Come Dark (23 page)

The graffiti was a panel approximately six feet long and three feet high, a little postage stamp against the flawless background.

“What do you think?”

“I think the kid was nuts,” Estelle said. “This would be quite the challenge. Not the walking out there so much, but carrying his bag of spray paint cans along, and then working on a slope?”

“And that's what appeals, I suppose. My theory is that the little bugger didn't realize how big the dish actually is…how big he'd have to make his mark before it really showed up.” Sewell laughed. “And we'll just paint over the thing anyway. No big deal. But it'd be interesting to know how fast his pulse was when he climbed out through this hatch.”

“About like mine,” Estelle whispered. “But we're at the bottom of the bowl, so there's nowhere to fall.” Supported by its complex of three large box beams, the radio telescope's apex rose above the dish. Estelle noticed the ladderway that actually led up one of the supports to the central basket-like apex. “I'm surprised he didn't go up there.”

“Lots of safety gear required for that climb,” Sewell said. “Not that he would care about that. But there's no panel up there, either. Let's ease it some.” He turned away from the ladder and palmed the radio. He conferred for a moment, and Estelle worked at loosening her grip on the rim of the hatch. A slight jolt, and then she had the disconcerting feeling that the heavens were sliding by, so slowly she couldn't be sure of motion. But sure enough, the giant dish tilted, the rim dropping against the backdrop of stars. In a moment she could look straight across from the hatch toward the graffiti across a valley of white.

“It's easy footing,” Sewell said. “In dry weather like this, it's not slippery in the least, and you have good shoes.” He thumped the grab handle that he had hinged out of its recess. “Hold on here until you have your bearings. Then we'll just walk kind of a great circle over to the graffiti. And we'll stick to the seams between panels. There's more support that way.”

Estelle made sure the camera was secure in her pocket, and watched the ease with which Sewell stepped up and out onto the dish's surface…as if he were a foot above the ground, rather than one hundred-twenty feet up. He held out his hand. “With the dish like this, there isn't much suggestion of height,” he said, accurately reading her concern. “About the only view is straight up at the stars…especially if we'd turn off all the damn lights.”

He kept a light hand on her elbow as she stepped out through the trap door. “Basically I need a shot of the graffiti panel that fills the frame. There's enough light here that I won't need the flash. What's important to me are the exact design shapes and colors. They're as characteristic as a signature.”

“Okay.” He regarded the little camera. “Just follow me.”

As if walking across high on the slope of a valley, they crossed the expanse. Estelle stepped gingerly, following a pace behind Sewell, stepping on the seams as if the surface were thin and fragile. There was nothing to suggest that it was, though, and in a moment she relaxed. She imagined Efrin Garcia trudging across on his way to work, lugging a knapsack like a school kid, spray cans clanking.

They stood immediately below the graffiti, and Estelle could see the faint scuff marks of the tagger's shoes.

As she prepared her camera, Sewell remarked, “Don't ask me to translate this stuff. Just designs, I guess.”

“The stylized ‘P' and ‘F' are representative.” Estelle drew close to the design. “And the colors.”

“You have an idea who did this?”

“Yes,” Estelle said, and let it go at that. She couldn't imagine that Sewell hadn't heard about Efrin Garcia's escapade. She spent the next twenty minutes photographing the design, and the camera's images were spectacular, with even lighting and no shadows. Efrin would be proud.

Chapter Twenty-eight

The curve of the planetarium theater's giant screen reminded Estelle of the dish surface she had just left behind, gleaming, almost flawless white, impossible to view the whole at a glance. At the border of the screen, the walls of the theater appeared to fade into the night sky, an inky black from floor to the crown of the planetarium's domed ceiling.

“The neat thing is,” Miles Waddell explained, “this is designed as a three-way purpose kind of facility. We have this wide screen for traditional viewing…hell, we could sit here and watch
Star Trek
reruns off cable if we wanted to. But the three-hundred-sixty-inch reflector telescopes just to the west of this building have either single feed or coordinated feed to here, so the audience can sit back and have a view of Saturn's rings that'll knock their socks off. Or a super nova somewhere. Or what the Martians are building right now.”

He grinned and turned in a circle, head back and arms raised as if directing the
Hallelujah Chorus
. “Or all three at once. Then, we can use the entire ceiling as just about the neatest skyscape planetarium projection you ever saw. The programs are endless. That housing over there?” He pointed both hands at the mound in the center of the room. “That's where the projector lives.” He grimaced. “It's not
there
yet, but it's coming. It's coming from Switzerland, in fact. When all is up and running, there will be a show every hour, on the hour. No tickets required. Just slip in the dark alley entrance at any time. Glow worms on the floor keep you from breaking your neck.”

