by Robin Lamont
There was static at the other end.
“Hello? Gordon, is that you?”
The static went on for another second and then the call was dropped. Her phone rang again, but when she picked up, there was dead air at the other end.
Walking towards his squad car, Trooper Willison threw over his shoulder, “There’s no cell service here. If you wait ’til we get back on the highway, you can make your call then.”
Jude stood for a moment, doing a last reconnaissance of the woods. She could feel the edges of her psyche unraveling, her mind fraying like the ends of an old scarf. Yet, through the mist, one thing emerged – a thought lodged in the back of her throat, like a horse pill she couldn’t swallow. Haydon was wrong to think Tim called somebody to pick him up after the crash. He couldn’t have. No cell service. And unless her eyes were playing tricks on her again, there weren’t any phone booths around.
* * *
Gordon directed her back to Washington. Immediately.
“I haven’t found Tim yet,” she said, scuffing the hotel carpet with her toe like a defiant eleven-year-old.
“Have you thought about the possibility that he doesn’t want to be found?”
Jude answered with her own question, “What if you’re wrong about him? You talked with Sergeant Haydon, so you know there was a huge gash in Tim’s car, as if someone had rammed into him and pushed him off the road. And by the way, I saw where he went off, and it wasn’t onto any shoulder. Someone drove him into a very deep ditch. Whoever did that was trying to hurt him – bad.”
“The sergeant told me about the damage to the car. But he also said that it’s possible Tim wasn’t driving. It could have been somebody else. And the damage could have occurred any time within the last few weeks. You haven’t seen Tim in two months.”
“Haydon’s sending out paint chips for analysis. He wouldn’t do that if he thought the damage was old or if he was sure there was no connection.”
Gordon’s chair creaked in the background, and she knew he was leaning back, the way he did, to try and ease his frustration. “I’m sure he’s covering all his bases.”
“Well, there’s something else,” offered Jude in a last-gasp effort to defend Tim. “I found what I think are beagle hairs in the back of Tim’s car, and I think they’re from one of the lab dogs. What was Tim doing taking one of the dogs? If they got wind of it, his job is toast and the whole undercover is blown.”
“He blew up the undercover anyway, Jude. In fact, he probably took the job to find out what The Kinship is doing and how we operate.”
“You don’t really buy that, do you?”
“What about the six thousand dollars? The job with the law firm representing Monsanto? And the fact that he hid all of that from us.” Gordon’s voice sharpened. “At least, I’m presuming he never told you.”
“Of course not.” There was a doubt-heavy silence at the other end to which Jude, stung by his comment, asked, “Are you accusing me of knowing Tim was on the wrong side?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything. But it’s time to let the state cops do what they do, and you get back to your own work.”
“You’re giving up on Tim, is that it?”
“You have lost perspective,” he barked back. “He has jeopardized our undercover operations, our credibility, and our entire organization. Even if all he did was quit because he couldn’t handle it, he screwed up big time. I would hate to see you go down that same path.”
Jude bit hard on her lower lip while she let his words sink in. Finally, he said more gently, “Come on back, Jude.”
She had no choice. As she told Tim, the animals would always come first. Fighting for them was the only thing she knew how to do, the only thing that kept her going, even if the finish line kept slipping farther away, day after day, year after year.
It didn’t take long to throw her clothes in her duffel bag. She did a last check of the hotel room and was shouldering her gear when she realized that there was something that she’d neglected to do. It was a call that should have been made days ago. She’d only met Tim’s older sister once – he did, in fact, have a sister – but Jude didn’t want Haydon to be the one to tell her about Tim’s car.
She was too late.
Lisa was understandably upset. “I’m freaking out,” she fretted. “What are the police doing to find him? Should I come to Vermont? The trooper said there wasn’t anything I could do, but what if they find Timmy and he’s hurt? I should be there.”
