“They’re from out of state?”
“Germany.”
“Germany?”
“He’s stationed there.”
“Oh. So they’re taking her to Germany?”
“Looks like it.”
“You okay with that?” he asked. A regular Dr. Phil.
“I’m glad.”
He didn’t sound glad. He sounded mad. Pissed-off at the world, but then, Richie didn’t blame him. With a witch like that for a mother, who wouldn’t want to see his niece go as far away as possible? Making her sick like that. Germany was as good a place as any.
Richie glanced at Josh Wingate again. Profile carved in stone, eyes forward, hands loose on his lap. A thousand miles away.
Richie stopped the car. “You interested in working this scene with me?”
Josh Wingate swiveled his head to look at him. “Yes, sir. I want to.”
Richie thought about it. The kid was depressed—big time—but Richie could use the help. Reluctantly, he put the car in gear, wondering if he was making a mistake.
And throughout the afternoon, Josh zombie-walked through the search. Nothing you could put your finger on. He was precise; he was obedient; he was careful.
But he wasn’t there.
*
Look busy. Laura glanced around the room, which had been reduced to herself, Jon, and an off-duty dispatcher brought in to help. At the moment, she was cleaning up coffee spills on the table. Priorities, as Special Agent in Charge Damien Peltier would say. “Well, we have enough people for a lemonade stand,” Laura said to Jon.
Jon Service glanced at one of the laptops, still up. More messages had come in. He sat down and started logging them into Rapid Start, Laura looking over his shoulder.
There was new information on Glenn Traywick. He had been at the Nevada Test Site earlier today, but left early, supposedly on his way to Utah.
Laura knew he was Jack Taylor’s nephew. Although Jack Taylor wouldn’t implicate him, they already knew he was part of the scheme. She’d seen his name written down before—on the old refrigerator door at Taylor’s Creekside Cabins. The brochure for flights over the Grand Canyon.
“Traywick has an airplane.”
Jon looked up from the computer. “He does?”
She described the brochure, the red-white-and-blue plane.
“If ever a guy could use a plane, he would,” said Jon.
Ten minutes later, Laura got the information from the FAA. “He keeps it here in Flag at Pulliam Airport. A Cessna 175.” She gave Jon the call letters. “A plane with those call numbers left North Las Vegas Airport earlier this morning. He didn’t file a flight plan.”
“You think he’s coming here?”
*
A search turned up the information that Glenn Traywick had owned a house in Flagstaff for fifteen years, but sold it eight months ago. His current address was an apartment here in town. More good fortune: The apartment manager lived across from Traywick and was on nodding acquaintance with Traywick’s girlfriend, Michelle.
“Do you have a last name?” Laura said into the phone.
“No. She’s not on the lease. Know where she works, though. Trecor.”
“Trecor?”
“Trecor Business Equipment on Milton Road. My brother buys all the stuff for his business there—he has a publishing software company.”
“Have you noticed anything unusual about either of them recently?”
“Does moving out of the apartment count?”
Laura grabbed the phone tighter in her fingers. “Oh, that counts.”
“Moving van was here all day yesterday. They sure had a lot of stuff for a small apartment.”
“Did they skip out?”
“Nope. Michelle came over yesterday. Said there was a death in the family and they were going to have to leave town, break the lease. She was nice about paying up—they lost the security deposit and a few months rent.”
“That was yesterday?”
“Uh-huh. But she left today with the last of her stuff.”
“When was this?”
“Quarter of eight this morning.”
When Laura hung up, she asked Jon when Glenn Traywick was last seen at the Nevada Test Site.
He was staring at the computer. “It’s in here somewhere. Where’s Jordy when you need him?”
“Out playing cowboy with Clint Eastwood.” Laura grabbed the phone book, punched in the number for Trecor Business Machines, and found out that Michelle Cantey had worked there most of the morning. About ten minutes ago, she’d left on a personal errand and wouldn’t be back for the rest of the day.
