by Douglas Hirt
“I can’t justify buying a microcomputer when the university has a real IBM I can use.”
“Daddy would buy it for you,” she said.
To Sherri, daddy’s checkbook could fix everything. “They’re toys, Sherri. Another fad like hula-hoops and pet rocks. They’ll never be useful for anything but playing Space Invaders.”
“You’re being stubborn, Paul. You know you ought to listen to me more. With my help we could make something—.” She stopped and looked embarrassed. “What I meant to say was—”
“What you meant to say is, with you and your father’s connections, this lowly biology teacher might actually amount to something someday.” I said it gently, but she’d touched a nerve, and it hadn’t been the first time.
Sherri’s eyes got large and sincere. “Oh, Paul darling, that isn’t what I meant at all.” An elfish smile picked at the corners of her mouth when she saw that I wasn’t really angry with her. “You’re teasing. You’re such a beast, Paul. Why do you enjoy hurting me?”
“Because you’re a champ. You never stay down for the count.”
She wrapped her arms around my neck again and brought her face close to mine. Her big, brown eyes were inviting, the faint odor of perfume lingering about her hair. “What I meant to say is we could make something of our lives...together, darling.” Her orthodontic perfect smile sparkled, matching the fiery sparkle of her diamond earrings set ablaze by the morning sunlight through the front window. “Why do I love you so much, darling?” she whispered gazing into my eyes. “You really are a beast. Why do I put up with you?”
I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her close. “Oh Paul,” she said breathlessly when we finally broke from the kiss. “When I’m with you like this I never want to leave. Do you have to go into town today?” Brown eyes widened hopefully. “I can think of a more pleasant way to spend the day. We can build a fire and throw a blanket on the floor. I have a bottle of Champagne out in the car.”
I gently separated us. “You build a tempting picture,” I told her truthfully, my thoughts distracted by the other woman I’d stashed away in the bedroom. Marcie was probably listening at the keyhole. I grimaced. Suddenly I had more females on hand than I knew what to do with. I’m not opposed to a rush of pretty, young women so long as they don’t come at me so quickly that they begin to pile up. “But not today.”
She fitted a pout to her iced lips. “I don’t understand how picking apart baby rock flies and staring at them under a microscope could be more important than me...us being together.”
“Stone flies.”
“Stone flies, then. I just don’t understand.”
“It’s my work, Sherri. It’s what I do.” I’d told her that more than once but it didn’t seem to matter to her.
“Yes, I know. It’s your work.” The pout eased a little. “Well, if I do have to turn right around and drive thirty-five miles back down the mountain, I’m at least going to take that cup of coffee you promised.”
“I’ll get it,” I said turning her to the couch. She sat and opened her purse on the floor rummaging through it for a mirror and a golden cylinder of lipstick to repair the minor damages we’d inflicted on the makeup. I went to the kitchen, found a couple clean cups and filled them.
Sherri said from the living room, “Maybe we can meet for dinner this evening, Paul?” I heard her footsteps. “I can make reservations at Charles Court...my treat. I know the maitre de. I can get an excellent ta-” her words broke off “-ble.” The last syllable finished itself as if forced from her lips; her wide eyes staring at the kitchen table and the two plates and two cups of coffee there. Sherri was not a dumb brunette despite her sometimes-Pollyannaish view of healing the world. I watched the warmth in her eyes turning cold and her back stiffening. She stood there in the kitchen doorway a long moment and then slowly turned her head toward the closed bedroom door.
“You have someone in there, don’t you, Paul.”
I nodded.
“You really didn’t intend to go into town today.”
“It’s not what you think, not as in appears,” I said lamely, two cups of coffee in my hands.
“I think I want to leave now.” Her voice was icy.
I followed Sherri into the living room, set the coffees on an end table. “Sherri, let me explain.”
She buttoned her coat and pulled on gloves. “I don’t want to hear your explanation. I don’t want to talk to you right now. I’ve already made a perfect fool of myself.”
