Divisible man nine lives.., p.14
DIVISIBLE MAN--NINE LIVES LOST, page 14
“I’ll do that. You take care.”
We walked to the end of the driveway. Wally marched stiffly beside me. I didn’t need to ask to know that every step induced pain. His breathing grew sharp and shallow. Perspiration broke out on his face despite a breeze that, although warm for November, carried a chilly warning of coming winter.
I knew without looking that Sue watched us from the house. The woman projected a powerful mothering instinct. When we reached the road, I turned us toward town. We walked on empty starlit pavement until the Quonset-style shed beside the house blocked us from her sight.
“You ready?” I asked Wally.
“Are we doing that crazy shit again?”
“Well, you sure as hell aren’t hiking to the airport. Gimme your hand.”
We closed a grip. His right, my left, side by side, elbow to elbow.
“Abracadabra,” I said.
Fwooomp!
“Mother Mary, Joseph and Jesus!”
34
Martian Mike, according to Wally, manifested himself as an expert in the field of Unidentified Flying Objects. His credentials extended to having a website and a string of podcasts devoted to the belief that humans are not alone in the universe. Dr. Lillian Farris argues the same point citing mathematical probability with numbers so large that when she talks, my eyes glaze over. Martian Mike differs from Lillian in that he promotes the idea that we have long ago ceased to occupy our planet in privacy.
Despite Lillian’s insistence that something unworldly caused my accident and the inexplicable consequences that followed, I didn’t have an opinion one way or another—a position that earned me the title of Dumbass from Lillian.
What I cared about was that the human posing as Martian Mike produced his web pages and podcasts in Greeley, Colorado not twenty minutes flying time from Sterling, where Wally lived. I planned to drop the kid off and then find Martian Mike and ask what he knew about Wally’s aunt and the group that had disappeared from Tammy Day’s ranch.
Wally detected my plan to ditch him when I tapped Sterling into the flight plan feature on the Garmin 750 shortly after takeoff.
“Hold on,” he pointed at the screen. “What are you doing? I thought we were going to meet Martian Mike?”
“I thought you already met him.”
“No, man. I never met him. I read his blogs and posts about ParaTransit and a ranch up in Ekalaka. We texted. Seriously, I never met the guy.”
“You just went up to Montana based on what you read on the internet?”
“No. Aunt Stephanie’s text to me praised the guy and mentioned Big Sky. At first I thought she was being literal.” Wally looked sideways at me like I was supposed to catch his meaning. I didn’t. “Big Sky,” he repeated. “As in big enough for visitors…? Space…?”
I said nothing.
“Whatever, man. Then I saw Martian Mike’s blogs describing a leading edge, select group setting up a landing site at a ranch in Ekalaka, Montana.”
“You make my point for me.”
“I came up and poked around town—there’s an amazing Mexican place there—”
“The enchiladas, right?”
“Yes! OMG. Killer. Anyway, the owner and I chatted. I put the pieces together and found the ranch. It’s not as far-fetched as it sounds. Aunt Stephanie was a fan of Martian Mike.”
Big surprise. I didn’t say it out loud.
“She called him a celestial guide—pointing her to the right people, the right place, the right moment. Dude, we have to go talk to him.”
“Dude, you have to stop calling me dude.”
“I want to talk to him. In person.”
I tapped Activate on the G750 flight plan page. A magenta line connecting Sterling popped onto the map screen. I banked to intercept.
“You’re not in any shape to travel, Wally.” Boarding a Baron requires a degree of fitness. I had to load us both into the plane while still vanished, floating Wally into the passenger seat after me, since I had to board first to get in the pilot’s seat. It was awkward and stupid, and I thanked God no one could see us.
“Don’t drop me off, du—er, Will. I’m begging you. I’m the only one looking out for my aunt.”
Crap.
“Please.”
I reprogrammed the navigation system and turned ten degrees left.