“I hate to interrupt, Miles, but…” The man's excitement was contagious. She walked across the silent carpeting to the far wall, where the giant mural of the universe spread across the bottom fifteen feet of wall space, capped by the black ceiling. So perfectly done was the fit and finish that the mural appeared to be a free-standing wall suspended against the depth of deep space.

Drawing near to the mural, she stretched out a hand. “This wasn't done with spray cans of enamel from the hardware store.”

“Oh, Christ, no,” Waddell said. “I hired this kid, Efrin Garcia? You know him, I'm sure. You should see the rig he uses. Three different sizes of airbrushes, the neatest little compressor you ever saw, all kinds of replaceable nozzles and stuff? Wow. You got to wonder how he affords it…on my dollar, I suspect. See how perfect these lines are?” He touched the subtle outline around Jupiter's great red spot. “That's all airbrush. And look at this.” He strode up the side aisle a dozen feet, stopping near the tower of scaffolding. “This is the space dust and unknowable crap in the Horsehead Nebula, the cosmic
stuff
. The shading that he accomplished just blows me away.”

“The dust and unknowable crap,” Gastner repeated with a grin. “Your astronomy background is bleeding through with all this technical jargon, Miles.”

“Yeah, I know. But Efrin is doing such a
great
job.” He turned and pointed toward the rear of the theater. “It'll reach all the way to the back of the theater.” His eyes closed, and he stepped sideways to the first row of seats, falling into one of the padded, reclining rests. “So tell me. What the hell happened? He didn't come to work today, and one of the guys tells me that he crashed his truck into a damn line pole near his house. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Christ. You can see the work we have ahead of us. I don't even want to
think
about him getting into trouble, or hurt. You know,” he continued before Estelle had a chance to slip a word in, “what amazes me is that he's a
local
talent. I didn't have to hire some famous
artiste
from Chicago or someplace like that. This is home brew, and let me tell you…” He nodded at the wall. “He's as good as they come. He's going to be all right?”

“Maybe.” Estelle sat down beside Waddell. “His injuries are life-threatening, Miles. A badly lacerated spleen. Broken ribs. Smashed left elbow. Bruises from head to toe. One ear nearly ripped off his head.” She turned on her camera, found the remarkable portrait of the dish graffiti and held it out to Waddell. “He did this, didn't he?”

The rancher turned the camera so that it was pointing at the mural, comparing images. “You can see that he did. I mean, crude as this one is, done with just the damn spray cans…it's his work. The colors, the design. The guys found it, and told me about it. You know,” and he pounded his fist against his own thigh, “this is about like shitting in his own nest. I mean, when he's up here working, I can see the pride he takes. I can see that it
means
something to him to be working here. So he turns around and tags my goddamn railcar? And then squirrels up the dish and shoots his mark
there?
What, he thinks we're not going to find out? He wants to throw all this away? What's with these damn kids, anyway?”

Again before Estelle could continue, he added, “You know, I'm not going to let him do that. I'm not. We're going to work this thing through, and he's going to understand what he has going for himself here, and by God, he's going to finish this wonderful thing and go on to bigger and better.” He swept a hand the length of the mural. “He's going to carry this theme all through the park before we're finished.”

Estelle handed him the camera, previewing the photo of the defaced
NightZone
passenger car. “And you're sure this is his work as well.”

Waddell hardly glanced at the design. “'Course it is. Nobody handles airbrush work like that kid. No one I've ever seen.”

She reached across and thumbed the left view button. In a moment, the photo of the middle school wall slid into view. “And this. At the middle school.”

Waddell nodded. “I mean, we can't be absolutely sure, I suppose, but yes. I'd bet on that. Either him or some copycat.”

“We're guessing now that he was interrupted before he could finish. I don't see any other reason for him
not
to finish the design once he's started.”

Waddell handed the camera back and then sat with his head supported in both hands, as if he had a sinus headache. “I'll deal with him when he comes back. We'll have him clean and repaint the car. I don't know about the damage to the dish.”

“Mr. Sewell said they'd likely just paint over it.”

“Probably. And he's hurt badly?”

“He's listed as critical. Lots of blood loss, and then the surgery. It's a tough road.”

“Christ. That's going to put him out of action for weeks.”

“And that's if he's very lucky.”

“Shit,” Waddell muttered. He gazed over at the artwork on the wall. “I mean, it's incredible, isn't it?” He took a deep breath. “What do you think happened? He got crosswise with some other gang member, or what? Is that what this is all about?”

