Slow Falling (The Bill Travis Mysteries Book 6)

by George Wier

  But then again, there was Hank's untouched glass. Let me tell you, a glass of scotch can be a beautiful thing, and it's very high on my list of such things. But the one thing far more pleasing, both aesthetically and otherwise... is an empty one.

  CHAPTER TEN

  He woke me up at 8:15 a.m. I'd had three hours of uninterrupted sleep.

  A tap on my bedroom door, like maybe it was one of the kids, then the door whined open—I'd have to oil that damned hinge one of the these days, but still, it's a good warning sound for when one of the kids decides to walk in—and then Hank's voice.

  I'd been dreaming. I was still in the dream, because I said something that must have sounded non-sequitur: “Okay. Did he untangle the wire?”

  “What wire?” Hank asked.

  “The wire that keeps him from falling,” I said. Then: “What? Oh hell. It's you. What the hell time is it?”

  “Time for you to get a shower, us to get some breakfast and hit the road.”

  I looked at my clock and collapsed back onto my pillow.

  “Well,” Hank said. “I suppose fifteen more minutes is in order. Let me know what happens with the wire.”

  Hank closed the door.

  *****

  We were finally on the road by ten a.m. Penny was long gone and had gotten Jessica off to school and Jenny to day care and was supposed to be heading for the office. She'd left a note for me to the effect that if I didn't have anything specifically for her to do, she would be working on setting up the some new accounts for Nat Bierstone, my business partner.

  I folded the note and tucked it into my shirt pocket.

  “Nice day for travel, huh?” Hank asked. The son of a bitch grinned from ear to ear. “Sort of like old times.”

  “It's a day,” I said, and of course, it was—the sun already brutally in the sky but fortunately mostly behind us. “And this is nothing like old times.”

  “Fine,” he said, and chuckled. “Just making conversation.”

  “Well, it'd be nice if you'd let me nap a little while you drive,” I replied, and scooted forward in the seat and laid my head back where it rattled against the interior of Hank's truck.

  “Fine,” he said. “I'll wake you up when we get there.”

  *****

  'There' was a vegetarian restaurant that opened early for the breakfast crowd. I assume that vegetarians sometimes eat their bean sprouts early. I had the sauteed tofu, a double order, and hot tea. It took some wrangling, but I got my caffeine.

  After that we made the stop at the hospital where I got to see Julie and the baby. Little Michelle seemed to be more taken with Hank than with her own father. All the while I held her, her eyes were glued on Hank, who couldn't help but make those “woodgey-cudgey” noises that fully grown men and women make when there's an infant around. I like to believe that she was looking at him as if he were a madman. At least that's how I regarded him.

  I got Hank out of the room for a bit and sat beside Julie. The two of us had been through a great deal together in our few short years as a couple. Still, when you're with the right person, every day is precious to you. And here I was about to leave town. While I knew it was okay with her, it wasn't really okay yet with me.

  “Why are you here?” She asked me.

  I carefully placed our baby back into her arms. Julie brushed Michelle's delicate little head with her fingertips and regarded me, a faint half-smile on her lips.

  “You know,” I said.

  “And I know all the things you want to say and you want me to know about how you feel right now. And all I can say is that it's alright. As always, I want you back, and in one piece.”

  I started to say something, anything, but the words escaped me.

  “You've got as much or more than you ever asked for out of life, Bill. I told you I was trouble in the very beginning. The one thing I didn't tell you was that trouble always doubles. And then some.” Julie nodded her head toward the baby.

  “You're right about that,” I said.

  “All I know is, the quicker you leave, the sooner you'll get back.”

  “Okay, I'm going.”

  I stood and bent over her. I kissed her and then I kissed Michelle. It happened then. Something in my chest lurched. It must have been there on my face when I stood and looked down at my wife and my babe because of what she said next.

  “I know that,” she said, softly. “I know what that is right there. Now you know how I feel every minute of every day. Don't bother trying to describe it, because you'll never be able to.”

