“How about the drug center? Do you folks know where it could be located, or anything about it?” Sol asked.
They both shook their heads, and unlike the people in the café, Tom and Cathy seemed sincere when they disavowed knowledge of the center.
“Is there an old school or maybe a campground that could have been converted?” I asked.
I drew blank stares. Tom said, “Jimmy, again, nothing like that comes to mind. But the Mormons and the Catholic Church over on Mountain View. Both have teen recreation centers. No kids live in either place, at least that I’m aware of.”
“No,” I said. “I have the impression that the drug center would have to be a fairly large facility, large enough to house and feed many youngsters.”
Cathy interrupted. “What makes you think there’s a place like that in Barstow? I’m sure we’d know if it existed.”
“A certain old lady told me, and the teenage girl—”
“The girl is obviously an imposter,” Cathy snapped. “For crying out loud! I identified her body at the morgue. Not only that, but Burt Krause, the chief of police, told me he ran her fingerprints through the FBI. It was definitely Jane on that steel table.”
“What’s this about an old woman who told you that a drug center exists out here?” Tom asked. “Is she credible?”
Tom was an oasis of calm in the eye of Cathy’s storm. She was becoming increasingly annoyed with my questions. I really couldn’t blame her. After all, my story—how I’d talked to a dead teenager and how an old woman told me about a phantom drug center—must have sounded utterly bizarre. At that point, I didn’t want to mention that my source, the old woman, was a drunk being chased by goblins. It certainly would not have helped my credibility.
“Fellas,” Tom said, “we’d like to help, but we just don’t know what to believe.”
Sol stood. “C’mon, Jimmy. I think we’ve imposed on these nice people long enough.”
I could tell by the tone in his voice that Sol was on to something. Besides, if he wanted more information he wouldn’t give a damn about imposing on these people, nice or not. But I had an idea of what was going through his mind. “Yeah, Sol, you’re right,” I said. “Maybe I was mistaken about the girl. I guess she just looked like Jane.”
“Sorry, Cathy, Tom,” Sol said. “Thanks for your time. We’ll be leaving now.”
Tom climbed out of his chair and glanced at Cathy. “Honey, wait here. I’ll walk these gentlemen to their car.”
Cathy eyed him. “What’s going on?” When he said nothing, she turned to Sol and me. Distress was evident in her face. “What is it with you two?” She slowly stood; her distress turned to anger. “Who are you people? You come marching in here with some wild tale about Jane…”
“Honey, calm down. They didn’t mean any harm.”
“Sorry, Cathy,” Sol said. “We sincerely apologize for opening old wounds. Let’s go, Jimmy.”
“I said I’ll walk you to your car.” Tom’s irritation was beginning to show. It was evident that he wanted a minute alone with us without his wife overhearing.
“Bullshit!” Cathy’s eyes flashed. “You’ve got something to say, you say it right here in front of me.” She jabbed her finger repeatedly atop the work table.
Sol held his arms out. “Look folks, we didn’t come here to dig up old bones, or get you involved in this nasty business, but something stinks in this town. I can smell it. And what I smell is murder.”
A chilly silence filled the room, almost as if a dark cloud had settled in above our heads. Sol had a knack, at times, for being blunt and maybe a bit dramatic, but he always said what he thought—and what he just said was certainly in the back of my mind. If Cathy and Tom became involved in this affair and started snooping around, they just might end up like Hazel Farris and Robbie’s professor, not to mention the man and woman in the newspaper. Someone was killing people, and if the murders were related to the drug center, then Sol and I may have jeopardized these innocent people by the very fact that we brought it to their attention.
Cathy and Tom stared at each other for several moments. Suddenly, Cathy started moving about the room. First she swept up the old newspaper and put it away, then—while forcefully banging the chairs back under the table—she said, “C’mon, Tom, we have things to do.”
She turned her lovely face toward Sol and me. “If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen, we have a newspaper to get out.”
C H A P T E R 19
Sol and I stepped out into the blazing heat with the sun reflecting brightly off the glossy-white exterior wall of the newspaper office we had just left. The glare was intense. Sol whipped out his Ray-Ban sunglasses, the ones with fancy gold frames. I squinted.
