Astride a Pink Horse (37 page)

“And it was the two of you who figured out that more than one person most likely stabbed that Sergeant Giles to death,” said Buford. “So naturally I figured you and the major could also help me pin Sarah’s murder on Kimiko.”

“I’m flattered, Mr. Kane, but as of yet no one has proven who or how many people killed Sergeant Giles.”

Kane looked surprised. “Well, hell. You pretty much said who it was in that article you wrote a few weeks back.”

“I’m afraid the article you’re referring to was pretty much a speculative piece, which means that, although I believe the facts in the article to be true, I can’t prove them to be. And they certainly wouldn’t carry any weight in a court of law.”

“Call it what you will, straight-out fact or just plain guessin’. I see it this way. Colbain, Rivers, and Kimiko might be out there
free as the breeze right now because they’ve got themselves a bunch of publicity-seekin’ slick-assed, big-city lawyers who are good at milkin’ the shit outta the system. But in the end, the chickens are gonna roost my way. Trust me.”

“Let’s hope so. Just remember, justice doesn’t always play out the way you expect it to, Mr. Kane. Someone will have to convince a jury that Colbain; Rivers; the Takatas; and maybe even your own wife, Sarah, killed Sergeant Giles.”

“Yeah, I know all that. And to tell you the truth, I don’t really give a shit about who killed Giles. I’m interested in bringin’ the person who killed my Sarah to justice. And I’m sittin’ here tellin’ you it was Kimiko Takata. I warned Sarah to stay away from her for years, but they had some kind of spiritual ‘save the planet’ connection I couldn’t sever. Connection or not, though, sooner or later Kimiko’s gonna head back to Heart Mountain and do whatever she’s been doin’ in that godforsaken place for the past fifty years. Sarah used to tell me about how when she was just a little girl followin’ her crazy-ass mother around from pillar to post, Kimiko would wig out after comin’ back from Heart Mountain. And about how Kimiko would cry on that Sergeant Giles’s shoulder and sometimes Sarah’s mother’s shoulder after a trip there. I should have told Major Cameron that the first time she interrogated me at Warren. But I didn’t, and you see what it ended up gettin’ my Sarah? A spot in the graveyard.”

Buford paused and cleared his throat, as if to make certain that what he had to say next came through loud and clear. “I ain’t proud or religious, Mr. Coseia, so I’ll tell you up front, what I’m after is my pound of flesh. And I’m only askin’ for you and Major
Cameron to help me out a little bit. I’ll keep an eye on Kimiko. Even stay in a motel in Laramie and watch her every move till she strikes out for Heart Mountain again. But you might as well know that with or without your help, I’m gonna see that old witch either dead or behind bars.”

“Okay. Suppose you’re lucky enough to be there in Laramie when she strikes out for Heart Mountain again. Takes off all bold and unintimidated, carrying that shotgun you’re so certain she murdered your wife with. How do you expect me to get from Denver to either Laramie or Heart Mountain to help out on a moment’s notice?”

“That’s where Major Cameron comes in,” Buford said, grinning. “She flies you there in that plane you tracked Rikia down in. Should be easy.”

“Not quite. The plane you’re talking about doesn’t belong to either one of us. Major Cameron’s busy trying to wrap up her military career, and I’m up to my eyeballs with work.”

“Well, drop what the shit you’re doin’ and get with me on this, man. Look at it this way. You’ll help send Kimiko to prison, and you’ll have yourself one of them prizewinnin’ stories you folks in the news business like to brag about so much.”

Deciding it would be fruitless to offer Buford another civics lesson on the workings of the judicial system, Cozy nonetheless found himself intrigued. Sarah Goldbeck’s murder and her actual role in the events at Tango-11 were two things he hadn’t fully addressed. Eyeing Buford thoughtfully, he said, “Suppose you’re wrong about Kimiko and about the murder weapon. Suppose a plane trip to Heart Mountain turns out to be a huge waste of money and time.”

“I’m not wrong,” Buford said, slamming a fist into his palm.

Impressed by Buford’s persistence, Cozy said, “Why don’t you sit right where you are while I go run your suggestion by my boss.”

