Nightzone (13 page)

“All right. We've come to that same conclusion. I was planning on shooting a few of 'em and hanging their corpses on a pole, down there at the entrance way. Do that a few times, and it might put a stop to all the nonsense.”

Hotchkiss looked pained. “You're going to need security, for a start. But that's not the real issue.”

“And what is?”

“Folks are going to think you're up to something else.”

“I've been told that. I'm hoping some well-targeted publicity will smooth things out. That starts this week. Otherwise, I don't care what people think.”

The agent looked dubious. “If someone is upset enough to cut down your power poles, it isn't going to stop there. You can be sure of that.”

“Well,
one
of 'em got himself permanently discouraged, and
that's
a fact. And his partner's a fugitive. His life is over. If there are others, that's why we pay you the big bucks.”

“You can bet that we're interested in who they might have been working with,” Hotchkiss said.

“If they were,” I said.

Costace shot a quick glance my way. “We're almost sure of it.” He pulled a small notebook out of his pocket and jotted a note or two.

“Let me ask you something, then,” I said. “It doesn't require a rocket scientist to take a chain saw to a wooden power pole. Make that six power poles. Any airheaded teenager could do that. How does this stunt lead you to think it's some big conspiracy?”

Costace laughed gently. “You know, maybe it's just a form of job security for us.” He turned serious. “A teenager would cut a pole closer to town, where he could see the results. This was done with a purpose—and it makes a hell of a statement to drop six like this.”

Hotchkiss drew a circle around the mesa-top installation with his index finger.

“How many acres?”

Waddell started to say something, and bit it off. I saw his jaw muscles clench, why I don't know. The kid from Homeland Security had had the time to scrutinize the drafting, and pick up all kinds of details. But apparently the rancher had reached his limit.

“A few,” he said.

Hotchkiss glanced up at him, clearly puzzled at his reticence, then turned his attention back to the drafting. “But this is the only access to the mesa-top.” He swept a finger across the rendering to the access road.

“How about that,” Waddell said dryly. He didn't offer to educate the young agent. Both the rancher and I knew that there was the remains of an old mining road on the southeast side. At the moment it could be used for a world class championship 4x4 course. But what the hell—maybe another million would make it passable.

Hotchkiss straightened up. “Can we get a copy of this?”

“No, you can't.” Waddell deftly rolled up the rendering and the multiple sheets under it, and Hotchkiss watched with a stone face as the rancher slid the plans into the cardboard tube. They
could
get a copy, of course, from any number of sources, the state building inspector being the simplest. But at the moment, Hotchkiss remained polite.

“We can't help you if we don't have the information we need.”

Waddell laughed. “How about when I want your help, I'll call
you?
” His tone was perfectly pleasant and reasonable. He looked across at me. “Isn't that the old joke? ‘I'm from the government and I'm here to help?'”

“What do you folks know that we don't?” My question took the two agents by surprise. “Your response time was pretty good for a case of vandalism.”

“We were headed this way,” Costace said.

“The California deal?” That earned a sharp look from Hotchkiss and a smile from Costace. “Why do you say that?”

“Makes sense. You've got some folks out there who have announced that they're moving a half billion-dollar radio telescope out of their state to New Mexico. California is not going to take the loss lightly—and only a few folks in New Mexico are going to welcome the project, at least until they find out how many people are going to be employed here. The rest would prefer the rumor—that it's the government, once again here to help.”

“I think you're overreacting to the rumor,” Costace said. “To rumors and old, bad jokes.”

“And yet, here
you
are. The sawdust down below is still fresh, and we've earned a visit from both the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the Department of Homeland Security.”

“We were around.”

“And that's pretty lame,” I said. “Did Sheriff Torrez call you?”

“Yes, he did. Listen, Bill,” and Costace took me by the elbow as if he wanted to lead me out of earshot of the others. I didn't take the hint, and he relaxed his grip. “Look, I don't know what your stake in all this is…”

“No stake.”

His eyes twinkled. “Right. That's why you're sitting on a mesa-top at one in the morning.”

“Not this mesa, and when you're pondering deep thoughts like I do, you gotta sit somewhere lofty.”

“If something comes to your attention that you think we ought to know, will you call me?”

“You're on the Rolodex, Neil.”

He nodded, and Hotchkiss took the opportunity to hand me a card. I extended it to Waddell without looking at it.