*
It was clear to Richie early on that Bobby Burdette had cleared out with all his personal information. As the hours ground on, working his way through dirty clothes, cupboards of canned goods, a refrigerator full of cold cuts growing brown and condiments that must have been here for a decade, he realized that Burdette hadn’t been here for a while.
And he wasn’t coming back. It was a sense he had. The place felt stale, closed-up, but it was more than that. The minute someone left a house for good, you could tell. It was like the house itself had given up. He had left a few things behind—a ratty old couch, a bed and bedside table, some mismatched kitchen chairs. And, surprisingly, a brand new wide-screen TV and combination DVD/VCR player. Worth at least two grand combined.
Who in his right mind would leave something like that? But even if Richie didn’t know the circumstances, didn’t know what Bobby Burdette was planning, he would have known he wasn’t coming back.
Suddenly, Josh Wingate said, “Hey.”
Richie looked over to where Josh Wingate was standing in the kitchen, at a door that looked like it was to a pantry. “There’s a basement down here.”
His blood quickening, Richie went to take a look. Looked down into the dark. Cement walls. Ten steps down before a blind corner, a lightbulb on a cord halfway down.
Richie remembered what happened to two police officers in that little podunk town in Florida when Laura Cardinal was down there serving a warrant.
“Don’t go down those stairs,” he said to Josh. “I’m going to call the Bomb Squad.”
Getting one might take awhile, this being Williams.
At Exit 337, Jon Service turned right on West Shamrell Road and drove through a parklike area, new blacktop winding through vacant land dotted with pines. They passed an industrial park and turned onto Grumman, a short road deadending at the chain link fence to the airfield. The only place to go was a parking lot on the right. The parking lot belonged to Wiseman Aviation. According to the information Laura had gotten over the phone, Wiseman Aviation was an FBO—a Fixed Base Operation, combination filling station, rest area, and concierge service for the airplane-flying public. This was where Glenn Traywick would come in to pick up his girlfriend—if he showed up at all.
A beat-up red car old enough to be called a Datsun baked in the sun. Michelle’s car, from the apartment manager’s description and the number on the plate.
“She’s here,” Laura said.
“Unless she’s been and gone already.”
As Laura approached the door on the right side of the large, aluminum-sided building, every sense was alive. Laura tried to project calmness. She didn’t want to spook Michelle. They wanted to intercept her quietly.
They walked through the long entry hall, which ended in double doors looking out on the tarmac. The lounge opened up on the right: a grouping of brown leather chairs, a Santa Festyle coffee table, a fireplace in the corner. A woman sat with her backs to them, her luggage at her feet. Blond hair with dark roots pulled into a ponytail under a white visor cap, pink sweater over manufacturer-faded blue jeans, running shoes. Big busted and big in the hips, but she had a narrow waist. She was leaning forward. When Laura came around the chair, she realized she was petting a sleek black cat who made passes around her legs like a bull with a cape.
Laura liked Michelle immediately, but that didn’t stop her.
She glanced at Jon, who seemed to slip like smoke around the other side of the chair.
“Michelle Cantey?”
The woman looked up. For a moment Laura thought she was going to bolt. Then she heaved her shoulders and sighed. “What do you want me to do?”
“I’m with the FBI,” Jon said, showing her his shield. “We’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”
“Talk away.” Her words belied her nervousness, which was evident in the stricken look on her face, as if she had been caught doing something unsavory.
Jon glanced around the small room. “It would be better if we talked outside.”
“Fine.” She stood up and reached down for her bags.
“You can leave them here.” He nodded toward the receptionist. “They’ll watch them.”
“My mother’s photo albums are in there.”
“They’ll be fine,” Laura said.
They walked out into the sunlight, Michelle between Laura and Jon. Michelle was saying, “I don’t know what you think I’ve done.”
Laura aimed her toward Jon’s car.
