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On the Internet in 2017, you would have found that the old town named Gilbert “was at the intersection of King Solomon Gulch and Buckhorn Road on the southeast corner. It was up King Solomon Creek approximately one mile from Sayers Spring. The stagecoach from Wickenburg traveled through Gilbert on its journey up the road north to Constellation going through Keystone on its journey to O'Brien Gulch.” The town has completely disappeared. It is now listed as a ghost town that used to service a clutch of mines north of Wickenburg. Records do not indicate why a U. S. Post Office established there in 1899 closed only four years later. The locked, gated cemetery, is posted with a sign requesting information on burials.
—http://www.ghosttownaz.info/gilbert-cemetery.php
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THE BROTHERS TIMOTHY and Simon Schumacher were self-styled ghost busters. Third-generation Arizona natives inspired by the original 1984 movie Ghostbusters, they specialized in extinguishing supernatural expressions within the Arizona Territory. Thus far, the spectral brothers had established a radio talk show featuring replays of ghost stories from the grand old days of the radio era. Tim’s girlfriend Sandy White handled secretarial and accounting matters. Simon’s girlfriend Helen Whidbey was head of programming for the radio show and promotions.
Both students of media history at ASU in Tempe, Tim had a knack for storytelling and Simon liked to do research. They spent their mornings traveling to likely haunts and their afternoons writing and taping their evening offerings. Usually, they stockpiled stories to remain several days ahead of schedule. Whenever delays occurred, Sandy and Helen provided the radio show’s feature material, which they researched and recorded themselves. In fact, the medley of four voices had created a significant following for Ghost Radio among university students in the Greater Phoenix area.
Among Helen’s promotional ideas was the hearse. Though it guzzled gasoline, it was the symbol for the show as well as the ghost-buster business with a single number for both: 1-480-GHO-BSTR. The young women drove the hearse around town. The young men used Tim’s Volkswagen, license GHOBSTR for their cemetery adventures.
“Sandy, I’m going to drive to Wickenburg to check out the Gilbert Cemetery. I’ll be back around four p.m.”
“Is Simon going with you?”
“No. He’s got a test to ace in Paranormal Studies. This is the first assessment. If I make any discoveries, we’ll do a follow-up trip.”
“Should we stand by to insert one of our features just in case you don’t get back in time to record?”
“That’s always a good idea. Have you recorded your research on Boot Hill in Tucson?”
“Yes. That’s what we’ll run if you’re not back in time.”
Tim enjoyed driving off-highway through the Arizona countryside, but today he took Route 60. He passed the Vulture Mine near Wickenburg and vectored to the location of the ghost town of old Gilbert. He had no trouble finding the padlocked gate of the cemetery. Inside the fenced area, the landscape and vegetation did not seem different from the surroundings: mesquite and palo verde trees, cholla and pear cactus and sand with rocks. Tim used his cell phone camera to take pictures of the cemetery as well as views of the surrounding area. The temperature was 108 degrees Fahrenheit. Tim was not sweating because of the ambient air’s aridity.
When he had the pictures he wanted, Tim took a deep breath as preparation to close viewing. He was aware that the spiritual character of the place would not be evident from the surface features. Standing perfectly still, his shadow reduced to a minimum on account of the overhead position of the noon sun in a clear sky, Tim searched the area methodically, one narrow field of view at a time.
The first signs of motion he detected were a family of gray lizards that broke cover in one area before running to another. The creatures attracted the attention of a roadrunner and her chicks. Tim observed the mother roadrunner hunting. She stood motionless waiting for a lizard to move into the open. Tim thought the lizard would not appear because the roadrunner was present. He was wrong. The lizard tried to make it from one rock to another. The roadrunner had no trouble darting behind and scooping the lizard with its beak. The chicks ran in all directions, apparently not understanding that their mother’s motions had a purpose.
Tim wondered about the purpose of everything he had witnessed. He did not break his concentration. By averted vision, he caught the movement of a rattlesnake inside the cemetery. It was unusual for a snake to venture forth into the blazing daylight. Rattlers preferred to lurk in openings under large stones until nightfall. This snake crawled under a ledge. Its forked tongue flickered as it backed into the darkness.
Tim saw where pink flowers had bloomed on buds of the chollas. On the ground were fallen buds, but the flowers were another way the survivor had of breeding. Wild honeybees were feasting on the flowers. His eyes scanned the prickly pear paddles for yellow blossoms. When he found them, he saw the bees were there too. Tim wondered where the bees’ hive was. Honey from desert flowers was distinctively delicious.
As his keen eyes ran up and down the cemetery, he wondered why no markers remained for the graves. The owner and maintainer of the cemetery openly advertised for information about burials. Had the locked area been desecrated by thieves? Tim wondered about where records of internments might be housed. Perhaps the new city of Gilbert held the archives? He made a mental note to check on that.
As he swept the area a second time, Tim thought about the cemetery’s location among mining communities. Presumably deceased miners were among those buried here. Of course, the old town of Gilbert serviced all the mines. Its citizens would have allocated the land for the cemetery. Their own dead may have had priority for burial space. Who decided which bodies would be buried here? A thousand other questions came to mind. Some miners were Chinese immigrants. Others were drifters and other strangers working for a day’s wage deep below the surface. This had been rough country full of outlaws. Would malefactors have been given space alongside upstanding citizens here?
