“Sure. Why the hell not? So the ground rules are that anything I say to you might well be passed on to the sheriff’s office.”
“Yes. That’s a good way to go. If I think they need it.”
“Better them than some others I can think of,” he sighed. “I haven’t even seen Torrez around.”
“He spent most of the night just down the road.” I nodded out the window. “Likely he’s gone fishing down in Cruces. That’s where Boyd was teaching, and he’ll be checking connections down there.”
“Hell of a thing, just cold-blooded…” He let that trail off, then added, “They said it was Kenderman.” Waddell shook his head wearily. “Young, skinny fella?” I nodded. “He tried to give me a ticket once. He didn’t like one of my stock trailers. Said the license plate was obscured.”
“Can you imagine?” I laughed. “And was it?”
“Sure. In all fairness, it wasn’t on the trailer.”
“And he let you talk your way out of it?”
Waddell grinned. “Sure. I had it under the seat of the truck.” His face lost all humor. “Were there signs of a struggle?”
“No.”
“Well, Christ.” He lowered his voice and leaned forward. “Related to the shit down at my place?”
“If I had to guess…”
Fernando brought two loaded plates, enough breakfast for four people.
“You got enough of everything?” he grumbled. “How come you’re out so early?” His accent was thick, even though he’d been north of the border for half a century.
“Because we’re hungry, Fernando.”
He grinned at that and waved a hand. “You holler at me,” he said. “Jana will be in before long.” The sheriff’s cousin had waited tables at the Don Juan for twenty years, and was one of my favorite people. If she had saved all the money I’d dropped on her in tips, she could buy a new truck.
“I wanted to show you this.” The rancher had carried a slender attaché case with him, and around the first bites of his breakfast burrito, slipped a hand in and retrieved a newspaper clipping. “Actually, I have two things, but the good news first.” He passed a folded newspaper page across the table. I saw it was a tabloid from a San Francisco suburb well inland from the bay. The lead headline announced that folks weren’t happy with the public school budget. Were they ever?
Down at the bottom, a modest double column headline announced that “Origins Project Finds Home.” I read the headline aloud, and glanced up at Waddell. “And Origins is…what? That deal you were talking about yesterday?”
Reading a bit further I answered my own question. “A sixty-five meter telescope…my God.”
“The old classic at Mt. Palomar is one hundred inches. Imagine sixty-five meters, if you can.”
“I can’t. That’s a lens more than two hundred feet across.”
“Two hundred fourteen feet, actually. And it’s a radio telescope, so there’s no lens as we know them,” the rancher said with relish. “Just a big round dish that collects sounds from a gazillion light years away…which means a gazillion years in the past. Imagine that? All the way back to what they call the original microwave background out there in deep space. It’s not just a big slab of ground glass.”
I smiled at his enthusiasm. “Has Frank talked to you yet about this?”
“He called me, and we’ll get together today sometime. Other than that, not a soul yet.” He reached across and tapped the top of the newspaper page. “And notice that it wasn’t important enough to rate the top spot—and the Chronicle and the L.A. Times haven’t run with it. It’s in the who cares department.”
“I would think the good folks at Walnut Haven would be loath to see a project of this size leave their community.”
Waddell shrugged and shoveled more burrito. “You can have a sky full of smog and junk,” he said around the food, “or you can have the heavens open for viewing. It’s hard to have both. They have lots of coastal haze, lots of smog, lots of politics. That’s probably the worst polluter. Me, I have clear nights, no traffic, and free land.”
I scanned the rest of the article. “’A ranch in southern New Mexico.’ No mention of you.”
“That’s part of the deal.”
“You’re going to let them install this monster on your mesa?”
“Yep.”
“That’s got to include a large building, with all the computers and control room and this and that.”
“More like huge,” Waddell said happily. “And some housing.”
I recalled an earlier discussion with Miles Waddell when I’d just come out and asked point-blank what his plans were for the mesa. He’d mentioned an observatory, but implied a private one. The new road up to the top suggested a lot more. Rumors had been rife, of course.
