John Doe No. 2 and the Dreamland Motel

17 Ascending Mount Carmel

17 Ascending Mount Carmel You are riding with Timothy McVeigh across the barren Texas plains, gradually making your way into the comparatively fertile environs of the hill country. Mike Fortier reclines in the backseat of the Road Warrior, his feet dangling outside of the vehicle’s passenger ’s side window. Lost in a deep sleep since Albuquerque, he has proven to be an unobtrusive third wheel—quiet, unassuming, and compliant. The sun sets at your back as you travel eastward, through Amarillo and Wichita Falls. Toward the outer reaches of Waco. Timothy McVeigh pilots the Road Warrior across the Brazos River, its waters silty and unmoving. On the far side of town—only a few scant miles from the Tradinghouse Creek Reservoir that feeds Waco—your driver leaves the main highway for the decidedly more rural Farm Road 2491. And beyond that, the infamous Double-E Ranch Road. “I wore a special T-shirt for this occasion,” your partner announces as he turns the Road Warrior onto a gravel road. “F.B.I.—Federal Bureau of Incineration” is emblazoned across Timothy McVeigh’s chest. “We’re here, boys,” he exclaims as he parks the car on the side of Double-E Ranch Road. Mike climbs lazily out of the backseat, Ascending Mount Carmel 139 rubbing the sleep from his eyes. As you walk away from the vehicle, Timothy McVeigh hands you the AirLite. “It’s zero hour,” he warns, “and this is posted government land.” You observe the Glock resting casually in the holster draped across your partner’s shoulder. You can only assume that Mike will have to make do with hand-to-hand combat, should it come to that. From the looks of him—with his eyes droopy and glazed over—you’d be surprised if he even knows he’s in Texas. You are astounded by the lack of security. There is no one else around—not so much as a tractor or a combine in the vicinity. Just a simple perimeter fence, with a crude rectangular sign as its only deterrent: “No Trespassing. Contaminated Zone.” Following Timothy McVeigh’s lead, you leap over the flimsy wooden barrier, with Mike loping off to the rear. Still lost in his postsomnambulant haze. “The compound was off on the hilltop to the right,” your partner announces, gesturing in the direction of a gentle grade sloping off to the east through the brushland. A dirt road snakes its way from Double-E Ranch Road to the rear, toward the hillock in the distance. Toward your destination. Toward Mount Carmel. Hiking along the dirt road, Timothy McVeigh breaks into an impromptu narration. “This is a crime scene, fellas. A cover-up,” he says. “I’m surprised there isn’t yellow tape around the premises.” The sun is setting in the west as you stroll toward the hilltop. “Welcome to the hallowed ground where the federal government of these United States of America declared war on the American people,” says Timothy McVeigh. Youturnaroundslowly,gazingatthepanoramathatunfoldsbefore you. The primitive swimming pool is still there, brimming over with brown, dirty water. Oozing in its staleness. Off to the right lies the rusting hulk of a school bus, oxidizing in the unforgiving Texas sun. Before you sits a motorcycle, still standing erect on its kickstand, the weeds growing through its spokes and threading their way, 140 J o h n D o e N o . 2 a n d t h e D r e a m l a n d M o t e l slowly but surely, among the putrefied innards of its engine. In the extreme background, you can make out the exposed remnants of a series of underground tunnels snaking their way through the decaying foundation. Yet another school bus, semiburied in its earthly tomb, rises off to the left. Its absent roof, having been sheared from its frame, leaves the vehicle’s interior—strangely, inexplicably—exposed to the elements . Like its counterpart, it has been rudely discarded to suffer the Texas weather in all its brutal whimsy. In the foreground lies a corroded bathtub perched awkwardly on its side. Random and out of place, it seems somehow emblematic of the vanquished compound in miniature: lost and off-kilter—the virtual shadow of its former, living self. Aside from the prairie brush and the rampaging weeds, there is really nothing to see. Only history’s unspoken, silent misery. Timothy McVeigh...