Page and Tori had flown to the festival a few years earlier and enjoyed the carnival atmosphere of the parades, the costume contest, and the concerts, one of which had featured a band interpreting music from Pink Floyd’s album The Dark Side of the Moon. They rarely found opportunities to vacation together-his job was too demanding-and he remembered how she had laughed as they watched a group of “Klingons” earnestly performing a wedding ceremony.
The bittersweet memory made Page feel even more anxious to reach Tori. He watched as a fuel truck filled his plane’s tanks. He verified that the fuel had the correct color-blue-for the type he needed and that there weren’t any contaminants. Then he climbed back into the plane, took off, and continued southeast.
His carefully chosen route allowed him to follow a corridor that passed among large military areas to the north, east, south, and west. These were boldly marked on his aerial map and indicated where fighter jets practiced combat maneuvers. Farther west an even more serious military area was located over the White Sands Missile Range, formerly known as the Alamogordo Bombing and Gunnery Range, where the first atomic bomb had been detonated in 1945.
The rugged vista was breathtaking. Nonpilots often assumed that the appeal of flying involved appreciating the scenery. But Page had become a pilot because he enjoyed the sensation of moving in three dimensions. The truth was that maintaining altitude and speed while staying on course, monitoring radio transmissions, and comparing a sectional map to actual features on the ground required so much concentration that a pilot had little time for sightseeing.
There was another element to flying, though, and it was a lot like the drinking that took place at after-shift decompression sessions with his fellow officers. Page enjoyed flying because it helped him not to think about the terrible pain people inflicted on one another. He’d seen too many lives destroyed by guns, knives, beer bottles, screw- drivers, baseball bats, and even a nail gun. Six months earlier, he’d been the first officer to arrive at the scene of a car accident in which a drunken driver had hit an oncoming vehicle and killed five children along with the woman who was taking them to a birthday party. There’d been so much blood that Page still had nightmares about it.
His friends thought he was joking when he said the reward of flying was “getting above it all,” but he was serious. The various activities involved in controlling an aircraft shut out what he was determined not to remember.
That helped Page now. His confusion, his urgency, his need to have answers-on the ground, these emotions had thrown him off balance, but once he was in the air, the discipline of controlling the Cessnaforced him to feel as level as the aircraft. In the calm sky, amid the monotonous, muffled drone of the engine, the plane created a floating sensation. He welcomed it yet couldn’t help dreading what he might discover on the ground. When he entered Texas, the Davis Mountains extended to his left as far as he could see. They were hardly typical of the rest of the state and in fact reminded him of the aspen- and pinon-covered peaks he was accustomed to seeing in New Mexico.
He monitored the radio frequency for the Rostov airport. He knew from his preflight research that there wasn’t a control tower and that he needed to broadcast his intentions directly to any aircraft that might be in the vicinity to make certain no flight paths intersected. During his long approach, he heard from only one other pilot, a woman with a deep Texas accent who reported that she was heading in the opposite direction.
The aerial map made clear where the prohibited airspace of the observatory was located, but even without a map, Page couldn’t have missed the installation. The large white dishes reflected the sun and were awesome to behold. They resembled giant versions of the satellite dish on the roof of his Santa Fe home. Incongruous with the flat landscape in which they were situated, they radiated a feeling of sheer power that made them appear huge, even when seen from a distance.
He was puzzled that the observatory was located on comparatively low ground, especially when compared to the distant mountains. Didn’t observatories work best when placed at as high an altitude as possible? But his musings came to an end when the practical concerns inherent to flying replaced his curiosity. Careful to stay clear of the dishes, he continued along his course toward Rostov.
Small communities were usually hard to spot from the air, and Rostov was no exception, blending with the seemingly boundless ranchland that stretched everywhere. For a moment, Page felt an eerie sense that he’d been here before, that he’d flown over this exact area on an earlier occasion and had seen these same cattle spread out, grazing. He was particularly struck by a picturesque windmill next to a pond at which cattle drank, a view he was positive he’d seen before. But he’d never before been in this area of Texas.
This just happens to look like a place you’ve flown over in another part of the country, he told himself. Pay attention to what you’re doing.
His map revealed railway tracks and a road that went through Rostov. Flying parallel to the road-which was easier to spot-he soon noticed a faint cluster of low buildings ahead.
The map indicated that the airport was three miles northeast of the town, but as it came into view and Page prepared to angle in that direction, he felt confused when a second airstrip appeared on the opposite side of town, to the southeast. It wasn’t marked on the map. Flying lower by that time, he was able to take a closer look, and he saw that the runway was cracked and buckled, a lot of it covered with dirt, patches of weeds and cactus growing at random. The crumbled ruins of hangars lay next to it. Lots of hangars, he noticed curiously. Many years ago, this had been a sizable facility.
What happened to it? Page wondered.
He noticed something else: an unusual topographical feature that stretched beyond the decayed airstrip. There, contrasting with the rugged brown grassland, was an extensive area of what looked like huge black cinders, seemingly evidence of volcanic activity that eons ago had pushed subterranean debris to the surface. The cinders had formed the rim of a volcanic crater that had eroded over time until only half of it remained visible, barely rising above the surface of the surrounding land.
