“Who keeps track of who flies in and out?”
“I do.”
“I mean generally,” he said, letting impatience creep into his voice. “Can anyone walk up and ask who flew out this morning?”
“Nobody ever has,” she said.
He took a deep breath. “What I’m asking, ma’am, is what if someone did?”
“Nobody ever has. I just told you that.”
“But if they did,” he said, his voice rising, “what would you do?”
She shrugged. She looked over at his family, assessing them. He followed her gaze. Marybeth sat primly with her hands in her lap. Lucy was slumped to the side, her chin in her hand. April slouched back with earbuds plugged into her iPod.
She said, “I don’t think it’s public information, sir. It’s nobody’s business.”
He glared at her. “Let’s keep it that way.”
She flinched and rolled her eyes in a whatever gesture. Then she looked over his shoulder and said, “I’ll need to get you to step away from the counter, sir. The other passenger has arrived.”
Joe looked over his shoulder to see Rowdy Jones enter the terminal in full western dress: boots, pressed Wranglers, massive silver rodeo buckle, string tie, fine 30X gray Stetson. He pulled a large rolling leather suitcase behind him that had been personalized with his brand burned into both sides.
“Rowdy,” Joe said as a greeting, stepping aside.
“Morning, Joe,” the rancher said, looking over the Picketts. “Taking everyone on a family vacation?”
“Kind of,” Joe said.
“Game warden leaving during elk season,” Rowdy said, grinning. “That’ll get around.”
Joe continued to pace. The eastern sky was lighting up into early-dawn cream. Snow crystals hung sparkling in the air. The sky looked as if it would clear soon. He looked at his watch, then his phone.
Joe listened halfheartedly as April mocked Lucy by saying, “I’ll miss my precious play rehearsal, boo- hoo.”
“April, please,” Marybeth said.
Joe looked out onto the road, looking for a dark Audi crossover.
Rowdy Jones lowered himself in a chair that faced Marybeth. Rowdy commented-loudly-as white-clad Transportation Security Administration employees filed in through the doors, headed for their screening station set up in front of a small departure area.
“Five of the knuckleheads!” Rowdy said, evincing a scowl from two of the agents as they passed by. “Count ’em. Five of ’em. One per passenger. Boy, I sure feel safe now, don’t you? And to think it’s my tax money that’s paying them. And from what I hear, they’ve never caught a damned terrorist. Not one!”
One of the TSA agents paused to glare menacingly at Rowdy.
Marybeth looked to Joe like she’d rather be anywhere than where she was.
Another dark fish was added to Joe’s small tank. This one represented what might have been, back in 1999, if cruise missiles would have been launched to take out the targets who later planned and approved 9/11. Would the world be better? Would those five TSA agents even exist? Would TSA exist? Would the country still be somewhat safe and innocent and intact?
Rowdy turned back to Joe and Marybeth and said, “Make sure you don’t have any tweezers on you or any liquids more than four ounces. Think about our safety!”
To change the subject, Joe asked Rowdy where he was headed.
“Europe!”
“Really,” Joe said.
“Craziest thing,” Rowdy said, shaking his head, “I used to have to beg folks to come and help us out on the ranch during spring and fall, when we moved cattle to and from the mountains. Literally beg them. Bribe ’em with a big steak dinner afterward and hope they’d show up when they said they would. Then I started charging tourists for the privilege. Got my son to throw up a website advertising ‘Rowdy’s Authentic Cowboy Cattle Drives,’ and it was Katie-bar-the-door,” he said.
“Fifteen hundred a person,” he said, grinning, as if Joe and Marybeth were coconspirators in a scam. “And all these Easterners and Europeans are paying me to do what nobody around here will do anymore. Now I spend the summer ranching and taking care of these dudes, and I spend the winter visiting them in Europe. England, France, Holland, Germany… staying in the homes of former guests. They tell me my money isn’t any good over there.”
“That’s quite a story,” Marybeth said. Joe knew it was true.
“Saved the ranch,” Rowdy said. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it fifteen years ago. Hell, I finally figured out how to make that place pay, and it sure as hell isn’t horses and cows. It’s rich folks playing cowboy! I’m thinking about building some more cabins at the place so I can charge ’em to stay there. I used to pay Mexicans and provide beans and a bed, and now I can charge folks for the same privilege.”
Rowdy looked up as the front door opened. Joe wheeled around in his chair, tense. But instead of John Nemecek, it was the two pilots, each pulling along a battered wheeled bag. They were very young, and their uniforms helped only a little, Joe thought.
“They look like they’re Sheridan’s age,” Marybeth whispered to Joe.
Or military age, Joe thought, feeling his insides clench. But the pilots nodded to a couple of the TSA agents and addressed them by name. They were familiar with one another, and this was obviously a daily event. Joe sighed in relief but couldn’t sit any longer and listen to Rowdy. Rowdy was a fine man and a good guy, but Joe was too nervous and guilty and paranoid to relax.
“I’ll be back,” he said to Marybeth.
“Man looks like he’s got ants in his pants,” Rowdy said as Joe walked to the far end of the terminal to look at the old photos.
Again, Joe checked the road out front. No Audi. He checked his phone. No call or text from Sheridan. He tried her number again and it went straight to voice mail.
There was a high whine outside. He went to the window that overlooked the tarmac to see that the pilots were bringing the airplane around from its hangar on the other side of the field. It was a small Beechcraft 1900D turboprop that held nineteen passengers. All over Wyoming, like angry bees, the little planes delivered people to Denver International Airport, where they could board large jets for other places.
The aircraft swung around and parked, and the pilots killed the spinning propellers but kept the engines running. In a moment, the door opened and a spindly staircase accordioned out. Joe watched as the surly counter girl, now in an overlarge parka, tugged the luggage cart out toward the plane. The copilot stood near the back of the aircraft to help her toss the luggage inside. He could see Lucy’s colorful suitcase and April’s bulging duffel bag. It seemed to Joe the girls had packed everything they owned.
Beyond the small airplane, the serrated profile of the Bighorn Mountains, fresh with snow, dominated the horizon. Up in those mountains was Nemecek’s headquarters. And Joe was flying away. As he stared, his stomach churning, he saw a lone falcon soaring high in the cirrus clouds, moving so slowly as to almost be motionless.
He wished he could talk to Nate, tell him what he’d found out.
Because of the whine of the aircraft, he didn’t hear Marybeth approach, and he jumped when she placed her hand on his shoulder.
He turned.
“Joe, are you all right?” she asked, tilting her head slightly back, probing his face with her eyes.
He paused for a moment. “No, I’m not.”
She couldn’t hide the disappointment but tried. “I know how you feel about these little planes.”
“It’s not that,” Joe said. “Think of how many times he helped me. How many times he helped us,” he said, nodding toward Lucy and April. “Now, when he’s the one in trouble, I’m flying away.”
“But he wants you to,” she said. “He said it himself.”
“Nate doesn’t always know what’s good for him,” Joe said.
She shook her head and said, “This is a different level they’re playing at. These are different kinds of men.