“We don't know, Miles. We haven't seen any significant gang activity in this town for a good long time. Now, all of a sudden.”

He turned his head just enough to be able to look sideways at the undersheriff. “Related somehow? His being at the school and the murder? I mean, that's why you're up here in the middle of the night, right? You're not chasing taggers.”

“We don't know the relationships. But it's too close in both time and location to be ignored. Efrin is certainly a person of interest at the moment. He may have seen or heard something. That's why we need to talk with him. That's crucial.”

He studied her for a moment. “So…cut to the chase. What can I do to help?”

“If you hear anything, let me know. You know how the rumor and gossip vine works.”

“Do I ever.”

“Anything you hear that you think might link the Garcia boy with Coach Scott's murder. Was someone else helping Efrin with this mural?”

“Solo all the way. We had a crew in here setting up the scaffolding for him, but other than that, he didn't want anyone else interfering.”

“What's he using as a source for the space images? I mean, I've seen lots of professional images of Jupiter.
That's
not just something from a boy's imagination.”

“Maybe you've seen that big fancy coffee table book that they put out of the Hubbell images? Amazing stuff, right? We'll be selling them in the gift shop. I gave him one to use. He really took to it. The only directions I gave him was that I wanted
science,
not science fiction.”

“Did Efrin ever talk about the school? I'm wondering why he would target there, except maybe because of all the publicity they've been getting lately.”

“Well, sure. The big spread on the volleyball team? Gotta jump in there and put his mark on that, too.” He shook his head in disgust. “He told me that he was the first one in his family to graduate high school. He was proud of that, and proud of this commission.” Waddell stretched out his legs, sliding down in the seat, hands clasped over his belly. “I don't think he's ever managed a bank account in his life.” He shook his head in wonder. “I told him, look…I'm willing to pay you well, but in return, you have to work with me to guarantee both your future and mine.”

Again he turned and regarded the mural project. “I told him that this wasn't the sort of thing I wanted to start, and then have to hire some commercial hack halfway through the project because Efrin couldn't finish it.”

“You've been very generous, sir.”

“Well, yeah. But see, it pays me in return.” He grunted a painful laugh. “And now, look at us. Halfway done, and the kid is in the hospital. Christ.”

“And he agreed with you? About the bank account?”

“He did. Eagerly, he agreed. We set him up an account at Posadas State, and I do direct deposit with him. I don't just hand him a wad of money at the end of the week. It goes in the bank, and he's got to think a little before he takes it out. You haven't been able to talk with the boy yet?”

“Not yet. He was out of it by the time they brought him to the ER, bleeding profusely from the head, coughing up blood—and it went downhill from there. They transported him to Albuquerque as soon as they could. If there's any chance he can talk, I need to run up today.”

Waddell glanced at his watch, and then grimaced at Gastner, who had remained seated in one of the plush theater chairs throughout the conversation. His eyelids drooped, but he jerked alert when he realized he was the focus of attention. “All your bad habits,” Waddell chided. “Going on midnight, and most normal folks would be home blowing Zs.”

“We all learn the art of sleeping with our eyes open, and an attentive expression on our faces,” Gastner said.

“I've noticed that about my crews,” Waddell laughed. “Now, let me help, all right? You need to go to Albuquerque? Let me help you get there and back without wasting time. My contractor has his X at the Posadas Airport. It's at your disposal.”

“The X?”

“A Cessna Citation Ten. What a rocket.”

“I didn't know you flew, Miles.”

“I don't. My head honcho contractor does, though. He's offered the plane and crew any number of times, and I've used them now and then to coordinate stuff that doesn't work well over the phone. That big dish? That cost about five trips to California, on top of a thousand phone calls and teleconferences.” He shrugged. “With what I'm paying for this job, big deal, right? So, you want Albuquerque? That'll take an hour or less each way. Just say when.”

He raised his eyebrows expectantly. “You can tell Grand Dame Leona Spears that there will be no charge to the county. Consider it my personal thanks for all you do.”

Estelle closed her eyes for a moment, visualizing the staff roster for the approaching day shift.

As if sensing her hesitation, Waddell added, “I get the impression that this is no time to be turning down a favor. Let me help.”

“Can we leave here at eight this morning?”

“Done.” Waddell pushed out of his chair with his typical frenetic energy. “Only one catch…I want to go along. If the kid is conscious, I want to talk with him.”

Estelle turned to Gastner, but he was already shaking his head. “No thanks, Sweetheart. So much I have to do, plus I have an appointment for lunch I can't miss.”

“An appointment with a green chile burrito?”

He grinned and said to Waddell, “She knows me too well.”