Nightzone (21 page)

Chapter Twenty-three

The Jet Ranger was appointed in corporate swank, but it was working swank, wear and tear just beginning to show around the edges. Lots of insulation helped cut the shrieking of the turbine, not like the head-splitting racket of the bare metal military Hueys I had experienced a couple of lifetimes ago.

Lynn Browning was in no hurry, and I sat patiently as she examined every square inch of the bird, then finally climbed in and did the same micro-examination on the inside. The checklist seemed to be reams. At last she picked up a headset, plugged it into the radio console and handed it to me. As soon as it settled on my ears, I heard her calm voice say, “…ive by five?” The headphones' voice-actuated ‘on' feature wasn't quite fast enough to catch the first letter of what was said, but it was comfortable not to have to scream “WHAT?”

For a full five minutes we sat in place, the big, flat rotors slicing the air and a stream of Jet-A exhaust drifting up into the faultless sky. Lynn positioned a small copy of Miles Waddell's map on her knee clipboard, on top of her aero chart.

Finally satisfied, she looked toward the FBO building as if airport manager Jim Bergin could read her lips through the windows.

“Posadas Unicom, USR Three Seven Zero One will be taxiing to the active.”

“Seven Zero One, active is currently two eight zero, winds two niner zero, gusting to five, barometer three zero six zero. Traffic is the UPS Bonanza inbound from the west here in about five minutes.”

Even as Bergin said that, and I could picture his wrinkled face cracking at his own joke about the wind ‘gusts', the Jet Ranger went light on its toes as the rotors bit the air, and we slid across the parking area macadam, our skids maybe an inch off the ground. She took the first intersection, angled out to the runway as she scanned the sky, and then tracked west down the centerline as the nose dropped and we climbed rapidly, the airport dropping away behind us.

Seconds later, rising in seamless, velvety air, we could see the tan kidney-bean shape of Waddell's mesa. To the south, the steel-blue highway cut the prairie, and I could see a dust cloud on one of the spurs off of County 14.

“Basically what I'm after,” Lynn said, pointing to the south as if she had seen something else, “are coordinate photos of the mesa, from just far enough away that we can capture the entire formation.” Finally I saw what she had pointed at as the sun glinted off the bright metal of a single-engine plane coming in from Lordsburg, fast and low. Almost immediately we heard the chatter on the radio as everyone announced themselves.

She answered my question without my asking. “We just need to know what's
there.
”

“There are actually a couple of spots where there is access to the mesa-top from down below,” I said, and she nodded. A few moments later, Prescott's ranch passed under our nose, and we skirted the south side of the mesa. Near the rim, I could see Waddell's RV trailer parked, a choice spot. The rancher's truck was gone, and the angled sun highlighted the tracks.

We stopped, the tail swinging around fast enough that part of my stomach sagged behind. When we were facing north, she used a small digital camera to snap photos from her side window, at one point actually backing up until she could frame the photo of the south-east mesa corner just the way she wanted.

“How long have you known Mr. Waddell?” the disembodied voice in the headphones asked.

“Long time.”

“Where does he actually
live?”

“He's got a nice place north of here. Ever since he started this project, he's been spending most of his time in that little travel trailer.”

She nodded and banked the chopper sharply as we skirted west along the mesa edge, holding far enough away that she could capture her panoramas.

“This is the spot where California is setting up?” she asked.

“Approximately so. I think.”

“He told me that he's paying some of the transportation costs.”

When I didn't answer, she glanced at me. “Any idea what those are?”

“I have no idea. You'd have to ask Miles.” Then, more to be conversational than anything else, I added, “I'm sure it's plenty.”

Where the new access highway joined the mesa rim, she hovered in close, documenting some of the fancy rockwork that kept the road sides in place.

“When he built this road, what was your understanding about the project?”

I took a moment to separate in my own mind what Miles Waddell had told me in confidence, and what was for public consumption. “I always thought he was building an observatory,” I said. “Obviously more than that.”

“But you've seen the architects' rendering?”

“Sure.” I reached over and tapped the small version on her clipboard. “Just the big version of that. The whole dream, minus the train.”

We whupped up the air above the parking lot. First taking a photo to the south, she then pivoted the chopper smoothly so that she could shoot to the north, toward the construction of the new power substation. Despite it being a weekend now, five vehicles were at the site. No wood this time, I noticed. So what had the vandals accomplished? The new substation framework looked like something out of an Erector set.

