Jump City: Apprentice Page 8

I looked behind us. “If the water came rushing down that gully, I can’t see how the cars end up where they are. The middle car is closest and the other two are further away. How could a flood do that?”

  “Okay, that is weird,” Ollie agreed. “Let’s take another pass.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Ollie Fisher rose and went to the boxes in the back of his truck. He took out what looked to be a toy boat, though on closer inspection, it resembled a catamaran, or maybe an abnormally large insect with an antenna on top and tentacles dangling below. He took it to the shore and gently set it adrift.

  “Help me move this table into the shade over there,” Ollie said with a nod. We carried it about twenty yards to the left and he set to work. I heard a slight electrical whirling, a soft whine really, and watched Ollie’s miniature catamaran skim out over the lake with alarming speed. Ollie turned back to the screen, now easier to see. He indicated to the first contact. “That’s car number one…” Then he pointed out to his catamaran resting on the calm water.

  “Can you follow the line?” I asked.

  The miniature engine whirled again and Ollie’s craft skidded across the lake. On the screen another shape appeared.

  “That’s…”

  “Four,” Ollie finished my sentence and guided his boat further along our supposed arc. After twenty yards or so, another submerged vehicle appeared on the screen.

  “Five,” we said in tandem. Ollie looked back at me with some astonishment and adjusted his glasses as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

  “Looks like a Prius,” I commented.

  “What?”

  “A Prius—”

  “Yeah, I heard you, but what makes you say that?”

  “The shape.”

  “Could be…” Doc Ollie turned his concentration to the radio-controlled sailing and maneuvered his electric boat back to the first car closest to the shore. He followed the same curve but in the other direction. We both counted aloud to seven. It was difficult to tell the exact make and model of each vehicle, though it was apparent that some of them were pretty old.

  “Can you get a close-up, or… um, a more detailed image?”

  “That I can do…”

  “Try that one,” I said and pointed.

  The whirling started again. Ollie’s bug skittered across the water. It stopped and its engine went silent. He went back to the keyboard. A single image filled the screen. It was a bit grainy, almost like an ultrasound you’d see from a hospital. Ollie zoomed in and out a couple of times. The details faded back and forth like three dimensional shadows played by the sun. He scanned across a bumper, and up the hood to the windshield that reflected back darkly, obscuring anything inside.

  “That’s no Prius,” I said. Clearly, this car was from a different time.

  “Agreed,” Ollie said and panned across the image further.

  “Can you zoom in on the backseat. It looks like that window might be open…”

  Ollie did so as I spoke, and in another moment we could tell something terrible had happened. We stared at each other wide eyed. The image zoomed in and out eerily: a sepulcher face stared back at us with hollow sockets.

  “Holy crap,” I said. “What about the driver’s seat?”

  Ollie seemed too stunned at first to do anything. Finally, he took the controls and panned forward again. “Hmm, can’t see through the closed window. Let me adjust the frequency.”

  “Wait, this thing can see through windows?”

  “That it can,” Ollie said with some pride and smiled.

  Miraculously, the rest of the car’s interior came into view, as if we could see right through the glass. The vehicle was devoid of a driver, or in this case, a corpse.

  “Didn’t see that before,” Ollie said and squirmed in his folding chair which made a slight creaking noise.

  “Can you go to the next car in line?”

  Ollie did: another car, another window, and another corpse. By the end of our search, we were seven for seven. Each car had a dead passenger in the backseat.

  “Not flood victims,” I said slowly. “Whoever they are, they’ve been dead for years, maybe longer.”

  Ollie laughed nervously but stopped in mid-chuckle and stared at me as I dialed my phone. “Who are you calling— Andy?”

  “Nope… nine-one-one.”

  ***

  The operator wasn’t exactly hostile but certainly not helpful. She had trouble understanding what I was trying to describe despite my best efforts.

  “Please confirm your location.”

  “Boulder Canyon Drive, Barker Meadow Reservoir.”

  “Nearest intersection?”

