Page 72 of Dead Mountain

Silence fell. She looked around. She counted twenty-one people, even more than she’d hoped for. The news van would arrive at 1 PM, and they planned to wrap it up at 2.

“My friends!” Melody Ann began. “The Manzano Families thank you for coming out to support us on this cold afternoon! Thank you!” She held up her hands and clapped, generating applause from the group.

“I’d like to introduce Cosmo and Cassy Wright, the grieving parents of Gordon Wright, whose remains, as you all are now aware, were recently found in a cave in the Manzanos. Two weeks ago, the FBI announced they were reopening the case. And yet since then, we’ve heard nothing. At first, we assumed this was just more foot-dragging and incompetence. But then we realized something else was going on. A dark pattern was beginning to repeat itself.”

She paused dramatically.

“The entire Dead Mountain case has the feeling of one long cover-up from beginning to end. Why have we heard nothing? Because they refuse to tell us anything! And that’s why we’re here—to call out the FBI. Demand the truth.”

She pointed dramatically at the house, then spoke again in a ringing voice. “Former FBI agent Robertson Gold directed the original investigation and cover-up. He knows the truth. All roads lead back to him. And after fifteen long years, we demand answers!”

She paused. “In the past few weeks, the Manzano Families have been gathering fresh information—new and frightening information. I can’t promise we have the answers—but we have some leads. And we, the families, want to share what we know—with you.”

Another pause.

The crowd was totally silent.

“For years, there’ve been rumors of a secret project, launched in parallel with the Manhattan Project. I’m talking, of course, about the Boston Project. Some of you have undoubtedly heard of it. The Boston Project centered on another kind of WMD—not nuclear weapons, but bioweapons. Specifically, what would today be called genetic engineering. The Manhattan Project was a success, of course, and led to the atomic bomb and victory over the Japanese. But the Boston Project, based at Kirtland, was not a success—not for a long time. While we are still assembling the details, we believe its goal was to create the perfect soldier. Early on, the Boston Project didn’t have the necessary technology, and their crude experiments made little progress. But nevertheless it continued along in secrecy—and finally reached fruition with the advanced biotechnology tools now available. But there were, shall we say, a few hiccups along the way.”

Melody Ann felt a rush of energy and excitement to see that the small crowd was riveted.

“I say hiccups. A more accurate word would be failures. Early on, they created freaks. Hideous, powerful, subhuman. And on the night of October 31, 2008, one of those genetic monsters escaped the base and wandered off into the storm. It opened the flap of the tent, triggering horror and panic. And in so doing, sparking a tragedy that led to nine deaths.”

She looked around again, letting what she’d said settle in.

“You may ask me, Where’s the evidence? A fair question. So let’s go over the facts. First, it’s generally acknowledged—even by the government—that something blocked the tent doorway that was so terrifying our children cut their way out and fled. A bear, mountain lion, another human being? Hardly. These were experienced mountaineers and wilderness-goers.”

“Two: In going over old newspaper articles, I’ve noted that people reported an unusual number of helicopters and planes flying around the mountains that very night—that very night, before anyone even knew the hikers were missing. What were they searching for if not an escapee?

“Three: The radiation found on some of the clothing, which was intended to remain secret but—luckily for anyone who seeks the truth—managed to leak out. It’s a well-known fact that medical isotopes are used in genetic engineering and identification of neurological problems.”

The crowd was hanging on every word. She wasn’t sure if this theory was 100 percent correct, but if you wanted to motivate people, you had to use the same tools being used against you: even bending the truth a little if it meant giving them something concrete, something specific.

“Enough talk!” she cried. “Let’s start the protest!”

She got out a couple of electronic megaphones, keeping one for herself and giving Cosmo the other. The signs were quickly distributed, too, and she directed everyone to stay on the sidewalks and in the turnaround circle, moving in a counterclockwise direction. She began the chanting, and soon everyone was following along in unison as they made a slow circle in front of Gold’s house, careful not to trespass on his lawn, staying on the sidewalk and street.

This went on for forty-five minutes, and then the real excitement began. Turning into the street was a big white van with a satellite dish on top—KWOW. It pulled up next to her car, and several technicians and a sound man got out, followed by the local investigative reporter, Liz Sanchez, an attractive woman in a crisp suit with a short, dark, serious haircut. Next to her was a man, gesturing and giving directions, evidently the news producer. Melody Ann peeled off from the group and came over to them.

“Any sign of Gold?” asked Sanchez.

“No, but he’s in there, I’m sure,” said Melody Ann. “He doesn’t go anywhere.”

“Okay. We’re going to set up over there,” she said, as the sound technician started miking up Melody Ann with a lavalier. Sanchez and the producer discussed where they were going to set up and shoot, and asked that the protesters continue circling and chanting in the near ground, with the Gold house in the middle distance.

Soon they were ready. Melody Ann shook out her frosted tips as Sanchez stood next to her with the mike.

“This is Liz Sanchez, here in Silver City with Melody Ann O’Connell, the mother of the final missing victim of the Dead Mountain tragedy. Melody Ann, can you tell us what’s going on here?”

“Yes, Liz, and thank you.” She took a deep breath. “We’re here to protest the FBI’s flagrant cover-up of what really happened to the Manzano nine.”

“A cover-up? How so?”

As Melody Ann began to launch into the spiel she’d practiced, there was a shout from behind her. The news producer was pointing at the house. “Hey, get that shot! He’s coming out!”

The news crew abandoned Melody Ann and rushed up the driveway, carrying their cameras and equipment, boom mikes swinging.

Gold had come out of the house, and he was yelling. “Get the hell out of here! Get the hell off my property!”

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