by R. R. Irvine
“Be careful where you step,” she said over her shoulder.
Elliot and Guthrie came next, followed by Douglas, who quickly ran off a roll of film using his flash. “I’ll take some less candid shots later on. This stuff is a bit grim for a family paper like the Journal.”
“Look at this one,” Elliot said. “He’s badly burned but there’s no sign of fire in here.”
Nick knelt beside the body that lay near the bomb bay. “He’s wearing a parachute harness but there’s no chute.”
Elliot went down on his knees beside her. “If he jumped clear of the plane, why is he here?”
“Maybe the others carried him back after the crash,” Douglas said.
“I don’t think anybody was alive by then,” Nick said. “Let’s do a body count.”
They found nine in the main fuselage. Only the one body showed burn marks.
Out loud, Nick ticked off the members of a B-17 crew. “Pilot, copilot, bombardier, navigator, radio operator, top gunner, belly gunner, two waist gunners, and tail gunner. Ten in all.”
“But we’ve got eleven,” Elliot said, “counting the two in the cockpit.”
“Let’s check for dog tags.”
Nick, Elliot, and Guthrie began examining the bodies in the fuselage again. “Nothing,” Guthrie said finally.
“Something’s wrong,” Nick said. “The tags should be here. In combat, soldiers only remove a dead buddy’s tag if the body has to be abandoned and might not be recoverable later. Otherwise, dog tags are collected by graves registration at the time of burial.”
“Maybe they weren’t wearing any tags to start with.”
Nick was still mulling that over when her father held up a piece of rotting uniform and said, “If I had to guess, this is not U.S. Army Air Corps.”
Nick shook her head, not knowing what to think. “Let’s see what else we can come up with. Dad, you and Clark start at the tail and work forward. I’ll take the nose and work back.”
“Where do you want me?” Douglas asked.
For the moment the reporter was in the way, though Nick did want him to provide a complete photographic record. But first, she needed time to sort out exactly what was to be photographed. When she explained that to him, he looked relieved to leave the bodies and go outside.
Nick tied a bandanna around her forehead to keep the sweat out of her eyes and then began working her way forward, squirming sideways to inch past razor-sharp strips of aluminum that had ripped from the skin. Finally, she slipped through the bomb bay’s bulkhead and into the navigator’s compartment. Everything ahead of that, in the nose where the bombardier would have sat, had been crushed.
There was a gaping hole where the navigator’s window should have been; his oxygen regulator hung in shreds; his suit heater outlet came off in her hands. His map case, though punctured, was still intact. Using her flashlight, she looked inside, expecting to find decaying paper. But there was nothing. She stood on tiptoe to check the .50-caliber cartridge box. It, too, was empty.
As she turned to leave the compartment, she brushed against a junction box, partially dislodging it and exposing a small leather-bound book that had been wedged behind it. Carefully, she took hold of its spine and eased it free. It looked like a diary, though she couldn’t be sure until she opened it. Time and exposure had turned its flimsy lock into a lump of rust, but that could be remedied when she had the time.
Nick jumped when Douglas spoke through the hole in the fuselage. “We’ve got company. Four of them. One of them looks like that guy who showed up in town yesterday.”
Through the hole, Nick saw four men climb out of a Ford Explorer.
“Stall them,” she told Douglas. “I don’t want them tramping around in here until we’ve secured the site.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Quickly, Nick slipped the diary into a self-sealing plastic bag. Since it wasn’t much larger than a paperback book, she tucked it into her back pocket and went out to greet the new arrivals. Elliot, Guthrie, and Douglas were there ahead of her.
Standing next to Kemp was an immaculately dressed man in a lightweight summer suit, his lawyer no doubt. The two others reminded Nick of the huge football players who posed as students in her undergraduate classes at the university.
Kemp ignored her outstretched hand. “I thought I made it clear when we spoke in town this morning, Ms. Scott. I have no intention of giving away any of my rights to this land.”
“I’m only interested in the plane,” she said.
The man in the suit stepped forward and handed Nick his card. He was a lawyer, all right, Joseph Palmer of Palmer and Moyle, Los Angeles.
“You made good time from the coast,” she said.
“I’ve already been before a judge in Albuquerque.” He removed a document from his pocket. “You are hereby notified that you are trespassing on private land.”
“The government might have something to say about that when they realize that we’ve found one of their missing planes,” Elliot said.
“With dead crewmen still inside,” Guthrie added.
“You are to take nothing with you,” Palmer said.
“I hope you’re not talking about my film,” Douglas said.
“We’re not that foolish,” the attorney said. “We’re not going to give you cause to charge us with anything.”
Trust a lawyer to do the right thing, Nick thought as she and the others were escorted to their car. A diary wasn’t much of a memento for all that hard work, but it was better than nothing.
Once they were back in the Trooper, she locked the diary in the glove compartment without comment, while her father headed for the highway. No one said a word until they reached the blacktop. Then Douglas snorted, and said, “I’d like to see their faces when they get a look at tomorrow morning’s edition of the Journal. Your B-17 will be in full color.”