Slowly, Tim raised a bottle of water to his mouth. As a native Arizonan, he knew how easily a man could be affected by the heat of the summer. Dehydration was a major health hazard. Tim drank half the bottle. As he lowered it, he found himself looking into the eyes of the largest coyote he had seen—and the most beautiful specimen too. The animal was unafraid. It had no signs of rabies though the symptoms did not have to show. Tim looked around for a place to pour water for the coyote. He knew a spring was nearby and a river with a trickle of water in this season. The canine’s pelt was so healthy, it must have access to food and water.
The coyote refused to budge. Was it trying to make a statement? Tim scanned the larger area and saw why the coyote was frozen in place. A huge jack rabbit was eating grass by the back fence area. When it raised its head, its ears were unmistakable. Tim’s impulse was to scare the rabbit away for its own safety. He need not have worried. When the coyote made his move, the rabbit went down a hole. The coyote tried to pursue its prey down the hole, but he did not fit even after digging. Frustrated, it wandered off.
Tim was impressed by the large number of creatures he had seen during the noon heat. This place was full of the life force. What was the source of that power? The themes he had recognized from his brief survey rushed to mind: survival, beauty, refuge, predator, prey, breeding, health, promise of honey and presence of death. He now had the makings of a story. He turned toward the path back to his Volks. His shadow was lengthening from his two-hour stay. He would have just enough time to return to Mesa and write his story. On the drive back along Route 60, he would organize his thoughts. He felt he had plenty of time to write, revise and record his material. If he did not feel satisfied, the station could go with the Boot Hill feature.
On the trail, he saw an Apache arrowhead. His instinct was to reach down for it, but he hesitated. Arizona law was strictest about two things: claim jumping and moving any Indian artifacts. He would leave the arrowhead where he saw it. He knew he made the right decision when he saw an Apache was standing by his Volks.
“Good afternoon,” Tim said.
“Harrumph,” the Indian answered. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Ghosts?”
Tim was alarmed until he realized the Apache had seen his license plate.
“I’ve seen enough to want to come back.”
The Indian looked doubtful.
“On the trail I saw an Apache arrowhead.”
“Did you pick it up?”
“No. We have laws about that. Do you want me to show it to you?”
“No thanks. Are you leaving now?”
“Yes. I’ve got an appointment in Mesa.”
“Good. Have a safe trip.” The Apache stood aside so Tim could climb into his Volks. As Tim edged into Buckhorn Road, the Indian crossed his arms, just staring as the Volks headed back where it came from. Tim noticed the Indian never changed his position while he was in the rear view mirror.
Meeting the Apache after noticing the arrowhead became significant for Tim. Instead of making the meeting incidental to his story, he made it the centerpiece. The Indian was the least likely encounter of his trip. Why had he appeared at the end of his survey? What might have happened if he had picked up the arrowhead instead of leaving it alone? Did Indians have anything to do with the Gilbert cemetery? Tim knew about Indians used as slaves in the mines throughout the Southwest even before the Spaniard Conquistadores had come.
A wave of guilt passed over Tim as he drove. He had thought to find a way to give water to the coyote, but he had not offered the Apache water. The Indian did not seem to have a vehicle. He was certainly not carrying water. Tim was about to turn around to offer the man water and a ride. Yet the Apache seemed as self-sufficient as the coyote. Would he be insulted to be the subject of an afterthought by a white man? Tim continued driving. He composed his story and used his cell phone recorder to record it.
When he arrived at the radio station, all Tim had to do was transcribe his story from the recording. He made a few changes. By four-thirty p.m., he was ready to do a formal studio recording.
Sandy said, “It looks like you saved us from having to use the Boot Hill feature.”
“It was a good thing we had it—and still have it. I was able to keep my mind on my Gilbert cemetery story without worrying.”
“Do you want me to listen to your recording and offer suggestions for improvement?”
“I don’t think so. It’s a wrap. I feel good about how it flows. I’m convinced Simon and I will have to visit the cemetery together, this time at night.”
“So you had an eerie feeling?”
“Let’s say I just had a feeling it would pay off to make the nocturnal visit. Has Simon been by since his test?”
“If he has, I didn’t see him. Maybe you should check with Helen.”
Simon aced his Paranormal test. When it aired, he enjoyed Tim’s feature. He emailed Tim, “Great going on your Gilbert cemetery feature. I’m psyched. Let me know when you want to make the nocturnal visit.”
Simon’s was not the only email the station received after the broadcast.
“I am the Apache whom you met by the cemetery. I’m frankly flattered to have been featured. I want to thank you for your respect with regard to the Indian artifact you found on the trail. Your example is commendable. – AProudApache@aol.com.”
“Please send me full details and contact information for the person desiring burial information for the Gilbert cemetery. – Ghostviewerparexcellence@gmail.com”
Forty other responses indicated interests ranging from herpetologists (about the rattlesnake) to botanists (about the cactuses) to apiarists (about the wild bees), archaeologists (about the precise location on the trail for the Indian artifact) and family history buffs (for speculating that some burials at the site may have been for Chinese decedents).
“Wow, Tim, you got tremendous feedback,” his girlfriend said.
“The feedback from scientists and archaeologists are fine, but from the point of view of our ghost busting business, I don’t see many real opportunities among them. Simon and I may be able to change that after our visit.”
“That evening, we’ll air the Boot Hill feature.”
“Fair enough. Right now I’m going to send a return email to all fans who responded. That policy has stood us in good stead with the community. It keeps a two-way communication stream going.”
“Speaking of two-way comms, your Apache is quite an activist according to the Internet.”
