“Interesting lady,” Morgan said. “She’s cooperative and doesn’t hide her feelings about her husband, but she’s a little unstable.”
“Who isn’t?” I asked.
Morgan looked at me. “How are you doing?”
“I’ll be okay. I just wish this was over.”
Morgan looked out his window and didn’t say anything for several minutes. We were driving past the airport, when he said, “I think you should cancel your collection trip.”
“No,” I said. “Why should I do that?” I was beginning to look forward to the collection trip. I would get away from town, violent threats, exploding offices, and Jack Justin’s confounded briefcase.
“Someone is after you. Until now, threatening you was good enough, but today they tried to kill you.”
“Only because Jack Justin thought he could kill me and get his father’s briefcase. Now that he knows I don’t have the briefcase, maybe he’ll leave me alone.”
Morgan massaged his temples. “I don’t believe that, and neither do you. I don’t know who or what we’re dealing with, but the person is dangerous. You’ve made no secret about your field trip, and once you’re in the wilderness by yourself, Jane, the police and I can’t protect you.”
“I’m not asking for your protection,” I said. “I can’t put off the collection trip. I’ve already waited too long to get those samples.”
Morgan sighed and stared straight ahead. We continued our trip in silence. When I pulled onto the Near Island Bridge, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The bridge was packed with vehicles. Crashing waves and gulls’ cries had been replaced by blaring horns and angry voices, and I felt as if I suddenly had been teleported to Los Angeles during rush hour. I was certain there were more vehicles on this bridge than there ever had been before, and I hoped it could support the weight.
“Alright,” Morgan said. “The police should be out here clearing this. It will take us an hour or more to get to the marine center.”
“Why don’t you get out and walk? It’s not far.”
“What about you?” he asked. A car was beginning to pull onto the bridge behind me, so I jammed the Explorer into reverse and edged backwards. The car retreated and allowed me to back off the bridge.
“I’ll go back to my apartment to get cleaned up.”
“No, I can’t leave you alone,” Morgan said.
I looked at Morgan. “I’ll be fine. Call me later.”
Morgan looked at the bridge and back at me. “Be careful,” he said, and slid out of the Explorer, slamming the door behind him.
I knew I’d frustrated him, but I refused to be treated like a helpless woman. I’d been taking care of myself for a long while, and this wasn’t the first time I’d run into dangerous men. I drove toward my apartment, feeling self-sufficient, but the closer I got to home, that feeling began to dissolve into apprehension.
I parked in my usual space and watched the stairs for a few minutes. Two teenage boys bounced down them, laughing at some private joke, and my mood lightened.
I looked for my purse and again remembered it was at the marine center. I didn’t have my apartment key. I thought about walking to the manager’s office and getting a duplicate key, but then decided to check first to see if I’d forgotten to lock the door or had left a window open. I had been so worried about intruders that I doubted either of these two possibilities was likely.
I eased up the concrete stairs, my chest and stomach bunched into knots. I rounded the corner, took two steps toward my apartment, and nearly bolted. The front door was cracked open two inches.
I didn’t know what to do. Should I run and get help? My mind screamed, flee! However, my body kept inching toward the door. I couldn’t seem to stop myself.
I wiggled my fingers through the crack in the door and gently pushed it open. When I saw my home, rage usurped fear. Every inch of it was totaled. Through tears that were distorting my vision, everything I saw was broken. The furniture was slit, and my stuff was strewn everywhere.
Not my computer! I rushed through the apartment, mindless of danger. I threw open the back bedroom door and waded through papers, computer disks, and shattered drawers that apparently had been flung against the walls. I switched on the computer, and the screen bounced to life. I sank into the desk chair and cried, but this time, the tears were tears of relief. If the vandal had destroyed this computer, my research, a year and a half of my work, would have been gone.
I rummaged through the wreckage of my home office until I found a jump drive, and then I began the lengthy process of backing up everything on the computer hard drive. I’d kept three copies of my research. The original was on the hard drive of my computer at the marine center. I copied that onto jump drives, and once a week brought the drives home to copy onto the hard drive of my home computer. Unfortunately, I then took the jump drives back to the office, where they were stored. When my office blew up, I lost two copies of my research, and if the vandal had destroyed my home computer, I would have lost it all.
All I could think about was generating another copy of my work. I didn’t worry that someone might still be in my apartment or that I had left the door wide open. Nothing mattered until my research was safe.
Forty-five minutes later, everything was copied. I put the drive in my pocket and found my passport, which was stashed in my travel backpack. I hurried into the kitchen, where I kept a spare set of house keys in a small drawer. Luckily, that drawer was still in place, the keys in the far rear corner where I had left them.
I ran from the apartment, slamming and locking the door behind me, jumped into the Explorer, and drove to the bank. The lady in charge of the safety deposit boxes peered curiously at me over her reading glasses, and I remembered I still was wearing my muddy clothes. I explained that I needed to get into my safety deposit box, and supplied my passport for identification. She nodded and led the way to the back of the bank.