I stepped in front of the door. She looked up sharply, her eyes shining. “Let me leave.”
“Sherri, it isn’t what you think.”
“I wasn’t born yesterday, Paul,” she snapped and pushed past me, tugging the door open. I followed her outside into a bright, morning sun and watched her go down the path to the driveway. She slipped into the cream-colored Mercedes and slammed the door. The steel roof had been removed and the fabric top fitted in place. The engine purred to life and the rear tires kicked up a cloud of dust and stones as she sped away. Behind me, padded footsteps approached.
“That was awkward.”
I turned. Marcie was smaller than Sherri, not nearly as tall or as broad in the shoulders, but there was nothing frail or fragile about the woman who looked up into my face. Except for gender, Marcie and Sherri were really nothing at all alike. Where Sherri could never be comfortable in anything but the finest dresses or jeans with expensive names embroidered across the back pocket, Marcie appeared at ease in her baggy, borrowed pants and shirt. Where Sherri had the ability to express honest, simple warmth, Marcie seemed always on guard, always wary. Where Sherri’s soft, smiling face had difficulty expressing any degree of anger beyond that which might be appropriate toward a maitre de who’d had the temerity to seat her at a wrong table, Marcie seemed to wear a perpetual hard and hungry look. Maybe I was making too much of the comparison. I remembered the pancakes still on our plates on the table. Hell, maybe Marcie wore that hungry look because she really was hungry?
“You really care for her, don’t you? I’m sorry I screwed things up for you, Granger. She’ll be back.”
Maybe I really did care for Sherri more than I’d realized until just now. At the moment I was confused, and yes, hurt, although I hid that feeling behind tough exterior. I said, “Our breakfast is getting cold. We better eat it before it turns to ice too.”
Chapter Nine
By the time we got back to our breakfast it was cold. I didn’t feel much like eating now anyway. Marcie’s appetite seemed to have left her too. I suspected that was more a reaction to my own suddenly somber mood than to the cold plate of food in front of her.
“She’ll come back,” Marcie said, interrupting my thoughts. She pushed away her plate of untouched pancakes. “She’s just like me. A sucker for the tall, handsome, silent type.”
I knew what she was trying to do, and I appreciated the effort. I wanted to tell her that Sherri and she were nothing at all alike, but I’d already worked through that idea. I said, “At least the coffee is still hot. I can stick those in the oven for you.”
“I wasn’t talking about coffee, Paul.”
“I know.” The morning had turned sour and suddenly I wanted to be somewhere else—anywhere but my brother’s cramped little cabin in the pines. “Come on,” I said standing.
“Where are we going?”
“Down to the Springs. I know of a little golf club restaurant there where the cooking is light years ahead of mine.”
“Should we? I mean...”
I grinned. “Colorado Springs is a big, grown-up town nowadays. Our chances of getting in and out of it without being noticed are pretty good, don’t you think?”
“Well...I suppose.” She paused. “You planning on seeing someone?”
I looked at her sharply.
She averted her gaze. “Sorry. I just thought that maybe you were going to chase after her, that’s all.”
“Sherri will keep for now. My personal problem can
wait until we take care of yours.” I put away everything that would spoil if left out then shrugged into my coat and checked the revolver still in the pocket. I locked the place up and we went around back to where the truck was parked.
Marcie slid into the seat beside me. “The highway may be watched.”
“Maybe,” I said. “I’m half counting on it.”
She looked at me oddly, questioningly.
I said, “Them finding us will save us the time and trouble of us finding them. I’d as soon get this over with quickly. I don’t much care for looking over my shoulder all the time.”
“That’s reckless talk, Granger.” She was scowling.
I gave a wry smile, shoved the gear shifter into reverse, and backed out onto the gravel road. “In that case, it ought to be right up your alley.”
She huffed. “Not hardly, macho man.”
“You disapprove?” We came to the highway and turned left toward Colorado Springs.
“I know them. The games they play are no fun.”
