“Yep.”
“That’s a bit before his time, don’t you think?”
“Just a bit.”
“Do you think that he really believes that what Waddell is building on this mesa is the vanguard of something else? Some big, secret government project? And now, like the Hollywood preview guy would say, ‘only one man can stop the unspeakable evil that lurks in the NightZone.’ And I’m not trying to make light of some creep who’s turned cop killer.”
“Could be. I don’t know what he’s thinkin’. What I’m thinkin’ is that we got us more of a fruitcake on our hands than we guessed. If he took the truck, it means he’s in the neighborhood, and he still wants to do something. So watch yourself when you’re out there pokin’ in dark corners.”
“This is a small county,” I said. “There just aren’t that many places to hide a big old electric company truck.”
“We’re lookin’, believe me. Can’t believe he pulled this off right under our noses.”
“You weren’t looking for a utility truck,” I said. “It’s not your fault. On a happier note, you’re still planning to go to the concert with Gayle, I hope.”
“We got pretty good coverage,” he said, and it didn’t sound like he was planning to enjoy the music. I started to say something else, but the dial tone told me that Bobby had exhausted his patience.
I heaved a sigh and went back to work just as Fernando brought more coffee.
“Long days?” he asked.
“Very long, Fernando.” I watched him pour and then nodded my thanks. “You going to the concert tonight?”
His heavy face broke into a smile. “You bet. You bet. See you there, maybe.”
“Sin duda,” I said, trying out one of the two or three Spanish idioms that I knew. I had left my phone on the table, and it vibrated in a little circle like some strange insect.
“Gastner.” I raised a hand in salute to Fernando as he retreated back toward the kitchen.
“So tell me about your impression of Mrs. Browning,” Miles Waddell said without preamble.
“You’re in love?”
“She’s a corker, isn’t she? I could be, except I’m twenty years out of date to be in competition. And you know, there’s a photo of her husband on one of the brochures she gave me. He’s about six-six and looks like he could pound me into the ground like a fence post. Where you at?”
“Don Juan.”
“Why is that not a surprise. I saw the chopper as I was driving back to the site from town. Nice rig.”
“Sure enough.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“What do you think? This is why I pay you the big bucks.”
“Yeah. Well, if I was you, I’d ask for a list of references, and after hearing from them, I’d hire United Security.” I shrugged.
“That’s the plain and short of it?”
“Yep. If you’re going to develop even half of what you’ve planned, you’re going to need some security. I’d be surprised to hear that another private security company could offer any more than hers does. Most would offer far less.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear.”
“The flight this morning prompted another question,” I said. “How are you moving all the water this place is going to need?”
I heard a soft chuckle. “From all my six wells, you mean?”
“That’s one rumor.”
“And that’s what it is. You must have seen this morning’s paper.”
“You’ve heard of this Mr. Todd?”
“Nope.”
“Are there any grounds to what he’s saying?”
There was a pause, and then Waddell said, “Absolutely none. I have one gusher well down below. You know about that one. Nobody knows how these things link up underground, but at the moment, that sucker is six hundred feet deep and giving me five hundred gallons a minute. A minute. A while back, I tried pumping it down. No dice. You know,” he added, “The stupid part of this particular rumor our Mr. Todd is starting—whoever he might be—is that this whole project isn’t water intensive. I mean, there are no big cooling towers, no huge anything. Lots of recycling, and believe it or not, lots of rainwater catchment…what damn little rain we ever get.”
He fell silent and I let him think while I chased a stray piece of chile onto my fork. “I have been thinking of sinking another well off the south side,” Waddell said. “I haven’t gone after a permit or anything, but there’s actually a pretty good place down on that little spit of land I bought from Herb Torrance. The well driller’s dowser says a strong flow. That’s the closest spot to lift water up to the university’s installation that’s on that edge of the mesa. Be a good backup.”
“But not six.”