35
THREE DAYS AGO
Andy padded into the kitchen on bare feet. She slid her hands around my waist and tugged herself against me.
“Morning.”
“It is. But just wait a while and it will turn into afternoon.”
“Coffee.”
I filled her mug and handed it to her. She cupped her hands around it, appreciating the warmth. The first sip brought no complaints. I made the pot solely for her since I planned to bolt for the airport and reserved my first cup for Rosemary II’s exquisite blend.
“You were up late last night.”
“Mmmph,” she replied. She slipped onto one of the kitchen chairs and delivered another dose of caffeine to her system. “Still digging through the facial recognition on the rogue’s gallery from Company W.”
I joined her, although the coffee aroma teased me. “Anything interesting?”
“Plenty. Ashley captured twelve of their mugs. Their records would fill a binder. Not one of them is from Essex or even Wisconsin. They’re imported from Missouri, Nevada, Utah and a few other states of the wild west. Big contingent from Idaho. Old pals of yours.”
“Congregating here for a little city council election. Now that’s a sense of civic duty.”
“No. There is no recall election. Not yet. They have to get 4,000 signatures before there will be an election.”
“Sounded like they’re close,” I said. “At least that’s what Senator Wannabe sold to the mob.”
“Impossible. It’s been less than two weeks since it started. I’ll believe it when I see it. Anyway, we identified four of the visitors as having outstanding warrants. Tom is working with the county DA who is working with the issuing jurisdictions.”
“To make arrests?”
She shrugged. I sensed there were complications.
“I got a reply from New Mexico.”
“Nice change of subject, Dee.”
She smiled, unleashing dimples to mock me. “I thought so. We reached out to the sheriff’s office in Mora County last week. They poked around Wagon Mound for us.”
“And found Wild Bill Hickok’s grave?”
“Wild Bill is buried in Deadwood, South Dakota. This is New Mexico. Your pal Lillian was living in a trailer park under the name Lila Ford. And she had a child with her. A boy.”
“Our mailbox assassin?”
“We sent photos. The neighbors weren’t sure about the photo because they didn’t see much of the boy, but they confirmed that the child was ‘special.’ So, yes, we’re fairly certain.”
“Huh.”
“We still don’t know how that boy wound up with Dr. Farris after social services in California lost track of him.”
Andy sipped her coffee and let her gaze drift out the kitchen windows. Her rich auburn hair showed a hint of morning rebellion. I wanted to touch it. To touch her. That happens a lot. She caught me staring and flashed a quick smile that I recognized.
“Okay. What’s going on?” I asked. “What aren’t you telling me?”
She shook her head and slid her hand across to cover mine. I said nothing, leaving the question open. She dropped her eyes to the fascinating surface of the coffee in her mug.
“Tom heard from the District Attorney last night. They’re pushing back my deposition in the Johns case.”
Andy’s pivotal role in the arrest of former NFL star Clayton Johns for the rape of an underaged girl last summer made her a key witness in a case that was beginning to look like it might never reach a courtroom. Johns had money, the kind that buys the best of the best in criminal defense; money that buys every possible delay and diversion in the delivery of justice. Johns’ attorneys had already deployed a barrage of evasive tactics, so much so that I had commented that they planned to outlive the victim, a teenaged girl.
“What is it this time?”
“Me.” She looked up and for a rare moment, I could not read the emotion in her face or eyes. Hurt? Anger?
“You? What are you talking about?”
“Tom said that the word is they want to delay past this recall election and my summary dismissal, which they then can then use to impeach me as a witness.”
I uttered an expression more often spoken by Pidge.
“It gets better. This recall group is spending a lot of money. Rumor is that some of it is coming from the state party, but Tom thinks a big chunk is coming from Clayton Johns, well laundered, of course.”
I saw it now. It was both. Hurt and anger.