Jude could hear Lisa’s eight-month-old crying in the background. “I agree with Sergeant Haydon,” she replied. “I don’t see what you can do right now. Try not to worry. They said that the air bags inflated, and the trooper was pretty sure that he was able to walk away from the accident.”
“Hang on a sec.” The wailing became louder as Lisa went into another room and picked up the baby. The crying subsided. “Sorry about that. But the sergeant is missing the point, which is why hasn’t Tim called?”
Jude wanted to be gentle with her, spare her any of The Kinship’s suspicions. “I don’t know,” she said feebly. “I think he may need some time to re-boot.”
“What are you talking about re-boot? From what?”
“I think the job was stressing him out.”
“No shit. You people pay crap wages.”
“A lot less than he was making in New York, I’ll grant you. Did you know about his money problems?”
“Yeah, but some of it was his own fault, if you really want to know. He never should have invested in that stupid comedy club.”
“What comedy club?”
“Oh, some friend of his in New York was putting it together. He emptied all his savings, and then something happened with the zoning or permits. He lost practically everything. I had to loan Timmy money just to pay his rent.”
“You loaned him money?”
“Yeah, six grand.”
Jude’s breath caught. “When was this?”
“Beginning of the summer. June, maybe?”
Jude felt as though she were watching a film clip running backwards, the worst of their doubts about Tim unwinding. She suppressed a relieved laugh. “Are you sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure. My husband was super pissed even though it was from my own account.”
Six thousand dollars – the supposed “payoff” from Monsanto. It came from his own sister, rescuing him from a bad investment. Jude was beginning to feel blood moving in her veins again and asked, “Was Tim working as a paralegal in New York?”
He got his certificate and was with a big firm in the city, but all they had him do was research and organize files. Anyway, he thought the whole paralegal thing was a mistake. He never planned to stay.”
“Did he ever talk to you about doing stuff for Monsanto?”
“Mon-insanto? That’s what he calls them. He gets all over me about feeding the kids GMO’s and glyphosate and other shit that they make. He despises them.”
“He … he never said anything to me about that.” The clip was running backwards even faster.
“Wouldn’t surprise me. He doesn’t like to talk about it,” Lisa was saying. “I think it embarrasses him, and why wouldn’t it? Nowadays, who wants to advertise that they’re aiding and abetting Monsanto? I mean, that’s why Timmy quit when he did. He told me that every day he worked for them, he felt like he was flushing a piece of his soul down the toilet.”
Jude released the breath that she’d been holding since Lucas first told her about the money. She wasn’t ready to forgive Tim. He’d been a jerk about Heather – worse than a jerk – he had put the organization in jeopardy. Gordon was right about that. But Tim wasn’t a damn spy. And he hadn’t scammed her. Maybe the only scam was the one he’d played on himself, believing that he had the nerve and the commitment to be an effective undercover. And she had to take s
ome responsibility. She should have come up to Vermont to visit, should’ve eased up on the pressure to send her “usable evidence.” And if she couldn’t tell him that she loved him – because she didn’t know what loving someone was or how exactly you did that – she should have told him that he was important to her. Because he was.
“Hello, Jude, are you there?” asked Lisa.
“I’m here.”
“What can I do?”
“Nothing right now.”
“What about you? Are you going back to Washington?”
“No, no I’m not. I’m going to stay here until I find him.”
CHAPTER 17
Stuart Ostrovsky arrived at the Byer home clutching a bouquet of flowers he’d brought for Dillon’s mother. It had been a longer drive than he’d anticipated to this wealthy enclave an hour outside of Boston, and his back was still stiff as he gaped at the expansive front hall, its marble tiles, cream-colored brocade walls, and the sparkling chandelier that hovered over him like a spaceship. He knew that Dillon’s family was financially comfortable, but he hadn’t expected this: the ten-foot iron gate, the mansion, the valet parking.
