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Frank couldn’t recall ever eating such a spicy breakfast. Damn good, but a lot spicier than most anything you might find in Minnesota, even in a Mexican restaurant.

As Frank and Larry sat back in their chairs and let the eggs, cheese, ground meat and chili sauce settle in, Frank scanned the photos on the dining room wall.

More photos of the early days of the ranch, but these were focused less on the Mexican construction crew and more on older white men. One in particular, a tall, sturdy gent shown on horseback and in front of buildings in various stages of completion, had to be the patriarch. “Old Howie,” as Richards had referred to him. There was one of Old Howie standing with a group of men in suits who’d seemingly just arrived. Two of the men were looking down at the ground so all you could see was the tops of their heads. Another photo showed the same group in various leisure poses: drinks in hand, holding rifles, smoking cigars, etc. The two camera-shy gentlemen were not pictured.

But the pic Frank found the most interesting was a picture of Howie in a khaki-shirt-and-pants get up, standing next to a man wearing a dark suit and an air of importance. Both men were smiling at the camera, while behind them, two men, also in dark suits, were standing next to a black U. S. Army helicopter, seemingly waiting for the man with Parker.

Guy looks like Richard fuckin’ Nixon, Frank thought. Our former president, Tricky Dick, was now in self-imposed exile in San Clemente, California, after his stunning resignation from the country’s highest office.

“Is that Richard Nixon?” Frank asked, pointing at the photo.

“Sure is. Back when he was VP under Eisenhower. He and Howie were buds, I guess. Bryce calls that picture ‘Nixon pleased with graft payment.’”

The damn picture was giving Frank a funny feeling. He’d read somewhere that events in the past can leave psychic fingerprints, so maybe that was what he was sensing. He never used to experience such nonsense, but after his recent acid trip, the concussion, and all the other shit that had gone down in Zenith, his senses had become acute to the point of hypersensitive. And, at times, he swore he had a sixth sense.

Extrasensory perception.

ESP.    

And also more susceptible to whacked-out theories, a voice in his head reminded him. It wasn’t the Hater speaking, more like the Admonisher.

And take a look at that Howard Parker. Man resembled famous movie director Sam Peckinpaugh. Especially in the photos of an older, white-haired Howie. And all the photos kind of vibed like behind the scenes at a Peckinpaugh western. You almost expected to see Warren Oates lurking in the background somewhere.

And was that William Holden in the back row of the group photo standing with a beautiful Mexican woman?

But there was something else, something different Frank was sensing. Not like this place was a den of evil, some stronghold of conspirators complicit in the assassination of JFK or anything like that, but the vibe was less than immaculate. Like the psychic fingerprints were saying that off-kilter and unsavory things often happened here.

So maybe this place was also haunted by sins of the past, Frank thought, letting his mind drift.

But maybe it was just the residue of the amphetamine and the lack of sleep, playing tricks with his head.

Now he was too full and too tired to think. All he wanted was to get in the pool before he crashed out, that inevitable moment rapidly approaching.

(End of Chapter 12)

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