“Learning that is making me feel very good for bucking my instinct and leaving that artifact exactly where it was.”
“Second thoughts count.”
Tim mused that Sandy’s philosophical observations kept him sane even if they did not lead to major business opportunities.
“Look at what I found on the Internet about your new site: ‘Gilbert served as a commerce center for major mines in the area. Monte Christo Mine, Camp B, King Solomon, Key Stone were a few of the major mines in the immediate area.’ The composer of that note was looking for mines. He stumbled upon the cemetery and implied its burials were for miners.”
“I’ll need corroboration of that implication for it to be useful. I was impressed by how few markers remained for the interred. Caved-in stones indicated where some of the burials were, but they are the only intrinsic indications the place is a burial ground at all. Would you please make a trip to the Historical Society of Gilbert and check their archives for records of this other Gilbert, now a ghost town?”
“I’ll do that, but I won’t have the results before you and Simon make your nocturnal visit.”
That Thursday evening, Tim and Simon drove the Volks to Buckhorn Road while Sandy and Helen broadcast the Boot Hill feature on the radio. The brothers heard the feature while they were in transit.
“The girls did a great job with that feature.”
“Yes, they did. We’ll have to make another journey to Tucson as a follow-up visit.”
“Do you think you can find the cemetery again in the dark, Tim?”
Tim looked disgusted and handed Simon the water bottle.
As he pulled onto Buckhorn Road, Tim leaned forward to find the place he had turned off. Red eyes reflecting his headlights indicated the spot.
“Those red eye reflections, probably from jackrabbits, showed the way. We should be so lucky walking up the trail to the cemetery.”
“Tim, I’m going to follow you. I don’t like the possibility I’ll be stepping on that rattlesnake you saw.”
“Relax. He’s probably long gone. Anyway, you’ll be wearing the infrared goggles.”
Simon pulled on the goggles, and the two brothers climbed out of the Volks and climbed to the cemetery. Tim turned his military-grade flashlight on and off as they stepped through the brush. It was not long before they stood in front of the chained and padlocked gate of the cemetery.
“Well, here it is bro. Use your infrared goggles to their full effect. I’ll just stand here absorbing the vibes.”
They had done this kind of nocturnal survey many times. They agreed that they would not jump to conclusions.
“Do you see that figure kneeling over the stone cairn?”
“You’re not kidding, are you?”
“I shit you not.”
“Keep your eyes trained on your target. I don’t see anything yet, but my eyes are adjusting.”
Tim looked at his brother. Then he looked along the line of the goggles’ sight. Still, he saw nothing.
“Tell me what you see, Simon.”
“A human figure is kneeling where a pile of stones has been broken through. Its hands are exploring the cavity. It is looking over its shoulder directly at us. Its eyes are shining. Do you think it’s time for us to hightail it outta here?”
“What is the figure doing now?”
“It’s standing, trying to make us out.”
“Describe the figure, please.”
“It’s about five feet eleven inches high. It has hair braided to the left and right. It is dressed in animal hides. Its bare chest is visible under the hides.”
“Is the figure wearing shoes?”
“I think it’s wearing moccasins.”
“And it’s staying where it is?”
“The figure is gone. It has vanished.”
“Don’t panic. Look around, carefully. See if you can find any vestige of the figure you saw before.”
Tim watched his brother pan through the area of the cemetery.
“Are you finished scanning the cemetery?”
“Yes, I am. I couldn’t find any sign of the figure.”
“Now scan the area behind us.”
“Oops! It’s standing right behind us. Don’t move. It’s passing through you now.”
“Where is it now?”
“Its standing right in front of you. Can’t you see it?”
“No. I’m going to put my arm straight out.”
Tim raised his arm and extended it in front of him at full length.
“It’s gone.”
“Look 360 degrees, slowly. Tell me what you see.”
Simon turned slowly to scan the area fully.
“I’ve done a full 360. The apparition is truly gone.”
Tim said, “Let’s focus on the stones the figure was looking at when we came.”
“I’m looking there now.”
“What do you see?”
“It looks like a stone structure that has a puncture through the roof.”
“Do you see any other structure like it in the cemetery?”
“I see some askew slabs, but nothing like those caved-in stones.”
“Do you see any other signs of life?”
“Wait. I see what may be a dog.”
“Could it be a coyote?”
“Yes, it could be.”
“Can you tell where the coyote is looking?”
“Yes, I’m following its line of vision. There. I’ve found something. It hopped.”
“Is it a rabbit?”
“Yes, but it’s enormous.”
“Watch it carefully.”
Simon described what he saw. “It’s standing as if paralyzed. It’s been attacked by the coyote. The coyote has overcome. It’s now eating the rabbit.”
“All right. Let’s go back to the Volks. Keep your goggles trained on the ground.”
“I see a bright spot on the ground.”
“That is where I saw the arrowhead when I was here last.”
“It’s gone. I mean, there’s no arrowhead where the heat indication is greatest.”
“That’s strange.”
“Do you want to proceed to the Volks?”
“Yes, and keep your goggles trained on the trail, not where we’re going.”
They reached the car safely.
“All right, bro, you can take your goggles off now.”
“They’re off. It’s awfully dark.”
“Climb inside. We’re going back to Mesa.”
Tim drove, and they discussed everything that had happened. Tim repeatedly asked for details about the apparition Simon had seen.
“Tim, I know what I saw. It looked just like the Apache you described to me, only it was an apparition. I say that because you put your arm straight through it. Did you feel anything when you raised your arm?”
