by Robert Greer
Awakened at two thirty a.m. from a sound sleep, Howard Colbain grumbled, “What the fuck!”
The person on the other end of the line spoke softly and slowly, informing Colbain that a chiming, sleep-disturbing cell-phone message he’d just received via a computer-linked fax from Silas Breen had informed him that there was a problem that required their immediate attention.
Colbain spent the next ten minutes arguing unsuccessfully that there had to be a better way of dealing with a man who was simply delivering a load of outdated hospital equipment to Lubbock, Texas, than to hijack his truck. That argument lost, Colbain now stood wide-awake in his kitchen, drinking black coffee and trying to figure out how to extract himself from something that had turned into one hell of a god-awful mess.
Kimiko Takata was having a hard time sleeping, so she’d decided to take a three thirty a.m. bath. The hot water, though soothing enough, wasn’t helping her psyche. Thirty minutes earlier she’d been awakened by a call from the Goshen County sheriff informing her that Sarah Goldbeck had been murdered; that Sarah’s husband, Buford, had insisted that he call Kimiko immediately; and that the sheriff would come by to interview her concerning the murder the next morning at nine. She’d already had a disturbing late-evening call from an FBI agent named Richter who’d asked for a time he could speak with her as well.
Adjusting the water flow, she told herself that things had started to go downhill from the very moment Rikia had called early in the evening to say he’d be coming home from his conference in El Paso a day later than he’d planned. When she’d told him that Sarah Goldbeck had called her three times in the space of two hours and that she’d sounded scared to death, Rikia’s response, “I’ll deal with her when I get back,” had been anything but reassuring. She’d called Sarah back to let her know about Rikia’s delay, only to be forced to listen to fifteen additional minutes of Sarah’s fearful whining. The whining had finally caused her to scream, “Sarah, shut the hell up!”
Deciding that no hot bath would be able to erase her problems, she leaned forward, flipped up the drain lever, and sat immobile in the water as it slowly swirled away.
Even though he was exhausted, Silas Breen understood exactly why he’d agreed at four in the morning to drive 250 miles from Oklahoma City to Amarillo, rather than to Lubbock. Five thousand dollars! A five grand bonus that F. Mantew, in response to Silas’s fax, had promised, in a surprise call to Silas’s cell phone, to pay if he had his delivery to Amarillo by first thing the next morning. Silas didn’t like the idea of racing to Amarillo and risking another citation, but with a packet of No-Doz, a thermos of coffee, and his grandfather’s crowbar lying on the seat beside him, he was back on the road, thinking of how he’d spend his extra five grand.
The bonus money had been incentive enough for him to call OT back and let him know he’d checked out his cargo and determined that he wasn’t carrying anything illegal and to assure him that there’d be no need for either of them to call the cops. After agreeing to meet Mantew outside Amarillo at nine a.m., just off I-40 at exit 74, he’d felt euphoric. Knowing that an unexpected bonus was in the offing and that he might also actually finally find out what he’d been hauling, he’d decided that hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil seemed the most prudent tactic.
Thaddeus Richter was sitting in a wingback chair across from the front desk in the lobby of the JW Marriott at seven a.m., reading the Denver Post, when Cozy came down to get a morning newspaper and breezed past him. As Cozy turned to head back upstairs, newspaper in hand, he spotted the spit-shined, black-and-white wingtips and the Panama hat that Freddy had joked about when he’d described Richter to him. Before Richter could stick his head out from behind the newspaper, Cozy asked, “How’s the weather outside, Agent Richter?”
“Just beautiful. Sunny, 72, no wind,” Richter said, unfazed.
“Can’t beat that. So, why the visit? You are looking for me, aren’t you?” Cozy asked, sounding equally nonchalant.
“Afraid not. I’m here to talk to Major Cameron. She’s here, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you should call her, give her a heads-up, and let her know I’m here before we head up?” Richter said, rising from his chair. “Wouldn’t want to put a damper on what the two of you do in private.”
“Chivalrous of you, but there’s no need,” said Cozy.
