Fade Out (15 page)

‘What's so funny?'

‘Nothing, Arnold.'

‘Listen,' said Wedderkind. ‘If I want ham, I eat ham. Only ham I don't feel like. Right?'

‘Right,' said Connors. ‘You tuned her piano. Ask her for a chicken sandwich.'

Wedderkind gave him an owl-eyed look of reproach.

‘Are you all set up on Crow Ridge?'

‘No,' said Wedderkind. ‘They're still at Wright-Patterson.'

‘What the hell are they doing in Ohio?'

‘Well,' said Wedderkind. ‘Some of them are playing chess and the others are considering the cutout zone and what preliminary conclusions can be drawn, if any, from Crusoe's choice of landing site.'

‘And what about Clayson's private army?'

Greg swallowed hurriedly. ‘That's coming together. Clayson is expected in later today. I guess he'll tell us then who he's putting in charge of the fire engine.'

‘Who have you got up on Crow Ridge?'

‘Well, nobody right now, Bob. We've kind of run into a little problem on that.'

‘What kind of a problem?'

‘Well, primarily one of access.'

‘You mean we can't get our equipment up there on the existing routes?'

‘No…'

‘Got it. You can't get anything to function in the magnetic field around the crater.'

‘No, it's not that either,' said Greg. ‘Crow Ridge is owned by a guy called Bodell and – '

‘The son of a bitch won't sell,' said Weissmann. He jabbed a forkful of syrupy pancake at Connors.

Connors looked at Wedderkind. ‘Hell, I never thought about that.'

‘Well, think about it,' said Weissmann. ‘He damn near killed one of the Air Force guys that went in to clear that wrecked helicopter. They had to call in a couple of deputy sheriffs to hold him off.'

‘Now hold on, Lou,' said Greg. ‘You're way over the top there. The only guy that got killed was the crewman from the chopper. The only point Bodell was trying to make was that people should ask him before they start swarming all over the place. The man knows his rights. After all, it is his land – '

‘His land?' Weissmann stuffed his mouth full of pancake and waved the empty fork at Connors and Wedderkind. ‘The goddamn state gave it to him in 1945!'

‘For two hundred and fifty dollars.'

Weissman looked disdainfully at Greg Mitchell. ‘Four sections, at ten cents an acre! They gave it to him. It's fronted by the ranch road on one side and Highway 22 on the other, and Crow Ridge is stuck right in the fucking middle!'

‘He did win the Congressional Medal of Honor,' said Greg.

‘Who didn't?' said Weissmann. His jaws seemed to be endowed with perpetual motion. He began to work through his two ham rolls. ‘I checked the lease. It's watertight. Ain't no way to break it.'

‘Did that cover mineral rights?' asked Connors.

‘Everything. It's deeded land.'

‘How about getting it under the law of Eminent Domain?' asked Connors.

‘We can't – at least not without blowing our cover so far as everyone else is concerned. MRDC is a private company.'

‘Hell, yes, of course… did you try for exploration rights?'

‘No deal.'

‘How much did you offer him?'

‘Fifty thousand for a year's lease on the ridge plus twenty-five per cent, gross, off the top, of any subsequent exploitation.'

‘Not that there's anything down there,' said Greg.

‘Then why twenty-five per cent? Why not give him fifty?'

Weissmann pointed half a roll at Connors. ‘I once made that mistake in Ecuador. When the ink was dry we found we were sitting on a lead mountain. That's when we started recruiting geologists. You have to structure these deals right. Give too much away and you blow it. This guy isn't interested in money.'

‘Did you try just the one time?'

‘Twice. I waited till he drove out, then went back to talk to his wife. She's dumber than he is, and the place – I can't tell you… a hovel. I'm thinking of having my clothes burned. Anyway, I'm listing all the good things in life she can buy with the money when Bodell walks back in through the door and pulls this shotgun on me.'

‘You're still in one piece,' said Connors.

‘Just,' said Weissmann. ‘The raggedy-assed son of a bitch pumped five slugs into the trunk of my car. Twelve-gauge BB, clean through. Bastard. You can never match the fucking paint.'

