C. Box - Breaking Point

On an early morning in mid-August, EPA Special Agents Tim Singewald and Lenox Baker left the Region 8 Environmental Protection Agency building at 1595 Wynkoop Street in downtown Denver in a Chevrolet Malibu SA hybrid sedan theyd checked out from the motor pool. Singewald was at the wheel, and he maneuvered through shadows cast by tall buildings while Baker fired up the dash-mounted GPS.

Acquiring satellites, Baker said, repeating the voice command from the unit.

Wait until we get out of downtown, Singewald said. The buildings block the satellite feed. Therell be plenty of time to program the address. Besides, I know where were going. Ive been there, remember?

Yeah, Baker said, settling back in his seat. I know. I was just wondering how long it would take.

Forever, Singewald said, and sighed, taking the turn on Speer that would lead them to I-25 North. Wyoming is a big-ass state.

The GPS chirped that it had connected with the sky. Baker punched in an address and waited for a moment and said with a groan, Four hundred and twenty-two miles. Six hours, twenty-seven minutes. Jesus.

Said Singewald, Not counting the guy we need to pick up along the way in Cheyenne. Still, we ought to make it before five, easy.

Where are we staying? Do they have any good places to eat up there?

Singewald emitted a single harsh bark and shook his head. The Holiday Inn has a government rate, but the bar sucks. There are a couple good bars in town, though, if you dont mind country music.

I hate it.

Six and a half hours, Baker said as Singewald eased the Chevy onto the on-ramp and joined the flow of traffic north.

It was a clear summer morning in mid-August. The mountains to the west shimmered through early-hour smog that would lift and dissipate when the temperature rose into the seventies. Both men wore ties and sport coats, and in the backseat was a valise containing the legal documents they were to deliver. Both had packed a single change of clothing for the drive back the next day.

Tim Singewald had thin sandy hair, small eyes, a sallow complexion, and a translucent mustache. Lenox Baker was fifteen years younger. Singewald didnt know him well at all, although his impression of his colleague was that he was overeager. Baker was dark and compact and exhibited nervous energy and a wide-eyed expression he displayed when talking with a senior staffer that said, Keep me in mind when promotions or transfers come along.

Singewald noticed that Baker wore a wedding band, but hed never heard the wifes name. Singewald had been divorced for six years.

All he knew about Baker was, like thousands of others across the country, he was new to the agency and he was gung-ho to get into some kind of action.

Baker was an EPA Special Agent (Grade 12), one of 350-plus and growing. He pulled in $93,539 a year in salary plus benefits and hoped to move up to Grade 15, where Singewald resided. Singewald made $154,615 per year, plus benefits.

As they cleared Metro Denver into Broomfield, Singewald reached up with his left hand and loosened the knot on his tie and then pulled it free and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. When Baker saw him do it, he reached up and did the same.

Ties stand out where were going, Singewald said.

What do they wear? Clip-ons? String ties?

They dont wear ties, Singewald said. They wear jeans with belts that say Hoss.

Baker laughed. Then: Who is this guy we have to pick up in Cheyenne?

Somebody with the U.S. Corps of Engineers, Singewald said, shrugging. I dont know him.

Why is he coming along?

I dont know, Singewald said. I dont ask.

The secret to a long career, Baker said.

You got it.

Are there other secrets? Baker asked, grinning a schoolboy grin.

Yes, Singewald said, and said no more.

The agents drove another hour north and crossed the border into Wyoming. Instantly, the car was buffeted by gusts of wind.

Where are the trees? Baker asked.

They blew away, Singewald said.

As Singewald wheeled into the parking lot of the Federal Building in Cheyenne, he saw an older man in a windbreaker and sunglasses standing near the vestibule entrance. The man was conspicuously checking his watch and glancing toward them as they found an empty spot.

Gotta be him, Singewald said.

What was his name again?

Love. Thats all I know about him.

The man who might be Love pushed himself off the brick wall and walked slowly to their car. Singewald powered down his window.

You EPA? the man asked.

Agents Singewald and Baker.

Im Kim Love, the man said. I guess were going to the same place today.

Singewald chinned toward the backseat. Do you have anything you need to put in the trunk before we leave?

Love rocked back on his heels and hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. He shook his head.

Ill follow you up, Love said. Ive got my own car.

Sure you dont want to come with us? Singewald asked Love.

Im sure.

Suit yourself. Do you know where were going?

Yes, unfortunately.

Singewald didnt react. Instead, he reached inside his jacket pocket and handed Love an official EPA business card.

My cell phone number is on there. Give me a call when we get going so I have yours, so we can keep in touch if we get separated.

Love sighed and shook his head. What, you think youre entering No Mans Land?

Yes, Baker whispered, sotto voce.

Maybe we can stop in Casper for lunch, Love said. I know a place there.

Well follow you, Singewald said with a shrug.

When Love walked away to climb into his own sedan with U.S. Government plates, Baker said to Singewald, Whats his problem?

Singewald shrugged. Dont know and dont care, he said. Hes just another working stiff. Like us.

Baker was practically sputtering two and a half hours later when the brake lights of Loves sedan flashed and the Corps of Engineers car took the Second Street exit in Casper and turned in at a truck stop.

Hes yanking our chain, Baker said, leaning forward in his seat to look around. A long line of side-by-side tractor-trailers idled in a cacophony on the south side of the huge parking lot. A trucker emerged from the restaurant and convenience-store doors holding a half-gallon soft-drink container to take back to his truck cab.

Maybe this Love knows something, Singewald said. Maybe this place is, you know, a jewel in the rough.

Its a truck stop.

We might as well be friendly, since were stuck with him, Singewald said, and turned off the motor.

Baker sighed. Maybe Ill just stay in here. I can feel my arteries clogging up just looking at this place and the people coming out of it.

You dont have to come in, Singewald said, handing Baker the keys. If you want to listen to the radio or something.

Baker waved him off. Believe me, theres probably nothing worth listening to here. Im not a big fan of Buck Owens.

Singewald pocketed the keys.

Oh, all right, Baker said with a groan, opening his door to get out.

They sat around a Formica table in a high-backed booth; Kim Love on one side and Singewald and Baker on the other. All of the other tables and booths were occupied by truck drivers and rough-looking locals who appeared as if theyd driven into town from building sites or oil rigs. Even with their ties removed, Singewald thought the three of them stood out. Singewald thought Love seemed distant, and maybe a little hostile to them. He chalked it up to interagency rivalry and didnt let it bother him. There was no reason to make friends, he thought. Hed never met Love before, and after their joint operation later that afternoon, he doubted hed ever see him again.