“He never mentioned his budget for the next three years,” Lynn said. “From the activity I've seen so far…wow.” She smiled over at me, looking almost apologetic at her fishing.

“From what I know of Miles, he won't build anything he can't afford,” I said.

“It's amazing to tackle something like this without partners—without an organization to fall back on.”

We made our way now east, and in the shade of a dense grove of junipers, I could see his wellhead, the well itself protected by a little concrete bunker he'd built a dozen years before with a steel-framed windmill presiding for the stock tanks.

“Just the one well?”

“As far as I know,” I said. “Have you actually sat down with Miles and gotten all the answers you need from him?”

“I plan to do that this afternoon. We have lunch planned.”

“That's the best thing. I'm sure he'll provide all the Dunn & Bradstreet info you need if it comes to that.”

“Sometimes a second opinion is helpful,” she said.

“I suppose so.”

“On a scale of one to ten, how optimistic are you that this project will succeed as he envisions it?”

“Me, personally?”

“Yes.”

“I'll go for the old saw, Mrs. Browning. Miles Waddell can have anything he wants…he just may not be able to have
everything
he wants. I have no idea what kind of tourist traffic he can attract to pay for the operating costs. No idea.”

“He strikes me as being shrewd,” she said. “Excited but shrewd.”

“That's a fair assessment.”

For the next forty minutes, we orbited and shot, and despite the smooth air, I began to regret not having a full breakfast—too much coffee sloshed around in an empty belly.

“I'd like an overview,” my pilot announced, and even as she spoke, the mesa fell away. We climbed as smartly as the lightly loaded Jet Ranger could manage in the thin, high-prairie air, and circled slowly, enjoying the full panorama. To the south, I could clearly see the pass through the San Cristóbals, and could count three vehicles in the twenty-six miles between the pass and Posadas to the east. As we reached 9,000 feet and turned, I could see over Cat Mesa to the north. It would be interesting to be able to pen the route Waddell was considering for his train. What did narrow gauge railroad bed now cost per mile?

Looking at the rugged mesa and all the arroyos and gorges cut in its flanks, I thought that a railroad that looped
around
Cat Mesa would be spectacular, the tracks heading out of Posadas to the east and north, reappearing around the west end of the mesa. Fifty miles of track, maybe. Mere pocket change. Wonderfully empty country, it all was. In the entire panorama to the north, I could see a single billow of dust from a vehicle northbound off of State 78, following what would become one of the jarring Forest Service roads near the west end of the mesa. A woodcutter, perhaps. Or Johnny Boyd taking the rough route home.

“Is there anything else you might like to see?” Lynn asked. “And by the way, I'll be happy to send you a packet of the best of the best.”

“I'd appreciate that. And I'll buy breakfast, if we're headed back.”

She had seen my yawns, a sure sign that a flight passenger would rather be elsewhere.

“Thanks for that,” she said. “But I think I'll go back to the motel room and print some of these out before I meet with Mr. Waddell.” She banked gently for one more mesa view. “What a spot,” she said. “What an incredible spot.”

“You know, I predict what's going to appeal to the county commission about this whole thing.
Nothing
shows to the casual passerby. No excavation, no nothing. From down on the highway, you won't be able to see a damn thing. There's one spot, if you know just where to look, that you'll be able to see the top portion of the California dish. That's it. No neon, no noise, no intrusion.”

“That works both ways, though. Unless he has some careful signage,
something
to announce the location, he won't attract the casual tourist…the folks for whom the mesa isn't a planned destination.”

“When this is up and running, there will be so much publicity in the media, I don't think that will be a problem,” I said. More likely, just the opposite, I thought. Hopefully, Miles Waddell's
NightZone
wouldn't become a Pandora's Box.

Chapter Twenty-four

My favorite back corner of the Don Juan de Oñate was as dark as the New Mexico prairie had been blinding. In retrospect, I thought that Lynn Browning had kept her curiosity pretty well in check. If I'd been willing to blab, she'd have listened and maybe even encouraged. When I made it clear that I wasn't going to offer up gratuitous information behind my friend's back, she hadn't persisted. If that had been the reason for her inviting me along, I'd turned out to be a boring passenger.

I had taken two scrumptious bites when my little cell phone vibrated, and I dropped my fork in the process of trying to fish the damn phone out of my pocket.

“Gastner,” I managed around the green chile soaked egg and onion and sausage and mushrooms and Fernando Aragon only knew what else.

“Where are you?” Bob Torrez's usual quiet voice sounded loud in the quiet restaurant. For a moment I could imagine that by ducking inside the restaurant, I had escaped the eye of his pilotless drone.

