Slow Falling (The Bill Travis Mysteries Book 6)

by George Wier

*****

  The guard's vehicle was still serviceable. In the end he decided to bug out as well. I couldn't blame him. There was no reason for him to stay.

  Moe Keithley picked up his motorcycle, and other than a bent tail light, it was none the worse for wear and started right up when he fished the key out of his pocket and turned the ignition.

  Patrick Kinsey came over to us while the helicopter waited, it's blades slowly winding down.

  “Good to see you, Bill,” he said. I noted that he didn't save a greeting for Hank. “Looks to me like there's been some kind of explosion. I wonder what could have caused that?”

  “The official line,” I said, “is the liquid oxygen tanks blew.”

  “That would do it.” Patrick turned to Moe Keithley, who was getting astride his motorcycle. “Mr. Keithley, I presume,” he said, and held out his hand.

  “That's me,” Keithley said while shaking Patrick's hand.

  “We're flying back to Midland, Mr. Keithley. Since you've got your bike, you may as well head that way and join us.”

  “Okay, but I don't know which direction it is. Heck, I have no idea where I am.”

  Patrick laughed. “Just take the highway that way,” Patrick pointed. “Follow the signs to Midland. Stop off at the Department of Public Safety Office right before you get into town. We'll be waiting there for you.”

  “I don't know,” he said. “I could just head off into the sunset.”

  “You could,” Patrick said. “But there's lunch in it for you.”

  “Well why didn't you say so,” he said. “I'm powerfully hungry.”

  And that was that.

  *****

  Our pilot returned us to the Midland DPS station. He had orders to go on to El Paso. It seemed we were going to have to get ourselves home from there.

  Patrick sat and drank coffee while he watched Keithley, Hank and me devour a sack of hamburgers, french fries and shakes from the local Whataburger restaurant. I've never tasted a better hamburger. But, of course, I would have been far more discriminating had I not been so utterly hungry. Keithley, however, out-ate all of us, devouring both his and Patrick's hamburgers and fries in succession. Also, he talked while he ate, and the rest of us listened, although I'm not sure any of us could have later recalled a single thing the man said. But that was Keithley all over again. High-pitched white noise from a white head. At least he didn't sound like a rock-slide.

  “Whatever happened to ex-Ranger Johnson?” I asked.

  “Oh,” Patrick said. “Odd, that. We got the word this morning, right before reports of the explosion—” Patrick stared at Hank briefly, and the emphasis wasn't lost on Hank, “—came in and I knew to come looking for you. Johnson passed away in his sleep during the night last night. Apparently it was a heart attack.”

  “Well,” Hank said, and put down his fork, his bowl of brown rice half-eaten. “I'll be damned. There is no account for what can happen in this world. Usually the monsters live forever.”

  “And sometimes they don't,” I said. “Someday, Hank, you'll have to tell me the story about the village of Pho-tuc and 1968.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “If I can find the stomach for it.” He regarded the remainder of his rice bowl and then began eating. “I really don't care for rice all that much,” he said.

  “Say, fellah,” Keithley chimed in, but through a mouthful of french fries. “I'd like to write a book about you two.” He gestured to me and Hank.

  “Why's that?” I asked. “Don't you have enough on your plate already, writing about that couple going over the cliff?”

  “No,” he said. “That was just an isolated accident. There's no real story there. But you fellahs, on the other hand. You two sound more like one continuous train wreck.”

  “He's got a point, Bill,” Patrick said.

  “No thanks,” I said. “But I do appreciate the consideration. Hank here, on the other hand,” I patted his arm, “is probably in sore need of a biographer. He's licensed and bonded and he's even got a business card. What do you, Hank?”

  Keithley stopped eating and waited with wide eyes.

  Hank shifted back and forth in his chair, as if slightly uncomfortable.

  “Well,” he said, “you may have something there, Bill. Mr. Keithley, can you even write your way out of a paper bag?”