“I owe you one,” she said.
“Never give that kind of opening to a journalist.”
She laughed but took him at his word. She’d keep the diary to herself for the moment. As fragile as it was, it would have to be examined carefully. The safest place for that would be at the Anasazi site, where there’d be no chance of interruption.
CHAPTER 15
By the time Nick got back to the motel there was a note pinned to her door. Ken Drysdale called. There was no phone number or explanation, which wasn’t like Ken, who’d been a stickler for detail when they’d worked together in New Guinea. Once in her room, Nick washed the red desert soil from her hands before using the phone to call him back, but there was no answer in Honolulu. She checked the clock. Dinnertime in New Mexico translated to midafternoon in Hawaii. On the off chance she’d dialed the wrong number the first time, she tried again. Still no answer.
Sighing, she switched her air conditioner to high, then turned on the shower. She was about to step under the spray when the phone rang. She rushed to pick it up.
“I’ve been calling you every hour,” Drysdale said belligerently.
“I just tried your number and got no answer.”
“I’m using a pay phone, for Christ’s sake.”
“You sound upset.”
“The air force says no B-17 was ever built with your number.”
“It’s 44-4013,” Nick said from memory.
“That’s the one.”
“I saw it myself. I have witnesses.”
“If you’ve got a B-17 with that number, then someone’s lying to us.”
Nick shivered in the lukewarm air coming from the air conditioner. “I haven’t got a B-17 anymore,” she said and then summarized the situation, starting with Beckstead’s accident and progressing to the dramatic change of ownership. As she spoke, her frustration and anger returned with force enough to start her hands trembling.
“About the old guy in the truck,” Drysdale said, “are they doing an autopsy?”
“I don’t know. They said it was drunk driving.”
“I don’t li
ke it. It smells like the military to me, and I ought to know. I’ve spent half my life playing their games. They cover up everything, no matter how old and out of date it is. Look at me. I’m old and out of date and I’ve attracted a couple of sniffers. The bastards are parked outside my place right now, in one of those dead-giveaway government-issue sedans. Either CIC or CIA or FBI, who can tell. They all look alike.”
“Are you serious?”
“Why do you think I’m calling you from a pay phone?”
“Maybe it’s a coincidence.”
“Come on, Nick, this is your old Fifty-seven-Foxtrot you’re talking to, so don’t shit me. One minute I’m using the computer trying to trace your B-17“s tail number and the next an old buddy calls to tell me to log off because there’s a security flap on.”
“Who could possibly care about a fifty-year-old airplane, even one filled with bodies?”
“How many bodies?”
“Eleven.”
“Refresh my memory. What kind of crew does a B-17 carry?”
“Ten, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Like I said, something stinks.”
“So what do we do now?”
Drysdale expelled a noisy breath. “If I stay here, I’m going to have to talk to those sniffers sooner or later, that’s for sure. If I stonewall them, they might be able to raise hell with my pension.”
“Then stay out of it,” Nick said.
“On the other hand, they don’t know I’ve spotted them. Which means they can’t claim I’m giving them the runaround until they confront me. So maybe I’d be safer there with you than hanging around here. And with me in such close proximity, maybe you’ll finally take pity on a poor pensioned-off bachelor.”
“If I said yes to one of your proposals, you’d run like hell,” Nick said.
“Try me.”
Nick smiled, wondering how he would react if she actually said yes. With someone else she might have crossed her fingers and teased him with just such an answer.
“It’s a hundred and ten degrees here,” she said, “and I’m stuck with it for the duration of my father’s dig. I don’t see the point of you suffering, too.”
“Don’t kid me, Nick. You need someone to do your dirty work. I’ll fly out of here today.”
It was a tempting offer to have an old pro like Drysdale running interference for her. But if he was right about the military being involved, she didn’t want to risk his retirement. Or him either, for that matter.
“I don’t want you spending your money,” she said.
“I’ll tell you what, Nicolette. I’ll talk to some NCO buddies of mine and see what I come up with. Then we“ll see what’s next.”
Before she could respond, he added, “Cover your back, Nick,” and hung up.
CHAPTER 16
Nick was dressed and toweling her freshly shampooed hair when Elliot knocked on the door fifteen minutes later.
“We’re starving,” he called to her.
She ran a hand through her damp hair, then tossed the towel aside. What the hell. She’d go as is. The desert air would dry her hair quickly enough, and she wasn’t about to use the blow-dryer again, not after shorting all the fuses the last time around.
“You look like a chipmunk with cowlicks,” Elliot said the moment she opened the door.
Douglas and Guthrie were standing right behind him, grinning.
Their smiles faded when she told them what Ken Drysdale had said. “As far as the air force is concerned, our B-17 doesn’t exist. They say there’s no such ID number.”
“They’re going to get a hell of a shock when they see my story tomorrow morning,” Douglas said. “Complete with a front-page photograph of their nonexistent plane.”
“Are you sure?” Nick asked.