“I felt nothing. I saw nothing.”
“Why do you think the apparition disappeared?”
“I have no idea why it disappeared.”
“So where does this leave us?”
“I’m not sure. I want to send an email to the Apache who sent the email to our station.”
When they returned to Mesa and before he went home to sleep, Tim wrote an email to AnApache@aolo.com asking about his whereabouts from nine p.m. until midnight tonight. He received no immediate reply.
The next morning, the police came to Tim’s door.
“I’m sorry, but we need you to come down to the station to answer a few questions.”
“I have classes. Do you think we can resolve any issues right now?”
The older of the two officers nodded. “Where were you last night between nine o’clock and midnight?”
“My brother and I were doing site research near Wickenburg. He will corroborate my allegation. What’ this about?”
“Please contact your brother and ask him to corroborate what you’ve just told us.”
Simon vouched for his brother. The police seemed satisfied.
“Thank you. If we have additional requirements, we’ll be in touch. A man has been murdered. We’re following all possible leads to find the murderer.”
“Would the murdered man happen to be an Apache?”
“Yes, he is.”
“From your question giving the time of interest to you, was he killed between nine and midnight last night?”
“Yes, we know the deceased was killed in that interval. If you can think of any further information that can help us solve our case, I’d appreciate a call.” The policeman handed Tim his card. His number was circled.
In the morning newspaper, the murder of Charlie Twofeathers, an Apache, was published. Ruled a possible suicide at first, the coroner ruled in foul play because there was no indication he had left a suicide note. His few acquaintances were interviewed. None knew of any suicidal tendencies in Charlie. They all mentioned his being nervous and concerned about one of his long-term business dealings.
“Officer, do you have any idea what those long-term business dealings might have been?”
“He was trafficking in Apache artifacts on the DarkWeb.”
“I see. I’d be interested to know whether an Apache arrowhead was being pedaled by him or by any of his friends or associates.”
“I don’t know whether it was posted as for sale, but I do know Mr. Twofeathers had in his possession an Apache arrowhead at the time of his death.”
“My brother and I found the place where that arrowhead was probably found.”
“And where was that?”
“It was near Wickenburg just off Buckhorn Road near the old Gilbert cemetery. My brother found clear signs it had been recently excavated—via infrared detection devices.”
The policeman looked at his partner. “So you knew of the only evidence linking the victim to a crime.”
“What crime do you mean?”
“The crime of stealing Indian artifacts, of course.”
“I’ll wager the person or persons who delivered the artifact to Mr. Twofeathers is the likely killer.”
“As a policeman, I can’t place that bet. Do you have any idea who might have delivered the arrowhead to the victim?”
“I have absolutely no idea. The last I heard from him, the victim commended me for my idea of protecting Indian artifacts.”
“Is that supposed to be a joke?”
“If it’s a joke on account of its irony, it was not intended, no. Will there be anything else?”
“No. We have no further questions.”
Tim sat down to think through his interview with the police. Good God, the man who emailed me was murdered last night while Simon and I were at the Gilbert cemetery. His apparition appeared at the cemetery, and Simon found evidence of fresh digging at the precise location of the arrowhead I saw on the trail when I was last there. The police wanted to question me because I was a person of interest in the ongoing investigation. Only because Simon and I had an iron-clad alibi were we excluded from suspicion.
Tim decided to stop by the radio station and check his official emails. At the top of the stack was an email from AnApache.com.
“Mr. Shumaker, Yesterday I complimented you on your respect for Indian artifacts. Now I’ve discovered your radio program has given criminals the location of the arrowhead you discovered near the Gilbert cemetery. I hope the criminals aren’t successful in their search. If they are, I might have to take the law into my own hands to retrieve Indian property. – AnApache.com.”
Tim took the card from his shirt pocket. He forwarded the Apache’s email to the email address on the policeman’s card. He included in his forwarding message his cell phone number. He noticed that the time of the Indian’s email was ten-thirty p.m. That meant the man most likely was alive when he sent the email.
Tim called Simon and asked for an immediate meeting at the radio station.
When he arrived at the station, Tim gathered Simon, Sandy and Helen in the private, sound-proofed room. There he told what he knew about the police homicide investigation.
“Since we have received at least two emails from the decedent, we have important evidence. I have forwarded the latest email of 10:30 p.m. last night to the chief investigator. Simon, can we guess what time you first detected the paranormal vision at the cemetery?”
“Bro, I know the exact time. It was eleven-thirteen p.m. The time was indicated in the viewing space when the apparition appeared.”
“So we have an email dated 10:30 and an apparition dated 11:13 p.m. I believe the murder was committed between those times. We also have indications of the arrowhead artifact having been unearthed. The investigator told me that same arrowhead was found in the possession of the decedent. Further, he implied that the murdered man was involved in trafficking Indian artifacts. I just don’t buy that theory.”
Level-headed Sandy observed, “We don’t know anything about what the Apache man was doing. We only know what he said about your leaving the artifact alone. He did not warn you against telling others about its location.”
“Yet, my mentioning the artifact in my report caused the whole train of events that followed, including the man’s murder.”
“That’s conjecture,” Sandy said.
“I’m sick. I believe we now have to find a way to help the police find the Apache’s murderer or murderers. The demeanor of the apparition was not threatening to us at all. It was mournful. Why, I even put my arm through the vision, according to Simon. It simply vanished after that.”
“That’s what happened,” Simon said. “I saw it through the infrared goggles.”
“All right, then,” Helen said. “What do we do?”