Buford looked surprised. “You mean you need somebody else’s approval on this?”

“Sure do. The man who owns that plane we’re talking about. Just sit tight, okay?” Cozy said, quickly leaving his office.

Buford remained seated, staring around the room and wondering how someone who’d been labeled a hero could have been assigned such unimpressive and cluttered digs. Although the furniture looked new, there was barely a picture on the wall, the laptop computer on Cozy’s desk wasn’t even open, and stacks of paper were piled four inches high and pretty much helter-skelter everywhere. To top it all off, the man the world was calling a hero didn’t even have his own secretary, much less an airplane.

Thinking that he might have made a bad decision by coming to Denver to ask for Cozy’s help, he was considering just getting up and leaving when Cozy returned with Freddy Dames.

Offering Buford a quick handshake and introducing himself, Freddy said, “How soon do you expect Kimiko Takata to head for Heart Mountain, Mr. Kane?”

“Can’t predict.”

“But you’d be able to let Cozy know the instant she takes off for the place? You’re certain of that?”

“I sure would.”

Freddy looked briefly at Cozy, then back at Buford. “Then you’ve got yourself a reporter, Mr. Kane.”

Looking surprised, Cozy said, “But I haven’t talked to Bernadette yet, Freddy.”

“She’ll be okay with it.” A sly, knowing smile inched across Freddy’s face. “She’s in love with you, Elgin. Besides, I talked to her first thing this morning. My dad’s been busy bending ears and having arms twisted in Washington. She’ll be done with the air force, and with a sterling record as her legacy, by week’s end. I’m sure she’ll be happy to help out Mr. Kane.”

Freddy smiled and glanced over at Buford. “There’ll be a plane at your disposal whenever you call for one, Mr. Kane. Just let Mr. Coseia here know when you’re ready for him to roll. He’ll make certain Major Cameron gets him where you need him, and in a hurry. Right, Cozy?”

“Yeah,” said Cozy. He’d always understood that there was a universe of difference between the world he lived in and that of his best friend, and he’d just gotten another lesson.

“Good. I’ve got some TV execs from LA I need to teleconference with in a few minutes. Gotta go.” He shot Buford a parting glance. “Stay on Kimiko’s tail,” he said authoritatively. Looking at Cozy and grinning, he said, “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a fifth and final part for that series of yours when it runs, my man.”

Kimiko Takata, who hadn’t slept well in weeks, rose a little before seven a.m. to face another disjointed day. She spent most of her waking hours now talking to FBI agents, people from half-a-dozen national security agencies, or Rikia’s lawyers, and she was tired. She knew she wasn’t thinking clearly, knew she was losing her sense of balance in a world that had turned especially angry and ugly for her since Los Alamos. She’d received enough hate mail to fill a Dumpster and so many venomous phone calls that she’d been forced to disconnect her phone, and she rarely now came out of her house. She wasn’t so tired or intimidated, however, that she intended to either put off or cancel her trip to Heart Mountain the next day. She’d planned the trip for two weeks, and the timing fit. Rikia was safe and on the mend, both physically and mentally, it seemed, even though he was locked away by himself in a federal supermax facility outside Florence, Colorado. Since Los Alamos he’d remained heavily guarded and very uncommunicative. “Name, rank, and serial number, that’s all they get from me,” Rikia would say to her whenever they spoke. And when she pressed him about when he was going to talk at length to his lawyers so they could begin building a defense, he said, as if it really didn’t matter to him, “I’ll get around to it.”

She knew, although she’d only seen him twice, that he was recovering quite well from his shotgun wounds, facial lacerations, and broken left ankle and that he was eating well and reading magazines and books. His lawyers, who saw him more frequently, had confirmed as much. She also knew that he was exercising in the chilly, damp, unpainted cinder-block-walled room he was being housed in. She’d seen pictures.

He’d told her more than once that instead of collapsing under the constant pressure and scrutiny of authorities, he planned to outread, outexercise, and outthink them all. What he wasn’t going to do was talk.

