by Steven James
A world of people pursuing yachts and ignoring the babies.
The fruit of corporate greed and imperialism run wild.
And perhaps most disturbing of all: the proliferation of nuclear weapons that would eventually and inevitably fall into the wrong hands and create an unprecedented environmental catastrophe that would exacerbate the effects of global climate change and potentially wipe out billions of earth’s creatures—humans and other precious species alike.
Allighiero followed his escort toward the galley. Maneuvering the cart of cleaning supplies through the narrow corridors was not easy, but he had been doing this for two years and managed with little trouble.
He palmed the USB memory stick.
Today he would help clean each of the eight heads on the submarine. But now on the way to the first one he would pass through the galley.
Which was where he was going to place the device.
Allighiero’s task was simple—just insert a USB 3.0 jump drive into the back of the computer in the galley, a place no one would ever notice, would never even think to check for foreign devices. He had not been told exactly what the software he was uploading would do, but he knew that the drive contained some type of code that would spread through the sub to help accomplish Eco-Tech’s goal of disabling the submarine’s capability of firing its nuclear warheads.
He was a small cog in a much bigger plan. He knew that as well, but he had a part to play and he was going to play it.
When the world saw what a small group of environmentalists could do—the annihilation they could have caused if they’d had another agenda—the governments of the world would see the dangers of nuclear weapons for what they truly were, with eyes unclouded by political agendas and posturing.
Turning the tide of history would begin by first turning the tide of public sentiment.
A move toward peace.
A move toward a nuke-free world.
While his escort was distracted for a moment unlocking a door in front of them, Allighiero slid the device into the back of the computer console on the galley counter.
And just that quickly, his job was done.
In a little over fourteen hours and thirty minutes the world would wake up once and for all to the dangers of inadequately secured ballistic missiles.
47
The Moonbeam Motel
Woodborough, Wisconsin
8:38 a.m. Central Standard Time
I slept through my alarm, and even though I knew I probably needed the rest, I was still annoyed at myself for not rising earlier.
When I finally did climb out of bed, I found that, despite the alternating hot and cold baths last night, my ankle was still swollen. Still stiff. Still sore. Maybe even more so than when I’d gone to bed. And I was exhausted, my experience at the river still taking a huge toll on me.
I didn’t like the idea of using crutches, so after downing some Advil I showered and got dressed, choosing boots rather than shoes to add needed support to my ankle. I decided I would tape the ankle as soon as I could get my hands on some athletic tape, or even a roll of duct tape.
Before heading to the 9:00 briefing in the lobby, I wrote a note of condolence for Mia Ellory, the deceased deputy’s wife. Finding the right words wasn’t easy, and email wasn’t ideal, but it was something. It was a start. After a few online searches I had her email address. I typed it in and, though praying doesn’t come easily to me, I offered one up for her recovery from grief.
Pressed send.
My thoughts cycled back to last night. To Lien-hua. To Amber.
What a mess.
But there were more important matters at hand than my relational issues.
(1) Trying to establish whether Donnie Pickron and the driver of the semitrailer, Bobby Clarke, were alive or dead.
(2) Finding Alexei Chekov.
(3) Visiting the site of the old ELF station.
I grabbed my laptop and was about to head to the meeting when I noticed a folded sheet of paper lying near the base of the door. My name was written on the top in Amber’s handwriting.
I picked it up, considered whether or not to unfold it, then a little reluctantly, I did.
And read:
Pat,
I’m so sorry about last night. I hope it doesn’t hurt things between you and Lynn-wua. (I hope I spelled that right.) The last thing I would ever want to do is hurt you. I won’t bring any of this up again, but I needed you to know that I’m leaving Sean. That’s what I came to tell you last night, to see if you could help me find the best way to tell him. Now I see what a bad idea it was. I’m sorry for all the trouble I caused.
—A
I stood there stunned.
She’s leaving Sean?
Though my brother and I had never talked about it, I was pretty sure he loved Amber and was committed to her, just like he’d been to his first wife. I could only imagine how devastated he’d be when he learned that Amber was leaving him. Sean was far from perfect, but he was faithful and—
You don’t know that, Pat. You barely know him. It might be all his fault.
Or it might be yours.
I stared at the note, overcome with a desire to call Sean and tell him what Amber had written, to get everything out in the open, but undoubtably he would wonder why she’d shared the news with me first rather than with him. And I would have to tell him about my history with his wife.
On the other hand, if he found out later that she’d come to me, he’d almost certainly feel betrayed and wonder what was going on between us, especially if Amber told him that we’d been in love while they were engaged—and that her feelings for me had never gone away.
And of course Amber’s decision was only going to make things worse between me and Lien-hua, who would now see the encounter last night here in the motel room in a whole different light. Considering the rocky spots we’d had in the past, I wondered what it would take to salvage things with her this time around—but I wanted to do so much more than just salvage things. I wanted us to take the next step in our relationship. And how was that going to happen if she didn’t trust me?