“Uh, no. You know, I talked to one of the hydrologists from the BLM. Is my well…my wells, if I do the second one…going to draw down the underground water they think is feeding that cave formation under the mesa? Don’t know. That’s the only answer they give me. Nobody knows.”
“No truth to any of this, then.”
“None. Is that what you’re doing today, scouting out all my clandestine wells?”
“Actually, what I’m trying hard to do is stay out of trouble until the concert, Miles. But someday I’m going to write the definitive book on rumors and how they live their lives. Does somebody lie awake nights thinking up this shit? I mean, I know how rumors hop from one half-listening ear to another, but this is ridiculous. This guy is citing specific numbers.”
“They’re as easy to make up as vague references, Bill. You know that. No easier way to rile people. What fun is it to say, ‘Gosh, if he’s successful, he may have to think about digging another well?’ What fun is that?” He laughed harshly. “And what’s this about the electric company’s truck?”
“Bobby called you this morning?”
“You bet. I didn’t think I was on his speed dial list. What’s up?”
“Just what he said, Miles. It seems this Daniel character has stolen—may have stolen—an electric company utility truck. There are indications he’s carrying his motorcycle in the back.”
“How’d he pull that off, with all the cops we got swarming around the county?”
“I have no idea. But he did, last night some time. He hot-wired it. They had forgotten to lock the dealer’s boneyard behind the service department.”
“Well, crap. And with all the traffic lately, who’s going to notice another electric company truck? Smart son-of-a-bitch. So he’s still in the area.”
“Maybe. He could be.”
“That makes me feel really good. What makes Bobby so sure it was our man?”
“Bobby Torrez’s hunch. And I agree with him. There were signs that he loaded his motorcycle in the back.”
“Well, crap. And what for?”
“I don’t know what for, Miles. I’m not getting anywhere trying to second-guess this guy. But he’s up to something, even if it’s just a free ride out of the state in a vehicle the cops wouldn’t give a second glance.”
Waddell sighed with exasperation, then brightened. “We’ll have the foundation plans by March first for the big guy. That mother is going to loom up here so big and grand…” He laughed with delight.
“Look, here in a few minutes, I’ll have a houseful. Addy and the little brother are coming over to prepare for the reception after the concert. You’re going to make it?”
“You bet.”
“The reception too, at my place afterward. You’re most welcome.”
“Thanks. I might. You know, the auditorium we’ll have in the main building will make a great venue for events like this concert. I need to get the kid to write an original composition for NightZone. He can debut it here.”
“You might as well dream big,” I laughed.
“No end to i
t,” he promised. “You’ll see.”
“Just don’t take too long. Remember the old saw about green bananas.”
“Waiting is one thing I’m not about to do,” Waddell said.
Chapter Twenty-five
By the time I reached the high school complex off South Pershing Avenue, I had managed to push all the unanswered questions well to the back of my tired brain.
An enormous slab-sided RV, black with gold artwork, a veritable land yacht, was parked in front of the gym. Hitched to its back bumper was a sleek black utility trailer large enough to hold an automobile. Behind that were two white Suburbans and a silver Lexus. No wonder the damn tuition at Leister Conservatory was so dear.
Superintendent Glenn Archer stood on the sidewalk, locked in conversation with a man about my age but with five times as much hair, a maestro’s bouffant display that would be hell after a sandstorm. Parked on the sidewalks near them was an enormous swaddled piano, tipped on edge and supported by a dolly that looked as if it were built from spare aircraft undercarriage parts.
I parked by the tennis court fence and took a moment to call the sheriff’s department dispatch. Gayle Torrez was working, and she greeted me warmly.
“I’m at the high school for a bit, then home,” I said. “See you tonight?”
“I wouldn’t miss this one,” the sheriff’s wife said. “And I didn’t even have to twist Bobby’s arm.”
“Just put the rest of the world on hold,” I said.