  And damned if she wasn't right about that, too.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I was still dog-tired when Hank and I got on the road to Leakey, Texas, and the last-known whereabouts of Moe Keithley. According to both Bertram Hague and Hank Sterling—via Moe's secretary, a woman I had never spoken with—Mr. Keithley was het up to write a book about a couple of star-crossed lovers who took a plunge off a cliff, presumably on a motorcycle. From the little I'd heard, it didn't sound like a happily-ever-after kind of thing. Maybe it would've made a good Move-Of-The-Week back in the 70s.

  As the miles ticked past and we got further away from Austin and into the vast brightness of western Central Texas, I started thinking about radiation. Or, it may be more correct to say that I nodded off and dreamed a few snippets of dream on the subject. A geiger-counter click or so of dream here and there.

  I stood at the bar in Sonny's Place. Next to me sat a guy in a lab coat and he had goggles perched on top of his head amid a halo of frizzed-out snow-white hair. I was expecting Moe Keithley, but when he turned toward me, I knew it was Doc Emmett L. Brown. Doc was famous for his reality character—an actor, I believe—named Christopher Lloyd.

  “What are you drinking?” he asked me.

  “Gin and tonic,” I replied.

  “It's not strictly advised. The stuff's got a google-plex half-life.

  “I do fine with it,” I said.

  “Oh, don't mind me.”

  “You,” I said. “What are you drinking?”

  He held up the drink. It was a laboratory beaker complete with foam head on it and a curl of mist rising, rising. Little bubbles emerged, floated up and broke open, and every time one did, someone slammed the front door. Whenever this happened, Doc jolted his head that way and his eyes bugged a little. His head whipped back towards me and he frowned, then turned back to admire the drink. With a flourish, Doc held the drink up even higher, turned to me and said: “This, my good friend, is the future.”

  “What's so futuristic about it?” I asked.

  “It's a self-contained radioactive isotope... But! This isotope is verrry special. It's a selective isotope. It only goes where it wants to. It can be friend or foe.

  “Sort of like the Texas Rangers,” I said.

  “PRE-CISE-LY!” Doc exclaimed.

  “If you hold it up any higher, it's likely to fall,” I said.

  “Great Scott! You're right!” Doc brought the beaker back down and sat it on the bar. It phizzed and popped. “But, my friend, it would be a slow fall if it did fall. This sucker's nuclear.”

  “Slow falling,” I said.

  “What did you say?” a voice said. Somebody shook my right arm. I turned and—

  “What did you say?” Hank asked me again.

  I was awake and we were passing a City Limit sign that said TRANTOR'S CROSSING.

  “Uh, nothing. Hank, do me a favor and don't stop in this town.”

  “Well, I wasn't intending to, so that'll be easy. What was that you were saying in your sleep there?”

  “Slow falling, I think. Probably doesn't mean anything. What time is it?” I asked.

  “It's one o'clock. You rested up?”

  “Yeah. Say, how much are you being paid for this?” I asked.

  “Paid?”

  “Paid.”

  “Come again?” Hank asked.

  “You heard me.”

  “Well, we haven't negotiated it yet,” he state
d, never taking his eyes from the road.

  “Haven't— Say. Just who are you working for?”

  “Oh. You didn't know.” Hank sounded surprised. “I thought you knew.”

  “I didn't know. I didn't ask before and you didn't say. So, whom?”

  “Nobody talks that way, Bill. Nobody says 'Whom?' It makes you sound lawyerish.”

  “Ahh,” I said. “The old Hank isn't exactly dead and gone. The new Hank still listens to Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, and Creedence Clearwater Revival. And he also does anything except answer a straight question.”

  “Hey, I—”

  “What?” I interrupted him.

  He turned toward me for a second, taking his eyes off the road. He raised a finger for emphasis. “I'll have you know that I can answer a goddamned question. I can answer any question under the sun, moon or stars above. I can—”

  “Okay, then. Whom?”