“I’ve signed a ninety-nine year lease with them,” Waddell lowered his voice. “A seventy-five-acre patch on the southwest corner of the mesa-top. Got ’em to go for a buck a century. They agreed, and now it’s official.”
“Well, sure. How could they refuse a deal like that?”
“Exactly the point. No traffic, no lights, no pollution. Flat, dark, and apparently perfect orientation for whatever portion of the night sky they want to listen to.” He glanced toward the kitchen as Fernando appeared with more coffee, and we waited until he’d left us to our little dark corner.
“See, they even drilled a couple exploratory holes in the mesa-top to make sure we weren’t sitting on top of a limestone honeycomb. From a geological point of view, it’s an unshakeable location, even with the limestone caverns at the north end of the mesa that the BLM is interested in developing someday.”
“As unshakeable as anything is on this old planet,” I observed. I read the story again. “Christ, Miles, it’s going to cost a fortune to bring that monster up to the mesa-top. What’s it weigh…five hundred tons?”
The rancher settled back and carefully balanced his fork on the edge of the plate. “Actually, I know exactly what it’s going to cost.” His tone was cautious, and he’d shed a little of his rancher’s accent. “To sweeten the deal for them, I’m paying a portion of the transportation costs.” He held up a hand. “Just a portion. Sure, it’ll take a fair chunk of change. That baby weighs nine hundred and sixty tons, Bill. That’s when it’s all bolted together. Still, there’ll be sections of it that come up to thirty tons or more. That’s why the new road. You haven’t been up there in a while, have you? That old gun you found has you occupied.”
“The road is gated,” I said wryly, not that I was ever averse to slipping over a fence or through a stock gate.
“We’ll get you up there.”
“And here all this time, I imagined you were going to buy yourself a ten-inch reflector and a lawn chair.”
Waddell laughed loudly. “You ain’t seen the half of it, my friend. But what’s keeping you busy after all this?” He held up another loaded fork. “Other than writing a deposition or two? They got you working this case? Or are you settling in with a box of fresh pencils and a stack of legal pads to write your memoirs?”
“No. I told Estelle I’d help where I can, but this is a young man’s game. Hell, by the time the morning’s over, they’ll have federales involved, every state agency there is, and enough over-time requistions to make the county legislators quake in their boots.”
“I guess we can expect all that.” He opened the leather case again. “You ready for the bad news?”
“Whether I am or not…”
“See, you mentioned rumors before.” He hesitated with papers half out of his briefcase. “What’s your favorite?”
“You mean the most ridiculous one?”
“I’d like to hear that.”
I stirred a puddle of green chile juice with my fork. “I’d have to say that whatever it is you’re doing up there is designed to support a United Na
tions peacekeeping and drug interdiction force, with massive programs to randomly tap cell phone traffic. And on top of that, an airbase for surveillance drones. That tops my list.”
“Mine too.” Waddell slipped another publication out of his briefcase, this time a glossy, well-funded conservative Colorado publication that I recognized. “Friend of mine with the Colorado Livestock Board sent me this.” He had folded the paper so page seven prominently displayed the headline, “Foreign Domination of Ranchlands Gains Another Foothold.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I growled. Posadas County’s desiccated desert and short bunch-grass prairie country was conspicuously mentioned in the first paragraph, but Waddell was not mentioned by name—much like the ad that Frank Dayan had showed me. Written to imitate a breaking news story rather than a diatribe, the article still accomplished the same thing…spreading nonsense.
“How did they find out about the Walnut Haven project? And since when is California foreign?”
“It’s not?” Miles laughed. “But look, somebody knows somebody. And you know, that doesn’t bother me. It’s all coming out here shortly. I plan to let Frank in on the whole thing, by the way, and let him scoop the other papers. I mean, the big dish is hot news, Bill. They’ll employ two dozen people, from telescope gurus to janitors.” He took a deep breath and looked out the window at the blank, cold sky. “The thing that irks me is trying to figure out why a project like this has to be a clandestine scheme of some sort.” He turned to look at me. “Why it can’t just be what it is?”
