“You are, aren’t you?”
He shrugged noncommittally. “One night. Long as we drove all this way … That’s all. After the funeral we head back. Understand? After you go to the funeral. Watkins made it fairly clear, he doesn’t want me there.”
Dani nestled back in her seat, pleased. “Thank you, Uncle Ty.”
“Just so you know the rules.”
There was a slowdown up ahead on the road, some large rigs coming to a crawl, backing up traffic.
“There’s a university in Greeley. There has to be somewhere decent to stay.”
“The U of Northern Colorado,” Dani confirmed. “I have some friends who went there. They specialize in—”
“Dani, hold on!” Hauck hit the brakes, throwing his arm out to restrain her. A large, eighteen-wheel tanker pulled out in front of them from a road coming up from the river, almost cutting them off.
“What the hell was that?” he said. As they passed the road, Hauck could see two more rigs, identical to the one that almost hit them, pulling up to the intersection about to turn. Each, a long, metal cylindrical tanker. The ones he had seen up ahead slowing traffic looked the same.
Hauck turned and looked down toward the river. “What do you think they’re bringing up from down there?”
“Has to be oil.” Dani shrugged. “Or natural gas, maybe. There must be a well.”
Hauck sped up and passed the one that had pulled out in front of him. They all had the same large logo on the sides.
RMM.
“One helluva well,” Hauck said. “Those things are all over the place here.”
In fact, they’d passed several wells on the ride so far, some dug right in the middle of people’s crop fields. Dani said they were called pumpjacks. A steel trestle and a large, bobbing drill head that resembled a Tyrannosaurus rex, but was actually called a horse head. Churning up and down. It operated by hydraulic power to pump the oil or natural gas back up from underground.
“How do you know all that?” Hauck asked her.
“I told you, I was a geology major in school.”
The crops couldn’t grow, so the farmers leased the land out to the exploration companies in hopes of something far more profitable. He knew new drilling advances had made exploration out here a lot more feasible.
Ahead of them, the convoy of big trucks picked up speed. Gleaming in the late-day sun.
He looked at the rig again. An arrow, circling through the letters RMM.
It was like the farmland had just been handed over to the oil and mining companies out here.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
They found a place to stay at a Fairfield Inn on the main road leading into Greeley.
The next morning, Hauck drove Dani back to Templeton and dropped her off at the church just before ten o’clock. People were already filing in. He told her he’d be back to pick her up in a couple of hours.
“What are you going to do?” she asked as she got out of the car.
“Sightsee.”
“Just watch out, Uncle Ty. I hear the sights can be a little dangerous here.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The address on the car registration was 4110 Tuttle Road in Greeley, which turned out to be several miles from town in the flat, expansive backcountry. Every once in a while Hauck saw a farm, cattle grazing, fields penned in by wire fences. Ford F-150s were definitely the preferred mode of transportation out here.
Tuttle Road was at an intersection off the main road, CO 49.
The traffic out here was sparse. Every minute or two a pickup or a Bronco would speed by. The homes he saw were white or red farmhouses and most had barns. He finally pulled up to a mailbox marked 4110 with just a hand-scrawled number on it at the end of a long, dirt driveway. A white pickup whooshed by and Hauck waited until it was out of sight. He turned in and decided to drive down the rutted road, dense brush crowding on each side.
About a hundred yards down he came upon a dilapidated house.
More shack than house actually. The front porch was askew and the stairs rotted and falling apart. The front door hung unhinged and slapped against the walls in the wind. It seemed totally abandoned. Clearly, no one had actually lived here in years.
Hauck got out of his car, the wind whipping through the creaking shutters.
His antennae began to buzz. Colin Jerrod Adrian. Who the hell was he? From near the same town as Trey. But Trey hadn’t lived there in years. With no bank accounts, no taxes paid. No present at all. Only a murky, ill-fated past.
Staff Sergeant Colin Adrian was killed in Fallujah in 2006.
Hauck kicked around the deserted shack for a while, stepping onto the creaky steps, finding nothing there, just a dried-up well. Frustrated, he got back in his car and drove back out to the main road.
He considered going to one of Adrian’s neighbors and asking about him. The nearest house was probably a quarter mile away, and this was clearly the kind of place where people wouldn’t take to outsiders coming in and asking about their neighbors. It was quiet in all directions. The county road seemed to stretch endlessly into the hazy mountains miles and miles away.
A kid was dead. Five others, possibly connected. A police chief was withholding evidence. Why? To keep what quiet? They’d have to have the means to carry it out, he had said to Dani. And the will.
Who would possibly have the will?
Hauck looked around again and climbed out of his the car. The wind kicked up, carrying a few branches and dust in its path. He stepped up to the mailbox. It was a roomy, rectangular lockbox. A couple of unopened newspapers or phone books were on the ground, bundled in plastic. Hauck took out the Swiss Army knife that was attached to his keys. The road stretched empty in both directions. He inserted the tip of the pick blade into the keyhole and jiggled it around. He knew what to do. He could take a lawn mower apart and reassemble it with just a screwdriver. And this lockbox wasn’t exactly built to withstand much of a challenge.
