Endangered Species (32 page)

“Stovepipe—”

“I wouldn’t bother you about this, but it’s my mother. You know we got that place in the country for her so she could have some peace and quiet.”

“I know. Believe me, I know. But I don’t have time to sign a goddamn paper right now, Stovepipe! I’m—”

“It ain’t that, man. There’s no rush on that—you know we got that month’s lease. This is something else. And believe me, I tried to think how I could take care of it by myself. But there’s no way. They gave me leave a couple days ago to take Mother up there, and they’re not about to give me leave again so soon.”

“Stovepipe, just tell me what the hell the problem is. Maybe I can get to it later.” If there was a later.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, man. Mother says there’s these people next door running a goddamn engine, making all kinds of racket. Says it sounds worse than Stapleton, man—noise hour after hour! My mother’s getting old, and she can’t take that kind of shit. She even called the sheriff, and he says there’s nothing he can do. The noise is on private property, he says, and there’s no county ordinance against noise, and if somebody wants to build goddamn airplanes on their property they can do it.”

“If somebody what?”

“Airplanes. Mother says yesterday one landed on the county road right down from her house—came so low over the front porch it scared the living hell out of her. And now they been working on the goddamn thing all day, running the engine, rattling the whole house.”

“Stovepipe—”

“She’s about ready to break down crying, Gabe! And I can’t do nothing about it, man. First place, they won’t give me another leave so soon. Second, if I go up there and start kicking butt, I’m off parole. I’m back in the can.”

“Stovepipe!”

“But that sheriff’s not doing nothing, and she really likes the place except for all the goddamn noise, and now it looks like what we planned and hoped for is turning to shit, man! I mean, we moved way the hell out on the prairie to get away from noise and shit, and now here it is right next door. You got to help her, Gabe—mother’s a really sensitive person, and this has got her really upset!”

“Goddamn it, Stovepipe, where is the place?”

Stovepipe stopped thanking Wager long enough to give him directions to his mother’s new home: out in Weld County, north of Denver and, Wager determined, northeast by only twenty-five or thirty miles from Rocky Flats. It might not be King and Simon, but then again, it might be; and that was reason enough to check out the possibility. And to do it fast: the sun was dropping toward the shadowed mountains west of town, and it wouldn’t be long before dusk.

No one else from the department was free to go; Wager tried to get through to Mallory, but the agent was tied up in his command center at the Federal Building and couldn’t come to the phone. Wager didn’t want to take time to explain his hunch to the flunky who answered. More important, Mallory—anchored to the command center—might want to detail some agents to go with them, and calling them in from the field would take even more time. And if Wager’s hunch turned out to be wrong, those agents would have lost precious time from their own leads. If it turned out to be right, there was always the radio. One squawk on the radio that King and Simon had been located, and the whole alphabet army would converge. He left a terse message for Mallory and grabbed his jacket. “Come on, Max—we can do something besides sit here!”

I-25 was choked with the remnants of rush hour traffic. But it was the fastest route north, and as they cleared the high ridges that held the suburbs of Federal Heights and Northglenn, the traffic thinned enough to let Wager weave from lane to lane and pass vehicles doing less than eighty-five. Steering with one hand and using the other to radio the state patrol, he cleared his passage for an emergency run. The shallow valley of the South Platte River and the widely spaced clusters of high-rises that made up the sprawling metro area were caught momentarily in the rearview mirror. Then the tilt of earth shut it out. Wager swung into the right lane to zip past a speeding semitrailer, then pulled back onto the open fast lane and pressed even harder on the gas.

Max looked up from the sketch that Wager had made as Stovepipe gave him directions. “It’s about ten miles more to the State 7 turnoff.”

Wager pressed harder.

To the west, the sun hung a couple of fingers over the black raggedness of mountains. A small airplane crossed the northern horizon just above the farthest hump of twin concrete ribbons. It flew from the east, headed toward the low sun. The two men watched in silence as it neared the black mountains and then angled down slightly, gliding closer to earth.

“That’s the Broomfield airport over there, right?” asked Wager.

Max nodded. “Rocky Flats is just beyond it. Can’t see it from here, though.”