Sometimes it was uncanny the way Sol and I clicked, our minds hitting on the same idea at the same time. In the office, as soon as Cathy had mentioned it, we both knew where the teen center could possibly be located. The only logical location, a place sufficiently equipped to house scores of teens, would be the old military base where Jane’s father was stationed, Rattlesnake Lake. An obsolete military base, out of the way of prying eyes with built-in security and high fences surrounding it, would be perfect.
The limousine pulled up alongside us. We jumped in, and Sol immediately grabbed the radiophone receiver. We waited with the engine idling while Sol made his call. After he hung up, he gave detailed driving instructions. Cubby slammed the limo in gear, roared away from the building in a cloud of dust, and now we were racing along old Route 66 heading to Daggett, a town ten miles east of Barstow.
Sol had phoned a friend in Washington, DC to find out if Rattlesnake Lake Base had been sold or leased to a private entity. Yes, the base had been sold almost immediately after the military had abandoned it. The government had sold it in a sealed bid to an outfit called the Jerobeam Corporation.
The base at Rattlesnake Lake, Sol’s friend explained, had been established in the early fifties as an auxiliary emergency landing field when the Air Force started testing the X-series rocket planes at Edwards. The dry, flat alkaline lake bed made for a perfect runway.
Several other small bases, scattered along the experimental aircrafts’ flight path, identical in purpose, were built. Most of the bases had been closed at the termination of the X-plane program in the early sixties, but Rattlesnake Lake, the closest emergency base to Barstow, fifty-six miles northeast, was the only one sold.
We raced along the highway going like the wind—and the wind blew about a hundred miles an hour out here. When Sol was on a case, he became impatient and darted here and there like a hummingbird on speed. Cubby, his driver, knew to keep the pedal against the firewall. Someone had asked me once how Sol, when roaring around in his beefed-up limousine, never seemed to get a speeding ticket. Very simple, I’d answered. He has special license plates on his limo, and he also carries an honorary highway patrolman’s badge. Both the plates and the badge, along with a plaque were given to him by the commissioner of the California Highway Patrol in recognition of his community service: he planted a tree somewhere alongside a new freeway. I didn’t mention that I suspected he was given special consideration and the perquisites because of his anonymous contribution to the Highway Patrol’s widows and orphans fund: ten big ones, I’d heard.
We sped straight through the tiny community of Daggett and about four miles east of the main shopping area—a gas station and a Chinese restaurant—we turned off the highway, drove along a gravel road for a half-mile, then pulled up in front of a large Quonset hut originally built in the 1930s. Above the arched opening a sign read, ‘Welcome to Daggett Airport, Elev. 2000 ft., Unicom 123.0’.
On the eight-minute drive to Daggett, Sol had managed to get in two more phone calls. The first was to Joyce asking her to dig out all the information available on Ben Moran. He also told her that he needed everything she could find out about the Jerobeam Corporation.
After Sol hung up, he told me that Joyce would have the Silverman team of crack investigators
working on it right away. A complete write-up of both Moran and the corporation would be on his desk when he arrived at his office tomorrow morning, right after mid-morning brunch.
The second call he made was to Daggett Flight Service, a charter flight operation located at the airport. Sol had reserved a small plane. He’d asked that a pilot be standing by upon our arrival there in a matter of minutes, said we were in a rush, explained to the dispatcher that the sun was low in the sky and we didn’t want darkness interfering with our little sightseeing tour.
The Cessna 182, like an aluminum bird ready to soar, was poised on the tarmac a few feet from where we parked the limo. A guy who must have been the pilot was doing a walk-around inspection of the small, single-engine airplane.
Before Sol and I hopped out of the limo, he told Cubby to head back to Downey, drop the Deacon off at the office, then drive to the airport in Fullerton. “No need for you guys to wait around here. After our little look-see, we’ll have the pilot drop us off there,” he said. “Faster that way.”
The pilot, a lanky guy wearing an orange jumpsuit, ambled over to us. He had a Los Angeles Dodgers baseball cap plopped at a jaunty angle on his head. Tufts of blond hair jutted out beneath the blue cap.
