The Vulture (9 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Ike had been pacing for an hour before the call from Charlie came through. Ruth thought if he didn't soon sit down or leave the room she'd clonk him on the head with a rolling pin. She said so.

“I'd worry if I believed for one minute you knew what a rolling pin looked like.”

Ruth had a smart answer on the tip of her tongue when the phone rang. By the time Ike hung up she'd forgotten what she had started to say.

“So, what news from the genius? Has he found our killer?” she asked. She was not about to give up her enmity toward Charlie Garland just yet.

“The message we have been trying to track from the tower has some technical difficulties that only someone like Sam can unravel, it seems.”

“So?”

“So, Sam and her NSA-borrowed software will be arriving tomorrow and she will set up shop here with us. She will have to unscramble the messages to isolate the ones we are after. Then, if we are lucky, we can somehow locate the position of the receiver.”

“I see. I take it the honeymoon is over then? No more romping about in our underwear or other clothes-optional activities?”

“We still have tonight, but right now, I am going stir crazy. How about a walk?”

“A walk? You are not stir crazy. You are just plain crazy. You want to wander around in this area and risk someone sees you and all hell breaks loose? Ike, I've been there, done that. You stay put. Look, I'll even entertain one of those activities we just discussed.” She reached for a button.

“A drive, then. Bewigged and wearing big sunglasses like tourists, and oddly mismatched clothes. Let's just drive around. Maybe we'll see someone or something. Ruth, I have been officially dead for about a week and have done nothing to get to the bottom of this. If I don't at least try, I will save the bad guys the bother and shoot myself. Sitting and waiting for someone else to solve my problem, well that just isn't me.”

“How about lying down, clothes optional?”

“Tempting as your offer is…Come on, kid, help me out here. Grab your wig, Mrs. Gottlieb, we're going to look for properties. That's our cover, let's work it. Who knows, we might even find a secluded spot in the woods or hills where you can finish the suntan you began before somebody blew up our house.”

“In my red hair wig?”

“Why not? Is that a problem?”

“Parts of me won't match.”

***

Ike had the car running and sat drumming his fingers on the steering wheel when Ruth finally exited the cabin.

“Sorry, in my hurry I started to put the thing on backward. I don't work as Cousin Itt.”

“What?”

“It's a reference to a TV show you wouldn't know anything about. Where to, Sherlock?”

“Charlie said that Karl's agents believed the transmission is beamed roughly north by northwest. I have drawn it out on this map. He says it is a low-wattage broadcast, which means that during the daytime it will carry maybe ten or fifteen miles before the power will dissipate. That's a best estimate. I figure it will also spread in a rough triangular way, so, assuming the focus is pretty tight at fifteen miles, it would be fifteen miles across at the point where the power is weakening. That's this area here.” He pointed at the map on which he'd marked out a triangle with a base and a height of fifteen miles.

“That's a lot of acreage, Ike. If I remember my geometry correctly the area of a triangle is, base times height. That means we have two hundred and twenty-five square miles to cover. How do you plan to do that?”

“You were a history major, right? So, math and you didn't get along?”

“What?”

“The formula is one half the base times the height, so that means we are looking at and area of about half that. Whoever said we never use math? Keep Geometry in the basic high school curriculum, is what I say. Now, look at the map. This is all relatively open space. There are only three roads large enough to warrant a blue line. Off from them are a variety of what must be dirt or private roads. We will cruise the main, marked roads and see what we can see.”

“And then?”

“Then, we look for something out of place, something that doesn't belong.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. An array of antennae, an armored personnel-carrier parked in the front yard, Ronald McDonald noshing at a Burger King. Anything that seems a little or a lot off—unusual.”

“This is Idaho, Ike. Unusual is the norm.”

“Nevertheless, we look and then we wait for Sam to arrive and provide more specificity to the hunt. But this way, we may have a better idea where to go when she does.”

“Roger that. That's what they say, right? Roger that? Who is Roger? Or is it the euphemism the Brits use in mixed company when they mean the F word?”

“Radio talk. Roger used to mean ‘I understand.' So an operator responding to directions or something would say, ‘Roger.' ‘Wilco' meant will comply. Then they would say either ‘Over,' which meant they were finished speaking, or ‘Out' if they were signing off.”

“Fascinating. The things you've stuffed into your brain over the years, Ike. So not the Brit meaning?”

“No, but it certainly has possibilities.”

“Roger that.”

They drove for an hour toward the tower, moving south and east along a county road. Periodically they passed an entrance to a ranch or estate and occasionally a cluster of large and recently constructed houses—McMansions, Ike called them—the mark of an entrepreneurial response to the celebrity
chic
attached to the area. They turned about a half mile short of the tower and were headed back, northwest, along a different secondary road when Ike pulled to the side and stopped.