‘It's the pigments,' said Wedderkind. ‘They're unstable.'

‘Where did Bodell win his Medal of Honor?' asked Connors.

‘Okinawa. Got a Purple Heart with cluster, too.' As usual, Greg had done his homework.

‘The Japs should have killed him,' said Weissmann.

‘I think I know how we might be able to get to him,' said Connors.

‘So do I,' said Weissmann. ‘Get them both on the southbound lane of the highway and have a northbound Mack truck cross over the centre line. It never fails.'

Connors' solution was just as effective, but not so messy.

One of Greg's assignments had been to set up a direct telephone link with the White House. Connors called the President, outlined the Bodell situation and his proposed solution, then got Greg to type a letter on his portable Smith-Corona. They used a sheet of the pale blue paper with the Presidential seal and the words ‘From the office of the President'. Connors always carried a few sheets around in his briefcase.

‘Who's this supposed to be from?' asked Greg.

‘The President,' said Connors. ‘Just type his name and I'll sign it.'

Greg eyed him for a second, then finished the letter. Connors added a passable forgery of the President's looping signature. Greg folded the letter and sealed it in the matching envelope.

‘Let me take it up there,' he said.

‘Not a chance,' said Connors. ‘I'm going to enjoy this.'

Officially, Volkert was still on sick leave that Saturday, but the sheriffs office in Forsyth pulled him in to drive Connors up to see Bodell. ‘Seein' as how you two is almost kin,' the Sheriff had said. It was true that Volkert was one of the few people outside Broken Mill Bodell had spoken to during the last twenty-odd years.

When Volkert had called at his shack with the two pilots from the crashed helicopter, Bodell had surprised him by offering them a lift to Broken Mill without being asked. His conversation on the way there had consisted of no more than a dozen words, eked out one at a time, yet as he sat watching him gulp his Adam's apple up and down, Volkert had the feeling that Bodell's throat was stuffed full of words like fish in a pelican's beak – but that, like the pelican, Bodell preferred to swallow them
rather than open his mouth and risk giving something away.

Volkert met Connors' helicopter at Broken Mill. He offered Connors a back seat but Connors took the front. They set off down the dirt road west of the highway. It ran in a straight line for three long, empty miles before dipping out of sight. Fifty yards ahead of them, a hawk flapped prudently off a fencepost and skimmed away on curling, loose-fingered wings.

Beyond the rise, another stretch of straight road narrowed towards the next horizon. Volkert forked left on to an even rougher road that snaked up into some low buttes.

‘This man Bodell,' said Connors. ‘Does he give you a lot of trouble?'

‘Hell, no,' said Volkert. ‘It's them Air Force boys of yours that's doing that. What in hell'd they go and drop up there – some new-fangled kind of bomb?'

‘I don't know,' said Connors. ‘It's not really my department.'

‘Well, whatever it was, it damn near burned the hide offa me.' Volkert grinned. ‘If I'd gone any blacker, they'd've run me out of town on a rail.'

Connors glanced at Volkert's peeling face. ‘Must've been pretty painful. Did anyone say what might have caused it?'

‘No. But I've had at least eight people telling me the whole thing's classified, so you'd better forget I said that.'

‘Don't worry,' said Connors. ‘I will.'

Weissman's reaction to Bodell may have lacked a certain cool, legal objectivity, but his description of Bodell's place was right on the nose. The one-storey wood-frame house had been constructed from the weathered remnants of several abandoned claimshacks. The effect was messy, but it looked solid enough. It would
need to be. In the winter, the wind that swept across eastern Montana cut like a riptoothed buzz saw.

Volkert turned the car around so that it pointed downhill. This also put Connors between him and the house. No doubt it could prove useful if they had to drive away in a hurry. Connors didn't say anything.

‘Better let me go up ahead of you,' said Volkert, then added with engaging candour, ‘If he sees that suit he might think you're another of them Jewboy hustlers.'

Connors nodded towards the pines that acted as a windbreak for the house and covered the flanks of the ridge above. ‘How come there are so many trees around here?'

‘Bodell,' said Volkert. ‘He planted them. Been doing it for years.'

‘What does he do with them – cut them down for lumber?'