“You the guys that reserved the 182?” the pilot asked.
“Yeah,” Sol answered and pointed to the airplane. “Is she ready to go?”
“Just need a credit card or cash deposit.”
Sol handed him an American Express gold card.
“You said you’d be doing some sightseeing,” the pilot said. “Not much to see out here, just a bunch of rocky canyons and dry lake beds.”
The pilot looked at the credit card and started to tuck it into his side pocket, but he stopped and looked up when Sol said, “Yeah, that’s what we want to see, a dry lake. Rattlesnake Lake.”
“Oh, hey, I don’t know about that,” the pilot said. “That’s restricted airspace. There’s a military base there.”
“The base is closed, been closed almost ten years.”
“Yeah, but they never took off the dang restriction. Can’t fly closer than fifteen miles to the place.”
“Now look here, young fella—by the way, what’s your name?” Sol stuck out his hand. “Mine’s Sol and that’s Jimmy over there.” He pointed at me.
The pilot pumped Sol’s hand. “Name’s Del. How ya doin’, Sol?” He waved to me. “Jimmy.”
“Well now, Del,” Sol slipped into his backslapping, suede-shoe salesman routine. “Jimmy over there is a lawyer, see.” Sol turned to me. “Show Del your card, Jimmy.” He put his arm around Del’s shoulders and whispered in a conspiratorial voice “Listen, son. Jimmy’s going to give you his approval—in writing, mind you. Always get it in writing, my boy.”
“I dunno, Sol…” Dodger Del adjusted his baseball cap, tucked his unruly hair back in place. “It’s kinda illegal.”
“Look, Del.” Sol pulled the kid in closer and leaned into him. “Not only is Jimmy going to give you a nice letter, I’m going to give you a thousand dollars.”
“Well, hell, it ain’t that illegal. Let’s go!”
C H A P T E R 20
The next thing I knew we were in the Cessna screaming down runway 22.
Del, his eyes fixed forward, pulled back on the yoke and the plane lifted off the ground, zooming skyward at 120 miles per hour. A gusty side wind kicked up and the right wing dipped, but Del had it under control; a quick twist of the wheel leveled the plane. I sat next to the pilot up front and Sol had the back seat to himself. He glanced out the side window as we climbed, the ground receding below us.
We both felt it would be a good idea to scope out the base from the air before I went barging in looking for Robbie. Having come this far, there was no question about me getting onto the base, if for no other reason than to prove—or disprove, as the case might be—our thought that the base was now, in reality, the teen drug center. A bird’s-eye view of their security seemed prudent.
My stomach lurched when the plane nosed over and leveled off at a few hundred feet above the dirt. Because we were now level, the Cessna picked up speed rapidly, the airspeed indicator high on its green arch. We flew at thirty degrees on the compass, the town below drifting away behind us. The view ahead was of sweeping flatlands surrounded by jagged mountains and rocky hills, all in various shades of brown and shadowy grays.
Del cranked the wheel to the left. The plane banked at a forty-five degree angle, and we shot around the steep slope of a ridge towering in front of us. Another jerk on the wheel, the Cessna smoothed out, and we raced above a narrow but deep canyon with a dry rocky riverbed snaking through the bottom of it. Del pushed on the control wheel; the airplane dove. Then, a couple hundred feet above the cliff’s edge, he pulled back on the yoke. The G-force pinned my butt to the seat for a moment before the plane leveled out again.
The sensation of speed was awesome, the sight of the multi-colored canyon rushing by below us breathtaking. The terrace-cut walls of the ravine were natural frescoes etched in the granite, carved by a river that had died a million years ago.
After a few seconds, Del said, “Gotta take her down, fly under the radar.”
“Whoa,” I said, “down where?” It looked to me like we were skimming the cliff tops as it was. But he didn’t say anything, he just pulled back the throttle and pushed on the control yoke, and the plane descended fast. I glanced at Sol in the back seat. I thought he’d be worried, but he seemed okay. He was flipping through a Playboy magazine that must’ve been on the seat.