“Am I under arrest?”
“No,” Laura replied. “Do you want to be?”
That got her mouth working, but she didn’t say anything.
At the car, Laura said, “Do you know why we’re here?” Laura asked.
“Not really.”
“You’re meeting Glenn Traywick, isn’t that right? He’s flying in?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact he is.”
“How long before he gets here?”
“Any minute.”
“How does that generally work? Will he gas up?”
Michelle stared at her, and then at Jon. Reluctantly, she said, “I think he said he’d top off the tanks and we’d load up and go. But I don’t know what you think he’s done.”
Laura remembered seeing a sign for services in the lounge that listed both full and self-serve. “Self-serve or will they fill up for him?”
“Could you at least tell me what you think he did?”
“How about you tell us where you’re flying to?” asked Laura.
She shook her head and asked again if she was under arrest.
“No.”
“Can I go then?”
Laura said, “I’ll go with you.”
Laura and Michelle went inside. Jon remained in the parking lot, waiting for the Coconino County sheriff’s office deputies to arrive.
Laura sat down in the lobby with Michelle. Michelle pulled out a paperback book from her bag. The book was called Blood is the Sky and the cover was sunset over a lake, a float plane coming in over the trees. Looked like Alaska or Canada. Michelle tried to read, but Laura could tell she was having difficulty making sense of the words.
“Where are you headed?” Laura asked, keeping her tone conversational.
“I don’t have to tell you.”
“No, you don’t. But you’re obviously making a move.”
Michelle stood up. “I have to use the bathroom.”
“What a coincidence. So do I.”
*
While he waited for the Bomb Squad, Richie Lockhart went back to look at the new TV set. If Bobby Burdette was really gone, why did he leave something like this?
Holding up the TV was a cheap, veneered cabinet for storing DVD and videotapes, that heavy dark-wood Spanish style reminiscent of the seventies. Nothing was in it. Did Bobby take everything with him or give it away? With his gloved finger he pushed the button for the DVD player—the holding tray was empty. What the hell, punch the VCR eject button, too. This time the machine hummed as a video tape appeared.
Richie knew then that Bobby had left him something.
He pushed the tape back in and pressed REWIND. It was already rewound, so he turned on the TV and pressed PLAY.
Josh Wingate came and stood just inside the door to the kitchen, watching. “What is it?” he asked. The first interest he’d shown all day.
Ambient sound. The scene was this living room; the couch Richie was sitting on now. Bobby Burdette walked into the frame, sat down, cleared his throat. Richie noticed he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, jeans, and white tennis shoes, and that his hair was still wet from the shower.
He held a piece of notebook paper in his hand, creased in fourths. He cleared his throat again, looked at the camera, smiled, showing yellowed teeth.
“If you’re watching this, I’m either in Mexico or I’m dead.” He waited a beat, giving his audience time to assimilate this. Looked down at the paper and up again. “You probably saw it on the news. Whatever happened, I did what I set out to do. I’m not going to apologize, because there’s nothing to apologize for. If someone forced my hand, then they paid the consequences. It was a lack of judgment on their part.”
He paused to look down and commit more words to memory.
“I did not mean anyone any harm. If circumstances turned out not the way I wanted them to be, I regret it, but I gave everyone a clear choice. I hope that they will take this seriously, because there’s absolutely no reason for anyone to get hurt.”
He scratched his neck and let the paper fall to his knees. “See, I am not the kind of guy who bluffs. Bluffing is not in my makeup. If you understand that, we get along fine.”
“So,” he said, leaning forward, “I hope they took it seriously. If they did, then everything turned out all right for everybody. If not, they underestimated me big-time. I’m sorry about that, but they knew what they were dealing with. I do not back down. Ever. That’s the way I am. My only request is that you send a copy of this tape to my mother, Mrs. June R. Burdette. All my possessions I give to her, unless you confiscate everything for the government. But that’s not my problem anymore. Wherever I am, I’m where you can’t reach me.”