  “Um, Tungsten Road.”

  In the end she concluded there was no real emergency, no one was in immediate peril, and she connected my call to the Nederland Police Department.

  “NPD, Officer Mendez.”

  This time my description of events fared better. Officer Mendez seemed to understand everything I said, though there was a long silence at the other end of the line after I finished talking. Finally, he said, “Wow,” and promised a squad car within minutes. I turned back to Ollie Fisher who was now pacing back and forth rather nervously.

  “Nederland Police on their way,” I told him.

  “That’s good.”

  “Hey Ollie, um, can I get a copy of those pictures, the sonogram things?”

  “What do you mean, a copy?”

  I fished through my pockets and pulled out a flash drive. “The cars, especially the close-ups.”

  “Hmm, I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  “Did you back them up already?”

  “No,” he replied defensively.

  “I’m just guessing here, but I figure the cops are going to impound your computer until further notice.”

  Ollie squinted at me, obviously thinking.

  “I’m sure it would make Andy real happy.”

  He walked over and smiled. Ollie took the thumb drive from my hand, then went back to his laptop. I promised not to use the pictures without his expressed consent and he seemed glad to store everything “off site,” as he said a couple of times. We also exchanged numbers and a promise to call each other.

  Minutes later a squad car crunched into the dirt lot, no sirens but a big cloud of sandy dust. A patrolman heaved himself out and looked at the both of us before approaching.

  “You the guys that called?” he asked.

  “I am,” I said and stepped forward. “I’m Jardel.” I smiled but decided not to shake his hand. He still stood a good distance away with his arms folded. “Officer Mendez?”

  He nodded. “What the heck are you guys doing up here?”

  “I’ve got a permit,” Ollie said, coming up beside me. “Working for the University, sonar mapping.”

  “Oh yeah, I remember that coming across my desk. Doctor Fisher, right?” The officer relaxed. “So what exactly is going on?”

  Ollie and I glanced at each other. “You should probably see for yourself,” I said and pointed to the table with the laptop. We all started in that direction and I felt Ollie slip the flash drive back into my hand. We gave Officer Mendez the story the best we could. Words often failed us, but the images of the cars, each with a corpse, spoke volumes. His only response was, “Wow…” He muttered the word several times and each time gave us a horrified expression.

  Not long afterwards another car pulled into the parking lot. This time it was the Nederland Town Marshal. An old, wizened man wearing a cowboy hat stood up from the driver’s seat. Mendez went over to meet him and explain the situation. Ollie and I strained to hear their conversation and could make out words like “jurisdiction,” “the County,” “Boulder PD,” “the DA’s office…” I could tell this was going to be complicated.

  The other policeman seemed almost hostile. He demanded Ollie’s permit despite Mendez’s assurances. He scrutinized the document at some length. “You fellas wait here with the off
icer while I go verify this.” He kicked the ground with his boot and glared at Doc Ollie. “Operating a watercraft of any kind is a serious offense around these parts.”

  “Marshal, Doctor Fisher works for CIRES,” I rose to Ollie’s defense.

  “What’s that?”

  I glanced at my notebook, “The Cooperative Institute for Research in Environmental Sciences.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m going to double-check that. Don’t you two fellas go anywhere.”

  The old marshal left as suddenly as he had arrived. Mendez walked back down to us, this time notebook in hand. He seemed slightly apologetic. “Don’t mind the Marshal. He’s been too many years on the job.” Mendez tried to smile. “I need to get some details, if that’s okay with you… Otherwise, we’re going to be here a long time.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Bureaucracy,” Officer Mendez said. “And I’m going to have to take that computer of yours…”

  Ollie nodded.

  “Start with you.” Mendez looked at me. “Full name?”

  “Patrick Jardel.”

  “Oh hey, I know you…” He looked at me hard. “You write for The City, The Broadsheet.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I know Drummond too,” Mendez spat his name out. “He’s from your paper. Don’t like him much though.”

  “You’re not alone.”