The small dot of airplane banked, wings making a tiny flash in the sun, and turned in a slow approach to the distant landing field that was supposed to be closed to air traffic.

“Christ,” said Max. “It could be just that easy.”

“Yeah.”

“They’d think it was just another plane coming into Broomfield.”

That, Wager figured, was the idea. Plus being close enough to the target so the fuel tanks wouldn’t have to be filled with a heavy load of gasoline. In another twenty minutes or half hour, dusk would spread like a rising tide coming up over the prairie’s eastern horizon. The shadows of the mountains would reach out to meet it as the edges of the sky turned that soft purple color and the outlines of farms and trees and houses began to blur. Simon and King could take off then—still light enough to see the pale dirt of the section road, lift into the last glow of sunset, be just another homeward-bound airplane trying to land at Broomfield before it grew too dark. Circle a bit wide over Rocky Flats in their approach to the landing field …

A green highway sign warned Exit 223, and Max said, “Six miles.”

Wager lifted his foot from the gas pedal as they approached warnings for the Lafayette-Brighton exit. The smell of scorched oil and hot rubber filled the cab, and Wager figured the people in the police garage would have some valves to replace tomorrow. If anybody was worried about valves tomorrow. He coasted along the exit ramp and up to the stop sign and turned right.

“OK, Gabe—we angle off here.” Max pointed at a narrow secondary road that soon branched away from State 7. “Five section roads down.” Max squinted at the drawing. “Didn’t he know the road’s name?”

“Not for certain. Thought it was W or TT, maybe. He said it was definitely five road crossings.”

Five section roads, five miles. The narrow blacktop bounced the speeding car. In the flat, treeless fields on either side, black oil pumps nodded slowly as they sucked at the earth, and occasional clusters of trees rose like small, ragged islands to mark ranch and farm houses.

“This looks like the first reservoir.”

They passed a high berm topped by cottonwood trees, whose leaves were bright yellow in the setting sun.

“OK—this should be the fifth crossing up here. Road runs along this high ridge up here.”

Wager swung onto the section road, loose gravel kicking loudly under the car.

“Stovepipe wanted country living—goddamn, he’s got plenty of it.”

“How far?” asked Wager.

“Second crossing.”

They dipped down a long decline before starting up the next ridge. The next turn was the second section line, and Wager saw the dark streak of high grass and tumbleweeds caught in the fencing that ran beside the road. He slowed further, letting the dust cloud behind his car thin out.

“One of those over there must be Stovepipe’s place.” Max pointed to three clumps of dark evergreens and taller locust trees that offered shelter from wind and sun to houses set back from the road. The nearest was a two-story farmhouse surrounded by trees. Behind it was a large unpainted barn and silo. The middle cluster held a small white house that seemed dwarfed by its trees. A quarter mile beyond and across the road was another ranch house and silo, masked by its enclosure of greenery. A long way down the road, they could see a cluster of treetops that marked still another prairie farm.

Wager slowed, and Max leaned forward intently. “He say which one?”

“Second on the right.”

They swung into the dirt driveway of the small white house. The grass was brown and dying from lack of water, but it had recently been cut, and a pile of lawn rakings sat under one of the tall locusts. “There’s a car in the garage out back,” said Max.

“Come on.” Wager parked and Max followed him to the slab of concrete that made a front porch for the cottage’s entry. It looked like the kind of dwelling leased to a farm manager as part of his pay—while there had been a farm to manage. Then, when the farm stopped operating, it had been left vacant to wait for the possible buyer. Lately, it had been freshly painted, and in the lowering sunlight, Wager could see the brighter green of a scattering of new asphalt shingles on the roof. Wager rapped on the door, and a moment later a key turned.

The woman who opened the door didn’t remind Wager much of the gaunt and stooped Stovepipe. She had a square jaw, square shoulders, and stood squarely in the doorway. Her hair was lifted up from underneath into an eruption of iron-gray sprouts above gray eyes that stared without warmth through heavy lenses. “Yes?”

“Mrs. Stover?”

“You’re that cop, right? Wager?”

