whoever or whatever you wanted to know about, and within a few minutes,
usually, they came back with as extensive a report as was available.
The service had access, however legally, to social security, state
motor vehicle departments, credit bureaus, police computer nets, and a
bunch of others they wouldn't talk about. It was an expensive service,
but they were pretty good. Not perfect--all they had on Ventura
himself was what he allowed anybody to have on him--but as good as you
were going to find outside of a serious spook shop. Good enough to
track and define most honest people. Spotting the others was his
job--if it took one to know one, he certainly ought to know a
shooter.
The pilot brought the plane in smoothly, didn't even hop once when he
touched down, and taxied toward a wind sock on a steel post next to a
corrugated metal shed with a very steeply angled roof.
Once they were out with their bags, the pilot headed from the apron
back to the runway, never even killing his engine.
It was warm--high seventies or low eighties, Ventura figured.
Morrison said, 'Didn't think it would be so warm, eh?'
'Actually, I was wondering where the mosquitoes were.
They're usually pretty bad this time of year in the lake valleys.'
Morrison blinked, apparently surprised that Ventura wasn't surprised by
the temperature.
'Um. Well, the DOD has a guy who comes out and fogs the site every now
and then. The mosquitoes are worse away from here. So, you've been to
Alaska before? Why didn't you say so?'
'It never came up,' Ventura said. He smiled.
'Um. Come on, I'll show you the setup. There's a fuel cell cart in
the shed; it's a mile or so to the front gate from here. We'll
ride.'
Ventura nodded. He adjusted the pistol in his belt holster.
It had been there since they'd left Seattle. There were half a dozen
ways he knew of to avoid having to pack your weapon in your luggage.
People who thought you couldn't carry a gun onto a commercial jet were
only fooling themselves.
Fooling himself was not Ventura's game.
1-80, just northwest of Laramie, Wyoming
'Wow, look how big they are!'
Tyrone glanced away from the small herd of buffalo penned next to the
truck stop, and at Nadine.
'Yeah. I've seen vids, but you don't get the reality of it. They
stink, too.' In the heat of the early afternoon, the dry air carried
the musky, dusty odor of the animals. It was kind of hard to say
exactly what it smelled like, but it wasn't something you smelled on a
street in Washington, D.C. This was a fairly level spot, but they were
into the northern Rocky Mountains now, and it was a lot slower going in
the big RV than it had been on the flatlands of Kansas.
He and Nadine stood next to the tall wooden rail fence bounded by a
single wire plastered with warnings that it was electrified, and not to
touch it, not more than twenty or thirty feet away from the nearest
buffalo as it chewed on hay or something. As they watched, the