“Eating a green chile burrito that won't wait for anybody or anything,” I said. “And this is the second time in a couple of days that you've asked me where the hell I am. I'm on a short leash now, or what?”

The sheriff almost chuckled, a little huff of amusement. “Just checkin'.” This from a man who didn't care an iota where people were, or what they were doing or saying—unless they crossed into his turf.

“Did you talk with Estelle this morning?”

“Yep. How was the flight?”

“Spectacular. What's up?”

“I just finished talking to Art Shaum out at Chavez.” Shaum was the new service manager at the Chavez Chevrolet dealership, a hardwired young man who would spend his Saturday at the dealership even though the service department was closed for the weekend. My bet was that he'd end up owning the place within a year. “He's missing a vehicle.”

“I didn't take it.” I waited patiently, since the sheriff had more on his mind than a stolen car or truck.

“The electric company had one of their older units at the dealership for front end work. F-450 utility body, stretch cab, four by four diesel. White, with fleet number 1214 on the front fender. Gone this morning.” He rattled off the tag and repeated the fleet number.

“It wasn't locked up?”

“Just in that little paddock deal by the service entrance. Key was hanging in Shaum's office.”

“And it still is?”

“Yep.”

“So what are you thinking, Sheriff.”

After a brief pause, Torrez said, “I'm thinkin' that I don't like coincidence. This Daniel guy is switchin' vehicles left and right. And now this…”

“Bobby, get a grip. Who is going to want a flapped-out Electric Coop truck? Behemoth like that probably won't break fifty miles an hour.”

“Depends on what he plans to do with it,” the sheriff said.

“Like what, do you imagine?”

“I can think of all kinds of things.”

“Name one.”

“Who bothers to give a second look at an electric company truck out near a construction site?”

“Well, for one thing, the electric company might. They've got all kinds of people out here who would recognize it in a heartbeat.”

“Plus,” the sheriff pointed out, “he's got his bike with him. He used the dealership's utility ramp and wasn't too careful about leavin' tracks.”

I took a moment to digest that. The sheriff was
not
imagining things if a motorcycle was involved. “Why would he stay around?” I said, more to myself than the sheriff.

“'Cause he thinks he's got a target,” Torrez said. “They finished up tossing his apartment in Cruces. Interesting hobby he had. It looks like he had just about every movie or book about the French Resistance ever made.”

“The
French
resistance? Like in World War II?”

“Yep.”

“That's a bit before his time, don't you think?”

“Just a bit.”

“Do you think that he really believes that what Waddell is building on this mesa is the vanguard of something else? Some big, secret government project? And now, like the Hollywood preview guy would say, ‘
only one man can stop the unspeakable evil that lurks in the NightZone.'
And I'm not trying to make light of some creep who's turned cop killer.”

“Could be. I don't know what he's thinkin'. What
I'm
thinkin' is that we got us more of a fruitcake on our hands than we guessed. If he took the truck, it means he's in the neighborhood, and he still wants to do something. So watch yourself when you're out there pokin' in dark corners.”

“This is a small county,” I said. “There just aren't that many places to hide a big old electric company truck.”

“We're lookin', believe me. Can't believe he pulled this off right under our noses.”

“You weren't looking for a utility truck,” I said. “It's not your fault. On a happier note, you're still planning to go to the concert with Gayle, I hope.”

“We got pretty good coverage,” he said, and it didn't sound like he was planning to enjoy the music. I started to say something else, but the dial tone told me that Bobby had exhausted his patience.

I heaved a sigh and went back to work just as Fernando brought more coffee.

“Long days?” he asked.

“Very long, Fernando.” I watched him pour and then nodded my thanks. “You going to the concert tonight?”

His heavy face broke into a smile. “You bet. You bet. See you there, maybe.”

“
Sin duda,”
I said, trying out one of the two or three Spanish idioms that I knew. I had left my phone on the table, and it vibrated in a little circle like some strange insect.

“Gastner.” I raised a hand in salute to Fernando as he retreated back toward the kitchen.

“So tell me about your impression of Mrs. Browning,” Miles Waddell said without preamble.

“You're in love?”

“She's a corker, isn't she? I could be, except I'm twenty years out of date to be in competition. And you know, there's a photo of her husband on one of the brochures she gave me. He's about six-six and looks like he could pound me into the ground like a fence post. Where you at?”

“Don Juan.”

