— Gregory MacAllister, “Down the Slippery Slope”

Wolfgang Esterhaus squinted at the man at the bar, compared him with the picture in his notebook, and approached him. “Mr. Cavanaugh?”

The man was huddled over a beer. The glass was almost empty. He threw Esterhaus a surprised look, which quickly morphed into hostility. “Yeah? Who are you?”

“Name’s Wolfie. Can I spring for another round?”

“Sure. Go ahead, Wolfie.” His voice had an edge. “What did you want?”

“I’m with The National.”

“Ah.” The irritation intensified. “And what would The National want with me?”

“Just talk a bit.” He signaled for two fresh glasses. “You work for Orion Tours, right?”

Cavanaugh considered the question, as if the answer required serious thought. “That’s correct,” he said. “But if you want to ask me about the moonriders, do it. Don’t stand there and screw around.”

“Okay.” Wolfie was too professional to get annoyed. “I’m sorry. I guess you get hassled a lot these days.”

“You could say that.”

“So tell me about the moonriders.”

“I doubt I can add anything to what you’ve already read. Or seen.”

“Tell me anyhow.”

“Okay. There were nine of them. They were round. Black globes.”

“They weren’t carrying lights of any kind?”

“Didn’t you see the pictures?”

“I saw them.”

“What did you see?”

“Not much.” Wolfie hunched over the bar and looked at his own image in the mirror. He looked like a guy who could use some time off. “And they were in formation.”

“Went past us one after the other, then lined up into a vee.”

“You didn’t see them again?”

“No.” Cavanaugh was on the small side. Black hair, dark skin, carefully maintained mustache. Dark eyes that concentrated on the beer.

“How did the passengers react?”