“Your call,” Richter said, smiling.
Cozy folded his newspaper in half, tucked it under an arm, and, with Richter leading the way, headed for the elevator.
Bernadette, barefoot and dressed in loose-fitting running shorts and a lime-green T-shirt, seemed less surprised to see someone at the door with Cozy than by the fact that Cozy had returned without refreshments. “What, no raisin rolls?” she asked.
“I got intercepted,” Cozy said, rolling his eyes. “Meet FBI Agent Thaddeus Richter.”
“My pleasure,” said Richter, shaking Bernadette’s hand. “Sorry about your raisin rolls. I’ll order some up. On me.”
“That’s okay,” Bernadette said, trying to sound unflustered and leading the two men into the suite’s sun-washed anteroom.
“So, how’d you run us down?” Cozy asked, taking a seat on the couch next to Bernadette.
“I’m FBI, remember?” Richter said with a wink as he took a chair facing them.
“Yeah, almost forgot,” said Cozy.
Adjusting himself in the chair and looking briefly at his shoes, Richter said, “I understand that you’re no longer assigned to the Tango-11 investigation, Major.” He glanced down at the maps that Bernadette had spread out on the floor next to the couch, seeming to take a lingering interest in the red dots that pinpointed the hundreds of onetime active missile sites in each state.
“No, I’m not.” Bernadette leaned down and gathered the maps and the yellow tablet she’d been writing on into a neat stack, making certain that she placed the tablet facedown on top of the maps.
Richter smiled, leaned forward in his chair, and pushed the tablet aside, partially exposing the map of Colorado. He adjusted his designer reading glasses backward on his nose. “Lots of nuclear payload holes still out there in the Colorado ground, wouldn’t you say, Major?”
“Two hundred or so.”
“And all of them arranged so neatly into such nice little quadrants,” Richter said, continuing to stare down on the red-dotted Colorado map.
“Air force magic,” said Bernadette. “And we prefer to call them ‘flights’ rather than ‘quadrants.’ ”
“I see. So what’s your continued interest in them? I mean, since you’re off the Tango-11 investigation.”
“Just fascinated by maps, I guess.” Bernadette shot a nervous glance at Cozy. A glance that as much as shouted, I’m winging it here.
“I think fascinating might be the better word choice here, Major Cameron. Fascinating enough, it seems, that you were the first person Buford Kane called after he found his wife murdered last night. Now, that’s a good healthy amount of fascination, wouldn’t you say?” Richter eased out of his chair, knelt, wrinkling the knees of his perfectly creased pants, and slipped the Colorado silo-site map aside to reveal a map of Wyoming. “More flights and more red dots,” he said smiling and retaking his seat. “But I think I’ll just cut to the chase. We’re dealing with two murders now, in case you missed it, Major. Murders that might very well be related to national security. So, as the old TV ads from the 1980s used to say, which I expect the two of you are far too young to remember, ‘It’s not your father’s Oldsmobile.’ Now, do either of you have any information about those murders that I should know about?”
Glancing at one another, Bernadette and Cozy remained silent.
“It’s your career, Major.”
“You can ease up on the threats, Richter,” Cozy said. “I’m the nosy investigative reporter here, not Bernadette. Since I’m not in the air force and I don’t have some windbag career-conscious colonel peering over my shoulder telling me what I can
and cannot do, maybe you should direct your questions my way.”
“Okay. Why not?” Richter said, relaxing back in his seat, awaiting Cozy’s response.
By the time Cozy finished bringing Richter up to speed on everything he and Bernadette had learned during their Tango-11 investigation, starting with Cozy’s visit to the Tango-11 site shortly after Giles’s body had been found and ending with Silas Breen’s mysterious destination-changing trucking assignment, it was a little past nine. Looking satisfied and as if he’d just finished a delightful meal, Richter, who’d taken two and a half pages of notes, ran an index finger slowly down his first page and said to Bernadette, “And the name of that woman again at Gromere Electronics and Engineering?”
“Elaine Richardson.”
