Goldstone, or Edwards, or maybe even Fort Irwin?

He asked directory assistance for the number of the base commander at Edwards. As the phone rang, Edward hunted for an excuse. Reslaw was right: telling the truth would get them nowhere.

"General Frohlich's office, Lieutenant Blunt speaking."

"Lieutenant, my name is Edward Shaw." He tried to be as smooth and calm as a television reporter. "I and two of my friends—colleagues—have seen a jet go down about twenty miles north of Shoshone, which is where I'm calling from—"

The lieutenant became very interested immediately, and asked for details.

"I don't know what kind of jet," Edward continued, unable to keep a slight quiver from his voice. "It didn't look like any I'm familiar with, except maybe . . . Well, one of us thinks it looked like a MiG we've seen in AvWeek."

"A MiG?" The lieutenant's tone became more skeptical. Edward's culpable squint intensified. "Did you actually see the plane go down?"

"Yessir, and the wreckage. I don't read Russian . . . But I think there were Cyrillic markings."

"Are you positive about this? Please give me your name and proof of identity."

Edward gave the lieutenant his name and the numbers on his license plate, driver's license, and, for good measure, his MasterCard. "We think we know where the pilot is, but we didn't find him."

"The pilot is alive?"

"He was dangling on the end of a chute, Lieutenant. He seemed alive, but he went down in some rocks."

"Where are you calling from?"

"Shoshone. The ... I don't know the name of the store."

"Charles Morgan Company Market," the black-haired woman said.

Edward repeated the name. "The town's grocery store."

"Can you lead us to where you saw the aircraft?" the lieutenant asked.

"Yessir."

"And you realize the penalty for giving false information about an emergency of this sort?"

"Yessir, I do."

Both women regarded him with wide eyes.

"A MiG?" the slim, black-haired woman asked after he hung up. She sounded incredulous.

"Listen," Edward said. "I lied to them. But I'm not going to lie to you. We might need your meat locker."

Esther looked as if she might faint. "What's happenin' heah?" she asked. "Stella? What's this awl abauht?" Her drawl had thickened and her face was sweaty and pasty.

"Just you," Edward said to Stella.

She examined him shrewdly and pointed to his belt and rock hammer, still slung in its leather holder. "You're a rock hound?"

"A geologist," he said.

"Where?"

"University of Texas," he said.

"Do you know Harvey Bridge from—"

"U.C. Davis. Sure."

"He comes here in the winter ..." She seemed markedly less skeptical. "Esther, go get the sheriff. He's at the café talking to Ed."

"I don't think we should let everybody in on this," Edward suggested. Bad feeling.

"Not even the sheriff?"

He glanced at the ceiling. "I don't know ..."

"Okay, then, Esther, just go home. If you don't hear from me in a half an hour, go get the sheriff and give him this man's description." She nodded at Edward.