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 they’d 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. There’ll be plenty of time to program the address. Besides, I know where we’re going. I’ve 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 don’t 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 didn’t 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 he’d never heard the wife’s 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 we’re going,” Singewald said.

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

“They don’t 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 don’t know him.”

“Why is he coming along?”

“I don’t know,” Singewald said. “I don’t 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. That’s 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.”

“I’m Kim Love,” the man said. “I guess we’re 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.

“I’ll follow you up,” Love said. “I’ve got my own car.”

“Sure you don’t want to come with us?” Singewald asked Love.

“I’m sure.”

“Suit yourself. Do you know where we’re going?”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

Singewald didn’t 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 you’re entering No Man’s Land?”

“Yes,” Baker whispered, sotto voce.

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

“We’ll 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, “What’s his problem?”

Singewald shrugged. “Don’t know and don’t care,” he said. “He’s just another working stiff. Like us.”

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

“He’s 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.”

“It’s a truck stop .”

“We might as well be friendly, since we’re stuck with him,” Singewald said, and turned off the motor.

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

“You don’t 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, there’s probably nothing worth listening to here. I’m 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.