  He gave me a questioning glance, then smiled. “You’ve been filling in for him lately, haven’t you? I read your stuff last week, and I liked it better. More… well, more objective, I’d say.”

  “Thanks.”

  “He lives here, you know.”

  “Drummond?”

  “Yeah,” Mendez said and pointed across the lake to some houses perched on a rise above the shoreline. “That’s his place over there.”

  “Didn’t know that.”

  “Yup… and your boss, Mr Wayne lives here too,” he pointed again, but to a different house. “Him, I like.”

  “Didn’t know that either.”

  “You don’t know much, do you?” Mendez gave me a tight smile. “Where is he?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “Drummond.”

  “Vacation.”

  “Okay… well, just write your name, address, phone... Somebody’s gonna call you, take your statement.”

  I complied and handed Mendez back his notebook. “What happens now?”

  “You can go.” He smiled. “Gotta talk to Doctor Fisher now.”

  “But… what happens next?”

  “Oh, right, you’re a reporter, I forgot… Off the record?” he asked and I nodded. Mendez squinted from under his broad brimmed hat, west into the mountains. “Doubt we’ll do anything till tomorrow. Looks to be a pretty big operation. Divers, dredgers, cranes… maybe even ballast bags… the whole nine yards.”

  “Okay— well, thanks, Officer Mendez,” I said, and did shake his hand this time. I made my goodbye to Doc Ollie with a nod. While walking back to my Saab, I called Andy but hit his machine, so I texted a simple message: “Big story, call Ollie, see ya.” I pulled out onto Boulder Canyon and headed east. It was a nice day for a drive. After about ten minutes or so, the other side of the road became a virtual parade of police cars. They swept by west-bound, lights and sirens blazing.

  * * *

  chapter seven

  colorado kid

  I did not expect a hero’s welcome when I walked into the offices of the Boulder Broadsheet on Fowler Avenue. Not that it was, but half of the dozen employees who worked there let off a feeble cheer and scattered applause as I walked through the door. I was taken aback, startled and surprised, and more than a little embarrassed. I didn’t even know everyone yet, especially the stringers, the part timers, and sales reps. Nor had I done anything really, except drive up to the Barker Reservoir and back, all under Andrew Williams’ direction. Still, the staff of the Broadsheet was a tight-knit group and a big story was good for business. I also held the suspicion that everyone was getting sick of flood aftermath stories.

  The office itself took up the whole bottom floor of a renovated warehouse. It was divided into cubicles by three long aisles. The ceiling was pitched and high, criss-crossed with rafters, and gave the whole place a feeling of openness. The Boulder Broadsheet was that in name only, with the word “City” printed small, tucked in between a larger Boulder and Broadsheet. City was left over from its founding in 1859, and today, not a broadsheet at all, more an online product with a weekly edition printed on paper the size of a tabloid. We were called by many names: The Boulder Weekly, The Broadsheet, The City, and some less kind names that I won’t mention.

  Cindy Ramirez was first to greet me, peering above her cubicle wall, and then coming out into the aisle. She only came up to my shoulder. “News travels fast. Andy called it in. This could be huge.” Her eyes lit up. Cindy was assistant editor, a fellow reporter, and I learned from last night, a great dancer. She was very cute, in her late twenties, with streaks of blonde in otherwise dark hair. Petite with a big round face and a giant smile, she looked as if she could eat you alive in one or two bites. A real go-getter, always on the move— I’m not sure she ever slept. And she was the diet soda queen; there was never a bottle far from her grasp. This morning was no exception. She took a big slurp.

  “That stuff will kill you eventually,” I said.

  “That’s what people tell me.” Cindy smiled. “Kaiser wants to talk to you.”

  “Right, but where’s Andrew?”

  “Should be back any second.” Her eyes darted to the door. “I hear Drummond is pissed as hell,” Cindy whispered.

  “I thought he’s still on vacation. Is he back already?”

  “Not yet.”

  “So, you’re just guessing…”

  “Yeah.” Cindy smiled and arched an eyebrow.

