Chapter 4
Jamie
Supervisory Special Agent Jamie Saldano is hiding in the kitchen long after the microwave popcorn has popped and he’s dumped
it into a bowl. Funny, he thinks, in the past seventeen years, he’s faced violent criminals, arms dealers, arsonists, and
domestic terrorists, but the thought of being in the same room as his wife right now causes him to break into a cold sweat.
Tess hadn’t wanted to make the move from DC, has never lived in a city with a population less than a million, and now they
are in Nowheresville, Wyoming, and it is all Jamie’s fault.
The supervisory special agent opportunity with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, also known as the
ATF, came just when the boutique business-strategy consulting firm that Tess worked for closed its doors. To her credit, Tess
has tried to be happy in Cheyenne, but two months in, Tess is bored and lonely and no closer to finding a comparable position.
Her friends and family—all miles away. Why Wyoming? she asked, tearfully. He had a bachelor degree in criminology from the
University of Maryland, five years with DC Metro, twelve years as an ATF agent working on everything from gun trafficking
to arson to the criminal use of firearms and explosives. Of all the places he could have transferred, why here?
It was a fair question. Jamie didn’t have fond memories of the state he lived in for six torturous months as a kid, but it was also the state he had the biggest connection to.
Last week, Jamie made the mistake of telling her that maybe she should find a hobby. It came out wrong, and Tess has barely
spoken to him since then.
Somehow the chill has started to thaw, and they are in the midst of watching an old movie, but still their conversation is
forced, stilted. Jamie hates this but truly doesn’t know how to make it better. Blessedly his cell rings, and one glance at
the screen tells him it’s important. The special agent in charge, or SAC, doesn’t call after eight o’clock on a Friday night
on a whim.
“Saldano, we’ve got a possible bombing over in Woodson County,” SAC Linton Sykes says brusquely. Sykes is responsible for
ATF operations throughout Wyoming and three other states. The hair at Jamie’s neck bristles at the mention of Woodson County.
“At least one dead and multiple injuries at a gathering involving a high-profile family,” Sykes continues. “We need a certified
explosive specialist out there now.”
“Yes, sir,” Jamie says. “Right away.”
“Good,” Sykes says. “I’ll send you the information. And keep me posted. The press is going to be all over this.”
Jamie disconnects and looks up to find Tess standing in the doorway. Her dark hair is piled atop her head in a messy bun,
and she’s wearing a pair of plaid flannel pajama bottoms and one of Jamie’s old ATF T-shirts. “You have to go?” she asks,
and Jamie can’t tell if he hears disappointment or accusation in her voice. She looks small and vulnerable. So unlike what
he’s used to. He doesn’t like it.
“Yeah,” he says. “Explosion west of here. Linton wants someone out there right away.”
“Greta can’t go?” Tess asks. Greta Martin is the intelligence research specialist in the Cheyenne office and has befriended
Tess, though they have little in common. “I thought being the boss meant that you could delegate.”
“Normally that’s the case, but this time my boss is the one doing the delegating,” Jamie says. This wasn’t technically true. Linton hadn’t expressly requested him, but Jamie was the most experienced CES in the Cheyenne office.
Tess nods in understanding. They’ve been married long enough for Tess to be used to Jamie having to leave at a moment’s notice.
“Want me to help pack your bag?” she asks.
“Nah,” Jamie says. “I’ve got it. You watch the movie. Thanks, though.” He brushes past her on the way to the closet in the
extra bedroom where Jamie keeps his suitcase. Their modest, tidy house seems huge in comparison to their tiny one-bedroom
apartment in DC. He’s itching to get to his car and to read the email from Linton but is almost afraid to find out. Tess watches
in silence as he changes his clothes, packs quickly, and retrieves his sidearm from the safe.
“I’m sorry,” Jamie says once his suitcase is stowed in the trunk of his ATF-issued vehicle.
“I know,” Tess says, but her voice is flat. He bends down to kiss her, but he can feel her tense beneath his touch. He’s losing
her, and he doesn’t know how to stop it from happening. That’s not quite right. He knows he needs to get Tess back to DC,
back to a career she loved and to the people she loved, and he will eventually. But for now he has a job to do.
He lifts his bicycle onto the rack on the rear of his vehicle. He takes it with him whenever he travels for work. As a kid
he logged hundreds of miles on his skateboard, but in college he swapped it out for a secondhand ten-speed. Jamie backs out
of the garage and waves to Tess as he clears the driveway, but she’s already turned away.