After a minute or so he felt the lock click.
Another twist, and the tiny lock pin released. He swung the box open. There wasn’t much inside. A few envelopes. Local junk mail. A magazine or two. Mailers from Safeways supermarkets and Walmart. All were addressed simply to Resident. It didn’t tell him much. Only one thing.
The magazines were current. Which meant that someone came out here on a regular basis to pick them up.
Finding nothing else, Hauck stuffed the stack of mail back in the box, ready to close it back up.
An envelope fell out that had been folded inside one of the mailers.
It was the only thing in there that even bore a name.
And it wasn’t Adrian’s.
It was addressed to a John Robertson. From something called the Alpha Group. An address here in Greeley. Hauck jiggled it and held it up. This wasn’t junk mail. There was a piece of paper inside. It actually looked like a check.
So someone did receive mail here. Adrian or Robertson, or whoever it was who had taken Adrian’s ID.
The Alpha Group.
Hauck jotted down the address, 2150 Turner Street. Then he put the envelope back in the pile and closed it back up. The owner would know the minute he came back out here that someone was on to him.
But an hour or so from now that wouldn’t matter anyway.
An hour or so from now he was pretty sure John Robertson would know exactly who had been here to find him.
CHAPTER THIRTY
He drove back into Greeley and followed the GPS to the location for the Alpha Group in a small office park outside town.
He parked outside the modern, redbrick building and stepped through the glass doors. The reception area was small, but upscale. A receptionist sat behind the front desk, a large logo behind her of an oil well trestle with lightning bolt running through it. Three words on a banner underneath it: INFORM. CHANGE. INFLUENCE. Hauck stepped up to her and she put some work aside and said cheerily, “Can I help you?”
“I’m trying to find a John
Robertson,” Hauck said. “Is he here?”
“Mr. Robertson …” The receptionist’s reaction seemed to have multiple things going on in it: The first was surprise. Clearly, she knew the name, but it was obvious people didn’t just come in off the street asking for him. But Hauck also detected some uncertainty, too. Uncertainty as to what to do. “Mr. Robertson isn’t in the office right now. But I’ll be happy to take your name.”
“Does he work here?” Hauck inquired.
“He doesn’t exactly work here …” she replied after a bit more hesitation. “I mean, out of this particular office.”
“So how can I reach him? It’s just on a personal matter.” He could see he was making her a bit uncomfortable. However she’d been taught to respond to this particular question, it was getting beyond her training.
“How about I ask our administrative VP, Mr. McKay …? I’ll see if he’s busy. What did you say your name was?”
“Hauck.” He gave her a business card.
“Please hold on a moment Mr. Hauck …”
She got on the line and said something in a low tone to what sounded like the manager’s assistant. “He’ll be right with you.” She came back with a smile. “He’s just finishing up a call.” She pointed toward a couch with some magazines on the table.
“Feel free to take a seat over there.”
“Thanks.” Hauck went over. The periodicals were all energy related. Oil. Natural gas. There was a stack of company brochures there as well. Hauck picked one up. It showed the same logo as on the wall. The same slogan too: INFORM. CHANGE. INFLUENCE. Influence what?
The brochure described Alpha as a company based out of Denver specializing in the energy field. It talked about “technical and crisis management solutions for today’s critical energy and environmental issues.” It showed a series of corporate executives, both in hard hats and business suits. Out in the field and in company boardrooms. There were photos of oil and gas rigs, rig workers at work, some fancy office buildings, a pretty park, reminding Hauck of the one they’d seen in Templeton. Even an upscale residential community with a golf course, as if all were examples of the happy world Alpha’s efforts were achieving.
Hauck folded the brochure in his pocket.
A man stepped out from the back. He was average height, trim, fit-looking under his white dress shirt, like he lifted weights; mid-thirties, though he had lost most of his reddish hair to a high forehead. “Randy McKay …” he said amiably, reaching out his hand. His grip was firm, businesslike; out of some sales training regimen. Military.
“Ty Hauck,” Hauck replied.
“Janet tells me you’re looking for Mr. Robertson …?”
“Yes. Is he here?”
“I guess she told you John doesn’t always work out of this office. Alpha has dozens of operational sites throughout Weld Country and the Wattenberg field …”
“The Wattenberg field …?”
“That’s where we are now. Right smack in the middle of it. One hundred thousand barrels of oil a day and seven hundred and forty million cubic feet of natural gas from around twenty-two thousand active wells. Not all our clients, of course, but we have multiple projects going on, where John spends most of his time.”
“I see. So what exactly does Mr. Robertson actually do for Alpha, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I don’t mind at all.” The manger smiled. “Though we don’t normally give out that kind of information on our employees. Why don’t we step in here … Janet, we’re going to be in Conference Room A for a couple of minutes if anyone’s needing me. Shouldn’t be too long.”
“Of course, Mr. McKay …”
The manager led Hauck down a hallway and into an antiseptic room with a polished wood table, a matching credenza; oil rig and mining photographs on the walls. It looked as if the room came straight out of some furniture rental catalog. “We’re not normally so secretive, Mr. Hauck …” McKay motioned him into a seat. “But we do like to know who we’re talking to before we divulge certain information …”
Hauck said, “I wasn’t looking for any information. I just asked what one of your employees does.”