“Yes, ma’am. Can you tell us—”

“Henry called a little while ago and said you’d be coming out. I don’t like cops, and I got good reason not to. Not the way cops have treated Henry. But he says you’re going to sign so we can get this place, right?”

“Ma’am, it’s really important—”

“Damn right it is! But with all that noise, I don’t know if I want anything to do with this place anymore.”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s why we’re here—to look into that. If you can just tell us—”

“Here. I got the papers right here.”

“What’s that?”

“The loan papers. So you can cosign. We’ll go ahead and get that taken care of. Then I can make up my mind whether or not I want to stay here. And that depends on whether or not you can shut them people up. I don’t want to live next to no damn airport.”

“Ma’am, I want to know where that airplane is!”

“And I’ll tell you where it is. Soon’s you sign right here!” A finger thumped the paper where a red X had been marked. The line was labeled “Co-Signer.” “I want you to talk to them people like you promised Henry. But you best sign while you’re here—save you from having to come back afterwards, right?”

“Lady—”

“Right here. It says, ‘Co-Signer.’”

“Christ!” Wager grabbed the paper and inked his name. “Where’s the airplane, Mrs. Stover?”

“Place across the road. Noisier’n hell’s own bells. Came in to land on the road, of all things! Swung down just over my porch and like to took off the top of my head. Swear to God, I thought the world was ending. It’s so quiet and peaceful out here, and then all of a sudden—”

“Has it taken off again?”

“Taken off? No—it’s quiet now, but for the longest them people been running that damn engine as loud as they could. Wake the dead!”

“Yes, ma’am.” Wager turned and sprinted back for the car, understanding why Stovepipe’s father had left but not exactly why Stovepipe felt he had to look after the woman.

There was no way to approach the ranch house or its barn without being seen, and Wager was grateful that he hadn’t alerted Mallory and his army—a platoon of vehicles converging across the empty prairie in this silence would be like sound effects for Sands of Iwo Jima. On all sides, fallow fields stretched level and treeless, and the only concealment was a line of lilac hedge at the side of the house. Already there was a yellow light in one back window—kitchen, probably—and to the east the coming night thickened into a dark band just above the curve of earth.

Wager stopped the car, leaving it on the gravel road. He and Max got out. A wide dirt driveway ran down one side of the house in the lane between wall and hedge line. It led toward the backyard and the barn beyond, standing as isolated as a tombstone. From here, they could see a corner of the barn and a slice of the open door. In its blackness, Wager made out the faint gleam of a wing’s leading edge.

“If it’s Simon’s plane, it’s still here.”

“If,” said Max. “Let’s hope to God it is.”

The two men walked cautiously across the wide lawn toward the dark front windows. The long, unmown grass deadened their steps. The evening wind made a faint sigh in the emptiness and weeds of the neighboring field. From the drainage ditch beside the road came a single cautious croak.

“Gabe—” Max’s finger pointed to a track of mashed grass that ran from the driveway across the front lawn toward the thick growth of another lilac hedge. Under the sheltering trees and behind freshly broken shrubbery, a Chevrolet Blazer glinted. Wager squinted to read the license. “It’s the car—it’s Simon’s car!”

Max whispered, “What do we do? Take them?”

Wager shook his head. “Not just two of us—can’t take a chance.” Glancing at the empty-looking front windows of the square house, he quickly led Max back to their car and quietly pulled it as far into the weedy ditch as he could hide it. Then he tried his radio.

It took half a dozen channels, and the only police frequency he could reach was for the highway patrol. He quickly identified himself and gave the voice Mallory’s number and told it to get an emergency message to the man as soon as possible. Then he told about the car, the airplane, and gave the voice their location.

“You want this Agent Mallory to call you, Detective Wager?”

“He can’t—no phone. Just tell him to get people out here as soon as possible. Tell him the car has been positively identified, and the plane hasn’t yet taken off.”

“‘The plane hasn’t yet taken off.’ OK—I got it.”

Max had been looking toward the house while Wager talked. “Gabe, you stay out of sight here with the car. I’m going down behind that tree line so I can see the barn. If they start to bring out the plane, I’ll signal. You pull the car in the driveway and block it.”