  “When we get back to Austin,” he said, “I'll show you.”

  *****

  After dinner I stepped outside into the breeze and called Julie. I told her I was coming home.

  “Good,” she said.

  “Missed me?” I asked.

  “Of course. Did you find Moe Keithley?” she asked.

  “How did you even know about him?”

  “Don't even ask,” she said. “Just come home, Bill. I need you. You can help me change diapers.”

  “I'm looking forward to it,” I said. “I need the change of pace.”

  And when I hung up, I felt an old, familiar longing. And just on the heels of that, a second longing. The first was for hearth and home, and the second—and almost equally as biting—I wanted to see if I could find Archer Daniken. Almost.

  I very quickly mentally stomped on the second thought as if it were the head of a venomous snake. Which settled it for me.

  I was going home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Ultimately it was Hank who decided to go after Daniken. I didn't even have to ask him to do so.

  “I don't know where I'll find him,” he said. “But I'm going to.” He stood at the open door of his pickup truck, one arm on the door and the other on his steering wheel, as if he were about to cut out in a cloud of dust. No doubt he would.

  “I don't doubt it,” I said. “But it's sort of like the joke about the dog chasing the car: what the hell are you going to do when you catch him?”

  “Don't know,” he said. “But I'll figure it out. He has some explaining to do for the people who died from his experiment getting out of control.”

  “It was Hague's experiment, initially,” I corrected him. “There are always people in the shadow of the giants. In this case, Hague was the giant. He was the real thinker behind the nanite technology. People like Daniken can't create a thing on their own. They want to be giants, but have no clue as to how.”

  “Yep,” Hank said. “But still, he needs to answer up.”

  I thought on it for a moment. “If I were him,” I said. “I'd be very afraid, just now.”

  “Because of the nanites? I think they're all dead, Bill.”

  “Not because of them,” I said. “Because of you.”

  Hank laughed, and it was good to hear.

  I remembered something. “Hank, can you tie up one other loose end for me?

  “What's that?”

  “At your next stop, do a little poking around and see if you can make a contact at a museum. I'd like to read the headlines of how Hank Sterling made the find of the archaeological find of the century.”

  “Nunez and those other mummies. I forgot about them. Hell, I've been trying to forget about them.”

  “Same here. But it would be good for the State, and who knows, it may even bring you a few customers.”

  “I'll do it. And knowing you, you wouldn't want your name mentioned.”

  “Exactly.”

  He got inside his truck and started up the motor.

  “At least tell me where you're going to start looking for Daniken,” I said. “In case you don't show up for awhile and I have to come looking for you.”

  Hank rubbed his razor-stubbled jaw. “Well, I'm thinking I'll stop in at Eden and see if I can find out more about that Bob Helmsley fellow who died on the highway. That's the first loose end.”

  “That sounds reasonable,” I said. “I'd love to go with you, but I've already—”

  “You don't have to explain. You've got Julie and all those kids to look after.”

  “Yeah. Say,” I said. “Give me another one of those business cards of yours. I lost the other one.�
��

  “Wouldn't do you any good,” he said. “That phone doesn't answer.”

  Hank drove away—and yes, in a cloud of dust. I stared after him.

  A moment later Moe Keithley ran out of the DPS office, took one look at Hank's truck flying down the road and ran to his motorcycle.

  “Hey!” I called. “Where are you going?”

  “I've got to catch him,” he yelled, but it sounded more like a squeak.

  I laughed as Keithley flew down the highway after Hank. I laughed long and hard.

  “The adventures of Hank Sterling,” I said. “As told by Missouri Keithley. Now that sounds like something.”

  *****

  I had to puddle-jump back home from Midland, first by getting a flight to the Dallas-Fort Worth Airport, then on to Austin-Bergstrom Airport. Julie was waiting for me outside the terminal, our baby in her arms. I noticed that Jessica was behind the wheel of the Expedition at the curb as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I managed to smile at her.

  “Get in, dad,” she said.