A uniformed maid approached with a smile. “I’ll take those for you,” she said, holding out her hand for the flowers. He was reluctant to part with them, having envisioned handing them to Dillon’s mother himself. “They’re for Mrs. Byer,” he said.
“Of course,” replied the maid. “I’ll make sure she gets them.”
Feeling as though he had no choice, he let her take the bouquet and lead him through a richly upholstered living room, then a game room with a pool table and oiled mahogany bar, and finally through French doors to the patio. He hesitated at the threshold. His PhD in molecular developmental biology and genetics was not adequate preparation for the social skills necessary to navigate the Gatsby-like garden party spread out before him. A grand white tent had been erected near the tennis court, the stone patio hosted two separate bars, and there seemed to be more catering staff than guests.
When Dillon had first invited him, he’d mumbled something about a party at his family’s place in the country, but the scientist had gotten it into his head that he was going to a backyard barbeque. He’d imagined a pool and a badminton set. Remembering he’d almost worn shorts, he broke out in a sweat. A buff, young waiter found him immediately and asked if he’d like a drink.
Ostrovksy sucked in his stomach. “I’ll take a beer.”
The waiter rattled off a few exotic brands he’d never heard of, so Ostrovksy nodded at the last choice. “That one sounds fine.”
Moments later, it appeared in a flared beer glass, ice cold and delicious. He went in search of his business partner, praying that he would not have to talk to anyone else. Finally, he spotted Dillon inside the tent at a table with three men. Luncheon not yet served, they were the only ones seated and had pushed aside the carefully laid place settings to set up shop. Like most of the other men at the party, they wore sport coats – all but one who was more casually dressed in tangerine pants and a blindingly-white polo shirt.
“Stu, m’boy!” cried Dillon when he saw Ostrovksy walk over. He jumped up to clap his partner on the shoulder. “Dad, this is the guy I’ve been talking about. Brilliant, nothing less.”
The man in brightly-colored pants half rose to greet him. He was, of course, Dillon’s father. They had the same Germanic cheekbones and wide jaw. Only his silver hair and weathered skin, deeply tanned after a summer of golf, set them apart. “Nice to meet you, Stuart,” he said. “This is Ted Carruthers from Wells Fargo, and meet Marvin McCutcheon of McCutcheon and Dean. Pull up a chair for Stuart,” he instructed his son.
Hands were shaken while Dillon dutifully pulled over another folding chair. The senior Byer was clearly in charge and comfortable in the role; and if the foursome had been talking business before, they weren’t going to anymore. Byer made sure that they never got past banter involving boats and golf, neither of which interested Stuart in the least. He laughed at their jokes all the same.
With heroic joviality, Dillon tried to put himself in the center of the conversation, but more than once, his father found a way to deflect him. And the harder his son asserted himself, the quicker it reminded the elder Byer of a story that changed the subject. About fifteen minutes later, he announced that luncheon was soon to be served and shooed the bankers off to help themselves. Then he turned to his son and said, “Let’s take a walk.” He pointed to Stuart, adding, “Join us, please.”
Holding drinks, they wandered below the tennis court toward a par three expanse of lawn. All repartee aside, Byer addressed Stuart directly. “How’s the project coming?”
“Very well, sir. I would say … quite well.”
Dillon jumped in. “We have most of the animal test results in. They look good. On target.”
“I’m asking the brilliant scientist,” said his father gruffly.
His discomfort growing, Ostrovksy replied, “Well, yes, the effects of the drug modification are as predicted. In fact, better than I had anticipated.”
“Any problems getting it through the FDA that you foresee? Any wrinkles that I should know about?”
Stuart risked a glance at his partner who warned him off with a twitch of his lip. “No, sir,” he said.
“Good,” announced Byer. “Because I’ve put my reputation on the line – not to mention five million dollars of my own money to fund yet another start-up for my son.” A cruel edge had crept into his voice. “You see, my good friend Marvin McCutcheon is the one who brought Monsanto to the table. And I have assured him that Dillon has found himself a venture that will be extremely profitable. Naturally, I didn’t tell him that my son has fucked up just about everything else he’s touched.”
