Beatty called after I left Darza. He said he’d seen his face on a TV in a mini-mart. He’d kept his head down, paid, and went from there to the insurance office of a friend in Tonopah he rented garage space from to pick up the garage key and retrieve a couple of things.
“With what’s happened I shouldn’t be bothering you,” Beatty said. “I’m sorry, Grale.”
“It’s okay.”
“When I asked my friend for the garage key, she said she was supposed to call the FBI if I showed up. I said, ‘Call them while I’m here.’ She did, and I talked to the agent.”
“Was it one of the agents who interviewed you yesterday?”
“No, someone else, a guy named Patterson.”
“How did it go yesterday?”
“Not that well. This Patterson told me to wait at the insurance office and two agents would come get me and bring me back—the FBI has more questions. I told him, ‘Not today, not after yesterday.’ He got fired up and told me to stay right there and agents would come get me. I don’t know what I said after that, but it wasn’t nice. My insurance broker friend told me the FBI took all my stuff out of her garage early this morning. We’re talking camping gear, the gun my dad gave me when I turned twelve, that kind of thing.”
“You’ll get them back.”
“On TV they’re turning me into a psycho. Where are they getting that from?”
“Not from us. Why don’t you answer their follow-up questions and then be on your way?”
“Did that yesterday, and there’s nothing happening at the airfield today. Besides, they’re just fishing. I think I’m going to take a ride and go see a friend. I’m just letting you know.”
“You don’t need to let me know. You’re making your own decisions. I’ll talk to you later.”
July 6th, late morning
Beatty got on his bike and rode south then west across the desert toward California. As he clipped through at ninety miles an hour he flashed back to a colonel pointing at him in a flight trailer, saying “Trigger puller,” meaning that as a high compliment, the one who takes it to the enemy. Back then it felt righteous.
He thought of Dr. Frederic lecturing him on post-traumatic stress disorder, telling him what to expect and how to manage it. He’d waited nine months after his discharge for an appointment through the VA with Frederic, and after all that, Dr. Fred turned out to be an asshole. But Frederic was right about his guilt.
He pushed the bike to 130 mph and screamed past a Nevada Highway Patrol officer sitting on the shoulder. The trooper threw on his lights and sirens but never had a chance. He was into California before the cop got anywhere close. He rode fast along the White Mountains and didn’t slow until Bishop and didn’t stop until he was south to Independence, where he took the turn out to Laura’s ranch.
Her truck and her old Jeep were there, but as he got off his bike he lost his nerve and for a long moment debated leaving. If she hadn’t opened the front door, he would have.
Laura came down the creaky porch steps, asking, “Why is the FBI getting serious about you?”
“I test-flew some drones in Taiwan and accidentally got into a Department of Defense investigation.”
“Is that the truth?”
“As best I know.”
“Do you want me to help?”
“I don’t want to pull you into this. I just wanted to see you. I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do. The FBI is looking at me for the Vegas bombings.”
“On TV they’re saying after your discharge you expressed extreme hostility toward the air force. Did you write any more letters to the air force like the one you did for Dr. Fred?”
“None like the one you read.”
“But you wrote more?”
“You can read them. There’s nothing wrong with them.”
“Is Paul Grale still helping you?”
“He’s telling me to suck it up and ride it out.”
“I’ve seen that trailer at Wunderland on TV. What are you doing living there still? You promised me you’d move out of there as soon as you had enough money. And why is plastic over the windows?”
“My computer is right there. The plastic blocks the sun. There’s too much glare without it.”
She had hated the trailer, hated the whole idea of him living in it. She called it hiding and only slept one night there.
“You look really good, Laura. I hope you’re doing great. I’m not here to freak you out.”
She came down off the steps.
“Why don’t you call one of these TV reporters and tell them what the plastic over the windows is for?”
“I told the FBI yesterday.”