  “There you go again with 'whom'. I promise you, no one talks like that!” He made as if to scan the distant horizon and turned his face away from me.

  “Whom?” I pressed.

  “You, you son of a bitch. You're paying me!”

  “For what?” I asked.

  “Well, first, for this here long-distance cab ride. Second, to listen to you talk in your sleep, just in case you say something important. And three...”

  “Three?”

  “Nevermind.”

  “How much am I paying you, Mr. Trust-Confidentiality-and-Security?” I asked.

  “Just... two hundred a day, plus expenses.”

  “The Rockford Files,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Jim Rockford. You know, James Garner? That's what Rockford always charged.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “A liar is what you are,” I said, and laughed. “Where's Dingo? I thought she was your partner?”

  “She's at a pet boarding place. She's getting old, Bill. She's not up to the action.”

  “Dingo's working more in an advisory capacity, I take it?” I said.

  “You might be saying that.”

  I reached down beside my leg and brought up the two file folders from the night before.

  “What's that?” Hank asked. “I've been meaning to ask you since last night.”

  “These are the employee files of two men. One was the fellow who dropped dead in Sonny's bar. The other is a guy who was fired from Central Texas Diagnostic Technology several weeks back.”

  I opened the first file, Freeman's, to a blank piece of paper. I knew instantly what I was going to find. I flipped through the forty or so pages there. I was right. All blank. The same was true for Logan's file.

  “That's very interesting,” I said.

  “What?”

  “It's just that I broke into a secured facility, pilfered two employee files, and delayed some purported government employees, and the files contain nothing but blank paper.”

  I slammed a fist down on the dashboard of Hank's pickup.

  “Easy there, cowboy,” he said.

  “I can't tell you how much I hate it when stuff like this happens.”

  “Who was the last person to touch them? That is, besides you?”

  “Patrick,” I said. “No. Wait. He never got a chance to look at them. It was just a quick hand-off. The first person to touch them, though, was Bertram Hague. He's the one who found them.”

  “Bill,” Hank said. “At some point you're going to have to give me the play-by-play of what happened last night.”

  “I'm trying to forget it all,” I said.

  “Hang on, there's trouble ahead.”

  I looked up and saw what he was talking about. About half a mile ahead the road was blocked off. There were red and blue flashing lights everywhere.

  “Half the cops in a couple of counties are up there,” Hank said.

  Moments before we had passed the outermost limits of Trantor's Crossing. I'd felt a slight sense of relief on getting past the place, but this was just as quickly replaced with a too-familiar sinking feeling.

  “Slow down a bit,” I told Hank.

  “Hell,” he intoned. “Stop, is what I'll do. There's no other place to go.

  *****

  He was right about that. The roadway was completely blocked off. A line of cars sat waiting ahead of us.

  “Must have been a pretty bad wreck,” Hank said. He moved his head about, stuck it out the window as we slowed down. “I can't see a damned thing.”

  Hank stopped us in the line of waiting traffic.

  We sat there for a few minutes, saying nothing. The truck idled. I looked out across a field of hay, stubby oak and mesquite.

  Hank turned and looked at me but I didn't say anything. Instead, I waited.

  He turned back, tried to peer ahead, then looked back at me again.

  “What is it with you?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Where's the 'I-have-to-stick-my-nose-in-it Bill Travis we've all come to know and love?”

  “I have no clue as to what you are blathering about,” I said.

  “Fine.” Hank opened his door and slid out. “Wait here. I'll go see.”

  “I wouldn't,” I said, but it was too late.

  “Five minutes later Hank came back. A familiar face was in tow with him.”

  I shook my head.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “You were right, Mr. Sterling. It is Bill Travis.”

  “Hey there, Ladd,” I said. Deputy Ladd Ross stuck his hand in my window and I shook it. “I was almost certain you were going to be Sheriff LeRoy. I'm actually relieved it's you.”