“Dad …” Dillon’s hands were clenched.
“Have to be honest here, boy,” said Byer. “You seem to have a singular direction toward failure. Almost like a calling. Real estate. Internet security. I could go on.
“This is the real thing, Dad, I swear.”
Byer ignored him, remaining focused on Ostrovsky. “You married, Stuart?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, if you ever do marry, take my advice and don’t have children. You’ll sink a shitload of money into them, and they’ll end up disappointing you.”
Something snapped for Dillon. He narrowed his eyes and threw back, “Oh, poor Father! Life has been so unkind to you. A good-for-nothing son and a wife who sleeps around.”
The elder Byer’s fingers tightened around his gin and tonic; he looked ready to throw it, glass and all, into Dillon’s face. He turned to Ostrovsky and said sourly, “You see what I’m talking about.” Then he wheeled around and marched back toward the house.
As if he’d won this round, Dillon draped his arm around his partner and said, “Welcome to our happy home, Stu.” But he was quiet as they walked back up the hill, and after knocking back a quick drink, he disappeared.
The scientist waited around and ate hors d’oeuvres that the servers brought around. When most of the guests began to amble toward the tent for the sit-down meal and Dillon had not reappeared, Ostrovsky left the party. He made a wrong turn inside the house, passing through a room where dozens of gift orchids and beribboned wine bottles were heaped on a sideboard. His bouquet, still wrapped in its floral tissue, was among the bounty. But next to the rest, it looked cheap and sad.
* * *
That night the country sound at Galvey’s grated on Jude. Far from being comforting, its predictable melodies and lyrics – big trucks, short skirts, cold beer and broken hearts – were getting under her skin.
She didn’t know if her target would show, but Jude had few options. She got a break when Sylvia came in and strode up to another girl waiting at the bar. After a quick word, the two of them left Galvey’s.
Jude followed at a distance. As she thou
ght they might, the girls walked briskly up the street toward the “drug park.” When they got there, they mingled with a half dozen others looking to score. Jude hung back on the opposite side of the street, concealing herself in the shadows of the courthouse. She didn’t have to wait long. Even without Bobby G on the scene, money exchanged hands and small glassine envelopes were thrust deep into jeans pockets. Her friend hurried off, and Sylvia returned to Galvey’s.
Elbowing her way through the crowd, Jude stayed on the redhead’s heels. The tech made a beeline for the ladies’ room and anxious for her fix, was oblivious to anything and anyone around her. Just as she reached the short hallway where the bathrooms were located, a girl with freshly painted lipstick emerged. Sylvia wasted no time.
Bounding after her, Jude pushed against the door.
“Hey, someone’s in here,” cried the tech.
The move, however, so surprised Sylvia that she offered little resistance. And once inside, Jude locked the two of them in. She found herself in a small one-room affair with a toilet nestled in an alcove and a wash basin on the opposite wall. Jude put her back to the door to keep Sylvia from reaching around to undo the lock.
“What the fuck!” cried Sylvia.
“We need to talk,” Jude replied.
“I have to take a piss, do you mind?”
“Not at all, go right ahead.”
“You’re a pervert,” said Sylvia bitterly. “I’m gonna have you thrown out of Galvey’s.”
“Try it. I’ll tell them about the coke – or whatever – in your pocket and how you and your friends come in here to snort up. Have you ever been arrested for possession?”
Sylvia scowled, put the seat down on the toilet and sat, crossing her arms and legs. Jude leaned against the sink. “I want you to tell me about Tim … Tyler to you. He was no junkie and you know it.”
“I don’t have to tell you fucking squat,” Sylvia protested.
“Yeah, you do. Because if you don’t, I’m going to Amaethon and inform them that you’re a drug addict. You think you’ll still have a job?”