“Good luck with all this,” Costace shook hands with me and Waddell as if he meant it. Hotchkiss' grip was still polite, but a little tempered this time. We watched them trudge back to their sporty little SUV.

“I should have locked the gate down below,” Waddell quipped, and I laughed. “You never know who's going to drive in.”

“See? We're just as paranoid as everybody else.”

Miles Waddell, rancher, entrepeneur, dreamer, once more implored that I consider his offer, and as I left the mesa that afternoon, I thought about the mammoth design of his project, and the odds of it actually seeing fruition. Small to none, was my pessimistic conclusion, and I kicked myself for falling so easily into that trap. I felt a pang of sympathy for him. And the second thought was one of irritation. Why
shouldn't
Miles Waddell be able to build his castle in the sky? Why should boneheads stand in his way?

Chapter Fourteen

I spent the rest of the afternoon at the sheriff's office, reviewing my depositions to make sure my less-than-acute memory hadn't botched it. The account of my nocturnal mesa-top observations was brief, but the paperwork I cranked out for the shooting of Mr. Nathan Baum spelled out that incident in excruciating detail. I knew damn well what was coming from that one.

Listening to dispatch with half an ear, I followed the man-hunt for Perry Kenderman's killer. The unsuccessful roadblocks were lifted shortly after four p.m., but they'd become useless long before that. By four-thirty, the investigation out at the power line was closed, with a depressingly brief list of evidence. Heavy equipment from both the local Electric Cooperative and from the grid had arrived and were allowed to move in.

Evidence was scant. We—they—had a corpse with a broken neck and crushed jaw, some sawdust from a chain saw, a few scuffs in the gravel, and six downed power poles. One witness had heard the chain saw. Another had been watching from twenty miles away.

The list for the Kenderman site was equally brief: a corpse with a through-and-through head wound with no bullet or shell casing left behind, a brief radio broadcast, and some scuff marks in the gravel.

The shooting of Sergeant Jackie Taber and Nathan Baum was as well documented as the Boyd/Kenderman tragedy was obscure. The only lingering question was why Nathan Baum hadn't tried to sweet-talk his way out of the initial confrontation with the sheriff's sergeant, instead of confronting her from the get-go with a shotgun. Did he actually expect that the officer would take one look at the gun and say, “My mistake. You can go now.”?

The sheriff and half a dozen other officers of various jurisdictions clumped through the office at various times that afternoon, all grim-faced and frustrated. I didn't know where they were coming from or going, and didn't ask. It wasn't that I wasn't curious—I was, acutely so. But I was also aware of how in the way I could be.

Because I had a standing offer to use the undersheriff's office, I relaxed there, with a nice view of the neighboring county buildings and Cat Mesa beyond. Musing was a great way to spend time, and I was good at it, my thoughts free-ranging.

“Are you ready for a ride?”

I startled so hard that I yanked a muscle in my neck.

“Sorry, sir,” Estelle Reyes-Guzman said. “I didn't realize you were asleep.”

“I wasn't,” I grumped. “I was thinking.” I glanced up at the wall clock and saw with some astonishment that it was late afternoon…I'd been thinking, all right. And hopefully not snoring.

She regarded me silently for a moment. “I'd like to talk with Johnny Boyd,” she said. “He's home now. Bobby talked with him out at the site, but I wanted to follow up on a couple of things that Boyd mentioned out there. He asked if you were around, too.”

“I'm around, all right. What's Johnny need from me?” Counseling the bereaved was not my favorite pasttime.

“He wants us to understand what his argument is with Miles Waddell.”

I looked at her quickly. “I didn't know that there was one.” And if Johnny Boyd had a beef with Waddell, why would Boyd care what
we
thought? Or more specifically, what
I
thought. The answer was painfully obvious. Another loop of the lasso was trying to tie itself around my feet. The little word “no'' would solve that.

“Sure, I'll ride out with you.” I pushed myself out of the chair, and then hesitated as my brain began to sift through all the files that included assumptions about the father-son relationship between Johnny and Curt Boyd. “What was your impression?” I knew the flashpoint of Johnny Boyd's temper was low, and he wasn't quick to forget and forgive. Losing a son was fundamental, but I couldn't see how Miles Waddell could be held responsible in any fashion.

“I got the impression that Mr. Boyd saw something coming,” Estelle said. “That maybe he was resigned to something like this happening.”