Sean. Amber. Lien-hua.
It was a lose-lose-lose situation any way you cut it.
I crumpled up the note and threw it toward the trash can beside the desk; it bounced against the wall instead and fell to the carpet as if it were mocking me.
For a moment I had the urge to knock on Amber’s door and square things away with her, but honestly, what good could come from talking to her right now?
9:02.
Already late for the meeting.
Focus.
Be here, Pat.
It’s all about the case. You have to put this personal stuff aside and think about the case.
I opted for my black North Face jacket instead of the camo one. Ditching the crutches but carrying my computer—and trying unsuccessfully not to limp—I headed out the door to meet with Sheriff Tait, Jake, Natasha, and Lien-hua, the woman I couldn’t imagine living without.
The woman I feared I might’ve already lost because of choices I made four years before we ever met.
48
Lien-hua and Natasha were waiting for me in the lobby.
I tried to read Lien-hua, hoping to see if she was harboring any animosity about last night, but she kept her emotions well guarded. She greeted me cordially—neither overly friendly or noticeably distant.
On the walk from my room, I’d noticed that the snow was letting up, but now as I glanced out the north-facing window I saw that the wind was fiercer than ever and the windswept landscape looked arctic and boreal. Even on a snowmobile it wouldn’t be easy to get to the site of the old ELF station this morning, let alone find anything useful.
Natasha went for some coffee, and when Lien-hua and I were alone she asked how I was doing. “Is the ankle feeling any better?”
“It’s not bothering me nearly as much as I thought it would,” I said truthfully.
“The hypothermia?”
“Quite honestly, the whole river incident seems like it happened a month ago instead of yesterday.”
Lien-hua nodded.
We’d discussed this sort of thing in the past—the ways that the mind deals with tragedy or trauma: sometimes events that happened recently become recorded in the brain as if they happened weeks, months, or years ago, and conversely, distant memories can slide forward and obscure more recent ones. “Memory isn’t as contiguous as time,” she told me once. “It’s the mind’s way of dealing with pain and fear and heartache.”
Fear.
Heartache.
Trying to bridge into the topic of last night, I asked, “So how are you?”
“Okay.”
I waited, gave her the chance to say more, but she chose not to.
She excused herself to get some juice, and I awkwardly offered to join her.
“Okay.”
We filled our glasses in silence, then she pulled out some granola bars she’d brought with her. I grabbed a couple doughnuts to get me through until I could get some real food, we found a quiet corner in a private room just off the lobby and waited for Tait, Natasha, and Jake to join us. Silence stretched between us, and even if it was the right time for words, it didn’t seem like either of us could think of what they might be.
Alexei had no intention of killing the woman who lay tied up in the bedroom down the hall.
But he was ready to do so if need be.
Or at least he told himself he was.
Yesterday, after retrieving the remaining $1,000,000 from the drop point and switching vehicles, he’d returned to the cabin near the Schoenberg Inn and parked the woman’s car in the garage and brought her inside. At the time, he hadn’t wanted to know her name because he figured it would just make things harder, but this morning he realized maybe that’s what he needed.
So now he was going through her purse.
Kayla Tatum.
Yes, he’d been right, knowing her name was going to make this harder.
He set down the purse.
Last night, after leaving her bound in the room, he’d gone to the Schoenberg to look for the Eco-Tech team and slipped, unnoticed, into the basement. But when he went to the area of the hotel where he’d had the confrontation with Clifton White, he found it vacant. Even when he wirelessly hacked into the hotel’s registry he found no rooms listed under the four group member’s names he’d been able to identify.
He’d thought about locating the manager and persuading him, by whatever means necessary, to tell him the location of the group, but then Alexei had another idea. Perhaps he could use the manager’s cooperation in a slightly different way.
Using his phone, Alexei went online and, studying the maps of the area, discovered that the Navy used to have a small communication station in the area of the Chequamegon-Nicolet National Forest where the Eco-Tech team had traveled toward with the duffel bag of money before they’d disabled the signal. A little research apprised him that years ago, environmentalists had protested against the base while it was in operation.
On Wednesday when Valkyrie sent him to go speak with Rear Admiral Colberg, Valkyrie had said, “Tell him we need the access codes to the station. He’ll know what you’re talking about.”
So.
Alexei’s gaze went toward the room where he’d left Kayla.
Yesterday, Becker, the ponytailed Eco-Tech member, had told him that his team would be done at exactly 9:00 p.m. tonight. If he was telling the truth, that gave Alexei less than twelve hours to work things out. But he was also well aware that agendas can change, and he wasn’t sure how his flight from the authorities might alter their timetable.
And then there was the matter of Valkyrie, who was quite possibly in the area, evidenced by the fact that the remaining $1,000,000 had been there at the dead drop.
Yes, evaluate, adapt, and respond.
Alexei looked around the cabin. After leaving it this morning, he had not anticipated coming back. He began to pack up his equipment.