Once I had locked the jump drive in my box, I collapsed in a chair. Overwhelming relief soon was replaced by fear and uncertainty. I wanted to call Morgan, but I knew he would send the police to my apartment and insist I not return there. It was bad enough that an intruder had pawed through my things; I didn’t want a squad of police searching through everything, too. My privacy was valuable, and I hated the person who had invaded it. I would not allow him to keep me out of my home.
I felt stronger and more in control as I strode from the bank and climbed into my vehicle, but my resolve began to dwindle when I parked in the lot at my apartment complex. My hands trembled as I pushed the key into the lock on the doorknob. I held my breath and then pushed the door inward.
The mess was just as I had left it. I shut the door and stood quietly for a moment, listening. I was just about to relax, certain I was alone, when my telephone buzzed and a scream escaped my throat.
I was breathing hard when I answered. I expected to hear Morgan’s voice, and I was trying to decide whether or not to tell him the truth, when my father surprised me by saying, “Jane, are you okay? You sound out of breath.”
“Dad!” I wanted to cry and tell him everything, but I knew better. There was nothing he could do to help me with this problem, and I didn’t want to worry him any more than I already had.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Why are you calling in the middle of the day?” I squeezed my head in my hand and prayed this already bad day wasn’t about to get worse. I had answered too many awful phone calls during my mother’s long, horrible fight against ovarian cancer, and even for a while after she had lost that battle, I cringed each time I heard a ringing phone. Now, my dad was calling me at my apartment during work hours, and his voice sounded strained.
“The bombing at the marine center is all over the news,” he said. “They said one person is dead and at least three have been injured. I’ve been trying to get ahold of you on your cell phone, at your office, and at home.” I looked at the blinking light on my answering machine and felt guilty.
“Sorry, D
ad. I should have called you right away. I’m fine, but it has been a terrible day.”
“What’s going on up there?”
“I wish I knew,” I said. “I’m safe, though. You don’t need to worry about me.” I gazed at the wreckage of my apartment while I uttered this lie. I hoped he couldn’t hear the fear in my voice, but I knew he wasn’t convinced all was well.
“It looks as though you won’t be able to work at your office for a while. Why don’t you fly down here and visit for a couple of weeks?”
“I’d love to, Dad, but I can’t. This is my busiest time of the year. I’m planning on a collection trip over the fourth, so I’ll get out of town for a few days.”
That seemed to appease him, and I didn’t say anything to alter his assumption that I would be going on this collection trip with a group of people.
I promised him I would keep in touch and then disconnected and checked my answering machine messages. I had two from him and one from a man with a deep voice and a slight accent that I couldn’t place.
“Dr. Marcus,” the man said. The words were measured and exact. “We are tired of playing games. More people will die until you decide to cooperate. We will give you one more chance. Do not leave your telephone. We will call you later with a time and location.” That was the end of message. I pushed the save button. I would have to let Morgan listen to this. Perhaps FBI experts could identify the accent and possibly even the voice if he was a well-known terrorist.
I was certain of two things: I never had heard that voice before, and the caller had not been Jack Justin. Either Jack had associates, or he had been telling me the truth when he said that someone else wanted his father’s briefcase. But what happened to Jack, and why did everyone think I had the confounded briefcase?
I changed into sweats, and then, beginning in the kitchen, I cleaned my apartment, trying not to think about the evidence I was destroying. I wondered if the intruder had left fingerprints, but I shuddered at the thought of a forensic crew dusting every surface of my home. Since the airplane explosion, my life had been in shambles. It was time I took control again. For the last few days, I had been blindly following the instructions of terrorists and police. Now, I wanted to think for myself and take charge of my own life.
At 6:00, Morgan called. I told him about the message on my answering machine, but omitted the part about my apartment being rifled through.
“You shouldn’t be there alone, Jane.” His voice sounded weary and strained.
“I’ll be fine,” I said.
“At least record every call,” Morgan said. “If the guy calls back, we’ll want to have it on tape.”
“Okay,” I said.
“I have it arranged so a police car drives past your apartment complex every few minutes, but that’s the best I can do. Between the marine center bombing and trying to locate Jack Justin, we’re spread a little thin.”
“I’m fine.” I glanced at my living room floor. I’d put the cushions back on the couch and swept up the broken glass, but papers and debris still covered the floor.
“I’ll try to stop by later,” Morgan said. He paused a moment. “Your life is in danger, Jane. Don’t take this lightly.”
“What about my purse?” I said.
“I have it. I’ll try to get it over there tonight.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll be careful, I promise.”
I resumed cleaning, moving lethargically from room to room. I felt drained, and my stomach growled from hunger, but the thought of food made me sick.
At 8:15, the phone rang again. I hurried to it and pushed the record button on my machine. My heart pounded in my head as I picked up the receiver.
It was a life insurance salesman, and I would have laughed if I hadn’t been so irritated that this guy had unwittingly scared me half to death.
“I have life insurance,” I said.
“You can never have too much.” My hand grew clammy, and I began to wonder if this was one of the terrorists. Then, he launched into a description of the specifics of the policy, and I relaxed.