He got up off the couch and headed for the camera. Then the screen turned snowy.
Richie glanced at Josh Wingate, who stared rigidly at the screen—an intensity he had not seen all day. Richie asked him what he thought.
“Guy is tough,” he said.
“You think he’s tough? I think he’s a coward.”
Josh looked at him. “Whatever it was he did, he went through with it, didn’t he?”
Chapter Forty
Approximately six miles east of Searchlight, Nevada, on a side road just over the first low hill on Nevada 164, Damien Peltier waited at the command post. The command post was invisible from the road until someone was right up on it.
Behind him, the road continued on to Cottonwood Cove at Lake Mohave, dropping from three thousand feet above sea level to six hundred.
The roadblock had been set up three-quarters of a mile beyond the command post, just over the rise of a second hill. There was a spotter up by the road. When the target went by, two FBI vehicles from the command post would fall in behind him.
At the roadblock, the SWAT team would be waiting. The team included two snipers: one for the driver and one for the passenger. Even in this godforsaken area, there were enough stunted trees and brush to camouflage them. The rest of the roadblock would be parked around and on the road, but would allow for a driver to thread his way through if he had to—slowly.
Safety first.
Peltier glanced at the navy-blue Suburbans parked one in front of the other on the dirt road—ready to go. He tried to stifle his impatience, but it was hard.
It had been hurry up and wait. Everything was planned down to the second, but this wind was getting to him. He hated waiting. That was something he had to a lot of when he was a kid. His harried and forgetful mother, who had eight children, had always left him for last when it came time to picking up her brood from their various after-school programs. Consequently, he would have to cool his heels consistently for a half hour to an hour, and often, she would forget to pick him up at all.
He made sure that he never had to wait much. As the SAC of the Phoenix metropolitan area, he had others do his waiting for him. But somebody forgot to tell Mark Anthony and Jerry Lewis th
at.
Mark Anthony. Jerry Lewis. Those assholes at Fleet Trucking—a company that contracted with the Nevada Test Site to move nuclear waste—had not even bothered to check out obviously fake names like that.
The wind rattled the canvas awning of the ramada, shuttled dirt into the phalanx of police vehicles, pelting them and the men outside them. The dirt hit him, the exposed parts—his hands, his face. It felt as if he’d been shot with a BB gun.
When he first got here, the sky was blue, one jet contrail bisecting the sky. Now the sky was cataracted over, making the desert dishwater dull. He hated it out here. Too barren, too much open space.
He shaded his eyes with a hand, listening for the spotter to alert him by radio. He had made the decision not to evacuate Searchlight. From what he knew about these two morons, all they wanted to do was make a point. Too cowardly even to stay with the truck—just leave it there and call the news affiliates. He just didn’t respect them. Ecoterrorists were not about to go to the wall for their cause—he wasn’t dealing with survivalists, and this wasn’t Waco.
It was a tough decision, but he was used to make tough decisions. He had always been able to look at a problem and see the answer quickly. He prided himself on his decisiveness, his ability to boil things down to their essence, so it was perfectly clear what action was required.
Evacuating the community on such short notice would have tipped off the drivers of the truck. You couldn’t do something like that quietly.
He walked over to Jordan Benteen, who was sitting in a plain-wrapped vehicle, hunched over his laptop.
“How are we doing?”
“They’re just getting to Searchlight now.”
Another blast of wind. He could taste dirt in his teeth. Suddenly, something flew into his eye.
“Dammit!”
He leaned in to the car, back to the wind, pulling his upper lid over his eye, trying to dislodge the grit. He blinked several times, but he could feel it in there.
Jordan said, “Uh-oh.”
“What’s the matter?” He was pulling on his eyelash, bringing his lid down like a roll-up shade.
“It looks like—”
“What?” he shouted. “What’s going on?”
Jordan Benteen said, “They turned off.”
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