“Sheriff Randall Buford, Chaves County,” said the man, extending his hand and shaking theirs in turn. He was about sixty, clean-shaven, triple-chinned, wearing aviator sunglasses.
“Now, Mr. Tappan,” Buford said. “Just the man I wanted to see. Sheriff Watts here has volunteered to assist me in investigating the disappearance of…” He consulted his notebook, flipped a few pages. “A Mr. Noam Bitan.”
“Right,” said Tappan.
“Great. And we’d like to speak with Mr. Elwyn Kelly, who was with the person who disappeared.”
“That’s me,” said Skip.
“Why don’t we do this in my trailer,” said Tappan. “I’d also like to bring along Nora, who’s our lead archaeologist.”
“Sure thing.”
Nora and the rest walked through camp to Tappan’s trailer.
“A/C, now that’s a welcome change!” said Buford after they’d gone inside, sitting down heavily on a sofa and laying his notebook on the table. “This is some kind of fancy ride you’ve got for yourself.”
Watts took a seat near him, while Nora, Tappan, and Skip occupied chairs on the other side.
“Okay, let’s start with Mr. Elwyn Kelly,” Buford began, consulting his notes. “Tell me what happened, Elwyn. You were with the subject when he disappeared, correct?”
Skip ran through his story, clearly displeased to be called by his given name. Then Tappan told of their fruitless search, while Buford jotted a few notes.
“I understand this fellow was Israeli?” Buford asked.
Tappan nodded.
“What was he looking for out there?”
“An archaeological feature related to our current dig.”
Tappan was being deliberately vague, but Buford didn’t seem interested in detail. “So what kind of visa did this guy have? To be working here, I mean?”
“It was an H-1B, because of his specialty occupation.”
“Which was?”
“An expert in SETI.”
“I’m not familiar with that ‘specialty occupation.’”
“The search for evidence or signals coming from extraterrestrial intelligence.”
“And you couldn’t find an American to do this?”
“Bitan was one of the experts in what is a quite rarefied field.”
“Right. Searching for little green men.” Buford gave a chuckle and glanced at Watts, whose face remained impassive.
“So what’s your theory?” Buford asked Tappan. “About what happened to this guy?”
“As you heard, lights were seen in those foothills the night he vanished. I think he was picked up.” Tappan hesitated, and then said: “A survey of the area revealed fresh tire tracks in the area where the lights were seen. They headed north toward the old Pershing range.”
Buford nodded, scratching out notes. “Lights seen in area at time of disappearance,” he said out loud as he wrote it down. “Fresh tire tracks.” He looked up. “Ninety-five percent of missing persons turn out to be missing by choice. It seems to me that’s what we’re dealing with here. Would you agree?”
Tappan nodded. “I would.”
Buford slapped the notebook shut. “It’s pretty clear he skipped out on you…for whatever reason. Maybe he was engaged in espionage for the Israeli government. Maybe there was a woman. Maybe a family emergency. Maybe he just wanted to go home.”
He heaved himself up. “Well, Sheriff Watts, I think we’re probably done here.”
“Sheriff Buford,” said Tappan, “before you go—what do you know about the Pershing range?”
“It’s fenced. Closed for decades. Off-limits.”
“Why?”
“There’s unexploded ordnance in there, old ammo dumps and abandoned munitions. Rather than clean it up, the army just shut it down.”
“So why would tire tracks be heading in there?”
At this, Buford looked puzzled. “Well, they shouldn’t be. Tracks going right in there, you say. Through the gate?”
“We can’t be sure if the tracks actually go into the base, but they head toward it. We aren’t allowed to fly our lidar plane or drones near there, because the airspace around it is closed.”
Buford grunted. “Half of Chaves County has closed airspace, on account of the military bases and testing ranges.”
“Yes…but for a base that was shut down decades ago?” Tappan said. “That seems excessive.”