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Matt Méndez was not having a good day.
Whoever said career change was good for the soul should be drowned in a cow tank, he thought, driving his old pickup out of Fort Davis. As a boy growing up in Albuquerque, he'd always been regarded as someone with a great future, so where the hell was it? He was smart, not bad looking, and popular enough. He'd stayed in school like his parents expected, even getting a master's degree to their great pride. But where had it led?
The best job he could find was teaching writing to college freshmen at El Paso Community College. The pay was barely adequate and the work was laborious. He could never get over the feeling that what he was doing wasn’t that different from trying to teach the deaf to sing. When the state of Texas began to cut back on money for schools, and especially for higher education, he realized reluctantly that there was even less future in that line of work than he had thought.
Well, he had always enjoyed research as a student, and he could write, so maybe reporting would be a fun challenge. If he was lucky and successful, promotions were possible. So he had made the leap and taken a job as a reporter for the Alpine, Texas Avalanche. The job was a challenge, all right, but not quite the kind he was looking for.
His salary covered his expenses, but little was left over. The second was getting along with the editor of the Alpine Avalanche, a curmudgeonly, hard-nosed veteran journalist named Clint Cowan.
And third, the career switch had cost him a girlfriend, the middle daughter of a locally prominent rancher. Her mother thought a reporter wasn’t upscale enough for the family’s standing in the community. Kaley was a jolly soul, and he missed her. In fact, he missed the charm and pleasure of female company in general. Still, Matt knew in his heart that they weren’t made for each other.
On the plus side, Matt was getting an education in how a much smaller city than El Paso worked. He figured he’d give it another couple of years. He wasn’t consumed with ambition, exactly, but he did expect better things for himself. If this job didn’t catch fire, then perhaps another career change might be a good idea.
Cowan, called "Crusty" by the locals, stared Matt up and down as he walked in after lunch. This was probably because he had never seen Matt in a suit, his one and only dress attire at that, and wearing his good shoes, shined, no less. He had just returned from covering a wedding at the Fort Davis State Park, the old, restored cavalry post. It was a better-than-average story. How many weddings feature a groom and groomsmen dressed as old-time cavalry officers? The pictures he had snapped of the wedding party on horseback would make a good photo feature all by themselves.
Cowan growled that people had been calling all day about government helicopters raising hell up around McDonald Observatory, landing on their parking lot and armed soldiers running around like crazy. It didn't fit the pattern of the typical lost hiker situation, but no one he contacted would tell him a damn thing about what was going on. Well, that's why reporters had been invented.
“Méndez, where the hell were you? Fort Davis? Get your ass back up there and get the story.”
Matt had forgotten his cell phone. If he had had it, he wouldn't have driven 30 miles back to Alpine from Fort Davis only to turn around and go right back up there, plus the extra miles beyond, to the observatory.
His pickup groaned up the steep approach below the domes and pulled into a visitor's slot. The director of the observatory, a Dr. Harcroft, was "out of the office," the secretary told him. But luck, or maybe persistence, paid off. He knew enough to slide by the "Private Residence" sign and walk through the little housing area below the main buildings.
Just as he walked the full circle and was about to head back to his truck, a Volvo driven by a man with a big white handlebar mustache passed him and turned left, downhill. Bingo, he thought! That guy matches the picture on the wall at the visitor’s center.
There were only two highways leading to the observatory. The intersection was visible from two miles away, so he eased his truck down the slope and watched the Volvo turn left, towards Fort Davis and Alpine. OK, doc, he thought. Let's see where you go for fun on a Friday evening!
No surprise, really: the Volvo pulled up in front of the Hotel Limpia in Fort Davis, a favorite upscale watering place and eatery, long on western atmosphere but also with linen napkins. Matt couldn't afford the place, but tonight might be an exception. Maybe Crusty would accept the expense. If he got the story, of course.
The doc was seated at a table in the bar, apparently ordering a drink from a waitress. As she walked off, Matt moved in.
"Dr. Harcroft? May I ask you a few questions, please?"
Harcroft looked up from the menu in annoyance, taking in Matt's black suit in a quick glance.
"I already talked to you government guys,” he snapped. “What is this, more? Don't you people talk to each other?"
Matt tried to keep his eyes from popping out of his head. He didn't want to say he was a reporter, a job description probably only two notches higher than "government man" in Alpine. But he couldn't in all honesty claim to be a government man, either.
"I'm sorry. Communication is hard, sometimes," he apologized. "Just a couple questions; I promise not to take five minutes."
"Well, what then?"Harcroft grumped.
He brushed a finger across his fine white mustache. He wore a tie and a nice-looking tweed sport coat. He must be planning a fine evening, thought Matt, possibly meeting a wife or date. He eased into a chair opposite the astronomer. He didn’t have the slightest idea what to ask him.
"Well, first," he fished, "do you have anything to add to what you said earlier?"
"No. I told the other guys, the only odd thing that happened all day was that a young woman, probably in her mid-twenties, barged in this morning babbling about comet debris striking the Earth in four years. I don't know how she came up with such a wild idea, but she was clearly a nut case, and I told her so. Though, to tell the truth, she didn't act particularly nutty—more like uncomfortable, jittery. You just can’t tell about people these days. I don't know where she went after she left. That's all. No new thoughts."
"Yes sir, thank you sir. Uh, could you give some idea of what this young woman looked like, perhaps?"
"I already did that, but I'll say it one more time. She was small, a little over five feet tall, slender, had shoulder length dishwater blonde hair, and a not unattractive face, kind of sharp features, with striking eyes and a strong nose. Is that enough?"
"Yes, sir...but, uh, what was she wearing?"
"Oh, yeah. I think it was sort of a track suit thing, kind of like a uniform-gray, matching top and bottom, no jewelry, and black shoes. They looked sort of like sneakers, small sneakers."
“I see. So, after she left was that when you called the helicopters?”
“I didn’t call anyone. I have no idea why those people showed up. They ruined the whole damn day. And it’s not getting any better. What agency are you with, anyway?”
"I beg your pardon, Dr. Harcroft," Matt said. “I’m not with the government. I’m from the Alpine Avalanche. Enjoy your dinner, sir."
Pulling out a card that said "Matt Méndez, Area Reporter," he dropped it on the table and quickly fled the restaurant. He would leave the astronomer to his filet mignon. He, Matt the Sleuth, mild-mannered reporter, would settle for a hamburger at Whataburger.