“Why are you stopping? If this is about me taking in the sun, forget it. It is too cold in the first palace and there is no way I am joining a herd of…whatever they are…grazing in the field.”

“Angus, and no that is not why I stopped. Did you notice the sign at the entrance to one of the ranches back about a half mile?”

“Which one? Ike, we've passed dozens of them.”

“Yeah, I know, but this one didn't seem right.”

“How, not right?”

“Well most of the entrances are pretty much the same. Fence and an entrance, some elaborate, some not so much, but almost all had tall upright posts with a crossbeam and the name of the ranch burned into or painted on it. Most of them were at least twelve feet, some a few feet higher. That is the clearance you need to safely accommodate the height of most trucks and a trailer behind a big rig.”

“And?”

“The one I'm talking about had to be at least two to three feet higher, maybe more. Why would they do that?”

“Too lazy to saw off the uprights? Bragging? Little man has big uprights? I don't know, Ike. What's the difference?”

“I'm not sure. It's just one of those unexpected, out of place things I talked about. Not extraordinary, but a little off, that's all. Also, did you see the name on the crossbeam?”

“I gave up noticing those when I saw ‘Dunrovin' and then ‘KT' and the word ‘Dor' with a bar over it. Cute but clearly not working ranches.”

“The one I'm talking about read ‘New' and had a big star next to it. I don't know why, but it triggered something in my memory. I can't figure out what.”

“New Star Ranch? Probably a movie actor who just had his first hit or maybe an Oscar nomination. We could look it up.”

“You're probably right, but why did it stir something in my memory bank? I don't follow movie actors born after nineteen fifty-five.”

“Your loss. Moving on.”

Ike stepped on the accelerator. “We'll go back and take a picture of it first. Then we can stop for lunch somewhere.”

“In this wasteland? I didn't see any place to eat unless you plan on shooting one of those Anguses and frying us up some steaks. I'm all for it if you can get it done in the next half hour.”

“I ain't rustling no cattle today, pardner. They hang varmits like that in these here parts. Besides, the GPS shows a restaurant about two miles this way.”

“Roger that. Speaking of Rogers, were you trying to be Roy or Ginger just now? You need to work on your delivery.”

“Gabby Hayes.”

“Who? That's right, no stars born after fifty-five or did you say thirty-five? Honestly, Ike, join us in this century. So, lunch from the chuck wagon it is. Do you think they serve Kosher, Gottlieb?”

“Pictures, then we chow down. Is anguses even a word?”

“You want me to work out the declension for the cows? Anga, Angus, Angi, Angae….”

Chapter Seventeen

After two days of close monitoring by the agents occupying the Staley place, the Agency unraveled the coding used in the messages sent to the person alleged to have killed the sheriff of Picketsville, Virginia. Once done, they moved in to arrest them. The charges were vague, but as they were found with a substantial cache of C-4 and the messages they were sending, although in plain English, were obviously coded, they were picked up and arrested. Terrorism, whether domestic or foreign, the arresting officers explained to them, was still terrorism.

The men protested that they were patriots, not terrorists, to which the arresting officer retorted they should be happy then, because they were being charged under the terms of the Patriot Act. The men effectively disappeared. Sometimes, Charlie thought the Act had its uses. The three women in Ruth's cottage returned to Washington and resumed their duties; Ruth's doppelganger as the executive secretary to the director of the CIA, the other two to the “Farm” to train new Agency recruits in martial arts, among other things. The men moved from Staley's to Ruth's and assumed the task of forwarding plausible messages to the as-yet-unknown-but-presumed felonious recipient. The known word count of the set of transmissions provided a ready resource for Sam to eliminate many of the possible frequencies when she finally began to sort through all the signals emanating from the radio tower. Knowing the word count helped to eliminate well over half of them. Eventually, all of them save one. But Charlie insisted on knowing not just who was receiving, but what was said and who was saying it, which would take a few more days of fiddling with the encryption.

Down-Easters have a highly developed sense of privacy. Thus, most of the activity at the cottage went unnoticed by Scone Island's permanent residents. Vacationers, they knew, were peculiar people and after that big helicopter crash the previous year about which Trooper Stone didn't want to talk, they figured it was just one of those cycles when odd things happened, like the time the four lobster boats all had their bottoms stove in on Cooligan's reef in the same year, or when the tide didn't match the chart like it should have for three weeks. Caused some consternation, that did, eh-yah.

***

Buffalo burgers, among many offerings, were the specialty of Bert's Western Bar and Grill. Bert's also served a variety of sandwiches named after celebrities who had at one time been or were now residents of the area or who'd appeared in a film shot in Idaho. Sonja Henie and Marilyn Monroe both made the menu roll call. Ike said that was ironic. Ruth said she couldn't see why and before he explained, said that she didn't care. The back of the menu listed the eighty or so films made in the state over the years and a brief bio of Bert, the owner, and his career as an extra in two of Clint Eastwood's films.

