Part 32 (1/2)

”You should have told me,” she said as we neared her home.

”I know,” I said. ”I was afraid to. Afraid I might scare you off. Afraid you'd judge me without really knowing the whole story.” The rain came harder and faster.

”So,” I said as we reached her door, ”what's the status of Pepper and Jayne?”

”I don't know,” she said. ”I need some time.” My instincts told me not to press her.

”I'll call you in a day or two to update you on the case,” I said. She nodded, went inside, and closed the door behind her. I glanced toward the creek and noticed the d.a.m.ned Russian olive trees again, then walked to my truck and headed for home.

34.

SAt.u.r.dAY NIGHT. Our second night camping. Scott and I were sitting on opposite ends of a small fire in a dry riverbed eighty miles east of Denver. That's right, east. Trying to camp in the mountains west of Denver in the summer is a poor way to get away from it all. The national parks and forests are just too crowded. Even in the primitive areas you can't hike more than a few miles without running into other backpacking enthusiasts.

When we were kids we used to ride our bikes out east of Denver to the old Lowry Bombing Range. The air force kept junk planes there, and we used to explore abandoned missile silos and j.a.panese internment camps. That was in the late sixties and early seventies, and most of that area is now the suburban cancer known as Aurora, Colorado-a suburb that will one day run clear to the Kansas border.

So now we just keep going farther east-out onto the high plains. It was a clear night; you could see the Milky Way. The dogs were quiet. Scott looked up at the stars and said, ”Jesus, I needed this.”

”Why?”

”Bobbi's still on this decorating kick,” he said. ”Wants to paint every room in the house. Every ten minutes she's busting into my office with paint samples and asking me which I like better, plum orchard or raspberry creme.”

”Tough choice,” I said. ”I like the ambience of plum orchard, but raspberry creme has a certain audacity.” He took a swig from a pint bottle of Jack Daniel's and handed it to me. I stared at the flickering flames, but said nothing. It would be nice to have Scott's problem. He must've read my mind.

”Things any better with the math professor?” he asked. ”I know you like her.” I thought about that line from Gordon Lightfoot's song-”a movie queen to play the scene of bringing all the good things out in me.”

”A little better,” I said. ”We'll see how it goes.”

We spent hours recalling old times. Grade school, junior high, high school, college. We stared at the orange coals of our campfire. The flames had died down, but we didn't want to build the fire back up. We were on some rancher's property and didn't want to draw attention to ourselves. We'd left my truck on the road with the hood up so people would think we'd developed car trouble and headed for the nearest town.

”What are you thinking about?” Scott asked.

”When I went to visit Koch, there was this photo in his office. Koch looks really young in it, college age, and he's standing in front of the American flag shaking hands with a famous public official-and I should know the guy's name but I just can't remember it.”

”Was it a recent photo?”

”I just told you-he looked really young in the photo.”

”And he's what, fifty now?”

”At least.”

”So how long ago was the photo taken?”

”I don't know,” I said, ”twenty-five years, maybe more.”

”Wish I could help,” he said, ”but without seeing the photo it's pretty hard.”

”I know,” I said. I took a sip of whiskey and stared at what was left of our fire.

”You give any more thought to going to the bureau?” Scott asked.

”First thing Monday morning,” I said. ”We've done as much as we can.”

”Don't feel bad about it,” he said. ”Polk would have gotten away with it if not for you.” I nodded and stirred the coals with a stick.

”Strange thing is, in a way Jayne actually helped him out.”

”How do you mean?”

”She reported it to the FBI in Denver. It should've been investigated by someone out of Boston, Seattle, or Omaha, but the call came into Denver and Polk grabbed it so he could cover his a.s.s.”

”Hadn't thought of that,” Scott said. ”He was lucky.”

I took another sip of whiskey. ”Pa.s.s me the cheese and crackers,” I said. ”I'm not used to drinking like this.”

”Colby or cheddar?”

”f.u.c.k,” I said. ”William Colby.”

”What?”

”That's the guy in the picture with Koch.”

”The former director of the CIA?”

”Yeah.”

”If Hawkins really worked for the CIA,” he said, ”that could be the connection. Hawkins and Koch are both economists, and both may have worked for the CIA.”

”Now we just have to figure out how Polk fits in.” I handed him the whiskey and resolved not to drink any more that night. Whatever my future with Jayne Smyers, there was no point in destroying my health. I found some aspirin in my pack and swallowed them with water from a metal canteen.

”Preventive medicine?” Scott said.

”Yeah.”

The coals died down as the night went on. We p.i.s.sed on the fire, gave the dogs some water, then crawled into the tent. It was warm on the high plains and there was no need to zip the sleeping bags. I wore only boxers and a T-s.h.i.+rt.

I was dreaming of Joy when I felt Wheat's moist nose poking my face. I sat up. Buck was tense, his ears erect. Something was out there. I grabbed my Glock and peered through the screen, but saw nothing. I tapped Scott's shoulder a few times and signaled him to be silent. ”Someone out there,” I whispered.

”Sheriff?”

”I don't see any lights.” Scott's rifle was in the truck, but he had the night-vision goggles. He placed the evil-looking device on his head and looked through the mesh door of the tent.

”One man,” Scott said. ”With a handgun. Automatic. About a hundred yards out. Coming right at us. Not in uniform. And he ain't a rancher.”