Glenn Archer beamed at me as I approached. He’d been at the helm of this school for close to thirty years, and I’d heard rumblings of retirement rumors. He’d guided the place through economic booms and busts, failed bond issues, plenty of nasty letters to the editor balanced by a handful of supportive ones. He’d seen plenty of youngsters go on to become productive and happy, a few joining the dregs. Our paths had crossed too often on graduation or prom weekends when we pried the shattered bodies out of wreckage. He’d seen it all, handing out a couple thousand scholarships, plaques, or varsity letters. He had probably dispensed enough tissue to weepy parents to earn stock in the company.
Now he greeted me with a carefully modulated handshake, at the same time resting a hand on his companion’s shoulder.
“Bill, I’d like you to meet Dr. Hal Lott. Dr. Lott is headmaster at the conservatory. Professor, Mr. Gastner is a longtime county sheriff, historian, and all-around foundation of the community.”
“My pleasure.” Lott’s grip was one of those warm, limp things that made me think he was protecting his baton fingers. “Young master Guzman speaks highly of you.” He frowned. “His padrino?” He pronounced the word carefully.
“We’re proud of him,” I said. Nodding at all the vehicles and equipment, I added, “Quite a production.”
Lott turned and regarded the activity. Four youngsters, satisfied that the piano was secure, pushed the beast across to the handicapped ramp and then up the grade, putting their backs to it.
“There are times,” the headmaster said with a long, heart-felt exhale, “that I am very glad that not all of our students are keyboard performance majors.”
“Interesting logistics,” I said. “The piano always goes along?”
“Horowitz once played on that Steinway,” Lott said. “It’s become a tradition at Leister.”
I knew that I should show at least an eyebrow raised in reverence at the two names, but instead I said, “The tuner goes with it?” There had to be a reason that Horowitz played the piano only once.
“Oh, indeed,” Lott said hastily. “Lucian Belloit has been with us for years.” He smiled conspiratorially. “It’s most convenient that he’s also a most accomplished coach driver.”
I reached across and shook Glenn Archer’s hand again. “I need to check on this Guzman kid,” I said. “I’ll talk with you folks later.” I had recognized Carlos Guzman’s ten-speed stashed in the bike rack, and knew the two boys would be inside having way, way too much fun.
Carlos stood on a raised stage, hands in his back pockets, scrutinizing the placement of the enormous royal blue banners, the center one bearing the Leister Conservatory seal. Tucked right up against the ceiling, some of the banners were draped artfully to soften the angular lines of the girders. Others hung straight down to form baffles that would direct and soften the sound.
Although youngsters were performing most of the unpacking and grunt work, I noticed that the motorized scaffold, now scissored open to reach up into the girders, was operated by two elderly men from our school district, with two older students along for the ride.
“Carlos, are they doing it right?” I said, and the boy spun around.
“Padrino!” he stage-whispered. “This is just so amazing!” He pointed across toward the double entry doors where the mountain of boxes and crates were piled. “I can’t believe how much stuff they brought with them.” As he spoke, the piano eased through after a hard left off the ramp. With laughter driving them on, the four kids accelerated the piano on its big smooth-rolling wheels until I wondered if they’d be able to stop it before crashing into the stage. They managed, and then used the hydraulic undercarriage to elevate the piano past the edge of the platform. Two belts dropped away, and the piano was rolled onto the stage, awaiting its legs.
“Where’s your brother?”
Carlos raised a hand close to his nose, sighting along his index finger. “Right over there, at the top of the bleachers. They’re going to fold them all up in a few minutes, though.” Sure enough, right under the Fighting Jaguars 1992, the hunched figure blended into the shadows.
“Last minute studying?” I asked.
Carlos scoffed, a very adult sound for a nine-year-old. “He’s making changes. That’s what he told me. He won’t let me look.”
