Chapter Twenty-Three #2
“I’m sure they’ll be fine. What’s it like outside?”
Joe briefed her on the weather and the road closures. He said it looked like the storm would keep up until midnight, but that the next few days were supposed to be sunny and mild.
Marybeth slid two pancakes onto a plate and buttered them. “So what’s on your agenda for today, then?”
“Paperwork. I’m way behind.”
She said, “I need to start on my budget proposal for the county commissioners. I’m glad I brought my laptop home.”
While they ate, Joe filled her in on what he’d discovered on the McElwee Ranch, and what Orr had told him. Marybeth said she was surprised to learn that the sisters had apparently elevated their criminality.
“Do you think the three guys you saw out there are cartel members?” she asked.
“They fit the profile.”
“So what’s next?”
“I’ll talk to the new sheriff when he moves into his office,” Joe said. “Then it’s his responsibility. I’ll assist if he wants me to, but we’ll see.”
After they’d finished, Joe said to her, “You know, we’ve been here quite a few years.
But there are still a lot of things I don’t know about the people in this county.
Especially the old-timers, the third- and fourth-generation ranch families.
There’s a lot of history between them and a lot of old feuds.
A lot of secrets. Like the McElwee sisters.
I mean, I knew they were dodgy, but I always considered them small-time.
It’s hard to get a handle on some of the people unless you’ve been here as long as they have. ”
“That’s true,” Marybeth said. “Some roots run deep around here. If it wasn’t for my patrons at the library, a lot would get by me. There are always undercurrents, even in a place that looks peaceful and boring from the outside.”
Joe nodded. It was true. If it weren’t for Marybeth’s library intelligence network, he’d know vastly less about the locals than he did.
“I think I need to talk to Lorne Trumley,” Joe said.
“He’s an old-time rancher and he’s bordered the McElwees and the Bucholzes for generations, and he’s not far from the Double D.
He’s crusty and opinionated, but he’s a good man.
He also pays attention to what’s going on around him, even if he doesn’t gossip a lot about it.
I’m thinking he could shed some light on a few of the questions I have about his neighbors. ”
Marybeth agreed. “Good idea. I don’t think there’s any love lost between Lorne and his neighbors, but he’s an honest broker. I knew his wife before she died, and she was a sweetie. She was a member of three different book clubs at the library.”
“I’ve also got a couple of other leads to follow up on,” Joe said. “If the roads aren’t too bad into town, I may be gone for a few hours today. I need to talk with George Haggarty about some aircraft I saw flying over the Bucholz Ranch.”
George Haggarty was the longtime manager of the Saddlestring Airport FBO, or fixed-base operator. He’d be aware of the private aircraft in the area, and he lived in a small house within the airport grounds.
Joe asked, “Do you know what’s good about blizzards?”
“Breakfast in bed?” she said with a grin.
“Other than that. The good thing about a blizzard is that it freezes everyone into place. People are easy to find because they’re stuck there.”
—
As he rose and gathered up the dishes for the tray, Marybeth asked, “Have you considered talking to the Coffee Chicks?”
He paused. The self-named Coffee Chicks were a group of up to six local women in their seventies and eighties who convened every morning at the Burg-O-Pardner restaurant in Saddlestring.
They maintained a table far removed from the Main Street Mafia.
The Coffee Chicks’ unofficial leader was a woman named Elizabeth “Bitzy” Scicluna, who had been the county clerk for three decades before recently retiring.
Other Chicks included ranch wives, former waitresses, grocery store clerks, postal workers, and clerical staff for doctors, lawyers, and accountants.
“If anyone knows what’s going on with the Thompsons, Bucholzes, and McElwees, it would be the Coffee Chicks,” Marybeth said.
“I never thought about them,” Joe said.
“That’s why I’m here,” she said playfully. “No one is more plugged into every aspect of the valley than those ladies. And you know about the Burg-O-Pardner. It’s like Waffle House—it never closes. If those Chicks need to wade through snowdrifts on foot, they’ll be there today.”
Joe nodded. “I might just go see them.”
“Don’t get stuck,” she cautioned.
“Oh, I probably will,” he said. “That’s nothing new.”
—
The snowplows weren’t yet out on the county road from the Pickett house and game warden station to the town of Saddlestring.
Joe knew he was lucky that most of the drive was in heavy timber on both sides without openings where the wind could whip across the road and create snowdrifts.