  I thought on making her hop in back while saying something trite, but I let it go and got in beside her. Julie strapped Michelle into the baby seat in back and sat next to her. I looked back into the car. In the rear tier of seats was Jennifer, also strapped in. At age three and officially a “big girl,” she had to have everything done properly. If her seatbelt wasn't just right she would let you know about it.

  I suppose I was on the edge of my seat during the drive home, my right foot poised over the ghost of a brake pedal that didn't exist on my side of the car. I got the occasional glance from Jessica from time to time, checking me out to see if I had an opinion on her driving, but I managed to keep my face impassive.

  *****

  Julie and I finally found ourselves alone after we got the kids fed and Jennifer and Michelle put to bed.

  As we got ready for bed, I asked Julie the one question I had been waiting to ask since Hank and Johnson's brawl in the Midland DPS break room.

  “Honey,” I said, “what did you tell that guy over the phone?”

  Julie got into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin.

  “The one who was going to start shooting?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  I crawled beneath the covers, placed my hand on her belly.

  “We simply had a little chat,” she said.

  “I know that,” I said. “I just want to know what you told him.”

  She turned her head and looked at me. Fish shadows swam across her face from the fish tank lights. No smile, no nothing.

  “What?” I asked.

  “There are some things a woman can never tell,” she said.

  “And this is one of those things? I find that hard to believe.”

  “Well. It is,” she said, then kissed me on the lips. “I love you,” she whispered, “but that is one thing you'll never know. But if you put yourself in my situation at the time, and think it if were me standing there—”

  “Sitting there,” I corrected.

  “Okay, sitting there. If it were me sitting in front of someone with a gun, think what you might tell them.”

  I turned onto my back and stared at the ceiling.

  And as I thought on it, tried to reverse the situation in my mind, she whispered: “Good night, sweet Prince.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The next day I took a trip south to Hays County and then down an old and dusty dirt road. During the day it didn't appear quite as menacing as it had one night in what seemed like an age of the Earth before. I slowed for the turnout to the property and met with a new padlocked gate and what appeared to be a freshly-painted sign:

  CLOSED

  NO TRESPASSING – VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED

  THIS MEANS YOU!

  “Well,” I said to myself, “that works for me.”

  I turned my Mercedes around and a few minutes later pulled into the parking lot of the country tavern. It was early in the day, and a weekday to boot, so I had been expecting few customers. There was Sonny Raleigh's car and what was likely Pud's truck. I could never recall the fellow's last name, but it was just as well. I hadn't even met him yet.

  I tromped up onto the porch and pushed the batwing doors inward.

  “Bill!” Sonny hollered.

  “Hiya, Sonny,” I said.

  “Come on in! We're not officially open yet, but I'd like to buy you a drink. Are you hungry? I can get Pud to fire up the grill.”

  “No thanks, Sonny. Really. I've got to get on back to the office. I'm afraid I've got a terrible backlog to handle.”

  Sonny stood behind the bar, his arms splayed wide on the counter-top, an ear-to-ear grin on his face.

  “Suit yourself,” he said.

  “I've only ever been in here once before,” I said. “I sure do like these old bars.” I looked around the place; saw the bandstand with its microphones, empty benches, wires and speakers; the corner of a pool table in a back room; the old juke box beside the bar; the old gas station signs up on the wall, including a sign I had not seen in over forty years: the green Sinclair Oil brontosaurus over an oval, white field. “Some place you got here, Sonny.”

  “Yep. She's my pride and joy.”

  At that moment a large man came out of the kitchen. The man was sweating, even though it was a few degrees below what I considered normal.

  “This is Pud,” Sonny said. “Pud, shake hands with Bill Travis.”

  Pud came over and offered a meaty hand and I shook it, and had to surreptitiously wipe my hands on my pants afterwards.

  “I'm proud to say that this place is no longer radioactive,” Sonny said and slapped the surface of the bar. I'd never seen him in such a jovial mood.