Tim brooded on the matter with his fingers steepled. The others let him think while they did likewise.
“I have an idea,” he said finally. “We’re going to have to do a follow-up on last night’s Boot Hill feature. I’ve gotta go to class now, but I want you to find a way to produce a feature so Simon and I can go to Boot Hill tomorrow night. Meanwhile, I’ve got to make a call to the homicide policeman.
Tim made it to his class in ghosts and apparitions in the Old West. After that, he called Officer Duncan with a suggestion.
“Officer, this is Timothy Shumaker. We met last night about the case of the murdered Apache. I have an idea how you can solve your case, but I’m going to need your help to do that. Will you help?”
“Why don’t you stop by the station. I don’t want us talking about this over an open telephone line.”
Tim was in the officer’s office by noon.
“Officer, I’d like to borrow the Indian artifact you found at the decedent’s apartment last night.”
“What if I give you an identical artifact used in another case?”
“As long as the artifact is genuine, it should be all right. I also want to have an officer with an arrest warrant accompany my brother and me to a location near Boot Hill one week from tonight. My intention is to go with my brother to that location tonight to determine exactly where we’re going to place the artifact. We’ll publish the location in our follow-up feature on Boot Hill the night before we expect to make the arrest. What do you think?”
“I think it’s a long shot. We’re getting pressure to stand down on this investigation, so it may be our last shot at a solution to the case. I’ll agree to be there myself if it means an arrest.”
Tim and Simon drove to Boot Hill before sundown. They scoped out the area and decided where they would place the artifact. They also decided how they would craft the follow-on feature for their story. On the way home, they collaborated on the sequel. By the time they arrived at the station, they were ready to record.
In the recording was the evidence they wanted to plant in their broadcast the night before they returned to plant the artifact and force the arrest.
The six days between the two visits to Boot Hill were full of anxious waiting. Tim hoped the police would be able to crack their case without resorting to his subterfuge. Since that did not happen, the follow-up feature was broadcast as planned and the Volks with the two brothers departed in tandem with the police car with the homicide man and the artifact aboard.
Near Boot Hill, Tim planted the arrowhead right on the surface of the desert. The policeman noted the position and withdrew behind a huge saguaro cactus to observe what happened. Tim and Simon also retreated where Simon observed through infrared goggles while Tim used his eyeballs. The night sky was clear of clouds. Waiting was painful. By eleven o’clock p.m., Tim thought his plan might not work. Then two men with flashlights swept the ground on either side of the path to Boot Hill.
The two men stopped where the arrowhead had been planted. Both trained their flashlights on the spot.
“Right where the program said it would be.”
“Great. Pick it up. Let’s get back to the car before anyone happens by.”
“Don’t be so negative. This is a piece of cake.”
“Do you have the arrowhead in your pocket?”
“Yes, I’ve got it now.”
The officer stood at full height by the saguaro and said, “Hold it right there, the two of you. Put your hands in the air. You heard me. Reach for the sky.”
As the two men raised their hands, Simon jabbed Tim in the ribs. He whispered, “The apparition! It’s back.”
The man with the artifact tried to get rid of it, fast, as the other man drew his weapon and fired at the policeman.
The policeman returned fire, hitting the man with the gun in the chest.
The man with the arrowhead kept trying to free himself of the evidence.
“The apparition has its arms around the man with the arrowhead,” Simon said.
“Officer, Simon says the man with the artifact is trying to get it away from his body.”
“I guess, if Simon says it’s true, he must be doing that. Mister, your time is up. Put your hands in the air and keep them there. Do it now, or you’ll be face down on the path like your partner.”
The officer tied the criminal’s hands behind his back. He checked the vital signs of the man he had shot. He made a 911 call, stating the man was unlikely to live. Tim and Simon came out of hiding when the apparition disappeared.
The medics arrived to find the man on the ground was already dead. The officer pushed the man with the artifact into the back of his vehicle. Just before he drove away, he said, “Thank you, men! I’ll need signed statements from both of you at the station tomorrow.”
Tim said, “We’ll be there first thing. Congratulations on a case well solved.”
The police car drove into the night. The Volos followed after Simon had packed his infrared goggles. While Tim drove up Interstate 10, Simon called Helen with a situation report.
“Helen, Tim’s plan worked. One thief was killed. The other is in custody. We saw the apparition. It actually helped keep the evidence with the arrested man.”
The next morning, Tim and Simon wrote their depositions at the police station. Simon, at Tim’s insistence, left out any reference to the apparition. The police were satisfied with the signed papers. Once again, the lead investigator thanked the Schumachers for their assistance.
No mention of the young men accompanied the newspapers’ accounts of the apprehension of the artifact traffickers. The slain suspect and the one caught red-handed both had long arrest records. They had made a lucrative practice that satisfied the RICO requirements. The man with the artifact in his pocket was going to spend the rest of his life behind bars, without possibility of parole.
“First degree murder is no joking matter,” Tim said. “Couple that with artifact trafficking, and everyone in the chain is going down for hard time.”
Over the next three months, the infrastructure of the Indian artifact traffickers came tumbling down. During that time Tim wondered whether there might be a business in using ghosts to solve ordinary crimes. The more he thought about the matter, the more he feared the unintended consequences of being too closely associated with law enforcement.
He explained his rationale to Simon in this way: “By not being explicitly in league with law enforcement, we can help when necessary while remaining free from possible criminal retribution.”
“Do you think the Apache was in league with the traffickers after all?”