Whenever the eruption had occurred, the force of it had scattered chunks everywhere. Page had seen other areas like it while flying over Arizona. They were generally called “badlands,” a fitting name for something so bleak and forbidding. He couldn’t help concluding that the place looked the way he felt.
Increasingly eager to find Tori, he flew from the ruined, uncharted airfield toward the airport that was marked on the map. Again the precision of what he needed to do was the only thing he could allow to occupy his mind. After radioing his intention to land and checking where the windsock was pointed, he reduced the engine’s power and glided downward. When he came within a wingspan of the center line on the airstrip, he leveled the plane, felt it float, sensed it begin to settle, eased back on the yoke, and touched down gently on the two main wheels, letting the nose wheel ease down on its own, protecting the strut that supported it.
He taxied to a tie-down area next to a building that looked like an old gas station, except that there weren’t any pumps in front of it. In- stead the fuel was kept in a small tanker truck. He quickly shut out the memory of the tanker that he’d seen explode in Santa Fe just a few days earlier. Off to the side, a hangar had its doors open, revealing a helicopter and a Lear jet. Their presence in this small community might have been puzzling if not for the fact that this was Texas cattle country. Four propeller-driven aircraft were tied down, all more powerful and expensive than Page’s Cessna, another indicator of wealth.
Climbing out of the cockpit, he secured the plane and pulled his bags from the rear seat, but now that his obligation to the aircraft had ended, he found that he couldn’t walk. His muscles seemed paralyzed as confusion escaped from the tight mental compartment into which he’d temporarily been able to shut it away. He was no longer above everything. He didn’t have a half-dozen things to accomplish in order to control the plane. At once the pressur
e of the past two days flooded through him again.
Why did Tori leave without telling me?
What’s she doing here?
What the hell’s going on?
Despite the apprehension that seized him, Page managed to force his legs to work and carried his bags across the hot pavement. The building that reminded him of an old gas station had adobe walls and a corrugated metal roof, the rust on which suggested that the structure dated back many years.
Opening a squeaky screen door, he entered a small reception area that held a battered wooden table and a scuffed leather sofa. A candy machine stood next to a water cooler and a phone that hung on the wall. Another doorway led to an office on the right, from which a heavy, gray-haired man of about sixty appeared. He wore frayed mechanic’s coveralls and used a rag to wipe grease from his fingers. Page set down his bags and shook the man’s hand, ignoring the grease on it, knowing that he gained a measure of respect by doing so.
“I called you from Santa Fe this morning about renting a car.”
“You Dan Page?”
“That’s me. I don’t know how long I’ll be staying, but I’d like to start a credit-card tab so you can charge me for the tie-down fee. Also, I need the tanks filled with 100 LL.” Most propeller-driven air- craft used that type of fuel. The LL stood for low lead, one of the few leaded fuels still sold in the United States.
“That’ll be fine-the car’s behind this building,” the mechanic said. “I’ve got the paperwork ready for you to sign.”
Carefully hiding the disarray his emotions were in, Page handed over his driver’s license and a credit card.
“We don’t have many strangers fly in here,” the mechanic added, a polite Texas way of asking why Page had come to town.
Page surprised himself with his reply.
“I’ve got marriage problems to sort out.”
11
The car was a red Toyota Celica. A wall of heat swept out when Page opened the driver’s door. He left it open while he set his bags in the trunk, but when he got behind the steering wheel, both it and the seat remained hot to the touch. He started the engine and turned on the air conditioning. As cool air streamed over him, he took a deep breath and tried to steady himself. Then he drove from the airport to where a dirt road led in only one direction, merging with the paved road into Rostov.
A water tower loomed above the low buildings ahead. To the right, cattle pens stretched along the railroad tracks. At Rostov’s outskirts, the street expanded to double the width of the road, presumably a vestige from frontier days when cattle had been herded through town.
He passed a feed-and-grain store, a saddle-and-boot shop, and a Ford dealership that seemed to specialize in pickup trucks. He reached blocks of houses that were painted earth colors ranging from sand to tan to brown. In contrast, their front doors were green or blue or red. Colorful flower gardens accentuated the single-story homes.
Where the wide street intersected with another, all of the buildings became businesses-a restaurant, a bank, a hotel, a real estate office (Page was reminded of Tori), and a clothing store. Here, too, the colors were eye-catching. One building was red while another was purple, another yellow, and another green, no hue repeating itself within any block. But despite the fresh look of the buildings, Page had the sense that most of them dated back many years and that at one time they’d been close to collapsing. He sensed something else: that he’d seen these buildings before, not in their present colorful version but the way they’d once been, just as he felt he’d seen the panorama of the cattle grazing outside town even though it was his first visit to this area.
Traffic was light. A woman pushed a baby carriage. A young man sat on a bench and played a harmonica, barely audible through the tightly closed car windows. At the end of the street to the right, Page saw an old-time railroad station. To the left, he saw a playground and a church. Across from them, a building’s domed tower made him suspect that it was a courthouse.
