Chapter 41
Once aboard, I finally had a chance to catch my breath. If I was lucky, I might catch some sleep as well. Nothing like a late-night call and a frantic arrangement of plans to keep you going until an adrenaline crash.
I slept so soundly on the ride west that only the jolt of the tires hitting the tarmac in Montana woke me up. I was sitting nestled between a giant Portuguese businessman in the window seat and a tiny elderly woman in the aisle seat, who was also asleep, with her head resting on my shoulder.
The landing didn’t wake her immediately.
I sat there in awkward silence while this woman continued to snooze soundly, with her head remaining on my shoulder.
I could see little bits of pink scalp through her wispy gray hair.
Then I felt like I might need to sneeze.
I pinched my nose and held my breath. It was a desperate struggle.
I didn’t want to wake this woman. My sneezes were not usually quiet, dignified affairs.
Then the woman seemed to pop awake. There was no lag time, no fluttering her eyes and slowly adjusting to the world around her. One moment she was snoring softly, the next she was sitting up straight in her seat.
She turned and said to me with a soft Southern accent, “I’m so sorry. I must have dozed off.”
I waved off her concerns, finally managed my sneeze, and a few minutes later had my first look at the clean and efficient Bozeman airport.
It might not have been the JFK of the West—it was more along the lines of the Long Island MacArthur Airport of the West—but the fact that I’d traveled more than two thousand miles across the country in such a short time after getting the call from Trilling gave me a certain satisfaction.
The Bozeman Yellowstone International Airport had two stories, two concourses, and ten gates.
A few rental car vendors were lined up on the way to the exit.
The crowd mainly comprised people with ski equipment.
I overheard a group of private-school kids who’d been on my flight chatting excitedly about skiing far bigger mountains than they’d previously done in Vermont.
There was definitely a friendly vibe to the place.
Maybe it was because so many people seemed to be here on vacation.
The born-and-bred New Yorker in me tried not to view the friendliness with too much suspicion, but it was tough.
As if to emphasize the point, when I turned to make a quick stop in the restroom and a man about my age held the door for me and called me “sir,” my first reaction was: Who the hell does this guy think he is?
And my second was: Who does he think I am?
Royalty? But I nodded and walked into the restroom.
When I continued my march down the concourse, I glanced to my right.
The view out the wide windows made me pause.
In the distance, I could see the rising mountains and the prairie.
To say it was vast would be a drastic understatement.
Even though everything I could see was either covered with snow or brown, I immediately understood the pull of the West. I could imagine why, in the summer, nearby Yellowstone National Park would attract busloads of tourists.
I took my eyes off the natural beauty of the area and reminded myself not to be lulled into a sense of wonder. I was here for a reason. I was helping a friend in one of the few areas where I was an expert: human greed and violence.
I easily spotted Rob Trilling standing by the exit doors. He stood erect, looking exactly like the former soldier he was. I’ll admit it was nice to see something familiar. Then Trilling, as he often did, surprised me.
As soon as I got close to the doors, he stepped forward and gave me a hug.