“Because most people are devoid of that kind of imagination, Miles,” I said.
“Wish to hell I really did understand. Seems like if it’s something that they can’t imagine, then somehow it must be something dangerous and a threat to truth, justice, and the American way.” He grinned ruefully. “I didn’t figure on that at the beginning. I figured they’d just say, ‘Well, that’s crazy Miles, but it’s his money.’”
I leaned back, letting the pool of chile settle. I had wondered now and then about Miles Waddell’s source of income—he didn’t earn it punching a small herd of cattle. But that was none of my business. “You know, I’ve heard a few folks talking about the mesa project. When they ask me what I think is going on, I tell ’em that I’ve heard you say you’re building an observatory of some sort. And that’s it.”
Waddell squinted one eye like a wild schemer. “Ah…but observing what…that’s the paranoid part. Look,” and he laid down his fork. “You have some time this morning, before all this deposition shit lands on our heads?”
“A little time. The depositions are critical, Miles.”
“Run out there with me. For just a few minutes.”
I glanced at my watch and saw six o’clock straight up. The sun was just touching the tops of the buildings across the street. “We can do that.”
“See, I want to show you the plan for NightZone, but up there, where it makes sense. The whole dream. It’ll blow your socks off.”
Swimming the last bite around the platter, I sighed with contentment. “All right. Let the day begin.”
“You can leave your rig here if you want,” Waddell offered. “I have to come back to town anyway.”
I pushed myself out of the booth and slid two twenties under the edge of my plate, waving off his offer as he dug for his wallet. “Tell you what,” I said. “Let me follow you out. With the mess we have this morning, I never know what’s coming up. I need my wheels.” I grinned. “My mobile office.”
“Hell of a retirement you’ve got going,” Waddell said. “I’ll meet you at the gate.”
And that should have been simple enough.
Chapter Seven
State Highway 56 approached the village of Posadas from the southwest. It was heavily used by Posadas standards, carrying not only the rumble and clatter of local ranchers with their stock trailers, but traffic to and from Mexico and from southern Arizona. Snowbirds with enough spirit of adventure to pull their big RVs off the interstates used it, as did the burros who pulled used cars in tandem for sale in Mexico. And one way or another, a flood of illegal aliens used the highway, walking its shoulders, stuffed in vans or trucks, or driving their own well-worn piece of the American dream.
I turned south on Grande Avenue toward State 56, letting Miles Waddell cruise on ahead. I didn’t need to eat his dust when, in twenty-six miles, we would turn off on County Road 14. But I didn’t even make it out of town. I was still a quarter-mile north of the Posadas Inn and the interstate’s overpass when I saw Waddell’s brake lights flash, and then another light show of a different sort. A mammoth RV trundled northbound toward me, passing under the interstate with a sheriff’s patrol unit glued so close to its back bumper that the county unit might have been a vehicle in tow.
Sergeant Jackie Taber, having already worked most of the night out at the crime scene, was starting her day shift by catching a speeding snowbird. By the time I passed McArthur Circle, the first street a long block north of the interchange, the RV had heaved across my path and into the Posadas Inn’s parking lot, angling far off to one side. It halted beside one of the towering light poles. Taber followed in close formation, and as the RV came to a stop, pulled forward and to one side so she had a clear view of the RV’s front door.
I glanced ahead to see Waddell’s ranch truck enter the sweeping bend to State 56 far ahead, a burst of dark exhaust telling me that he had his foot in it. I was poking along, true to habit. As I came up on the parking lot, I looked across and saw that Jackie Taber had gotten out of her car and was moving around the driver’s door. The door of the RV had opened, and I could see a figure on the top step, bare knees and shins just visible.