“I don’t believe we have to concern ourselves with that question, Simon. We know the apparition helped us and did not try to harm us. Beyond that, we know the Apache wanted it to appear he hated the traffickers. That’s all we need to know.”
“Do you think we’ll see the apparition again? Or was the sighting on the trail to Boot Hill its last hurrah?”
“Time will tell. As for writing about the role of the apparition, we’d better keep that quiet for now. In future features, we may want to explore ghosts’ inputs to successful criminal proceedings. I’m hoping we can have examples without the endangering implications of the Apache ghost.”
“We’ve harvested a lot of information about the Gilbert cemetery.”
“Yeah, after the second feature, our listeners came out of the woodwork. Sandy has made a compendium of the comments. Those that give details of burials have been forwarded to the maintainer of the cemetery.”
In the seemingly interminable trial of the artifact thieves, the lead homicide detective required the Schumachers’ testimonies that he fired his lethal shot only after the criminal shot at him. The young men were happy to testify as long as they were not required to do so in public. A private testimony was arranged, and the results were sealed. The homicide officer was released from probation and allowed to continue as before with his duties.
The Sunday afternoon after the last trial of the traffickers, Tim, Simon, Sandy and Helen went to Superstition Mountain for a picnic celebration. They built a fire and roasted marshmallows. Tim put steaks on the grill while the others prepared a picnic table. While he tended the fire, Tim felt a presence next to him. He turned to find the Apache, or rather the apparition looking like the live version of the Apache. Tim did not rush the ghost. He figured the spirit had materialized to impart a message from beyond the grave. As far as Tim could see, he was the only one who saw the Apache.
“You’ve done well so far. I’m afraid your work has only just begun. If you choose to help, we two can do much good. If you choose to go your own way, just tell me, and I will never bother you again.”
Tim mulled over what the ghost had said.
“What more can you tell me about what you intend?”
“Let me ask you a question.”
Tim nodded.
“Why did the lead investigator kill the man who could have given the authorities everything they needed about the trafficking business worldwide?”
“Are you saying he is complicit with the traffickers?”
“All large criminal enterprises need people they can trust inside the enforcement community.”
“How can you possibly help me bring down powerful people? Who knows how high up the corruption extends?”
“I know how high it extends. If you help, I’ll lead you step by step and rung by rung to the top.” The apparition crossed his arms. Tim did not give an answer, but the ghost must have taken his silence as acquiescence. The Apache vanished.
“Tim, wake up!” Sandy said. “The steaks look ready. The table has been set. We’re hungry.”
Tim piled the steaks on the platter and took them to the table. Though his mind reeled with the implications of what the Apache ghost had told him, he managed to keep his mind on discussions about the future of Ghost Radio.
After finishing the feast, the brothers and their girlfriends drove back to Mesa for the evening’s programs. Tim had done a feature on Outlaw Burial Grounds in the Arizona Territory. As they listened to the recording, Tim’s discussion with the Apache ghost came back to haunt him. He replayed the ghost’s offer in his mind. Again, he wondered whether his acquiescence had meant his acceptance.
Tim had a strong moral streak. He had a sense of justice. He believed his state and the country deserved better than to be run by criminal gangs. The opportunity to make things all right made him swell with pride though he was a humble man. Tim was not sure how the ghost was going to orchestrate his activities.
Tim wanted to be sure the Apache ghost was working for good and not for evil. He could not forget the police’s initial suspicion the Apache was intimately involved in the artifact trafficking enterprise. Tim knew in his heart that the Apache had been innocent, but he needed evidence. Once he began to follow supernatural advice, there would be no way back to normal life.
“Hey, bro, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Are you still with the living? What’s on your mind.”
“Simon, I’ve been pondering how lucky we were to have supernatural assistance with the trafficking criminals. I was a suspect because of my association with the Apache before he died. I was wondering how convenient it was for the homicide detective to kill the kingpin of the trafficking operation right in front of the two of us. We even got the officer exonerated for the killing as it was self defense.”
“Where are you heading with this?” Sandy asked him.
“I’m not sure our role in the trafficking is over.”
Helen blurted out, “If the authorities need more, they’ll ask.”
“Yeah, Tim. Let’s chill about that until the phone rings.”
At that moment Tim’s phone rang.
“This is getting creepy,” Sandy said as Tim answered.
“Mr. Shumaker, this is the officer in the Apache homicide. I’m afraid I’ll need additional help from you. Could you drop by my office at the station tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, Officer. I have classes at nine a.m. and eleven, but I can stop by at ten. Will that be all right? We’ll have around forty-five minutes.”
“That will have to do. I’ll see you at ten.” The officer terminated the call.
“I told you so.”
“What do you suppose he wants to talk about?”
“I guess I’ll have to wait until he tells me.”
The brothers and their girlfriends went back to the radio station to tie up some loose ends. They decided to retire early on account of their busy schedules tomorrow. Tim had trouble sleeping as he had no idea why the police needed his services again.
At ten o’clock a.m. Tim knocked on the officer’s door.
“Come right in and take a seat.”
Tim sat and folded his hands in his lap.
“I’ve been given a new assignment. I’m the head of a state task force to interdict trafficking of all kinds. You were my good luck charm for Indian artifacts. I figure you can be my charm for broader trafficking enterprises too.”
“How can I help?”
“Keep your eyes and ears open. Let me know whenever you hear about trafficking of any kind. When I do planning to interdict criminals, I’ll want your help from time to time.”