Nevertheless, despite chaining up his front wheels and engaging the four-wheel drive, he nearly bogged down in a few places.
The only way he got through them was to gun the engine and blow through.
Joe was driving the only vehicle on the road that morning, and he hoped the tracks he’d cut would hold in place for his return trip. Biscuit beside him seemed to enjoy the adventure, especially when he slammed through snowdrifts and the pickup was momentarily blinded in snow.
—
The roads in Saddlestring weren’t much better, although there were at least a few tracks. Joe stopped to help pull a woman in a sedan from the borrow pit after she’d made an “emergency trip” to the grocery store for peanut butter and toilet paper, only to find out the store was closed.
Because the airport was located on a bench above town, the entry roads were more windswept and passable. Joe drove past the darkened airport terminal to the adjoining FBO complex that consisted of a small cinder-block building and a collection of private hangars.
—
George Haggarty was a large man in his midsixties with broad shoulders, a square oversized German head, sharp blue eyes, and a carpet square of close-cropped white hair.
He peered out from inside the door of his house through a three-inch opening after he’d heard Joe knock on it.
The portico leading to the house created a strange wind-tunnel effect that swirled snow up from the ground.
He looked puzzled until he recognized Joe.
“For God’s sake,” he said. “What are you doing out on a day like this?”
“May I come in?” Joe asked, wincing against the snow.
“Of course, of course,” Haggarty said, stepping back and opening the door fully. He closed it quickly behind Joe to prevent more snow from blowing into his house.
Haggarty was wearing jeans and a thick chamois shirt and an apron. He had a dripping spatula in his hand, and Joe could smell meat cooking in the adjoining kitchen.
Haggarty’s house was spartan—an overstuffed chair and couch facing an old television, a few volumes in a board-and-brick bookcase, and several military- and aviation-related framed photos on the walls.
On the mantel above a roaring fireplace was a shrine of sorts to his late wife, Thelma, who had died a few years before.
“When I heard you knock, I was afraid some fool had landed on the strip,” Haggarty said. “I was afraid you were a wayward pilot about to ask for a place to stay until this storm blew through.”
“Nope, I drove,” Joe said.
Joe didn’t know Haggarty all that well, although he’d met him a few times before going up with Game and Fish–contracted pilots to do deer, elk, and antelope herd surveys.
Haggarty had retired from the U.S. Air Force after a full career.
He was now a one-man show at the FBO, managing not only the private airplane hangars but the fuel facilities, a small private waiting lounge for passengers and pilots, and other day-to-day maintenance.
“I’m frying up some brats in the kitchen,” Haggarty said. “They’re elk brats with cheddar cheese and jalapeno. I made them myself. Want one?”
“No, thanks,” Joe said. “I already had breakfast.”
Haggarty suddenly frowned. “Hold on—are you here to ask me about the elk I harvested?”
“Not at all.”
“It was perfectly legal.”
“I never thought any different,” Joe said.
“So what brings you here?” Haggarty asked. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of going up in this weather.”
“Nope. I’d be okay if I never went up again, to be honest.” Joe was terrified of flying in small planes. Every time he did, he thought the experience took another couple of years off his life.
“It’s safer than driving around in your truck, that’s what I always tell people,” Haggarty said. “Except maybe today.”
Joe said, “I was hoping you could tell me about some private aircraft I’ve seen flying around the valley in the last couple of weeks.”
“I probably can,” Haggarty said. Then: “This is the only game in town when it comes to fuel and maintenance. Follow me—I’ve got to get those sausages turned before I burn this place down.”
—
Haggarty sawed through three fat sausages and ate them at his kitchen table while Joe described the helicopter he’d seen as best he could.
“The strange thing about it,” Joe said, “was that it had this long pole-like thing stretching out from the front of it. There was a football-shaped nose on the end of the pole. It reminded me of a wasp when I saw it.”
Haggarty nodded. “It sounds to me like an Airbus AS350 écureuil. Single-engine utility chopper with a fenestron tail. Used a lot by law enforcement, airlifting folks to hospitals, and survey companies. It’s a dandy aircraft.”
“And the pole thing mounted on the front?”
“Probably used for geophysical surveying or finding mineral deposits. You say the helo was flying really low in a grid pattern?”
“Yup.”
