The Guilty - Jason Pinter [50]
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
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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.
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"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.
Unsurprisingly my Impala was one of several dozen available. I climbed in, put my coffee in the cup holder, adjusted
my seat and began the drive.
I took the I-25 North exit and headed toward downtown
Santa Fe. Once I was reasonably sure I wasn't about to drive
into a telephone pole or have a pack of wolves chase me, I
took out my cell phone headset and called Amanda. Nobody
picked up and it went right to voice mail.
"Hey, it's me. Just wanted to let you know I landed safe.
I'm driving a seven-year-old Chevy Impala with thirtyseven thousand miles on it. There's barely anyone else on
the road. Actually, I think I might be the only person driving
in New Mexico right now. Anyway, I love you, call me
when you get this."
The drive was much easier than I expected, the coffee
keeping my blood percolating, but the breathtaking scenery
was what really kept my eyes open. Despite the set sun, there
was just enough light to make out the stunning mesas and
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even snow-capped peaks miles and miles away. It was a far
cry from the city, where I'd become accustomed to metal
towers and gridlock. I listened to the absolute silence, just
stared into the black horizon and tried to take in a part of the
country most people back east barely believed existed.
When I finally arrived in Fort Sumner, I stopped at a
Super 8, parked the Impala and stepped inside.