Ten minutes later I picked up a tail. He’d been waiting for us in a Safeway parking lot in Woodland Park. I didn’t tell Marcie as I watched him in my rearview mirror. We left the little town and funneled out onto a divided highway and started down Ute Pass. Dropping in elevation, the topography and vegetation changed; low shrubs and scrub oak replacing tall pines. We swept past Manitou Springs and leveled off into Colorado Springs sprawling up the Eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains. I always thought eastern Colorado unlovely compared to the mountain scenery. It reminded me a little of Portales; flat, monotonous, tawny land stretching away in all direction except west, of course. There the timbered real estate soared ruggedly to the fourteen-thousand-foot pinnacle of naked-rock known as Pikes Peak.
Marcie looked nervous, studying me through narrowed eyes. “What’s wrong?”
Had I been that transparent? “Nothing,” I said, which wasn’t totally a lie. The gent behind us hadn’t made his move yet.
“You don’t sound disappointed?”
I smirked. “Despite what you may think, Marcie, I’m not.”
“Back there you made it sound like you were going fishing and we were the worm.”
“We are, but if I have to do any fancy driving, this old pickup might end up on its top. I’d rather choose the time and place to reel them in.” I watched the road ahead and took the appropriate turn off the highway heading north. Maybe I was just naive enough to believe that if we kept a low profile long enough it might all blow over. Maybe that red Porsche behind us belonged to a gent who just happened to be going the same direction we were. And maybe that was all wishful thinking. “On the other hand,” I continued, “I don’t intend to keep my head under the covers very long, and if that means having it out with them, then bring it on. I’ve gone up against worse in Nam, and from what little I’ve learned about you, Miss Rose, I suspect you have too.”
She looked at me long and probing. “That’s the most you’ve said since leaving the cabin. Don’t over think who or what I am.”
“Touchy this morning, aren’t we?”
She turned away staring out the windshield.
I downshifted and took a right onto Garden of the Gods Road.
“Why are we going this way?” She asked in a wary voice.
“It’s how we get to that restaurant I told you about.” Her stare narrowed suspiciously. I grinned. “And I’m curious to see the place where you work.”
“Thought so. It’s probably being watched.”
“Maybe, but I suspect it’s one of the last places they’d expect you to show up.”
“Hope you’re right, Granger. I don’t particularly want to be here, and I think you’re not taking any of this seriously enough, or are you trying to show me what a tough hombre you are?” The strain in her voice sounded genuine.
“Now who’s over thinking? If it makes you feel better, I hope I’m right too.”
She drew in a short breath, and frowning she pointed. “It’s up that road ahead.”
I cranked the wheel over and turned onto a wide, newly paved road that appeared to have been cut though a rancher’s cow pasture. I’d read somewhere that all this land had been owned by the Flying W Ranch at one time. They sold off a lot of it to the developers but kept a small cow/calf outfit to the west, and their famous Flying W Chuckwagon attraction that drew a considerable number of tourists and locals during the summer season.
For the last seven or eight years, this part of Colorado Springs has been developing into something of a Silicon Valley east—the locals referred to it as Silicon Mountain. Computer and scientific entrepreneurs were popping up all over the place, gobbling up land once occupied by fat and contented cows.
The paved road ended abruptly in a field of yucca. Where you find yucca, you can bet the natural ecology of the area had been disturbed. Yucca is a successional species that takes over when the natural equilibrium of the biome has been disrupted by something—hungry cows in this case. It’s actually a member of the lily family, not a cactus as many folks tend to refer to it. And that’s the biology lesson for today. Class dismissed.
“There,” Marcie said pointing, pulling my attention from the local flora. I set the brake and studied the low, modern, concrete building, more warehouse-looking than high tech, vaguely styled in the southwestern fashion. I grew up in New Mexico and it didn’t look anything at all southwesternish except for its adobe-brown paint and softened corners. The building sprawled here and there like a housing development on steroids. A huge parking lot consumed a sizable chunk of land. A small rectangle in front of the building was grassed and landscaped with non-indigenous vegetation guaranteed to die the first time the grounds keeper forgot to turn on the sprinkler system—well, it’s all automatic these days, but the end results would be the same. Without constant watering and care it was bound to whither, die, and surrender the land back to the nearly indestructible yucca.