When we got closer to the ground, the apparent velocity increased dramatically, the scorched desert floor rushing by us at an alarming rate. Glancing at Del, I noticed his face streamed with sweat as he twisted, turned, pushed and pulled the controls, maneuvering the small plane through jagged-edged canyons as we raced into and out of one dry lake basin after another. It was hairy and a little frightening, the aircraft jerking and bouncing, and I tensed as the plane veered off to dodge a large boulder that I hadn’t seen until it was zooming past my window, missing us by a millimeter.
As I sat there being yanked about like a rag doll in the mouth of an angry pit bull, I grew worried about Sol. I’ll admit I was a trifle nervous about the flight myself—having taken a few flying lessons, I knew the stress limits of these types of aircraft—but I figured that Sol, having no experience, would be scared out of his wits by now. Any moment, he’d beg to cancel the flight.
Then, suddenly, I smelled smoke.
But after a moment’s reflection, I knew nothing was wrong with the plane. The aroma came from the burning of Cuban tobacco. Sol had lit a cigar.
“Hey, Del, we must be getting close to the base,” Sol shouted in the pilot’s ear, leaning forward, cigar in hand. “Can’t you get a little lower? Need to get a good look.”
“You’re the boss!” Del replied, and looked at me. “Don’t ya just love it?” He nudged the yoke forward. Down we went, another ninety-nine feet. We couldn’t go lower than that. We’d only been about 100 feet above the ground when Sol made the suggestion.
“Yeah, it’s terrific,” I said, as we swerved to miss a jackrabbit.
The Cessna screamed inches above a dry lake bed, moving like a full-blown Indy car going 160 mph. Yet, out here there was no racetrack, and directly in front of us was an ugly ridge of large rocks. The plane nosed up; we climbed, and shot through a narrow saddle-gap between two huge rocky mounds. When we emerged, the ground fell away and the wind-blown desert exploded with life before our eyes. The ex-military base appeared, spread out right below us, filling the front windscreen. A high chain-link fence enclosed several rows of wooden single-story rectangular structures. Guard towers stood at the boundaries of the expanse. With the fence and the towers, the place looked like a prison camp. I wondered if the guards were put there to keep people out, or perhaps, once inside, to keep them there.
Beyond the base, outside the fenced-off area, about a mile north of the complex, I saw a ten-
thousand-foot runway, scraped flat on the dry alkaline surface of an ancient lake bed. A gravel road ran toward the buildings, a road that came from Barstow about sixty miles behind us. After looping around the outpost buildings, it came to a Y. One direction headed to Highway 395 and Calico, an old ghost town turned into a tourist trap by the Knott’s Berry Farm people, but the other branch of the road continued on and disappeared into the desolate, rock-strewn mountains a few miles to the west. I wondered where the road ended. There were no towns or settlements beyond those mountains that I knew of.
I leaned closer to Del. “Where’s that road lead to, Del? The one going over the mountain out there?” I shouted above the roar of the engine, pointing at the right fork of the Y.
Without taking his attention away from the plane, keeping his eyes fixed forward, Del answered. “Borax mines, and there’s an old ore processing plant out there on the other side of the mountain, as well. Remember the TV show, Death Valley Days?”
“Yeah, sure, Governor Reagan was the host, I think.”
“The show was based loosely on the mines. The way things were back in the 1800s when they flourished. Then a while back the borax ore petered out. But it’s rumored that they’re working the mines again, and they say the refinery is up and running too. I’ve never been out there. No reason to go,” Del said as he glanced at one of the flight gauges. He tapped it with a finger and the needle jumped. “There, that’s better.”
We flew above the gravel road at low altitude. Off to our right, half a mile away from the buildings, I saw a large paved yard where numerous pieces of heavy equipment stood. Dump trucks, earthmovers, and enormous Caterpillar tractors were lined up and ready to go, looking as if they could charge out and devour mountains, spitting out boulders like olive pits. Probably had something to do with the old mines.
Del hit the rudder pedal, jerked the wheel to the left, and we pivoted on the wing, the plane tilting at a sixty-degree angle. Almost instantly the Cessna leveled out, and when it did, we were aimed dead center at the cluster of bunkhouse-type buildings. We roared over the compound at rooftop level, the engine howling.
JO02 - The Brimstone Murders Page 11