“So you think Johnny knows more about his son's home terrorist activities than he was willing to admit to the sheriff?”

“That's a possibility, sir. I know he's comfortable with you, though. He doesn't warm up to the heriff much.”

“Old harmless me,” I laughed.

There were two routes out to the Boyd ranch northwest of Posadas, and both of them fell into the “you can't get there from here” category. The shortest route was up and over the east end of Cat Mesa, then winding down the dusty ranch roads for twenty miles to the Boyds' back gate. On a rapidly approaching February night, even one studded with moon and stars, that wasn't my choice of roads for a high-strung sedan.

I felt a twinge of relief when Estelle turned her new Charger west on the state highway that ran past Posadas Municipal Airport. That civilized route was twenty-five miles longer, exiting the county to the north and then looping back through the tiny hamlet of Newton, followed by four miles or so of wash-boarded gravel.

The car's stiff seats didn't do my backside any good, but I suppose that in a high-speed chase, I'd be glad for them. The stiff suspension telegraphed every tar strip in the highway. We sped north, and “sped” was the operative word. The thumping tar strips became a rapid staccato as the massive hemi engine found its comfort zone, and I relaxed.

“How do you like this crate?” I asked as we slowed for Newton fifteen minutes later.

“It won the low bid,” she shrugged, then grinned. “The boys like it.”

“They would,” I scoffed. Francisco, now a sage thirteen, and Carlos, sprouting up at nine, had pleaded for rides and pouted when their mother refused. I didn't know what youngsters called vehicles like that nowadays, but I suppose it was cool, boss, wild, bad-ass, or whatever. I preferred my rides to be sedate and cushy. “What else have you heard about the concert?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Estelle replied. “Carlos is so excited he can't stand still.”

“He never could.”

There wasn't much of Newton left to attract tourists. Maybe two ranching families still lived there, along with half a dozen vacant buildings. We crashed off the pavement and swung past a road sign that announced that county maintenance ended. The dirt lane was smooth as long as we went fast enough to keep the tires on the tops of the bumps. In two miles, we passed under a laser-carved metal archway that announced the Flying B ranch of J.R. Boyd and Sons.

Like most ranches, the owners had found a sheltered spot to build a home. Boyd's was tucked against a low mesa, protected to the north and west. As we approached, Johnny was standing on the front porch, out of the halo of light from the kitchen door. His cigarette glowed bright, and then extinguished as he ground it out under his boot heel. The porch light flashed on, and Johnny half turned toward the house in irritation. The light went out.

Two Aussie heelers danced circles as they charged across the dusty yard. Johnny snapped something, and both dogs stopped as if they'd come to the end of their invisible leashes. Unsure of just how to herd us, they retreated to the porch.

“Evening.” There wasn't much warmth in the greeting, but he stepped off the porch and extended his hand—gnarly and hard as seasoned juniper. “This ain't the easiest thing for you, I guess.” He nodded at Estelle. “Come on inside. Startin' to get a bite out here.”

Low of ceiling and small of window, the Boyds' living room was dominated by a wide fieldstone fireplace centered on the east wall, and a couple of large piñon logs smoldered. I'd been here a number of times, and knew that the place could look a whole lot brighter. Now a heavy flannel blanket of tragedy smothered the home.

Maxine Boyd, short and stocky but trying to be sporty in crisp jeans and a flowery western shirt, appeared from a side room. Her face was puffy and one hand carried a wad of much-used tissue. “Hi, guys.” She sounded cheerful but brittle, as if she'd greeted one well-meaning neighbor too many. Then to her husband she said, “Don't leave the girls outside now.”

Johnny grumbled something and turned to the door. The two heelers slunk in, casting accusatory glances our way. They settled in twin doggy beds behind a green Morris chair.

The rancher gestured toward the well-worn sofa. “You'd have some coffee, I expect,” he said, and without waiting for our response nodded at his wife.

“I have some nice tea if you prefer,” Maxine Boyd offered. I'd seen Estelle drink coffee once in all the years I'd known her—and maybe that was inaccurate. I'd seen her
hold
a coffee cup once.

The rules of hospitality observed, Boyd settled his scrawny frame on the forward edge of the Morris chair and stared at the apathetic fire, hands clasped tightly.

“You was out there today?”

“I was.”