“And you’re thinking she and Sergeant Giles may have been more than just friends?”
“Yes.”
Richter flipped the page. “And you haven’t been in touch with Silas Breen himself, just his father, correct?”
“That’s right,” said Cozy, miffed that Richter seemed intent on either repeating or questioning everything he’d just been told.
Noticing Cozy’s frustration, Richter said, “I’ll call the father.”
“Do you plan to do anything about intercepting whatever it is that Silas Breen’s hauling?” asked Bernadette.
Skirting the question and glancing down at his shoes as if to make certain there were no new scuff marks, Richter said, “It’s a beautiful day here in Denver. I’d recommend enjoying it.”
“Meaning we should stay put here and butt out?” Cozy said sharply.
Richter smiled, buffed his wingtips on the backs of his pant legs, and rose to leave. “I meant exactly what I said, Mr. Coseia.” He walked quickly across the anteroom toward the suite’s door, with Bernadette trailing him. “Enjoy the rest of your day. I’ll be in touch.” He smiled back at her as he let himself out.
Bernadette stood at the door for a few seconds, looking bewildered, before walking back into the anteroom to find Cozy down on one knee, flipping through her maps.
“Lots of holes in the ground,” Cozy said, mimicking Richter as he stared intently at the red-dotted map of Wyoming.
“Right at two hundred in Wyoming,” Bernadette said, playing along.
“Colorado, Wyoming, the Dakotas, Montana, Nebraska, Missouri. Why the heck not Ohio or Tennessee or New York?”
“Because they lack a certain Western essence,” Bernadette said smugly.
“Which really means that the holier-than-thous back East would have had a cow if the government had tried to punch a bunch of holes for nukes in their backyards.”
“Probably,” Bernadette said, shrugging. “So should we enjoy the day, like Agent Richter suggested?”
“Absolutely. And you know what? I think we should start by flying south to warmer weather.” Cozy flipped his way slowly through the rest of the maps.
“Lubbock?”
“No,” said Cozy. “Albuquerque.”
“What? I thought we were taking Sugar down to Lubbock.”
“Nope. Your maps got me thinking otherwise. New Mexico, after all, is, as it says on their license plate, the ‘Land of Enchantment.’ Besides, it’s where Howard Colbain lives.”
“I thought we were out to track down Silas Breen.”
“We are, and we will, but those maps of yours got me to thinking about, of all things, baseball diamonds, the shortest routes to fly balls, defensive infield positioning, and Texas.”
“You’re talking in riddles, Cozy. Want to translate for me?”
“Okay. I’ll give you part of the translation. I haven’t quite figured out the rest. Your maps and Silas Breen’s ever-changing delivery destination got me to thinking about baseball and Texas. Freddy and I bumped around the Lone Star State working for Freddy’s dad, oil-rigging our butts off, for three college summers. We both know the place pretty well, in fact. Turns out, if you think about the location of the cities Silas Breen’s been headed for, Amarillo and Lubbock, they’re pretty much two points of a triangle. Wanna guess what the final city is in that triangle?”
“It wouldn’t be Albuquerque, would it?” Bernadette said, feigning surprise.
“You’ve got it, beautiful. Ready to fly?”
“Absolutely,” Bernadette said excitedly. “Absolutely.”
The dry, static-electricity-filled Texas Panhandle day broke blustery and cold, and the weather forecast called for high winds and record-breaking below-normal temperatures for the rest of the week. Parked at an I-40 truck stop two miles east of where he was supposed to meet F. Mantew, Silas Breen had just rummaged through his foul-weather gear and dug out his watch cap and gloves after seeing that the thermometers mounted on his sideview mirrors were reading 38 degrees. He wasn’t as tired as he’d thought he’d be after his four-hour, fifteen-minute mostly predawn highball from Oklahoma City—in fact, he was riding a wave of payday exhilaration, and since he wasn’t scheduled to meet Mantew until nine, he had almost an hour to take a last look at his load.
