The motion of the plane and looking through the binoculars made Frank’s stomach heave. He chewed his gum that had long ago lost its flavor and took in measured breaths to steady his gut and kept searching, but there was no Ed, no Jesus. There was everything else. A bored male driver. A woman driver with kids in the back watching TV. A woman reading a book and a man spitting something out the window, probably shells from sunflower seeds. There were two adult men in one car singing and rocking out to some tune. There were Fords, Chevys, Toyotas, Hondas. There was some Ferrari-looking thing all black and low like it belonged to Batman. But there was no two-tone Nissan. Cars and trucks spaced in between semis. Semis spaced in between trucks and cars, all of them barreling down toward Cheyenne. Pinto kept the plane steady, and they followed the road back to the foot of the mountain range, and then up along the ridge. They left the controlled airspace around Cheyenne. A few minutes later they entered the airspace controlled by Laramie Regional and reported in the same transponder code.