“What'd you see?” That was a tough question and Boyd corrected himself. “I mean from up on the Cat. I heard that's where you was first.”

“I didn't see much, Johnny. Two flashes of light. That's about it. I'm guessing that's when the transformer hit the ground.” And that would have been a second or two after the butt of the power pole had kicked back and killed his son.

Boyd got up and bent over the fireplace, stabbing at the logs. He had the magic touch. Flames erupted and a small puff of fragrant smoke escaped into the room. For a while, he leaned against the fireplace, staring into the flames. Maxine delivered coffee and one tea, along with a generous plate of sliced spice cake. She moved as if that simple hospitality had used up the last of her energy reserves. She settled in a straight chair near the dark wood gun cabinet, home to a portion of their son's interesting arsenal of military collectibles.

“Curt didn't think much of Waddell's railroad idea,” Boyd said abruptly.

“What was his objection?”

Boyd returned to his chair, hands once more clasped tightly. “The whole damn project, from one end to the other. Why, Waddell's got who the hell knows who comin' in from California, he's got a road better'n most public highways. But a
railroad?
Why, hell. I got to agree with my son on that. It's going to scar up the land, for one thing. Once something like that settles in, it's there forever. And I don't much like the notion of a whole train-load of tourists staring up the valley at our place. I mean hell, that thing will be runnin' day or night. I don't care if it's propane, electric, or even coal—it's going to be noisy and scare the shit out of the cattle.”

He wound down a little, and I asked, “And that was it?” The railroad would pass nowhere near the Boyd ranch—perhaps within a mile or so of one section that wrapped down around Cat Mesa. They'd certainly never see or hear it from this house. The cattle wouldn't care one way or another.

Boyd fell silent and I waited without pushing him. “You know why he wants to build a goddamn railroad track? I mean, ain't the big line enough?” He looked across first at me, and then at Estelle as if he'd noticed her presence for the first time.

“It's great country, Johnny.” A scenic ride through the scarred country would be like stepping back into Hollywood's wild west. There were even places for an impressive trestle or two. At night, other than an occasional ranch, the darkness would be incredible, even threatening, to some city folks who were used to the constant wash of light pollution. But…I could understand Johnny's hesitation to embrace the project. Sure enough, the hooded lights of a locomotive would pierce the darkness, startle the wildlife, break the mood.

And noise? There was bound to be some, perhaps significant. Locomotives with a train of cars didn't pussyfoot through the countryside. Clattering, clacking, the whistle and hiss of steam—trains announced themselves.

“But hell,” Johnny said, “I probably wouldn't have stood in his way. I mean, he offered me a fair chunk of change to lease a route through the south acres, there down beyond the mesa. That's out of sight, and far enough away. He wants to avoid the National Forest, though, and I can understand
that.
I mean, hell, the paperwork dealin' with the feds would take a lifetime.”

“You and he had discussed the project in some detail, then?” Estelle asked.

“Couple times. Hell, no big deal to me, when it comes right down to it. And like I say, he laid a lot of money on the table. Old train…picturesque, I guess.” He sighed. “Now the boy—he saw right away. You could haul some fair payloads on a train, even narrow gauge. Stay off the highways and such.”

Haul payloads?
I thought.
Payloads of what? Tourists, yes, a fair payload of excited people.
“Johnny, let me ask you something,” I said. “Do you seriously think that Miles Waddell is building—or cooperating to
have
built—some sort of clandestine installation on top of his mesa? You remember the brouhaha when they tried to build a heli-tach base out to the west of here for fire suppression.”

“Yep. I remember. Hell no. I don't think Waddell is in cahoots with some New York mayor or some ambassador or nothin' like that. I think he's got grand ideas about some sort of telescope, usin' it to attract tourists. Maybe it will, maybe it won't. Ain't much exciting about a damn telescope, in my book.”

Johnny Boyd obviously hadn't seen the plans drawn up by Waddell's imaginative architects, including far more than “a damn telescope.”

“But your son…” I prompted.

“My son had his own ideas about all this. With so many things that could use the money, he don't see why Waddell wants to waste it on something that nobody, and I mean nobody, is going to use. You think folks will come out to the top of some mesa, lay themselves down in the cactus, and stare up at the stars? Hell, you could do that anywhere.”

“He disagreed enough to disrupt power. What did he think that would accomplish?”