Marcie said, “Okay, you’ve seen it. Let’s get out of here.”
I killed the engine, leaned across the wide steering wheel, and looked the neighborhood over. A field of yuccas separated Space Technologies and Electronics from its neighbor. The building was two stories and clad in acres of black glass. Its parking lot covered a considerable amount of real estate too, and like STE’s, was practically devoid of cars on this Saturday morning.
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing.
“Hewlett-Packard.” She turned her blue eyes toward me. “Just what are you looking for anyway?”
If it had been a buck and I a hunter with a telescopic sight on my rifle, I’d have judged the distance from my truck to that parking lot to be somewhere around three hundred and fifty yards. A rather long shot but not overly so for one of the more robust, flat-shooting calibers available these days. Not too long a shot for an accomplished marksman, which few men who take to the mountains today in deer season are. But I wasn’t a hunter today, and it wasn’t a buck that interested me. The driver of the bright red Porsche must have thought three hundred and fifty yards was a safe enough distance to wait us out.
I looked away from the car. If he had a pair of field glasses trained on us, I didn’t want him to think I was the least bit interested in his arrival. I thought it a joke, anyway. Who’d use an expensive sports car several shades brighter than a fire engine to tail a man and woman in an antiquated pick-up truck just barely capable of breaking the national, Stasi enforced double-nickel speed limit.
It was all wrong. I’m no authority on tailing people but it did seem reasonable to me that a person intent on engaging in such activities would choose something less conspicuous. A ‘72 Ford Fairlane or Chevy Belair maybe, not the fat tire, low stance, aggressively hungry look of a Porsche Carrera—well, I couldn’t be sure of the model, but it was flashy as hell and one heck of a hard vehicle to not notice.
Marcie cleared her throat. “I seem to recall something said about breakfast?”
“The little tummy complaining?�
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“At times you can be a very annoying man.”
I started the truck and backed it around. Marcie said, “I get the feeling like I’m drifting through a fog. You’ve got something cooking up there,” She pointed at my head, “that you’re not telling me. What is going on?”
“Suppose you tell me.” The gearbox clunked into second. First is the granny gear and strictly for climbing rocks or pulling tree stumps.
“I’ve already told you-”
“You’ve told me nothing, sweetheart, except carefully fabricated stories to throw me off whatever trail you’re trying to hide.”
Marcie straightened around on the seat and stared through the windshield. “All right, what is it you want me to tell you?”
“You can begin with who you called on the telephone last night from the restaurant. Her head snapped around and her mouth parted slightly in surprise. “From there we can progress to more interesting subjects like who you really work for.”
I shifted up to third and drove past the parking lot where the Porsche sat. An open newspaper hid the man’s face. As I suspected, a pair of field glasses were on the dash.
Chapter Ten
Marcie returned her gaze out the front window as we pulled back onto Garden of the Gods. In profile she had attractive, high cheek bones that suggested a strain of Native American ancestry—well, Native American is the term everyone seems to be using these days. I’ve always considered it somewhat sloppy nomenclature. I was born in Santa Fe, New Mexico, so technically speaking that makes me as Native American as any Navaho or Apache, in spite of a curious predilection among some easterners to inquire if the monetary exchange rate in New Mexico is the same as that of the United States. The terms aboriginal or Amerindian seem more precise, although those have fallen out of fashion.
The morning sunlight made her brown hair shine. It was definitely brown and not black, which I thought would have gone well with the arch of her cheeks. Maybe it had been black at one time? That sort of thing is hard to tell these days. Don’t get me wrong, I like all the natural colors, it’s the tie-dye hairdos beginning to show up in the classrooms that I have a problem with.