Shivering and with his watch cap pulled down over his ears, he’d gotten out of the cab, sprinted to the rear of his truck, and unlocked the cargo door when a boy who looked to be in his teens strolled by and asked, “Cold enough for you, mister?”
Silas shrugged without answering.
Looking disappointed, the boy continued across the motel parking lot, never looking back.
A half hour later, after opening three crates, searching through them from top to bottom, and finding the very same thing he’d found inside the crate he’d broken into a few hours earlier, Silas felt a lot more comfortable about his decision to deliver his cargo early, collect his money and bonus from Mantew, and head back home without calling the cops.
He was back behind the wheel with the engine idling and the heater on high when the boy he’d encountered earlier walked back across the parking lot. “Feels a little warmer now,” he called out to the boy after rolling down his window. Looking detached, the boy kept walking without offering a response.
Dressed in an ankle-length duster, F. Mantew walked the half mile from the parking lot of the Big Texan Steak Ranch and Motel just off I-40, where he’d been dropped off by a cab an hour earlier, and into a wooded area a quarter mile south of the off-ramp Silas Breen would be taking. The off-ramp merged into a country road that then paralleled the northern boundary of a two-mile-square stretch of woods. Pleased that the entire Texas Panhandle was shrouded in clouds, and with his sinuses tingling from the cold, Mantew thought about a quotation he’d always loved. Though he couldn’t remember its source, he’d long remembered its message: The dimmer the day, the more errant man’s focus; the colder the day, the less man’s quickness.
He didn’t expect that he’d have any difficulty spotting Breen or his shamrock-green truck, especially since Breen’s website featured a photo of him standing next to the vehicle, grinning proudly.
The treeless spot he was standing in wasn’t new to him. He’d been there before—four times, in fact, over the past six months. Each of those times, he’d checked out the wooded area’s boundaries, its fences, and the general lay of the land in order to determine if any of the acreage could be seen from the interstate. Dozens of times he’d walked the length of a grassy strip between the leading edge of the woods and the frontage road that Breen would have to cross. He’d even brought a stopwatch during each of his earlier visits so he could determine how frequently and at what times of day vehicles favored taking exit 74, ultimately determining that on average, between the hours of seven a.m. and six p.m., the off-ramp saw a vehicle about once every seventeen minutes.
He’d never planned to have Breen drive all the way into Amarillo to make his delivery, and he would have told him that himself that morning if Breen hadn’t faxed him in the wee hours of the night, causing him to accelerate everything by eight hours and throwing a monkey wrench into his meticulous planning.
Checking one of his coat pockets to make
certain that his gloves were inside, he stood rocking back and forth in the clearing at the end of a four-by-four trail. The clearing was blocked from any highway view by a clump of forty-foot-tall ponderosa pines. He was ready to do business with Silas Breen. Smiling and thinking that his long-planned mission was now in its final stages, he rubbed his hands together to warm them and waited.
Silas Breen eased his truck off the interstate and down the exit ramp’s slight grade to the sound of the Eagles singing his favorite song, “Desperado.” He’d been nervous about making his delivery to Mantew ever since the original delivery destination had been changed from Amarillo to Lubbock, and he was no less so now that his destination had been changed back to Amarillo. That was why his grandfather’s crowbar sat next to him on the seat along with a .32 Smith & Wesson. He didn’t know whether Mantew had arranged for the necessary equipment to off-load and transfer his cargo or if they’d end up driving into Amarillo to make the exchange. What he did know was that all of a sudden he’d begun to sweat.
When he saw someone dressed in an olive-green range duster, a coat that seemed to swallow the person in it whole, waving at him, arms above his head, Silas wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow and thought, Almost home.
As the person in the duster waved him off the roadway and toward what looked like a Jeep trail, the muscles in Silas’s stomach tightened, and when his truck momentarily sank in the soft road shoulder, he had the urge to jam it into reverse, back up, and leave. Instead he inched his hand across the seat, patted his grandfather’s crowbar and then the butt of the .32, and continued moving slowly toward what he could now see was a man wearing a watch cap nearly identical to his.