I repeated my first comment. Andy said nothing more on the subject. She squeezed my hand, threw a kiss at my cheek, and said she was getting dressed. Having nothing but useless simmering anger to offer her, I set off for the airport. I planned to spend the morning in the Foundation hangar catching up on logbook entries and updating navigation databases. First, I needed a stop at the Essex County Air Service office to steal a mug of Rosemary II’s coffee.
I had just pulled off the heist when she called out from behind the front counter.
“Earl’s looking for you.”
36
NOW
“This is not what I expected.”
I docked the heaving Buick Roadmaster wagon at the curb. Even after locking it in Park, the big boat wallowed and settled. Airport crew cars come as is. I once drove a retired ambulance.
The flight from Ekalaka to Greeley had taken an hour and forty minutes, bucking a fourteen-knot headwind, my constant companion of late. Dawn broke on the eastern horizon during the flight, treating us to a spectacular sky that even the kid couldn’t stop commenting on. High strands of red and pink blazed across the flatlands of eastern Colorado. I mentioned the old sailor claim that a “red sky in morning” means “sailor take warning.” Like many such expressions, the rhyme had a basis in fact. Unlike the sailors burning their hands on ropes and their skin in relentless sun, I had access to digital Prog Charts forecasting the future of gigantic air masses in six-hour increments. A huge low-pressure system developing over the Pacific Northwest signaled an end to good weather. Rain for Seattle. Snow for the Rockies and plains. In another thirty-six to forty-eight hours Wisconsin would see the first snow of the season.
I planned to be at home and in the arms of a beautiful woman long before flakes carpeted our lawn. That meant doing business in Colorado quickly, whether it answered questions about Tammy Day, Aunt Stephanie, and Crazy Lillian or not.
The Buick engine chugged a few revolutions before rattling to a halt. Wally stared out the side window.
“What a freaking sellout. There’s a gift shop. Do you see that? There’s a damned gift shop. And look.” Wally pointed. “Is that a food court?”
“Looks like a courtyard with food trucks.”
Wally gingerly detached his seat belt. Gritting his teeth, he reached for the door handle.
“Hold on. Why don’t you let me scope this out before you break another rib trying to get out of this car? I can’t zap you and lift you out. Not out in public like this. Let me see if the guy is here.”
He answered by releasing a breath he’d been holding against fresh pain.
I climbed out of the driver’s seat. Morning sun warmed my face. I paused and pulled off my flight jacket and tossed it on the seat.
“Be right back.”
Right back took almost an hour, and when I returned to the car, I had nothing to show for my efforts.
The unlikely headquarters of Martian Mike Enterprises occupied a glass and brick corporate center, sharing leased space with a brewery supply company, an architectural design firm and a gymnastics studio in one of several matching single-story office buildings built around a central courtyard stocked with benches and picnic tables. High occupancy and the expansive size of the courtyard attracted a row of food trucks to the nearest curb. The midday business looked brisk, aided by warm sunshine.
The old Buick sat less than two hundred feet from the courtyard, well within view of at least two dozen people. As I approached, it became clear that Wally was gone. An irrational thought flared up. I checked the street for ATVs.
How did they find us?
“Idiot.” I said it to myself. They couldn’t possibly have.
I turned and scanned, and quickly spotted Wally at a picnic table. He sat across from a young woman who appeared both fascinated and charmed by him. Wally smiled and chatted. Except for his stiff posture, he showed no sign of his injury.
I crossed a span of well-manicured lawn and wove through the scattered tables hoping my Ray Ban Aviators emphasized the scowl on my face. I hadn’t really slept in two days, wore the same clothes I left Wisconsin in, and was being tortured by the scent of something fabulous coming from those food trucks.
“Oh, hey, Uncle Will,” Wally waved cheerfully. “Did you find a t-shirt?”
“They didn’t have my size.”
“I might be able to check stock for you,” the girl chimed in, flashing a bright smile clearly meant for Wally. “What size are you?”
