He was already waiting at the silo when Pickard and Apperson arrived. He steered them toward the Lester building. As they inspected the lab equipment, Skinner slipped inside the silo next door to make a phone call.
What do I do next? he whispered into the receiver.
Stall, he was told.
When Skinner returned, Pickard was upset. Where was the ET that “C” hauled down from Chicago?
Skinner tap danced. Not to worry. It was hidden for safekeeping. He’d deliver the missing canisters the following morning. In the meantime, Skinner gave them each three Valium, handed over the keys to the Lester building, and told them where to park when they rented their truck. He didn’t volunteer to help. Skinner had pressing business elsewhere.
Pickard and Apperson picked up their rental from U-Haul and returned to the base at midnight, working till dawn dumping chemicals and loading the truck.
When Pickard’s hotel phone rang the next day, it was already past one p.m. Still tuckered from the night before, he rubbed sleep from his eyes and thanked Skinner for the little blue pills. Any chemical hangover was minimal.
Skinner seized upon Pickard’s gratitude to deliver bad news. He couldn’t get the ET until Monday.
Why not? Pickard’s voice rose along with his displeasure. He told him he’d better come up with the chemicals or “your ass is grass.” He reminded Skinner that he and Apperson had a long drive ahead of them.
Patience, Skinner counseled.
Patience my ass, countered Pickard.
Early Monday morning, Skinner rang again. He had the ET. Throughout the day, he promised to meet, then cancelled at the last minute or simply did not show. The game continued into the afternoon, each conversation recorded by the DEA as Leonard’s patience frayed.
Skinner’s final call at dusk was delivered with regrets. He had an emergency. He had to leave town. No explanation, but he did leave the “records”6 on a treadmill inside the Lester building. All they had to do was pick them up.
Pickard smelled a rat. Was this Warren Buffett redux? He demanded a face-to-face. Skinner refused, then turned Pickard’s paranoia on its head. He had reason to fear the cops as much as Leonard.
Leonard considered then rejected Skinner’s excuse. He’d be by to pick up the “records” a little later. Skinner had better be there.
When Pickard and Apperson rolled up, the compound was silent. No cars. No crickets. No llamas. No Skinner. The gate was unlocked. They drove in, parked, and adjourned to the Lester building to wait.
Time passed. The wind picked up as night fell. It looked like Skinner stood them up again. Everything was boxed, so they finished loading the truck. They worked steadily, perspiring despite dropping temperatures. They finished just before sleet began pelting the windshield.
Pickard’s cell rang. It was Skinner. Still peeved, he lit into him. “My life passed before my eyes today,” Pickard snarled.
Skinner protested that he was the aggrieved party. “You really frightened me.”
Pickard thought a moment before admitting he overreacted. They agreed to bury the hatchet and meet later at a café in Topeka. Pickard hung up and made his final round for anything Skinner had neglected to pack.
He used bolt cutters to get through the silo door, only to find a second one that wouldn’t budge, even though it seemed to be unlocked. Apperson tried. Still wouldn’t budge. They gave up. What they did not learn until much later was that Karl Nichols and Todd Skinner were on the other side, holding their breath as well as the door.
As they caravanned out of the compound and onto the redundantly named Sixth Street Road, Pickard twirled the radio dial in search of von Weber, Saint Saens, or maybe a little Tchaikovsky. He hummed a Van Morrison oldie as he ran over the slim pickings of the east Kansas airwaves. No classical music this night.
A smile played over Leonard’s taut features as he mouthed Morrison’s words:
We were born before the wind
Ah, so much warmer than the sun
And we shall sail as One
Into the Mystic.
A harvest moon peeked from behind the clouds blanketing the Flint Hills. Leonard heaved a sigh. It was good to finally be back on the road again.
1. The last big bust netted five suspects with 1.5 million hits on June 29, 1993. The four-year investigation climaxed with 160 officers and agents from twelve state and federal jurisdictions raiding nine different locations. The ring’s leader was a thirty-seven-year-old Indian rug importer who went by the name “Sarah Bernhardt” and fled to Guatemala in 1990. The task force spent $120,000 on drugs but did not detail the total cost of the operation.
2. Kelly Rothe finalized her divorce from Skinner on Nov. 15, 1998, moved to Massachusetts, and became a genetic researcher at Harvard.
3. In 2006, a Florida federal judge labeled PILL “an alleged tax fraud scheme” operated by a father and son out of the Bahamas. Twelve years later, PILL had moved to Belize and advertised itself thusly:
“Join 27,000 satisfied clients in 110 countries! An unsurpassed business opportunity—No selling—No buying—No inventory—No reporting—No accounting—No deductions—No paperwork—No forms—No office rent—No set hours—No overhead—Completely private—No equipment—Unlimited market—Operate anywhere—Very little competition—Instant access to income anywhere—Unlimited income potential.”
4. 5-methoxy-N,N-diisopropyl tryptamine
5. The ET turned out to be ergocristine, an ergotamine analogue that was legal under Schedule One.
6. Leonard’s code for the ET.
PART THREE
What the Dormouse Said
XVII.
AN OWLISH MAN WITH WRY wit and a Missouri drawl, Wamego Times publisher Mark Portell belied small town stereotypes. Born in the “Show-Me” state, he chose the Kansas flatlands to ply his craft. He was a newsman, through and through, but not of The Front Page variety. Portell was more likely to cover a Chamber potluck or a 4-H hog auction than write the kind of metropolitan headlines that graced the Kansas City Star or