“Ah.” Something squeaked behind me, and I turned to see a kid wielding an enormous wrench on a cranky bolt, securing one of the Steinway’s legs in place. I glanced at my watch. Curtain time was in five hours, and by then the students from Leister would have turned this plain old gym into a colorful concert hall. “I’m going to go bother him for just a minute, and then I’ll be over at the house.”
Carlos sighed. “I never realized I was going to have such a famous brother.” There was wistful admiration there, maybe even a little adoration, but no envy.
I punched him lightly on the shoulder. “He’s saying the same thing.” The second leg drew tightly in place as I stepped off the stage, and even as I plodded across the floor, avoiding banners and crew, I saw Francisco unfold from his spot, and carefully close a portfolio. I wasn’t going to get to see, either.
He rose and started down the bleachers, frowning and taking the steps one at a time. I waited for him, amused at the look of intense concentration on his face. Halfway down, it was as if he turned a switch. His eyes locked on mine, a huge smile spread across his face, and he bounded the last six benches in two bounds. I didn’t get a handshake. His hug was chiropractor ferocious. He buried his face in my shoulder and mumbled something, and he didn’t even smell like a little kid anymore.
After a long moment he pushed me back, a hand on each shoulder, and I was aware of how much of his mother’s eyes he had inherited. He’d filled out, too, his face growing into some of his father’s almost craggy features. He transferred his grip to a two-handed shake, and the strength of that wasn’t driven by a kid who spent all day at video games.
“Isn’t this all amazing?” he said happily, as if it were his first concert.
I turned and surveyed the gym. “Just a few years ago, you were playing dodge ball in here.”
He laughed loudly. “Oh, wow.” Turning back to me, his expression went sober. “I was sorry to hear about the shooting thing. The old guy with the shotgun.”
That bolt from the blue startled me. “That stuff happens, Francisco. Even when we’re not looking for it, it happens.”
“Shit happens.”
“Yep.”
He heaved a sigh. “You’re all right, though.”
“Just fine.”
“And Sergeant Taber is okay?”
“Just fine.”
“I always liked her.”
“She’s planning on coming tonight.”
He beamed. “Oh, awesome.”
“So if the concert is at eight this evening, what’s your schedule?”
He glanced at his watch, one of those enormous things with half a dozen dials and buttons.
“I have some more work to do right now, and then when they have the piano set up and tuned, a little more. Mateo and I need to finalize some things.” Finalize. I didn’t even know that thirteen-year-olds did that. “And then I need to eat.” He said it as if he were starving in the wilderness. “This guy,” and he nodded toward the approaching Carlos, “promised that he and Addy were putting out a spread. I have to eat before a concert, or I just kind of go to sleep at the keyboard. That’s embarrassing.”
“That would be.”
“And then Dr. Lott requires us to go into seclusion in the dressing room for an hour before the concert. That gives us plenty of time to work up a good case of nerves.”
“You never struck me as the nervous type, Francisco.”
“A little bit tonight. I don’t usually play accompaniment, for one thing. It’s a whole different ball game when you have to play with someone else.”
“I should think so. I haven’t met this Mateo.”
“He’s over in the music room working on a couple of things. And then Mr. Dayan wanted to talk with him for a little bit.” He reached out both hands as Carlos arrived and folded his little brother into the Guzman bear hug. After a minute he relaxed with one arm draped over his brother’s shoulders. “What do you think?” He sounded as if he really needed to know, and Carlos turned and surveyed the gym’s transformation, now nearly complete.
“They really know what they’re doing.”
“They’d better,” Francisco laughed. We watched as a youngster with a black suitcase disappeared behind a folding screen near the water fountain—a little remnant to remind us of the buildings more usual function. “There are some neat acoustical issues no matter how many curtains they hang,” he continued. “The Steinway has this great huge voice,” and he spread his hands a yard apart. “And in comparison, the flute…” he held thumb and forefinger nearly touching. “When they play together, all this balance stuff has to be worked out.”
Nightzone Page 22