  “Probably right though...”

  “You’re going to need help with this story, Patrick.”

  “What?” I asked, and gave Cindy a long glance. “You’re looking to get this on Channel Eight already?”

  “You betcha.”

  “I don’t know, Cindy… its an exclusive right now.”

  She searched my expression to see if I was joking or not. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Yeah. I’m good with it… but we’ll see what Andrew says, and Mr Wayne.” I started towards the break room. “I need a coffee first.” I knew not to offer Cindy; I’d never seen her drink anything hot from a mug.

  Loitering by the microwave, I found the Thurman twins, Travis and Toby, our tech-guys. The Boulder City Broadsheet would not exist except for them, and they knew it; and they flaunted it, every chance they got. For tech guys they were strangely resistant to change, cardinal about everything, and always sought to mystify rather than illuminate, anytime I had a systems question.

  I had already learned not to bother them. Usually the twins sequestered themselves in their private office, always methodically typing— more than most reporters it seemed to me. Anytime you popped your head in for a question, it was likely to be bitten off by their annoyance. The typing would stop though. “Sorry to interrupt, sorry to bother you…” I could always hear myself saying.

  I also learned quickly enough that you had to be polite to them, not necessarily nice; nor was it written anywhere that I had to actually like them. After the first week or so, I could tell them apart, despite them sharing the same face; that is, when they weren’t wearing hats, either matching Stetsons or baseball caps, the Rangers or the Astros. They were of course identical, both lanky and smirk-faced, and oddly, slow moving. Both had sandy blonde hair, short fine and straight, but each wore it parted on a different side; Toby to the left and Travis to the right. That’s not the only way I could tell them apart though. Travis seemed older, hardened, while Toby was hesitant and somewhat anxious. Toby seemed to wear a guilty expression most days while Travis had an arrogant air about him.

  “Toby… Travis... how’s it going
?” I asked and smiled pleasantly.

  “Hey Jardel,” they both replied simultaneously, and that was always a bit unnerving.

  “This is going to mean a lot of work for us,” Toby said alone.

  “What?”

  “Your big story.”

  “My big story?”

  Travis eyed me, his brother took a step closer.

  “You got any pictures yet? Anything to post?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Well, make sure you take lots of photos, okay?”

  “Right.”

  “It’s going to be mucho trabajo for all of us here,” one of the twins said.

  I glanced out at the main office and then stared back at them. “That’s a good thing, right?”

  “Like the hundred year flood isn’t enough?”

  “I thought you were getting sick of flood stories?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Toby replied.

  “Maybe sick of clean-up stories,” the other said. One of the twins slapped me on the back and they both started chuckling. “Old man Kaiser wants to talk to you,” Travis said.

  “Thanks,” I muttered and poured myself a coffee, then headed back to my cubicle to look over my notes. One person I didn’t have to face this morning was fellow reporter Douglas Drummond. I didn’t know him all that well yet. He had left on vacation only a couple of weeks after I started. That was plenty though.

  Doug. I have an irrational hatred of that name, I don’t know why. I didn’t care for him as well, not that I could pin down anything wrong with the guy. We just didn’t click from the word go, though I will admit there was something engaging about him, oddly familiar and even charismatic. He was an older guy in his late-fifties, and always had a slight sneer on his face. Also, a high forehead and sandy hair pushed back to one side that covered his ears and neck. Funny, I always thought he had early 70’s hair— a time when people just grew it longer and longer but never gave any thought to styling. Maybe it was before haircuts were invented.

  Douglas Drummond’s paunchy face had gone soft long ago. Could be, he was skinny once, but now a belly hung well over his trousers. His jaw had long since disappeared into his neck leaving only a dimple as the landmark to where his chin once was. Drummond would often hurl biting comments across the newsroom in his slight drawl. Everyone would laugh or chuckle at least. I never did seem to get his sense of humor. And he always dressed the same, khaki pants and an off-white button-down shirt that always seemed to be one size too small, or at least always badly tucked in at the back.