“Then the pilot was probably mapping the area to isolate mineral deposits. I’ve seen a few of those machines come through here over the years. They’re usually owned or leased by energy exploration companies.”
Joe stroked his chin. “What do you suppose they were looking for?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Haggarty said. “That’s the kind of question I don’t ask the pilots, because they won’t tell me the answer anyway.”
“I’m impressed,” Joe said. “You really know your stuff.”
Haggarty finished off his bratwurst and sat back in his chair, content. “I do know my stuff,” he said. “But I also know that helicopter you just described is sitting in one of my hangars right now. An energy company leased the building for six months to house it.” Then he smiled.
“What’s the name of the company?”
“Global Exploration, out of Texas,” Haggarty said. “I don’t know much about them and, like I said, they don’t tell me. All I know is that their check cashed, and that always makes the airport board happy.”
Global Exploration. The same company name Joe had seen on the heavy-duty-equipment trucks driving through the Bucholz Ranch.
“Can I take a look at it to make sure it’s the helicopter I saw for sure?” Joe asked.
“I’m not sure I should open up the hangar without the permission of Global Exploration,” Haggarty said. “Some of our clients are real sticklers about confidentiality. They don’t want locals to know what they’re doing, you know?”
“I get that,” Joe said. “But I don’t want to start up the helicopter and fly it. I just want to look at it. I mean, I saw it in the sky. Why can’t I look at it on the ground?”
Haggarty stroked his chin, weighing Joe’s request.
“If Global Exploration has a hangar here, it’s public record, right?” Joe said. “Isn’t the lease with the county airport board?”
“It is,” Haggarty conceded.
“Then this is all on the up-and-up,” Joe said. “Unless you want me to come back with a search warrant or something.”
“We don’t need to do that,” Haggarty said.
“You can come with me to verify that I don’t do anything in there I shouldn’t,” Joe said.
“I’ll get the keys,” Haggarty said with a sigh.
—
Joe’s hat, parka, and jeans were coated with snow as Haggarty unlocked the metal door to Hangar #3 and shouldered the door open. Biscuit had come with them, and the Lab shook snow from her back. Joe closed the door behind them as Haggarty located the light switch.
“There it is,” Haggarty said.
Joe stamped his boots and brushed off snow as he approached the helicopter. It was larger in person than he thought it would be, and it sat like a huge sleeping damselfly. The rotor blades sagged from the spindle on top.
The pole mounted under the cockpit stretched out nearly twenty-five feet and it had a gleaming white oblong orb on the tip of it.
Joe touched the pole. It was solidly mounted.
“Maybe don’t touch that thing,” Haggarty cautioned.
Joe pulled his hand away as if burned by it. “Can I look inside the cockpit?”
“I can’t see how that would hurt anything,” Haggarty said. “Just don’t crawl inside with your wet clothes.” Then: “I don’t know what you think you’re looking for.”
“Neither do I,” Joe responded.
He opened the door to the cockpit and leaned inside. There was a single pilot’s seat, as well as a sidewise seat behind it that faced a wall of small computer screens.
It was obvious what the setup was. A pilot operated the aircraft, while a tech guy sat behind him and monitored the instruments. A long thin paper printout hung from a digital printer like an extended white tongue. Joe used the light from his phone to see the document better.
At first, all he could discern from the printout was that it was filled with scientific gibberish—all symbols, numbers, and what looked like geographic coordinates.
“What are you doing in there?” Haggarty asked from behind him.
“Reading stuff I don’t understand,” Joe said. As he said it, he shifted his body so Haggarty couldn’t see over his shoulder while he snapped several quick photos of the printout with his phone.
“What’s it say?” Haggarty asked.
Joe read it to him. It said: 43°97′58″ N, 106°88′70″ W. Then: Nd 2.4%, Pr 2.4%, Dy .08%, and Tb .07%.
“What in the hell does that mean?” Haggarty said.
“Darned if I know,” Joe said, withdrawing from the cockpit and pocketing his phone.
“All I know,” Haggarty said, “is that we ought to get out of here before we get drifted in.”
—
Back in his pickup with Biscuit, Joe called up the photos he had taken inside the cockpit and sent them to Marybeth.
Can you make any sense of this? he texted. Then: Off to see the Coffee Chicks.
“So what do you suppose these guys have found?” Joe asked Biscuit. “And what do John and Shelby Bucholz know about it?”