12
The floor was dark, worn marble. A door on the left had a frosted- glass window with black letters that told him: POLICE DEPARTMENT.
Inside, behind a counter, an elderly woman wore a leather vest. She looked up at him and smiled.
“Yes, sir?”
“My name’s Dan Page. Chief Costigan’s expecting me. I said I’d meet him at five o’clock.”
“And you’re right on time,” a raspy voice said.
Page recognized the voice he had heard that morning on the phone. He turned toward an office doorway, where a lanky man stood watching him. The man’s face was thin and creased, with the dull gray skin that smokers tend to have. He had a mustache and a small scar on his chin. His salt-and-pepper hair was cut close to his head. His uniform was tan. Although his equipment belt held a modern Glock pistol, Page wasn’t surprised to see that he wore cowboy boots.
“What you said about the airport made me curious, so I asked Harry out there to watch for you. He called to tell me when you arrived. You have your own plane?”
“A Cessna 172.”
“I get nervous in airplanes.” Costigan gestured toward his office. “Come in.”
They shook hands as Page stepped through the doorway.
“I don’t know any police officers who can afford a plane.” Costigan sat behind a vintage wooden desk. His swivel chair creaked loudly.
“I inherited it from my father. He was a mechanic in the Air Force. Listen, I hope you don’t mind if we skip the small talk. I need to know about my wife. You said one of your deputies found her car early this morning.” Page did his best to keep his emotions steady.
“Yes, sir. At the side of a road. To be precise, out at the observation platform.”
“Observation platform?”
“That’s one of the things I figured you’d understand better if I showed you rather than told you about it.”
Page waited for him to elaborate, but Costigan made no effort to do so.
“Look, I don’t understand any of this,” Page told him sharply. “Are you sure my wife isn’t hurt?”
“Absolutely sure.”
“And she isn’t with anyone?”
“She’s alone. She’s staying at a motel here-the Trail’s End. I’ll take you to her when we’re finished.” Costigan leaned forward, studying him. “How long have you been a police officer?”
“Fifteen years.”
Costigan concentrated on the right side of Page’s belt, where a chafed area indicated he often wore a holster. “I always feel off balance when I’m not wearing my weapon. Did you bring yours with you?”
“Do you know any police officer who leaves his gun at home? Do you ever go anywhere without yours, even when you’re off duty?”
Costigan kept studying him.
“It’s not my department’s gun. It’s my own,” Page said. “I have a concealed-carry permit for it. Texas and New Mexico have reciprocal arrangements.”
“I know the law, Mr. Page. But you haven’t answered my question.”
“My gun’s in my suitcase, which is safely locked in my rental car. Why do you ask?”
“Under the circumstances, I think it would be a good idea if you kept it there.”
“‘Under the circumstances’?” The words baffled Page until he realized what Costigan was getting at. “Jesus, surely you don’t think I’m a threat to my wife?”
“Domestic disputes and guns don’t go together.”
“But this isn’t a domestic dispute.” Page tried not to raise his voice.
“Really? Then why did you ask if she was with anyone? Why did she tell her mother she was going to visit her in San Antonio yet didn’t bother to tell you before she left?”
Page didn’t respond for a moment. Didn’t know what to say. Then he spread his hands helplessly, trying to keep his words steady.
“Okay, the truth is, I don’t know how to explain this. I have no idea why she left and why she didn’t tell me, and I sure as hell have no idea what she’s do
ing here in Rostov.”
“Why she’s here-you’ll understand tonight. As for what’s going on between the two of you…”
“You promised to take me to her.” Page stood. “We’re wasting time. Let’s go.”
“We’re not finished talking. Sit down. I’m going to tell you a story.”
“A story?” Page stared down at the man behind the desk. “What kind of crazy-”
“Yes, a story. Humor me-it’s about my father. He used to be the police chief here in Rostov.”
“What’s that got to do with-”
“You still haven’t sat back down, Mr. Page.”
The intensity in the police chief’s eyes made him hesitate.
“And then I’ll take you to your wife.”
Page sat impatiently. “Tell me your story.”
“One night my father got a phone call from a terrified boy who said his dad was beating his mom. When the boy gave his last name, my father didn’t recognize it right away. The family had moved here from Fort Worth a couple of months earlier. The husband had been out of work, and a relative of his who lived here had found him a job at the stock pens.
“When he wasn’t working, the husband liked to go to a local bar, get drunk, and pick fights. It was the hottest September anybody could remember, yet the wife always wore high, buttoned collars and long sleeves. Later it became obvious that she did that to hide bruises. The boy was quiet in school, always fidgeting as if he was afraid he’d make a mistake and get punished.
“That night, when the boy phoned, afraid that his dad was going to kill his mom, my father got in his cruiser and hurried over there. The house was near the stock pens, a run-down adobe with patches of stucco missing on the walls. The lights were on. When my father heard shouting and sobbing, he knocked on the door and identified himself as a police officer. That’s how I imagine it anyhow. I’ve gone over it in my head more times than I care to think.
The Shimmer Page 3
