"And you've had no other rifles come and go since then?"
"Why no…may I ask your interest?"
"That's okay, I appreciate the help." I hung up.
I called ten more museums. Each one could currently account for their Winchesters, and had seen none go missing in recent memory.
Then I dialed the twelfth number on my contact sheet, the
Museum of Outlaws and Lawmen in Fort Sumner, New Mexico.
"MOL Museum, this is Rex speaking."
"Hi, Rex, I'm calling because I read somewhere that you have an authentic, working Winchester 1873 rifle in stock. Is that true?"
"It ain't in stock," Rex said, "this is a museum, not a sidewalk sale, son."
"Sorry, but you do have one."
"Why yes, sir, we do."
"Just one?"
There was a split second of silence before Rex answered, and I picked up on it.
"Why, yes, one's just about all we need."
"Have any rifles come in or left the museum for any reason over the last year?"
"Listen, you care to tell me what all these questions are about?"
"I was just wondering…"
"Our gun is here, it's in great shape and it looks a lot better in person than it does over the phone."
For a moment I assumed we'd been disconnected, but then
I heard the dial tone and knew Rex had hung up on me. My heart began to beat faster. But I had to confirm it.
I dialed the number again. The same man picked up.
"Hi, I just called about your Winchester 1873 model rifle, and-"
"Hey, either come to the museum like all normal folks or stop calling."
Once again I was greeted by a dial tone. I stared at the phone for a moment. This museum clearly didn't like my line of questioning. Then I recalled that the museum was in New
Mexico. The heart of the Old West.
I picked up the receiver and dialed again. This time a different number. It picked up on the first ring.
"Hey, Henry," Amanda said. "Missed me much?"
"I have to go to New Mexico," I said. "And I need to leave tonight."
There was silence on the other end.
"Does that mean I shouldn't wait for you for dinner?"
"If you don't mind waiting until tomorrow to eat."
"As if I don't have enough trouble getting out of bed in the morning," she said. "So you found something out there?
New Mexico?"
"Yeah, something to do with the murders. I know it."
"Something about the gun?"
"Yeah, I think I have a lead at a museum."
"Then go. Do whatever you can to find this guy," she said.
"I'll be here when you get back. Dinner might be a bit cold, though. I'll just rename it vichyssoise and call it a gourmet meal."
I laughed. "No way. When I get back you're getting the finest grilled cheese in North America."
"I'll keep a bowl of Kix nearby just in case."
"Thanks, babe. I'll call you when I leave."
Then I hung up and checked departure times for flights to
New Mexico.
23
I cashed Jack's check at a local Chase branch, then took a cab home and threw a pile of clothes into a duffel bag, hoping
I'd buck the odds and end up with a matching outfit or two.
I took the Xeroxes from Agnes Trimble's book, packed them in a valise.
As I zipped up the duffel, I stared at the bed. Neither
Amanda nor I had bothered to make it that morning. I could still make out the ruffled sheets where we'd lain the night before. I could re-create it; where Amanda's arm lay across my chest, where her legs curled around mine. My hand gently stroking her leg, the way she smiled and kissed my cheek.
I had to leave before I thought about it anymore, because the more I did the more Jack's words resonated.
I made sure my phone was charged and I had a clean notebook and tape recorder. The bills made my wallet fat.
I thought about the last time I traveled across the country, several men wanting me dead and Amanda unaware of the lie I'd fed her. And now she shared my bed. I still had to prove myself to her, and to do so I had to put her life before mine.
And yet for the first time since we started seeing each other, despite how much I loved her, I thought about my conversation with Jack and wondered if Amanda deserved better.
Another cab sped me to the Continental terminal at LaGuardia Airport. I ran to the reservations desk and made the seven-thirty nonstop flight to Albuquerque, New Mexico. I paid the five-hundred-and-sixty-dollar round-trip ticket with a handful of cash, drawing a slightly raised eyebrow from the woman at the ticket counter.
"How long is the flight?"
"Four hours and thirty-five minutes," she replied, eyes down as she counted out the numerous crisp twenties.
"And what's the time difference in Albuquerque?"
"New Mexico is on Mountain Standard Time. Two hours earlier than New York."
"Is there an in-flight movie?"
"Let me check…that would be Shrek 2. "
"Couldn't get Shrek 3? "
She did not find me funny.
My flight was scheduled to land at midnight, or ten New
Mexico time. On arrival, I still had to rent a car and drive down to Fort Sumner, which was about a hundred and sixty miles southeast of Albuquerque. Barring any major driving mishaps or being kidnapped by a herd of mountain lions, I'd make the drive in two, two and a half hours, putting me in Fort
Sumner at about twelve-thirty. The museum would be long closed, so I'd have to find a friendly bed-and-breakfast. All of this, of course, while having no clue about local customs or directions. You had to love seat-of-your-pants journalism.
I grabbed my boarding pass, bought copies of the Gazette and the Dispatch and headed toward the gate. There I sucked down a cup of coffee and a cheese Danish, and waited. There were
barely twenty people waiting for the flight, reading newspapers and paperbacks and counting the minutes until departure.
The plane boarded a mere twenty minutes later, and I was lucky enough to get a whole row to myself. I took the window seat, raised the armrests and spread my legs. I put the newspapers on the seat next to me and yawned, my head resting gently against the window, the fading light making my eyes heavy. The next thing I knew I woke up as the plane was landing.
I ambled drearily off the plane, then pissed off a dozen grumpy passengers when I had to double back and grab my carry-on bag. After a pit stop at a Coffee Beanery, I followed signs to the car rental area and filled out the paperwork for a beige 2001 Chevy Impala. I paid in cash, hemmed and hawed about insurance and finally caved in. With any luck Jack would get reimbursed. I took half a dozen maps of every conceivable location and asked the clerk to highlight the best routes for me to drive to Fort Sumner.
"Lot of history there," he said. "You going for business or pleasure?"
"Little of both."
"Well, don't spend so much time on business you don't enjoy yourself. If you're an Old West buff, you can't do any better than old Fort Sumner."
"That right?"
"Damn right. Buy me a few replicas down there every year, give 'em to the nephews to play cowboys and Indians.
Three littlest ones always fight to see who gets to be Jesse
James. Funny, everyone always wants to be the bad guy."
"Guess being a good guy isn't as much fun."
"Guess not," he said.
"Is it hard to find a motel down there? Somewhere for a bite?"
"Shoot, not at all. Second most popular attraction Fort
Sumner has after old guns is vacancy signs."
I thanked him and took the keys to my Impala. He told me to wait outside for a company shuttle, grabbed it for a silent seven-minute ride to the lot.
I stepped outside, remembering to reset my watch. Then I took a deep breath. The Albuquerque airport resembled a mesa as designed by Frank Lloyd Wright-the facade a dark brown, with square geometric shapes and light blue cornering. The skies were clear, the air thick and humid, so I took off my jacket and wrapped it around my waist. Fashion be damned.