“I can do those things. They are nothing more than good citizenry, after all.”
“I like your attitude. Here’s my new card. You’ll find a new telephone number and email account. Please don’t use the old ones. Thank you for agreeing to help. I’ll find some way to repay you. That’s all for now.”
Tim was dumbfounded at how short the meeting had been. As he drove back to campus, he wondered why the police officer had called him specially to make the offer. Could he have just entered a labyrinthine trap?
“That meeting was a lot of nothing,” he told the others when he returned to the radio station later in the day. The evening’s program having been finalized, Tim drove to his apartment with the radio tuned to the station. The presence was suddenly in the passenger seat.
“You’ve been put in a unique position. If you play your cards right, you’ll soon make yourself invaluable to law enforcement. Are you ready for your next move?”
“I guess so.”
“Good. Don’t drive home just yet. Instead, drive to the Gilbert water tower.”
Tim took the next right on Gilbert Street and drove south to the water tower.
“Now what?” he asked.
“Get out of your car and see what’s happening over by that truck.”
A large container was being loaded with male passengers—they were being stacked together like cordwood set on its end. When any of the passengers complained, he was taken aside and beaten senseless by brawny thugs.
Tim ducked behind a bush and contacted the policeman via his new number.
“Officer, this is Tim Shumaker. I’m near the Gilbert water tower. People are being herded into a large container attached to a Mack diesel truck. Anyone objecting to the ride is being beaten senseless.”
“Stay where you are, Tim. The cavalry is on the way.”
Seven police cars arrived with their sirens and lights going wild. The policemen fanned out and covered the goons while the police leader went into the container to question the occupants. While he was inside, four unmarked school buses arrived. The people were transferred from the container to the buses. The goons were handcuffed and put in the rear of the police vehicles. Soon all that remained was the now-empty container and the cab.
Behind him, Tim heard the ghost chuckling.
“What’s wrong. You called this play. I did what you asked. Why are you laughing at me now?”
“You have a lot to learn, Tim. You just made things easy for the bent policemen. The container shipment was going to be stopped at a formal road block on Interstate 10. No one is going to check on four unmarked school buses full of passengers.”
“What should I do now?”
“Use your phone to call the Federal task force leader. Tell him what you just witnessed. Let things transpire of their own accord after that.”
“I don’t have the number for the Feds.”
“What number are you no longer supposed to use?”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Just try.”
When Tim called, a gruff voice answered, “Joint Task Force. Go.”
“I’m calling from the Gilbert water tower. The captives who were supposed to be in the container are now in three unmarked school buses heading south on Gilbert Road.”
“Thanks. I’m on it.” The man terminated the call.
Tim walked back to his Volks and drove home. The ghost was not with him.
The next morning at nine o’clock the policeman called him. “Tim, old buddy, we are in a world of hurt.”
“What do you mean?”
“You called the shots on the transfer from the container to the buses perfectly. Unfortunately, the Feds took control of the operation from there. I’ve no idea how they found out what had happened.”
“Why does it matter that the Feds got involved?”
“Can you be so young and yet so naïve. The Feds are part of the problem. I’ll wager once they took over the buses, they delivered those slaves to their destination. Everything we did is for nothing. Maybe we’ll have better luck next time. Meanwhile, I’m trying to trace how the Feds found out about the switch. Someone is going to swing for this, and it is decidedly not going to be me. Stand by for further action. Our work has only just begun.”
Tim had planned to drive alone to scout the ghost town of Agua Caliente on the Gila River. Simon was holding down the radio fort with Sandy and Helen. Tim was not interested in the white men’s hotel, built in the late nineteenth century. He was rather interested in any vestiges of the hot water baths that the Indians used before the hot water became fashionable among white settlers.
What remained of the ghost town included buildings from the turn of the twentieth century, the 1920s and the 1930s. The place was overgrown with grasses. Tim heard rattlesnakes rattling their warnings. Small migratory birds flocked and took wing as he explored the grounds. Inside one old ramshackle building, he thought he heard a man singing an Indian war song.
When he investigated, he found the Apache ghost pretending to bathe in hot water while singing at the top of his lungs. When he saw Tim, he shook his arms.
“Greetings, Tim. This old set of ruins only proves that we Indians can lose everything, but nature reclaims what we’ve lost.”
“Hello, Ghost. I’ve got a story to write. What would you have me report?”
“Report what I’ve just told you—about nature reclaiming everything eventually. This used to be a medicinal site for Indians. We fought amongst ourselves for bathing rights. Then we lost everything.”
“I know why I’m here. Why are you here?”
“Hide your Volkswagen and watch with me as evening comes.”
“What will we be watching for?”
“Just get ready. Then I’ll tell you everything.”
Tim hid his car behind the warehouse-style building. He went to the building where the Apache ghost was still singing at the top of his lungs.
“Well?”
“There’s going to be a big trading session here tonight.”
“What’s for trade?”
“What everyone wants. Liquor without taxes, gold bars, cryptocurrencies, women and children slaves for the sex trade, men slaves for labor, weapons. It’s going to be a real bazaar. To celebrate, the toughest Indians are going to roast a couple of Apaches and maybe a Hopi or two.”
“I’ve gotta make a call.”
“Yes, you do. But, to paraphrase what you know, ‘Who’re you gonna call?’”
Tim thought for a moment. Then he called the Federal team and repeated everything the ghost told him.
“Thanks for the tip. Now it’s up to us. Keep low and away from the center of the ruins. I wouldn’t want you to get cut down in a crossfire.” The man terminated the call.