Besides offering authorities his name, rank (professor), and serial number (his birth date), Rikia had spoken to almost no one besides his lawyers and her. He’d talked to an odd-looking man with a pencil-thin mustache and elephant ears whom they now knew to be FBI Agent Thaddeus Richter. Newspapers and TV stations had carried what he’d supposedly said to Richter while he’d lain injured in the woods, half out of his mind after his car crash in the forest outside Los Alamos. Supposedly he had uttered the now infamous words, “Don’t shoot. I’m hurt,” while Richter stood over him with an automatic weapon aimed squarely at his head.

Unlike Kimiko, Rikia had been sleeping well. He was safe, sequestered in his cinder-block-walled room. And he knew the government wouldn’t dare torture him. After all, he was an American citizen, and, oppressive nobodies that they were, American government officials didn’t have the guts to do something like that.
Although his mission had failed, the time for psychological warfare was just beginning.

Walking over to one of two chairs in his twelve-by-twelve-foot room, he retrieved one of the two model planes that Kimiko had brought him a few days earlier from the metal seat. Seconds later he was in the midst of a dogfight, clutching an American Corsair in one hand and his A-6M in the other. The aerial fight had been waged for less than a minute when the door to his windowless room creaked open.

“Your attorney’s here, Dr. Takata,” he heard someone outside the room say. Ignoring his attorney and the guard standing next to him, Rikia groaned and squealed and snorted the Corsair toward the ceiling, where it tried in vain to outmaneuver the A-6M. With the rat-a-tat-tat of machine-gun fire reverberating off his tongue, Rikia smiled and whispered, “Justice.”

Laramie had turned chilly and blustery, and by late afternoon, Kimiko had temporarily pushed aside thoughts of Rikia to concentrate on what she would pack and take with her on her trip to Heart Mountain the next morning. She’d take her father’s diary, of course, and assorted flavors of tea, and perhaps one of Rikia’s model planes. By six p.m. she had everything packed, and at eight she headed slowly toward her bedroom to read for a while before battling another night of restless sleep. As she entered the room, she thought briefly about Hiroshima and the man on his pink horse. The thought quickly passed, and for the first time in a month, after briefly reading from her father’s diary, she slept soundly.

At nine the next morning, Rikia Takata, who had been formally
charged by the U.S. attorney weeks earlier with two counts of murder; a single count of attempting to set off a weapon of mass destruction; and eleven lesser counts, including two counts of transporting radioisotopes across state lines without a permit, was found hanged in his room at the government’s supermax facility in Colorado. Within minutes of hearing the news, Cozy got a call at home from Buford Kane telling him that Kimiko Takata was headed for Heart Mountain. His voice spiked with nervousness, Buford said, “I watched her pack up her station wagon, and I’ve been followin’ her for the past half hour. I need you and Major Cameron to get up to Heart Mountain lickety-split.”

Barefoot and dressed in an undersized air force academy T-shirt and running shorts, Bernadette was busy making coffee and listening to the news on a small television in Cozy’s kitchen, paying little attention to Cozy’s phone conversation.

Three days earlier, with the threat of a court-martial behind her and her resignation from the air force official, she’d begun ten days of terminal leave. Leave she was spending in Denver with Cozy before taking the next step in her life.

When Cozy spun the kitchen stool he was sitting on to face her and said, “We’re on the move, Bernadette. That was Buford Kane on the horn. He’s trailing Kimiko Takata to Heart Mountain right this minute,” Bernadette was less surprised than exasperated. She’d had enough of Tango-11, and it showed on her face.

“How long’s the flight from here to Cody?” Cozy asked, turning off the TV.

“Wheels up to wheels down, a little under two hours. I’ve told you that before. Add in time for getting from here to the airport,
fueling
Sugar
, and filing a flight plan and we’re there in three and a half hours, tops.”

With the clock in his head ticking, Cozy said, “Then it’s another thirty minutes from Cody to Heart Mountain, plug in twenty minutes for renting a car, and four and a half hours door to door about does it. That should put us there a little ahead of Kimiko.”

“And where do we go from that point?”