“I don’t want your insurance, and I’m going to hang up now.” I dropped the receiver into the cradle. I was doing him a favor. If he had any idea what a bad risk I was, he wouldn’t be trying to sell me life insurance.
When my apartment was reassembled, I turned on the television and flipped through the channels. I caught a glimpse of the marine center on CNN and changed channels. I stopped at a sitcom, but I kept hearing noises and having to mute the television to listen more closely. Finally, I shut it off and leaned back against the couch.
I closed my eyes and was almost asleep when the phone rang again. I fumbled with the answering machine and the phone, trying to clear my head and sharpen my senses.
“Hello,” I said.
“Jane, are you okay? You sound out of breath.”
“Peter.” I was surprised to hear my boss’ voice. “I’m fine. How about you? Where were you during the blast?”
“I was home eating,” he said. “I didn’t even know about it until I drove back to work at 1:00.”
“Thank goodness you weren’t there.”
“Poor Gant wasn’t so lucky.”
“What about the others?” I asked.
“Both Steve and Glenda are in the hospital. I haven’t talked to them, but they’re listed in stable condition.”
“Did Steve regain consciousness?”
“Yes,” Peter said, “but I understand the doctors think he may have some hearing loss.”
I pulled the bar stool over and sat on it. “What a mess,” I said.
“The detectives tell me the blast originated in the area of your office.”
My neck stiffened. I should have known this was not just a friendly call to check on my safety and state of mind. I said nothing, but waited for Peter to continue.
“Do you know anything about it?”
“Since the airplane crash, I’ve been receiving threats, Peter. I told the FBI, but neither they nor I expected anything like this.” I wanted to cry. I was too weary to explain this to Peter.
“I don’t understand, Jane. What are you involved in?”
“I don’t understand either, Peter. I swear to you that I’m innocent, but somehow I got caught in the middle of this.”
“The explosion today is related to the plane crash?”
“The FBI thinks so.”
“And when did you get involved in this?”
“After the plane crash. Someone thinks I took something from the crash site, but I didn’t. I keep trying to tell them that I don’t have what they want, but they won’t believe me.”
“So they blew up the marine center?”
I rubbed my head. “I guess so, Peter. I don’t know.”
“I see,” Peter said, and then I heard several seconds of dead air.
“Are the police going to let us back into the marine center tomorrow?” I asked.
“They said we can go to the basement labs and take out anything we need, but then we have to move out until the structural stability of the building can be tested. I’ve been on the phone all afternoon and evening lining up an engineer for that and a contractor to rebuild.” He sighed. “It will cost a fortune, and I don’t know what we’ll do in the meantime. Fish and Game has offered us some office space, but they can’t give us what we need.”
I fought back the urge to apologize. Despite what Peter thought, this was not my fault. I’d been blaming myself for too many things, and I was not going to take the rap for this. I knew my job was in jeopardy, and I had to be careful.
I changed the subject. “I’m still planning my collection trip. I don’t think I can afford to wait on that.”
“By all means, yes. What about your research?” His voice rose in pitch.
“Don’t worry. I have it backed up here.”
“Good. I wonder how much data the other researchers lost. I’d better call everyone.”
“Okay, Peter. I’ll be at the m
arine center first thing in the morning.”
“We’ll have a meeting then.” He paused a moment. “And please let me know what’s happening with this.”
The phone went dead, and I slammed it down. I knew from Peter’s last comment that he blamed me for the chaos in his life. Was it already time to polish up my resume? Who would hire someone whose previous boss blamed her for demolishing the workplace and killing one of the researchers?
I usually could blame myself for my problems, and I had blamed myself for Craig’s death, but now I was beginning to feel like a victim, and that made me mad. I wasn’t planning to let anyone but me screw up my life.
I walked to the back bedroom and turned on the computer. While I still had a job, I would work. I began thinking up test questions to torture my students with. I didn’t know where we would hold class, but somehow, we would finish this term.
It took awhile for my brain to click into gear, but once it did, I was able to push everything else from my mind. At 11:15, the telephone rang, and without even thinking, I picked up the extension near my computer.
As soon as I said hello, I remembered I should be recording the call, and I stood, unsure whether I should run to the kitchen extension or stay where I was. When I heard Nick Morgan’s voice, I sagged and sat on the edge of the desk.
The weariness was gone from Morgan’s voice. He sounded tense and alert. “Has anyone tried to contact you since I talked to you earlier?”
“No. I’ve been here all night, but they haven’t called back.”
“I’m at the boat harbor,” Morgan said. “I don’t want to go into detail now, but Jack Justin’s body just washed up at the boat ramp.”
Chapter Eleven
My throat was too dry to respond.
“Are you there, Jane?”
“How long?” I asked.
“It’s hard to tell, but the coroner is certain he’s been dead at least twenty-four hours.”
Justin hadn’t planted the bomb. He’d been telling the truth about the dangerous men who would stop at nothing to get what they wanted.
“It looks like he was tortured before he died,” Morgan said. “I suspect he told his attackers that you were the person who had the briefcase, and that’s why you’ve suddenly become so popular.”
Murder over Kodiak Page 17