The Apache ghost was gone. Tim wasted no time. He ran out of the cluster of ruins and into the rocky fields, trying to climb as high as he could so he could see the action as it occurred.
As he reached a rise, he heard giant rotors of numerous helicopters. He hit the dirt, hoping he was not going to land on a rattler. Simultaneously, a caravan of eighteen wheelers drove into the complex with their lights blazing. Federal law enforcement vehicles followed the big rigs, pulling them over for searches. Gunfire erupted on all sides. Men were struggling to get free of the road area. Cargo doors were opened, and captives rushed out and ran. Two of the helicopters began spraying the crowds with machine gun fire. The screams of women and children filled the air. The bark of high-powered weapons drowned the screams. Now grenades exploded. An RPG was fired at a helicopter and hit home. The helo blew to smithereens.
Tim was aghast at the wholesale slaughter. The guilty fell alongside the innocent. Those who might have escaped to tell the tale were cut down at the perimeter. Tim got the message loud and clear: The Feds had come to eradicate all vestiges of what was going to happen in this place. He was disgusted with himself for having brought the Feds into play. He wondered whether things would have turned out better if he had called the Arizona authorities instead.
When the shooting stopped, Tim watched the Feds stack dead bodies like wood in the vans and drive them away. One group of Feds was in charge of seizing the weapons. Another specialized in the liquor. A third took charge of women and children slaves and drove them south toward the Mexican border. Tim thought they would probably be driven down a tunnel and across. The US Feds would transfer them for money to the Mexican Federales or the Cartels.
When the ruins had turned quiet and all the vehicles were gone, Tim clambered back down to the center of Agua Caliente. When his phone rang, he answered it.
“Tim, I’ve just been informed of a terrible thing. Our Federal forces have taken down the largest shipment of every form of traffick.”
“So, Officer, why are you calling me about this?”
“I just wanted you to know how dangerous it is to be an informer. Once things heat up, you never know who will be blamed for what happens.”
“Do you think someone will be blaming you for what happened?”
“Who else can be blamed. This is my territory. It is my responsibility. If I were you, I would make myself scarce. If the Feds come for me, they’ll be looking for you next.”
“Officer, how high up does this menace go?”
“Senators invested in what was lost tonight. The Mexican government had a large piece of the action. Large loans were taken out and now must be repaid with nothing to show for the losses.”
“Maybe there’s a way to recover from this?” Tim ventured.
“Some things are small, and recovery is fairly easy. This was way too large for recovery. Excuse me for a minute. Someone is at the door.”
Tim heard gunfire and then silence. Someone terminated the call on the other end.
Tim’s hand dropped by his side. He felt a tap on his shoulder.
There stood the Apache ghost. “Want to take a ride?”
Tim nodded. The ghost showed him the way.
Tim drove his Volks south almost to the Mexican border. The ghost told him to get out and follow him. Tim walked up a gentle grade with the ghost and looked south where the ghost was pointing.
“Do you see that building that looks like a big barn?”
“Yes. It’s anomalous. Is it really a barn?”
The ghost laughed. “Not hardly. It’s a depot. Trucks drive under the border through a tunnel that reaches that building. One load is dropped. Another load is picked up. This goes on all day and all night. Do you think you or any one man can stop the commerce represented by this trafficking?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’ve learned enough for one evening. You weren’t hit by any of the projectiles fired at Agua Caliente, were you?”
“I don’t think so. No.”
“Then live to fight another day.”
“The policeman I worked for is now dead.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“Mine, I suppose.”
“You still have a number to call, don’t you?”
“I think so.”
“As I was saying, you have a choice to continue or to stop right now.”
“Do I really still have that choice?”
“You do seem to be learning after all. No, you don’t have the same choice. In fact, count on the Feds to trace the policeman’s call to your cellphone. They’ll do some cross checking. You’ll be discovered as the one who let them know about the bazaar. Then they’ll be in a quandary.”
“They’ll know I played both sides and chose one side tonight.”
“And they’ll be waiting to give you another test.”
“Will you tell me about the new test?”
“Do you think we ghosts can tell the future?”
“You knew enough to bring me to the brink tonight.”
“The next move is yours.”
Tim got back into his Volkswagen and drove to meet Interstate 10. His was a long drive back to Mesa, but he made it just after dawn. He went to his morning class after taking a long, hot shower.
‘Agua Caliente,’ he said out loud. “How good it feels.”
Going over his weekly schedule, Tim saw he had to write and record his piece about the old Indian hot spring over his lunch hour. He managed to complete his work as well as his two morning classes. At two o’clock p.m. he went to the radio station to do the formal recording from his smooth draft. Sandy was there to greet him.
“You look like Hell, Tim. Have you been up all night?”
He nodded and put two fingers over his lips. He stumbled into the studio and arranged his papers. He checked the sound equipment and flipped all systems on.
When he began, he fancied the Apache ghost was sitting beside him in the studio. The ghost remained silent until he had spoken the last words.
Tim fought sleep as he exalted in having finished this story. How to celebrate? He was uncertain what to do. He looked to his left and his right, but the Apache ghost was nowhere to be seen.
Tim shrugged and began singing. He surprised himself that he had remembered the Indian song. His voice swelled and filled the space. He saw a needle jump with his voice. He had not turned off the sound equipment. Undismayed, he continued singing, sounding more like the Apache ghost with every phrase. When Tim finished, he flicked the sound equipment off, but the music continued even after his head hit the table.