“Why is that not a surprise. I saw the chopper as I was driving back to the site from town. Nice rig.”

“Sure enough.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“What do you think? This is why I pay you the big bucks.”

“Yeah. Well, if I was you, I'd ask for a list of references, and after hearing from them, I'd hire United Security.” I shrugged.

“That's the plain and short of it?”

“Yep. If you're going to develop even
half
of what you've planned, you're going to need some security. I'd be surprised to hear that another private security company could offer any more than hers does. Most would offer far less.”

“That's what I wanted to hear.”

“The flight this morning prompted another question,” I said. “How are you moving all the water this place is going to need?”

I heard a soft chuckle. “From all my six wells, you mean?”

“That's one rumor.”

“And that's what it is. You must have seen this morning's paper.”

“You've heard of this Mr. Todd?”

“Nope.”

“Are there any grounds to what he's saying?”

There was a pause, and then Waddell said, “Absolutely none. I have one gusher well down below. You know about that one. Nobody knows how these things link up underground, but at the moment, that sucker is six hundred feet deep and giving me five hundred gallons a minute. A
minute
. A while back, I tried pumping it down. No dice. You know,” he added, “The stupid part of this particular rumor our Mr. Todd is starting—whoever he might be—is that this whole project isn't water intensive. I mean, there are no big cooling towers, no huge anything. Lots of recycling, and believe it or not, lots of rainwater catchment…what damn little rain we ever get.”

He fell silent and I let him think while I chased a stray piece of chile onto my fork. “I
have
been thinking of sinking another well off the south side,” Waddell said. “I haven't gone after a permit or anything, but there's actually a pretty good place down on that little spit of land I bought from Herb Torrance. The well driller's dowser says a strong flow. That's the closest spot to lift water up to the university's installation that's on that edge of the mesa. Be a good backup.”

“But not six.”

“Uh, no. You know, I talked to one of the hydrologists from the BLM. Is my well…my wells, if I do the second one…going to draw down the underground water they think is feeding that cave formation under the mesa? Don't know. That's the only answer they give me. Nobody knows.”

“No truth to any of this, then.”

“None. Is that what you're doing today, scouting out all my clandestine wells?”

“Actually, what I'm trying hard to do is stay out of trouble until the concert, Miles. But someday I'm going to write the definitive book on rumors and how they live their lives. Does somebody lie awake nights thinking up this shit? I mean, I know how rumors hop from one half-listening ear to another, but this is ridiculous. This guy is citing specific numbers.”

“They're as easy to make up as vague references, Bill. You know that. No easier way to rile people. What fun is it to say, ‘Gosh, if he's successful, he
may
have to think about digging another well?' What fun is that?” He laughed harshly. “And what's this about the electric company's truck?”

“Bobby called you this morning?”

“You bet. I didn't think I was on his speed dial list. What's up?”

“Just what he said, Miles. It seems this Daniel character has stolen—
may
have stolen—an electric company utility truck. There are indications he's carrying his motorcycle in the back.”

“How'd he pull that off, with all the cops we got swarming around the county?”

“I have no idea. But he did, last night some time. He hot-wired it. They had forgotten to lock the dealer's boneyard behind the service department.”

“Well, crap. And with all the traffic lately, who's going to notice another electric company truck? Smart son-of-a-bitch. So he's still in the area.”

“Maybe. He could be.”

“That makes me feel really good. What makes Bobby so sure it was our man?”

“Bobby Torrez's hunch. And I agree with him. There were signs that he loaded his motorcycle in the back.”

“Well, crap. And what for?”

“I don't know what for, Miles. I'm not getting anywhere trying to second-guess this guy. But he's up to something, even if it's just a free ride out of the state in a vehicle the cops wouldn't give a second glance.”

Waddell sighed with exasperation, then brightened. “We'll have the foundation plans by March first for the big guy. That mother is going to loom up here so big and grand…” He laughed with delight.

“Look, here in a few minutes, I'll have a houseful. Addy and the little brother are coming over to prepare for the reception after the concert. You're going to make it?”

“You bet.”

“The reception too, at my place afterward. You're most welcome.”

“Thanks. I might. You know, the auditorium we'll have in the main building will make a great venue for events like this concert. I need to get the kid to write an original composition for
NightZone
.
He can debut it here.”

“You might as well dream big,” I laughed.

“No end to it,” he promised. “You'll see.”

“Just don't take too long. Remember the old saw about green bananas.”

“Waiting is one thing I'm not about to do,” Waddell said.