Phlager was businesslike as usual. He acknowledged Liz’s report about Swift’s apparent growing dislike of Shiu without noticeable interest and launched into a report.
“Three things, Bob. First, we got a faint lead yesterday when the troopers made a second swing around with pictures of Sanders and Kehler. A gas station attendant about one hundred miles north said he thinks he may have filled their car about 2:00 a.m. the morning after Sanders was taken. But he’s blank on the car—says it was dark and a big sedan. Anyway, we’ve fanned out from there and are trying to pick up the trail. But as you know, the country up there gets pretty sparsely populated… a lot more trees than people.
“Second, young Touhy came up with something that may be nothing. He was poking, through the records at the airport and found that Shiu had notified the manager that he intended to use the helicopter on night flights and would be using air-traffic facilities after midnight. He also contracted for daytime maintenance on the copter, which I guess means they don’t intend to use it during the days. I’m not sure where that fits, if at all, but it could have something to do with what Sanders told you about the helicopter being important in all this.
“Finally, we’ve decided that there’s no point keeping quiet anymore. What we’re going to do is call a press conference Saturday at the university and announce that the FBI is coming into the case. We’ll make an appeal for any information from the public.”
“That last isn’t particularly good news, is it, Bill?”
Phlager paused. “Bob, no point in trying to kid you. Creston doesn’t think we’re going to get Sanders back safe. He says, and the FBI guys agree, that this looks more and more like a hit than a kidnapping. Still, there’s that sighting up north…”
“What shall I tell Liz? She’s getting pretty low.”
“What we’re doing and what we’ve found out—not what we’re thinking. Time enough for that if nothing more turns up.”
At least Liz was keeping busy. Swift had assigned both her and Tandee to work the concert that night. She and Whine were going out to Turg’s early, and he was supposed to come back in as soon as he had some crowd and performance shots. She was going to stay for the whole show. I had no assignment, but I decided to go out for the after-dark activities and drive Liz back when it was all over.
Diana was covering the story with help from Kirk Bright, and Doralee Green, for God’s sake, was going to be in the office to take their dictation and help Grace put the story together. He said Swift planned to stay around, but didn’t want to get involved in the story because rock music gave him a headache. That constituted a full-court press for our staff, but putting Doralee on the team was like starting Mickey Rooney against the Boston Celtics.
Liz called me at the Capitol in late afternoon from the farm and asked me to run by the paper to pick up a long lens she had thought Tandee would be carrying.
“This looks like it’s going to be a big crowd,” Liz said. “The kids have been pouring in since three o’clock and nothing is going to happen until seven. You better start early; the road already is bumper to bumper.”
“A lot of cops around?” I asked.
“Come on, Bob, this isn’t southern California. There’s no Hell’s Angels or weirdos out here. Good, milk-fed, mid-western kids. Turg has half a dozen of his neighbors dressed in rent-a-cop outfits, and there are a couple of deputies from the county around.”
I went into the office about a quarter to six, found the lens, and stopped by the city desk.
“Hey, you ain’t dressed right for a rock concert,” Darlington said. “You show up in a suit, and they’ll run you off for a narc. What you need is some cutoff jeans and a tank top. Orange, maybe.”
“Don’t worry, Sam, I’m going as a mid-life crisis case. I’ll just go ’round staring at the teenie boppers’ boobs and act like I don’t know anything about the music.”
“So do you?”
“Sure. I know all the words to ‘Why Don’t We Do It in the Road’ and ‘Bobby McGee.’ I’ll get along just fine.”
“Sure you will. They’ll figure you for a time traveler from the last century. Just watch out for the jail bait, buddy.”
Did he mean Liz? “Is that a crack, Darlington?”
“Come on, Bobby. You know better. Besides, it’s Shiu that has problems with runaway gonads.”
“Oh, what now?”
“Di says he’s gone totally ape over that big singer girl. He chauffeured her all around town last night and drove her out to Turg’s this afternoon. He came back here and just left again carrying his flying jacket. God knows what he’s up to now.”
I had a bite to eat and headed out to the concert. Turg’s was less than a mile from the interstate, but you had to go about five miles past it to the nearest exit and then double back on a gravel road in a state of repair that indicated old man Turg was no buddy of the county highway commissioner.
The traffic was moving at two speeds, slow and not at all, on the narrow, bumpy road. Most of the cars around me were loaded down with young people, about half appearing to be in their twenties and the rest of high-school age. It had been a very dry month, and, from more than a mile ahead as the line of traffic approached the farm, I could see a dust cloud rising over the barren field that was being used for parking.
As I got to the entrance of the field, I leaned out to talk to a teenaged kid in bib overalls directing traffic. The beat and boom of a rock band was rolling out over the farm, and the people in the cars were bobbing and weaving as they maneuvered for parking places on the crowded lot. It looked to me like there were several thousand cars and trucks already pulled into snaky rows.
I waved the cardboard press tag Grace had given me before I left the paper. “Hey, have you got some place for press parking? Tve got to get out of here early.”
“You can drive around to the right and park near them band buses, mister. But you still got to give me a dollar.”
“For press?”
“For God, if He shows up, Mr. Turg told me. Nobody parks free.”
I paid up and bumped about a quarter of a mile across an open field to the area the kid indicated. It was behind the stage, which had been built about twenty feet above the ground on steel scaffolding at the bottom of a hill where Turg’s farmhouse stood. Out of force of habit, I noted a row of outdoor telephones not far from the entrance to the parking lot and patted my pants pocket to assure myself I had change.
There were three buses of varying age and condition parked well apart about fifty feet back of the stage. One, a converted school bus, was painted in the style of a Jackson Pollock drip and drizzle picture and carried the name The Fuggers,” in violent purple letters. Both of the other buses looked to be Trailways or Greyhound models from the 1960s. One carried a rather modest sign, “Baraboo,” which I took to be the name of the band rather than the destination, and the other a wheels-to-roof, nose-to-tail legend in that garish orange that the FAA at one time tried to sell the airlines to enhance “see-and-be-seen” flying. “Post Partum Repression,” it said.
As I pulled up beside that bus, the music from the stage ended and a roar of applause rose from the field in front of it. I couldn’t see the crowd, but it sounded big indeed. As I started out of the car, I heard Shiu’s voice from an open window in the bus above me. The window, in the rear of the bus, had some sort of light drapery across it, masking the interior but not muffling sound.
“That’s a lovely costume, dear. But I bet you can’t wear anything under it, can you?”
The response was a giggle.
“Come on, let me have a peek,” Shiu said. There was the sound of movement, bumping against the side of the bus, and another giggle. “Not now, Shiggy, I’ve got to go on soon.”