots of stuff who believes that material possessions are the root of all suffering?”

  Emerson shrugged. “What choice do I have but to be myself? Everyone else was already taken.”

  “Is that more Buddhist wisdom?” Riley asked him.

  “It came from a fortune cookie I had last week. I thought it might be appropriate. My life is complicated and even contradictory at times, but it’s my life and I’m comfortable in it. Also, my lucky numbers are seven, fourteen, two, and nine.”

  Riley took a piece of bacon off Vernon’s plate. “Since we’re on the subject of being yourself, could you be a little less yourself from time to time, primarily from when I fall asleep to when I wake up? I mean, who sneaks into someone’s bedroom in the middle of the night, sticks a note on them, and leaves suitcases filled with clothes? And I’m not even going to ask how you know my bra size.”

  “I must confess I had little to do with the clothes selection,” Emerson said. “I employed a professional shopper.”

  Vernon looked up. “Personally, I don’t believe in sexualizing women’s bodies by making them wear bras and such,” he said, his mouth full of waffles. “Free the nipple! Make America great again!”

  “You needed the clothes for Yellowstone,” Emerson said. “It was in the interest of expediency.”

  Riley threw her hands into the air. “For the love of Mike, I never agreed to go to Yellowstone. In fact, you never even asked if I wanted to go to Yellowstone.”

  “Because you wouldn’t have agreed if I asked.”

  “Of course not. We’ll probably be killed or worse.”

  “Will you go to Yellowstone with me?” Emerson asked.

  Riley stole another piece of bacon. “I suppose I have to. My suitcase is already packed.”

  She also didn’t want to remain in Washington, D.C., alone, trusting in her own unagi. Plus she had to secretly admit she was loving the new cowboy boots.

  Wayan Bagus was still working on his duffel. He discarded the shower gels and bath salts, settling on packing the toilet paper.

  “The devils at Procter and Gamble have seduced me with their Western cushiony comfort and two-ply construction,” Wayan Bagus said.

  “Welcome to my world, Little Buddy,” Vernon said, pushing back from his empty plate. “I don’t know about anybody else, but I’m ready to take off.”

  “Excellent,” Emerson said. “We just have one quick stop before we go to the airport. We’re going to the morgue.”

  NINE

  The Washington, D.C., Office of the Chief Medical Examiner was just off Route 395 and, as it happened, half a mile from the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum. It was in an uninspired high-rise that looked a little like a cross between a big, practical office building and a classy parking garage.

  “This is creepy,” Riley said, pulling into a parking lot. “I don’t want to look at this dead guy. I don’t even want to go into this building.”

  “I’m not going in either,” Vernon said. “Me and Little Buddy are watching Cinderella, and she’s about to get Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Booed. It’s my favorite part.”

  “Vernon tells me Walt Disney can change mice into prancing white stallions,” Wayan Bagus said. “I am anxious to see this.”

  Riley parked the car and grimly followed Emerson down the sidewalk and into the building.

  “We aren’t going to look at the deceased,” Emerson said. “At least not in person. That would require political assistance that I could certainly get but don’t desire at this point. I’ve arranged to get a copy of the dead man’s file and some forensic photographs. I’m hoping they’ve managed to identify our mystery attacker. I’m willing to bet he worked f
or the Department of the Interior. And I would like to get a better photo of his tattoo.”

  “I guess I’m okay with that,” Riley said, looking around. “This lobby reminds me of a hospital.”

  “Most lobbies feel like hospitals,” Emerson said. “In this case, the feeling is accurate, because this facility functions very close to a hospital. An autopsy is a surgical procedure performed on a lifeless body.”

  A slim Asian man in khakis and a white dress shirt approached Emerson.

  “This is Milton,” Emerson said to Riley. “We first met in Sri Lanka several years ago.”

  “Emerson did me a very great favor at that time,” Milton said. “I am happy to help my friend with this small thing.” Milton handed a large yellow envelope to Emerson. “No one has claimed the body as a friend or family. His fingerprints were not in the system, and initial testing showed traces of heroin and meth. Most likely this is a homeless person.”

  “Do we have photographs?”

  “Yes. There are six photographs plus a copy of the report. Four photographs of his hands, front and back to the elbow, as you requested.”

  Emerson removed the photographs from the envelope and paged through them.

  “This isn’t the man who fell off the museum balcony,” Emerson said. “That man had a very distinctive tattoo on his hand. My friend took a photo of it at the crime scene. Your John Doe doesn’t have a tattoo.”

  “That’s troubling,” Milton said. “This was the only body we accepted yesterday. And I took these photos myself.”

  “There’s really only one explanation,” Emerson said. “Someone stole the body and left this one in its place.”

  “That would be very difficult,” Milton said. “The entire building is monitored by security cameras and guards. The body storage room is always locked. No one could have done that without being seen.”

  “Then the body was switched between when he was picked up at Air and Space and when he arrived here. Do you know who delivered the body?”

  Milton pulled the report out of the envelope and read down.

  “The Park Police performed that service.”