“It’s okay,” I said, “I found something better.” I threw Wally a glance meant to land the ball in his court.
The girl lifted him off the hook by standing up and gathering the paper debris from her lunch.
“Brenda, thank you so much for the help and the information. Super helpful!” Wally said.
“Really nice meeting you.” She gave him a look that lingered, and then wiggled her phone. “Call me.”
She performed a turn meant to let him watch her walk off, which he did. Taking his gaze with her, she disappeared through a set of glass doors without glancing back.
I sat down.
“Seriously? I’m inside wasting my time trying to find your favorite Martian while you’re out here lining up dates?”
“Nice girl,” Wally said, letting pain chase the smile off his face. “What did you find?”
“Not a damned thing. Complete bust. I couldn’t get into half the offices. The rest are nothing but a mid-tier small business selling crap to UFO believers. I didn’t see anything that looked like a podcast production studio and there’s nobody in there named Martian Mike, at least according to a couple of desk signs, door names and one fire exit plan map I found. I think this whole thing is a scam.”
“Did you like…do that thing? Flying around?”
“It’s a lot harder than you think. For one thing, I couldn’t use my—why am I explaining this to you? You get one whiff of perfume and you’re out here picking up girls.”
“That girl is a temp. She works in the shipping department. Yes, they have a shipping department. And she had a lot to say about this operation—not much of it good.”
“Any of it useful?”
“Yes. She told me where we can find Frederick Michael Dowd.”
“Lemme guess. Martian Mike.”
Wally lowered his voice. “I think we shouldn’t discuss it here. Let’s talk in the car. We have time. It’s about an hour and a half drive.”
“Huh. If that’s the case, I’m going to make a stop at those trucks. You want anything?”
Wally gritted his teeth. “Probably make me throw up. I have no idea how I’m going to get back to or get in that car.”
“I can’t fly you out of here. Not with all these people around.”
“Just leave me here to die, man.”
“I’m getting tacos.” I stood up. “You’ve got five minutes to choose life or death. Oh—and before you choose death, do me a favor. Pull out your phone and find us the nearest hardware store.”
“Martian Mike sold out six months ago. Brenda said she used to listen to his radio show. She said it was a big thing when she was in middle school. Kids doing sleepovers would stay up all night to hear him come on the air at two or three in the morning with wild tales about alien abductions. Blue Book, Roswell, Betty and Barney Hill. All the golden oldies, of course, but new stuff, too. The new Congressional report. The Navy videos. She went to work for a temp agency, and a couple weeks ago they set her up in the shipping department of Martian Mike Enterprises. She said it was a huge letdown, like believing in Disney princesses, and then winding up working the gift shop counter in Cinderella’s castle.”
“Who did he sell out to?” I asked. I drove west on a wide four-lane avenue through flat suburban Greeley. I felt self-conscious in the quarter-century-old Buick, cruising through a tidy upscale community dotted with expensive homes, and sharing the roads with an armada of small SUVs that looked barely broken in and wouldn’t be caught dead off of pavement. I checked the rearview mirror for a cloud of blue oil smoke, but the durable GM V-8 remained strong and steady. After a quick stop at an Ace Hardware, I programmed Ashley’s directions into my iPad. Close to an hour would get us through Greeley, then Loveland, then another half hour of travel would take us into the foothills west of civilization.
“She didn’t know. But she said it was a total sellout. Word is he cashed in for serious bucks. The new owners turned it into a booming merchandising operation. She thinks he’s still doing the podcasts, but he doesn’t seem to have anything to do with the business. She’s never seen him. The lease on those offices is less than two months old.”
“What about ParaTransit?”
“I asked. Didn’t ring a bell.”
“And how does she know where to find him?”
“Ashley said they had her deliver a package to him about a week ago. She thought she might get to meet him but only got as close as a locked gate. They told her to leave it.”
“What are we talking here? A Ted Kaczynski shack in the woods?”