  “It never was,” I replied.

  “No? Well, you don't say.”

  “I do say. By the way, Sonny, have you had any funny goings-on around here lately?”

  “Funny? Nope. Not really. Unless you count the fact that Pud here no longer has adrenal fatigue. He got a clean bill of health from his doctor.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Anything else?”

  “No,” Sonny smiled. “I'm telling you, Bill, business has never been so good as it has lately. And I'm feeling great. I feel like I'm twenty-five years old all over again. I got on the scales yesterday and I've dropped fifteen pounds in the last few days and I haven't even worked out! It got me to thinking about my stock car racing days. Tell you the truth, I've been thinking about putting some funds together and getting a car and a couple of mechanics and going back at it. That is, if my investments are doing well enough.”

  “That's one of the things I'll be checking on when I get back to the office,” I said.

  I thought on it for a moment.

  “Tell you what, Sonny,” I said. “It seems to me your fortunes have changed for the better. But don't be too surprised if when everything is going great that at some point they go back to normal.”

  “What are you talking about, Bill? It's not like you to talk like that.”

  “I know,” I said. “I know. Just— Tell you what. Ride your good fortune while you've got it, Sonny. But treat it as though you've got a little leprecaun running around behind the scenes who likes you, and take all of his magic while he's giving it to you. But realize that someday that little fellow is going to consider his work is all done. And when he does, he's liable to pack up and move on to somebody else.”

  “That's the damndest thing I've ever heard you say, Bill,” Sonny said, but Pud, standing there beside him, nodded his head in agreement with me.

  “Good,” I said. “It's good to know that I can still surprise people. And now I'll surprise you one last time.”

  “Oh boy,” Sonny said. “Here it comes.”

  “It's nothing to be worried about,” I said, “but I think I'll take that drink after all.”

  Finis

  Author's Note

  The Narvaez Expedition into what is now the southern United States an
d Texas did occur. That expedition did splinter at various points, and of the six hundred men who set out, only three returned. While Antonio Alvarado Nunez is fictitious, the chances are there were many men like him on the expedition who perished under similar circumstances, although it is doubtful that any of these men ever laid eyes upon The Sand Hills of West Texas, which, by the way, are very real.

  Microelectronic technology is, of course, very real, and the effort to create nanotechnological robots, or “nanites”, is very real and continues in earnest. Their best use would be a medical one, although some may debate this point. This technology—while it is being developed and yet while it is still within the bounds of science fiction—is, to this author, a bit fantastic. But it is coming.

  Anyone who has gotten to know me very closely will speak with certainty on the subject of my fascination with what could be termed by the normal run of folks as “the fantastic.”

  I grew up in the heyday of the re-publication of the the old pulp magazines from the 1930s and 40s, and my first real forays into reading for pleasure were those old paperbacks. Also, it was the Silver Age of the comic book, the pulps' ultimate descendant. You can probably very well imagine this once very young author rapidly turning the pages with wide eyes. I did. I turned a lot of them.

  Time and again it's been said that truth is far stranger than fiction. And for “truth,” at that young age, I devoured such tomes as Colonel James Churchward's books on the lost continent of Mu and Senator Ignatius Donnelly's Atlantis: The Antedeluvian World. I immersed myself in Erick Van Daaniken's works as well, including the famous (or infamous) Chariots Of The Gods. Anything “out of the ordinary” was my daily fare. Additionally, for the spiritual side of things I read all of the books of the day on the subjects of Edgar Cayce (the “Seer of Virginia Beach”) and reincarnation, particularly Jess Stearn's authoritative works on both Cayce and reincarnation. All by way of saying that this author adheres less to the “Bering Strait landbridge”-side of accepted science and life and more towards what “feels right.” I must confess, that's what you're getting here: more of the “feels right” and a little less “land bridge”. So with me, you're liable to get anything, and I believe the current volume illustrates that fact. Truth is, I still love those old alternative-to-science-and-accepted-history books.