“I thought the buffalo was an endangered species. How can this place serve them on a bun with,” Ruth consulted the plastic laminate menu, “lettuce, tomato, pickle, and special BBQ sauce?”

“They were endangered. Some will insist they still are, but they have been domesticated for decades and the bison on your bun will be farm-bred and corn-fed.”

“Someone in a ten-gallon Stetson didn't shoot him, you're saying.”

“I don't think so, but I could be wrong. I think the government allows some limited hunting in the areas where the herds have grown too large on lands that are also leased to cattlemen.”

“So, you don't know.”

“Not sure.”

“Then I'm having a chicken sandwich. I want to show my solidarity with the Plains Indians and a lost generation.”

“I'm sure they will appreciate the gesture. Since when did you take up the cause of the Diminishing West?”

“It came with the red hair. Speaking of which, how are we to explain the arrival of Sam into our midst?”

“You just nailed it. She has red hair, if you recall. You have red hair. She is our daughter come for a visit.”

“What? She isn't. Do you think I look old enough to be her mother? No way, Ike. You can be the dad, if you want, but there is precious little left of my youth and I don't plan on ceding it to that nonsense.”

“Then your ‘somewhat' younger sister. How's that?”

“Better. Here's our waitress. Order up and no buffalo burger if you want to continue sharing the connubial bed.”

“Jesus, you're hard, June Gottlieb.” Ike turned to the waitress whose badge announced that she was Marcie and ‘Sure Glad to be serving Ya.' “Are these buffalo hunted or raised?”

Marcie seemed puzzled and allowed as how she didn't know but she'd ask Mr. Bert. Ike said it wasn't important and ordered two Francis Farmer chicken sandwiches and coffee. Sides and fries came with them Marcie explained, “Does the gennelmin 'n lady want swede potado or reglar fries?”

Ruth frowned and looked at Ike.

“Sweet potato for us both,” he said. Marcie nodded and left to fill their order.

Ruth shook her head and turned her attention to the other diners. “How many of these people are ‘all hat and no cattle'?” she asked.

Ike scanned the room. “All of them, I think. It's afternoon and I don't believe real cattlemen would waste daylight noshing on buffalo burgers in an obvious tourist trap like this. The real question is who, if any, of these people are connected with the folks we're looking for.”

“You think they would be here?”

“I think it's possible. Anything is. If we are close to them, there is a reasonable chance one or more of these people would be on their way to or coming from the bad guys' lair.”

Ruth swung her head around and asked, “Any candidates?”

“Well, just reading people, mind you, and with no real information as to why, I think the two guys in the too-new boots at the counter qualify.”

“Reading people? So?”

“The tourists are scanning everybody else hoping to see a movie star. They, unlike the rest, are only interested in us. My guess is they will try to find out who we are and report back to somebody.”

“What somebody?”

“Could be the local sheriff, or the bad guys, or the chamber of commerce. There is no telling just yet.”

“How will they do it?”

“They will wait for us to leave and ask to see the credit card receipt we leave behind.”

“So, we pay cash, right?”

“No, we pay with one of Charlie's fake credit cards. I want them to ID us now so they will leave us alone. We're the Gottliebs, remember?”

“And they will leave us alone?”

“Unless they are very anti-Semitic, I think so…well, maybe. It depends. If they are just plain folks, yes. If they are from the paranoid sector, no.”

Their sandwiches arrived with two thick and lumpy pancakes on the side.

“What's this?” Ruth asked pointing to the pile. “They look like potato pancakes.”

“Yes, ma'am, Swede potatoes,” Marcie smiled and plunked a bottle of ketchup on the table. “Bonny appetite.”

***

When the couple left, the woman, later identified as June Gottlieb, was heard haranguing her husband, Marvin, about what a waste it was to fly all the way out to this cowboy farm just to buy land when there was, like, lots of lots back in Carolina that they could have bought cheap, for crying out loud, and they could have saved the money. Her husband kept muttering something about movies and the latest trends in real estate investment. Idaho is hot, he said. Bruce Willis' name came up once or twice. They paid and exited.

Martin Pangborn did not need to concern himself with that pair. That is, he didn't unless they happened to stumble onto his property in their search for land to buy. Then, there might be a problem.

As it happened, it appeared one or two of his subordinates did have a problem. Mrs. Gottlieb was videotaped, camera in hand, taking a picture of the ranch gate. Why would a silly woman in that god-awful orange slacks suit from North Carolina want to take a picture of the ranch gate?