Body English is everything. Even at a quick glance, I could see the tension in Taber’s body. Left hand extended in the universal “halt” gesture, right hand drifting back toward the butt of her service automatic, her knees had flexed as she turned. And sure enough, the figure in the doorway of the RV appeared to be holding a weapon of some sort. That’s what I saw, and that’s what I acted on.
Too late to turn into the parking lot’s last entrance before the interstate interchange, I braked hard and cranked the SUV around to the left, executing a U-turn directly under the overpass. The turn continued, bringing me 270 degrees around to face the parking lot entrance. And there I had an unobstructed view of the huge, square ass-end of the RV, tinted windows revealing nothing inside. Ahead and off to my right was Jackie Taber, hand on gun and barking orders. The bulk of the RV hid the doorway from my view, and I swung right just wide enough that I could make out the figure standing there. Stopping well to the rear and just to the left of Taber’s unit, I slammed the gear lever into Park.
I knew all the ways a civilian could get himself into trouble by arriving in the middle of a crime scene, running the risk of upsetting what might be a delicate balance established by the responding officer. Who knows what the mind-sets of those involved might be. At that point, I acted out of that zone that cops sometimes call “trained instinct.”
My Dodge Durango was bright red—not obviously a police vehicle, but who the hell knows these days. With an armed confrontation going on, I wasn’t about to look the other way and cruise past. Nor could I just sit in the car and wait and see what transpired. The sheriff’s department radio that was bolted under the dash was silent, the idiot light dark, and I didn’t take the time to reach down to turn it on. No doubt Sergeant Taber had called in the stop, and even as I got out of the SUV, I saw her left hand snap up to the little microphone on her shoulder epaulet.
I had time to take two steps forward, putting me immediately beside the left front fender of my SUV. The figure in the stairwell of the RV shifted position, and I saw the long barrel of a gun swing down. Distinctly, I heard three words, barked out in command by Sergeant Taber.
“Put the gun…” and that’s as far as she got.
The bl
ast was incredibly loud and sharp, and Sergeant Taber disappeared from my view. As if acting entirely on its own, my right hand swept back and found my stubby magnum, nestled under my jacket. As the barrel of the assailant’s gun swept toward me, I drew and fired. The man—now I could tell that’s who it was—was in quartering view to me, still on the steps of the motor home. Even as I pulled the trigger the first time, he was starting to turn awkwardly. The recoil of the .357 was harsh if I thought about it, but during that episode, I never felt it. I continued to fire until I saw the assailant’s shotgun clatter to the parking lot and he crashed onto the RV’s steps, one leg angling crazily out the door.
Motion to my right became Jackie Taber, picking herself up with one hand on the bumper of her vehicle, the other holding her automatic pointed in the general direction of the RV. Still thinking on their own, one of my hands opened the cylinder of the Smith and Wesson and pumped out the five empties, and the other groped the Speed Loader out of my left jacket pocket. By the time I realized what I was doing, I’d advanced a step or two, and could see the man writhing on the steps of the RV, blood pouring down his Hawaiian shirt, across his snow-white Bermuda shorts, and onto the chrome of the RV.
He made no move toward the shotgun, and I closed the distance in a few strides.
“Oh, my God,” the man gurgled. There didn’t appear to be another weapon within his reach. I chanced a quick glance to the right, and saw Jackie advancing, automatic extended. The swell of relief was palpable. She was up and efficient again. “Secure the shotgun, sir,” she barked at me, with no quaver, no hesitation, no gasping for breath. Without having to worry about her, my brain was free to do something constructive. I didn’t want that gun—and I could see it was a fancy, long-barreled thing—to move an iota from where the assailant had dropped it. Once a crime scene is altered, there’s no going back.
In the distance, I could hear two sirens, so I stepped to the shotgun that lay well out of the wounded man’s reach and just stood there, looking up at the dark side windows of the RV above me. I saw no motion, no shadows. I heard no latches snapping open, no one crawling out a back window.
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