  “It's good to see you again. Buster stepped down awhile back. He's back on the pro rodeo circuit, now. Ran off with Lydia Stevens right after Buster and his missus split up. I'm Sheriff now. Or at least until the election. The County Commissioners made me take it, since I was next in line.”

  “They couldn't do any better, I expect.”

  Ladd grinned. “That's right kind of you, Mr. Travis. That's mighty kind. Say, would you mind having a look at something for me?”

  I looked at Hank, who quickly looked away.

  “Should I?” I asked Ladd.

  He laughed. “Well, I don't know whether or not you should, I'm just asking whether you would. There's a difference there, you know.”

  “I know,” I said. “That's fine, Ladd—uh... Sheriff Ross.”

  “Just call me Ladd,” he said. “I would be powerfully obliged if you did. Have a look, that is.”

  I opened the door and Ladd stepped back.

  “Lead the way,” I said, and later wished I hadn't.

  *****

  “That man,” Hank said, “is dead.”

  “I know that,” I replied. “Sheriff, don't let any of your boys touch the body. Get a wrecker and get the vehicle off the highway. And I mean, way off the highway. Then post a guard and call the Texas Rangers.”

  “I've got a Ranger en route right now,” Ladd said. “Why not go near him? Some kind of bug?”

  “Probably not, but you never know,” I said. “I'd call back into town and see if somebody has a Geiger-counter.”

  “You mean, this guy's radioactive?” one of Ladd's deputies asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Let's all move back.”

  If seen from above, the crowd would have looked like a flower unfolding. No less than ten of us stepped back to form a large ring around the vehicle.

  “Shit,” Ladd said. “Did anybody touch that guy?”

  Heads shook all around.

  I got the story from Ladd Ross. He'd gotten a dispatch call from a driver with a cell phone who reported that there was a car stopped in the middle of the highway. The driver was dead. There was no sign of a collision of any kind. The little Kia Rio was simply stopped. But the condition of the driver was a complete other tale all unto itself.

  The man was covered from head to foot in dirt. He looked to be about eighty years old or more, but the license plate was regi
stered in the name of a Robert Hemsley of Eden, Texas, a little town of some two thousand souls to the northwest. Mr. Helmsley, the vehicle owner, was listed by the Texas Department of Transportation as being thirty-six years of age.

  Ladd was certain the dead man in the car was somehow related to Mr. Helmsley. I didn't have the heart to tell him he was looking at Robert Helmsley.

  The wrecker arrived within minutes and got the Kia off the roadway. Hank and I went back to the truck and got it pulled to the side so the remainder of the traffic could pass.

  “What do we do, Bill?” Hank asked me.

  “The answers aren't here on the highway. They're not behind us, in Trantor's Crossing, and they're certainly not back in Sonny's bar. Everything we need to know is ahead. Let's push on to Leakey.”

  Ladd Ross walked up beside us and tilted his Stetson hat back on his head.

  “What are you going to do, Mr. Travis?” he asked me.

  “Ladd, Hank and I need an escort. Can you get one of your boys to cut a path for us?”

  “Sure thing. You'll need to travel fast, won't you?”

  “Yes, Sheriff. If we can get someone with lights and sirens to blaze our trail, it would save us some time. It has everything to do with that dirt-covered corpse up there. There was another one like it in Austin, so it appears we're going in the correct direction. Except we'll need to go south. If it's going to be one of your deputies escorting us, let them know we need to turn south towards Leakey. That's the direction we're going. And if you're able, can you get an escort for us in the next county?”

  “Hell-fire, Mr. Travis. I can get you an escort all the way there. Give me a minute.”

  Sheriff Ross keyed his walkie-talkie and began talking. Within a minute the arrangements were made. The good-old-boy network of Texas Sheriffs was in positive operation.

  “You're pretty good at this, Bill,” Hank said.