Once on the road, he checks his phone for the email from Linton. It’s brief but gives him the basics. An explosion. One dead,
at least two critical, and dozens of others with injuries. But it’s the town where he’s headed that causes him to nearly swerve
off the road.
Nightjar.
Nightjar, Wyoming, population 1200. He hasn’t stepped foot in the town—if you can call it that—in twenty-seven years. But
isn’t this why he took the job in Wyoming? Because he knew that one day he would be called back to the town that tore apart
his family? To the town that took his sister.
Driving across Wyoming at night is a lonely trek. On moonless, starless, and misty nights such as this, and on certain stretches
of highway, the mountains retreat into the blackness, and the earth and sky become one. With only his headlights to lead the
way, Jamie feels as if he could drive off the end of the world. To pass the time, he listens to a podcast and takes swigs
of Mountain Dew, cracks sunflower seeds between his teeth, and presses his foot down on the accelerator. The drive would normally
take five hours, but he’ll make it in four.
His headlights bring a sign into focus, and Jamie pulls over. Welcome to Nightjar. Nearly three decades earlier, when Jamie’s mother first told them they were moving from San Antonio to some godforsaken
town named Nightjar, a town name that brought to mind a mason jar filled with swirling black air, Jamie and Juneau both balked
vehemently. Their mother was insistent, though. They had to go where the jobs were, and the opportunity to be the night manager
and head of housekeeping at a motel in the mountains was too good to pass up. Especially when it came with free lodging.
Later, Jamie would learn that the nightjar is a rangy, speckled bird the size of a crow, and after a few months in the town, he became inured to the harried calls of the bird when the sun began to settle behind the mountains.
He also learned that people used to believe that nightjars were the souls of unbaptized children fated to fly the night sky.
After his sister disappeared, Jamie would search for her along dusty gravel roads and in weedy ditches, and the nightjars would follow along with him in graceful loops, their hollow knocklike calls chasing Jamie’s own. Juneau, Juneau, Juneau.
Jamie gets back in his car and drives for about ten minutes when he passes an abandoned filling station. The Sip and Fuel.
Jamie makes a wide U-turn, his tires squealing on the asphalt, pulls into the gas station, and gets out. It’s shut down now,
the gas pumps removed, and a large For Lease sign hangs from the eaves. Suddenly his mind goes back to that awful night.
He and Juneau had pooled their money to buy a half-gallon of milk, a box of cereal, and a bag of chips at the Sip and Fuel
before heading back to the motel room where they were living with their mom. They had driven about half a mile when Juneau
said something about wishing they had gone to the high school football game that night. Jamie remembered being surprised by
this. He thought Juneau felt the way he did—that their new school was stupid, football was stupid, and they were biding their
time here until they could go back home to San Antonio.
“I thought you already screwed your way through the football team,” Jamie said, jokingly. “Who’s left, the water boy?”
Juneau slammed on the brakes of the Lynx station wagon, and they came to a skidding stop in the middle of the gravel road.
“What the hell?” Jamie said, the seat belt catching and punching the air from his chest.
“You are an ass,” Juneau said. “Get out.”
“Yeah, right,” Jamie said. “Just drive.”
“No, I mean it,” Juneau said. “Get out of the car. You can walk home.”
“I was kidding,” Jamie said and laughed.
“You don’t joke about those kinds of things, Jamie,” Juneau said angrily. “It’s hard enough being new without having your
brother starting rumors about you.”
“I didn’t!” Jamie protested, but Juneau was having none of it.
“Get out!” she yelled, grabbing the black knit cap from his head and throwing it out the open window.
“Hey,” Jamie cried, scuttling from the car to retrieve it, and watched as Juneau drove away, the taillights getting smaller
and smaller until the car took a left onto the gravel road that led to home. Jamie never saw his sister again.
Get in your car and go, Juneau’s voice whispers. Don’t think about it anymore. It wasn’t your fault. It was never your fault. Get back in your car, and call your wife.
Now Jamie trudges to his car and opens the driver’s-side door. But instead of getting in, he reaches inside and grabs his
jacket. A dusty pickup truck roars by and hangs a right onto the gravel road. In it are two teens, music blaring from the
open windows. Jamie starts walking, following the fading taillights, slips on his jacket, and zips it up to his chin. It gets
cold in the mountains at night.