His threefold agenda: (1) take care of Kayla Tatum; (2) locate the Eco-Tech team; (3) find Valkyrie and kill him—or her—slowly.
Though he usually worked alone, he had an idea that might move things along more quickly. He knew of one person in the area who could help him, a person he was confident would do whatever it took to find the Eco-Tech team and stop them.
But recruiting him was another story.
49
Natasha returned, and while we waited for Jake to join us, I borrowed Lien-hua’s cell and phoned Sheriff Tait to find out when he would be arriving. He told me he wasn’t going to be able to make it to the briefing because of the roads and the number of emergency calls his department was getting—people trapped on the roads, power outages, accidents. Apparently, with the wind, it was proving nearly impossible for the county to keep the roads cleared. “I’m probably gonna be tied up here for at least a couple hours.” He still sounded sick. “And I wasn’t able to get any officers over to the old ELF site. I’m sorry.”
One step forward, two steps back.
“There’s nothing out there anyway, Agent Bowers.” Weariness in his voice. “I’ve been there myself, last fall—some poachers on forest service land. I’m telling you, the station is gone.”
“I understand,” I said.
If an underground bunker and tunnels for electromagnetic lines did exist, the Navy would’ve had to take herculean measures to keep it a secret—not just from the environmental activists and protestors, but also from the locals. And while that wouldn’t have been an easy task, over the years I’ve learned that despite government bureaucracy, pork-barrel spending, and WikiLeaks, when the government puts its mind to keeping something a secret they can be surprisingly effective at it.
After all, there are currently six military detainment facilities on US soil that the media has never gotten wind of, not to mention the FBI’s two domestic processing centers and the CIA’s sub rosa facilities abroad.
I assured the sheriff that I would brief him on everything we covered in our meeting, then picked up a key from the clerk at the front desk so we could lock ourselves in the room beside the lobby and not worry about being disturbed. A few moments after our call ended, Jake arrived and we began.
“All right,” I said. “We have a lot to cover.” It was hard for me to broach the next subject. “First of all, do we know how Ellory’s family is taking the news of his death?”
Natasha answered, “I talked with Linnaman last night and he said that until we have a body he can’t officially pronounce Ellory deceased.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Ellory might have surfaced somewhere downstream,” Jake said. “It’s possible he’s still alive.”
“No.” I shook my head. “There weren’t any other stretches of open water in sight.” This discussion only made Ellory’s death weigh more heavily on me. “He didn’t make it.”
All three of them were quiet. Finally, Natasha said, “I think his wife is still holding out hope. Linnaman’s probably just trying to help her deal with all of this.”
I’d seen this type of thing before in other cases, and it wasn’t helpful; in the end it would only exacerbate her pain. In addition, I’d already sent my condolences to her. I rubbed my head. “Okay, we’ll tackle that later. Let’s move on. Bobby Clarke, the truck driver. Any word?”
Everyone shook their heads.
“I heard from Torres,” Jake said, switching to our other case. “He said Reiser’s time of death was sometime late Tuesday, which would have given Basque plenty of time to clear out.”
But Reiser was seen entering the trailer Wednesday evening . . .
The killer returning to the scene?
Maybe, or maybe just an unreliable eyewitness.
“They also found newspaper clippings,” he said, “about the murders with Basque fourteen years ago and the more recent ones over the last six months. And some recorded television news footage covering
the crimes as well.”
So, Jake’s instincts had been right after all.
“Cable or local?” I said.
“Both.”
“But only the crimes with Basque?”
“Yes.”
Lien-hua spoke up. “I’ve been thinking about Basque. About the knives. Using them isn’t just a way of prolonging the victim’s death, but also, the penetration of the knife into her body has obvious sexual connotations. For him, this act represents coition.”
If you buy into the psychosexual theories of criminal behavior, which I did not, Lien-hua’s observation made sense. It occurred to me that Jake, who’d been working on this case for months, and who did share that perspective, hadn’t made that connection.
“Yes.” Jake nodded. “Reiser’s psych profile is consistent with a tendency to associate violence and sexuality.”
Lien-hua shook her head. “That’s not exactly what I’m getting at. Basque’s partner would be less dominant than him, more easily manipulated, have a lower sense of self-worth, and most likely have followed Basque’s lead in the crimes and the documentation of them.”
“So you’re saying?” Jake sounded irritated.
“Considering his submissive role in the murders, the significance of the blades would likely be different for him, might not even be part of his signature—if he were to have committed crimes without Basque present.”
“Which seems probable, given thirteen years apart,” I noted.
“Yes.”
My mind was spinning, trying to sort through all that had happened in the last two days—searching for Reiser in his trailer, getting called to Woodborough, visiting the scene of Ardis and Lizzie’s murders, finding the helmet, chasing Chekov, nearly drowning . . .
Letting Ellory die.
Jake stared at Lien-hua coolly. “I’ll have to share my notes with you. Show you what I’ve come up with.”
“Yes, that will be helpful,” she replied.