“I understand. And you’re right. Take a seat. Are you in the energy business?” He had a clear-eyed and direct manner. Even when he was diverting a question, he did so with a smile. “Your card says ‘Talon.’”
“I’m not,” Hauck said. “I’m in security.”
“Security? You mean like with wires and alarms?” He smiled again. “Mr. Pettibone, our director of logistics, is out right now, but that sort of thing falls under his expertise.”
“More like firm-to-firm,” Hauck replied. “Or country-to-country.”
“I see. Well, most of what we do is in the energy field. We’re not so well known as some of the bigger oil service brands. I was actually in law enforcement for a while myself, after I got out of the service. Until I got tired of wearing the uniform, if you know what I mean. And where is it you said you know Mr. Robertson from …?”
“I didn’t say I knew him. I just asked what he did.”
“That’s right. You did. Well, Mr. Robertson is what we call a senior coordinator of field projects. But like I said, he’s currently away.”
“Where is he?” Hauck asked, clear-eyed at McKay. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“In the field.”
Over the years, Hauck had been stonewalled by some of the best, and this guy was giving it his shot. “What exactly are ‘field projects’ for Alpha’?” he asked, his eyes roaming to the pictures of mining and drilling operations on the walls. “Are you guys drillers?”
“Not drillers, exactly. You might say we do field testing, handle certain site management issues that come up.”
“Field testing? You mean like geological?”
“Similar to geological …” McKay nodded. “Just not in a lab.”
“In the field …” Hauck said vaguely.
“That’s right,” McKay said again, that same stony smile. “The field.”
“Your brochure seems to call it ‘crisis management solutions for today’s energy and environmental issues.’”
“Yes, I’m glad you were able to take a look,” the Alpha man said. “You never know who actually reads through these things … But like any solutions-oriented firm, we like to think we take other people’s problems and turn them into opportunities. Newer drilling techniques today come with equally new challenges for communities and local governments. We like to think we make those issues …” He paused as if searching for the right word.
“Go away …”
“Well, not quite ‘go away.’” McKay smiled again. “But at least, become far more livable.”
“Inform. Change. Influence,” Hauck said.
“Now I see you have read up on us,” the Alpha manger said. “And now what I suggest I do is that I take your card here, and when I can get in touch with Mr. Robertson, I’ll make sure he gets it.”
“And when might that be? I was hoping I might get a chance to speak with him face-to-face. I’m only here for a couple of days.”
“Not for a while, I’m afraid.” McKay stood up. “He’s on assignment these days. Unfortunately, he won’t be back this way for a while. How long did you say you were staying?”
“I don’t know myself.” Hauck stood up as well. “Too bad.”
The Alpha manager looked at him curiously. “We like to think Weld County has its own austere charm, Mr. Hauck, but we know it’s not on too many people’s lists of their favorite places to visit. What brings you here, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I was out here to visit a friend Mr. Robertson and I may have had in common.”
“Another time then, I’m afraid.” McKay shrugged, feigning disappointment.
“I’m not sure that’ll be possible. He’s dead.”
“My goodness, I’m sorry …” The oil manager looked surprised. “From around here? I could let him know.”
“No, from
Aspen,” Hauck said at the office door. “And I think he does already. Know.” Hauck kept his eye on McKay, searching for the slightest sign of recognition. The guy played his part out well. “Anyway, no bother. I’ll be happy to find my way out. I appreciate your time.” He put out his hand.
“Pleasure was mine,” McKay said. “I’ll make sure he gets this.”
“Just tell him I’ll just drop something in the mail next time.”
“The mail?”
“He’ll know what I mean.”
On his way out Hauck stopped at a framed photograph he’d noticed on the wall when he was walking in.
An army photo. An entire unit, it seemed. At least sixty of them. Everyone in fatigues. 301st Air Division, it read at the bottom.
Alpha Unit.
It was taken on an airfield tarmac, mountains in the background. The photo caption read, Rasheed Air Base, 2009. It looked like Iraq. In the back row, he noticed the person he had just spoken with. McKay. His hat off, a little younger-looking, with a bit more hair. Hauck thought he could make out a major’s leaf on his uniform.
Alpha Unit. What was that?
Underneath Hauck saw a legend of names. He checked it, searching for the only one he knew. Maj. Randall McKay. He kept on looking until he found the other name he was looking for.
In the bottom row. Kneeling. A light-featured young man with a narrow, chiseled face, a hard jawline, light hair shaved close on the sides, military style, and a deep-set, expressionless stare.
Lance Cpl. John Robertson.
And next to him a smiling face in a floppy desert army hat.
Staff Sgt. Colin Adrian.
Alpha Unit had become the Alpha Group. Crisis management solutions for today’s energy and environmental issues. Seeing no one around, Hauck took out his phone and bore in closely on the gaunt, narrow face. Robertson. And snapped the shot.
What the hell went on out there? Hauck stared closely at his face on the army photo.
In the field.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Back in his car, Hauck called in to Brooke at Talon. “I need another favor.”
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