‘Nope. He just keeps putting 'em in.'

‘Why?' asked Connors.

Volkert shrugged. ‘I guess he must like trees.'

Brown and white chickens scattered in front of them as they picked their way across the junk-littered yard. A pair of stained, patched long johns swung limply from a line. The line was tied to the cab of a gutted '52 Ford pickup that had weeds growing through the chassis.

As they ducked under the line, a voice said, ‘That's far enough.'

Connors felt the skin quiver on his back. Volkert stopped, eased up the brim of his stetson and scanned the front of the lifeless house. ‘Just turn around nice and slow,' he said quietly. He didn't look at Connors.

Bodell stepped out from behind the truck. He had an old Winchester pump shotgun cradled in his left arm. His right hand was on the trigger. His US Army-issue shirt and braces looked as if they had been around since Pearl
Harbor, his trousers even longer. Thick with grease and black as crankcase oil, they hung around his thin legs like crumpled stovepipes. A khaki-coloured baseball cap was pulled hard down over deepset eyes.

‘Morning, Luke,' said Volkert. ‘This gentleman here's from Washington and he's got some mighty important business that concerns you and Sarah.'

‘I sure as hell hope he ain't come here to try and buy nothing.' Bodell's wind-whipped face was as friendly as a clenched fist.

‘No, he's brung you a letter from the President of the United States of America. And that's a fact, Luke. I seen the envelope myself and your name and Sarah's is right there on the front of it.'

Connors pulled the envelope out of his inside pocket and held it out for Bodell to see. Bodell took a couple of steps forward and gingerly took the envelope. He read his name and address with a frown, then turned over the envelope to look at the Presidential seal on the flap. He considered it for a while, then looked at Connors.

‘Why the hell would he sit down and write to me? I don't even know the man.'

‘Well, he knows you, Mr Bodell. Your name's in the history books of World War Two.'

‘What's he care about that? He weren't nowhere near bein' President then.'

‘No,' said Connors. ‘But he
was
on Okinawa.'

Bodell considered the letter again. He lowered his shotgun. ‘Does he remember that?'

‘Yes, he does.'

‘I think maybe we should go inside,' said Bodell.

The one big barnlike room was partitioned off with old curtains hung on lines that doubled as wardrobes. What furniture there was had been salvaged from junk heaps. There were also books. Piles of them, everywhere. Some
on shelves made out of old planks and upended bricks, but most of them on the floor. All kinds of books, secondhand battered books, books with covers missing, books still tied together with string that looked as if they had been bought by weight, still covered with the dust from someone's attic.

Connors noticed a Mobil Calendar for 1947 on the wall. Whoever tore off the pages had stopped at the month of November. It wasn't as bad as Weissmann had said, but Connors felt a long way from home.

Bodell's wife Sarah had pale, wispy hair tied tight at the back with baling twine. She was wearing a washed-out, nine-dollar-fifty mail-order dress with an apron over it. Her elbow and wrist bones seemed to be two sizes too big for the rest of her body.

She hurriedly dusted a chair for Connors, then he sat down at the table with her and Bodell. In the middle of the table was a bunch of yellow wild flowers in a pickle jar. Volkert leaned against the porch door with his arms folded.

Bodell had the kind of hands that could skin a rabbit in under a minute, but it was painful to watch him trying to open the envelope.

He studied the letter line by line with the frowning concentration of a graduate reading an exam paper, his mouth half-forming the words. When he had finished, he passed the letter to his wife.

Despite the piles of books, Connors wasn't sure whether Bodell or his wife could read very well. Maybe they used them to feed the stove. He decided to explain things rather than risk causing them any embarrassment.

‘You see, every year since the President has been in office, he has invited one or more holders of the Congressional Medal of Honor and their wives to be his guests at the White House.'

‘What outfit was he with on Okinawa?' asked Bodell.

‘The Air Force,' said Connors. ‘He flew one of the first bombing missions to Japan after you Marines had secured the island.' It was a lie, of course, but only a small one. The President's squadron of B-29s didn't arrive on Okinawa until after the Enola Gay had dropped the big one on Hiroshima, August 6, 1945.