“I just got off the phone to the Sunday editor. Copies are on his desk right now.”
“Why the fuss?” Guthrie said. “You’ve got expert witnesses, us. We all saw the plane.”
“Ken says his computer check backfired and now security people are after him.” “That doesn’t make any sense,” Elliot said.
“Ken’s not a man to imagine things.”
“Hold it,” Guthrie said. “Let’s worry about all this after dinner. Mom Bennett closes up in less than an hour.”
There wasn’t a soul in the Zuni Cafe. The tables and counter were already set for tomorrow’s breakfast, and Mom looked surprised to see them.
“I’m closing early,” she said. “The town’s holding a wake for old Gus up at the San Juan and I was just about to leave. You’re invited to join us, if you’d like.”
“Will there be anything to eat at the wake?” Guthrie asked.
“You poor man, you must be starved.”
“We told him you were famous for your Sunday chicken dinners,” Elliot said.
“I’ve already boned those birds for tomorrow’s pot pies, but I could fix some sandwiches.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” Guthrie told her.
Mom beamed. “Maybe afterwards you can walk me over to the San Juan. After all, a lady doesn’t feel right going into a saloon unaccompanied.”
“We’ll all go,” Nick said, anxious to question the mayor about Ellsworth Kemp’s behavior.
Nick helped Mom with the sandwiches, which everyone ate standing around the kitchen. As they were leaving the cafe twenty minutes later, the windows began to rattle. Even the floorboards trembled.
Mom pointed toward Latimer’s service station at the edge of town, where a line of big rigs was hurtling toward them.
“They must be doing seventy,” she said.
Four of them rumbled by without so much as slowing at the town limits where the state highway turned into Main Street.
“You don’t usually see trucks that big around here,” she added when they’d disappeared beyond Conejos Bridge. “I hope they get arrested for driving that fast.”
“There was a time,” Guthrie said, taking Mom’s arm and guiding her toward the San Juan, “when truckers were the best drivers on the road.”
The passing trucks hadn’t been felt or heard in the San Juan Saloon, where a portable stereo had been set up behind the bar, blasting out mariachi music. The noise set Nick’s teeth on edge, as did the cigarette smoke thick enough to chew. A handwritten sign, Drinks Half Price Tonight Only, had men lined up two deep along the bar. The women present, half a dozen that Nick could see, were seated at tables.
The mayor broke ranks at the bar to shout, “This was Gus’s favorite radio station. It comes all the way from Santa Fe on a clear night.”
“That’s your favorite,” Mom shouted back. “Now get us something we can dance to.”
Mayor Ralph made a face, but signaled the bartender just the same. A moment later the more sedate notes of big band music filled the saloon.
Nick collared the mayor and said, “We need to talk about this man Kemp.”
He jerked a thumb toward the door, pulled Councilman Latimer from the bar crowd, and led the way outside. Mark Douglas started to follow, but the mayor shook his head at him. For a moment, defiance flared in the reporter’s eyes, then he shrugged and rejoined Guthrie and Elliot, who were taking turns dancing with Mom Bennett.
The moment the door closed behind them the mayor said, “There’s nothing to say. Kemp isn’t my problem.”
“You were Gus’s partner.”
“Kemp is Gus’s heir.”
“Let me get this straight,” Nick said. “You and your council paid money out of your own pockets and now you’re willing to walk away?”
“We’ve been compensated,” Latimer said.
“I’ll do the talking,” Mayor Ralph said.
Nick looked from one man to the other. Both avoided her gaze. “You’ve sold out, haven’t you?”
“We’ve cut our losses,” the mayor said. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“And what about all the work I did?”
“Let’s face it. We have no way of
knowing whether that airplane of yours was real or not.”
“Come on. You saw it yourself.”
“Hear me out. It could have been a publicity stunt, for all we know. Old Gus could get up to all sorts of things when he put his mind to it.”
Nick forced herself to remain calm. “And the bodies?”
“My suggestion to you, Miz Scott, is to go back to your Anasazi Indians and forget all about Gus and his fantasies.”
“His fantasy will be on the front page of tomorrow’s Albuquerque Journal.”
“Jesus Christ,” Latimer blurted. “There goes our deal.”
Mayor Ralph raised a warning hand. “That’s nothing to do with us. It’s out of our control.”
Nick stormed back inside, fought her way to the bar, and ordered a beer. She was still seething when Mark Douglas worked his way close enough to ask her to dance.
“With your leg?”
“Haven’t you noticed? No more cane. All this exercise has cured me.”
When she slipped into his arms, he added, “What did the mayor have to say?”
“Who asked me to dance, you or the reporter?”
“We’re one and the same.”
“If you must know, he and his council are stonewalling me. Probably Kemp and that lawyer of his paid them off for some reason.”
Douglas sighed. “As much as I like holding a beautiful woman in my arms, being in here is killing me. It’s like smoking a pack a day. If you ever see me reaching for another cigarette, kick me in the shins. My bad shin at that.”
