Breach of Power (Jake Pendleton 3)

by Barrett, Chuck

  "No kidding," Jake said, "was it Adams?"

  "Don't know," Fontaine explained. "The remains have yet to be identified. All I could find out is that it was a man and the time period is about the same. To this day there are still an awful lot of missing and unaccounted for soldiers from the World War II era."

  Jake was silent. His brain cells went into overdrive as he rolled through the possible alternatives. Too coincidental for the body in the glacier to be anyone but Adams.

  "Jake? You still with me?" Fontaine asked.

  "She's not vandalizing caskets," Jake said. "She's robbing graves. She must have found something on the frozen body and kept it. That had to be Adams' body. I'll bet he'd been shipping something to the States in those caskets and had it all written down in something, maybe a journal or ledger of some sort. And Ashley Regan found it and kept it for herself. Which means whoever ransacked Ashley Regan's home, was looking for it too."

  "And she solicited her best friend to help her out." Fontaine injected. "Who also took four semesters of German in college and is a certified scuba diver."

  "Interesting." Jake smiled. "I need to find Regan and Barnett and get my hands on that book."

  "I already gave Wiley my suspicions, you want me to brief Rudd as well?"

  "Not yet, George," Jake said. "Not until I have something definitive. Even though we know the truth, it's only conjecture. We need proof. We need the book."

  "No personal items have been taken from the caskets, so what do you think is hidden inside?"

  "I have a pretty good idea," Jake said. "George, here's what I need you to find out."

  Jake gave Fontaine specific instructions and logged out. He thought about everything he'd just learned and smiled. He needed to personally give President Rebecca Rudd an update after all.

  * * *

  Abigail Love plugged Butler, Tennessee into the in-dash GPS unit in her black BMW. Three hundred fifty miles. Six hours.

  That was one hour ago.

  While she was waiting for the man to come out of the Charleston police station, she had received a text message from Evan Makley in reply to the photos she took of the man earlier. It simply stated:

  Butler, TN. More to follow

  She took an exit in Spartanburg, South Carolina for the triple purposes of refueling the BMW, getting something to eat, and going to the bathroom. Seventy-five dollars and fifteen minutes later she pulled back onto Interstate 26 with a full tank of gas, a bag of fast food, and an empty bladder. She rummaged around in her food bag and pulled out some French fries. Why did something so bad for you, smell so enticing and taste so good?

  Her cell phone rang, Evan Makley, she recognized the number on caller-id.

  "Hello, Evan."

  "The woman has a book. A journal of some sort. That man you saw arrested in Charleston is working for Rudd. He could be a problem. Whatever is in that book is no doubt what she's using to blackmail me…and the President. Abigail, I need that book. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Evan. I'm not an idiot." Now she remembered what she didn't like about Evan Makley from before. It was his condescending tone whenever he was upset or nervous. "I'll take care of the woman."

  "There are two of them."

  "Two of them, what? Women?"

  "Yes. Two women. Ashley Regan and Christa Barnett. Get the book and kill them both."

  "What about the man? What if he interferes?"

  "His name is Jake Pendleton. If he gets in the way, kill him too."

  * * *

  Francesca Catanzaro turned off the recorder when Evan Makley disconnected his call with Abigail Love. Her palms became clammy as the feeling of anxious apprehension grew inside. The Chief of Staff just ordered a known assassin to kill two women and Jake Pendleton.

  The President's suspicions about Makley had been correct. He was in over his head. Whatever he was trying to do, for whatever reason, was illegal and now Jake's life was at stake. Jake was her partner. There was no way she would sit idly by and let Evan Makley get away with ordering a hit on him. The Chief of Staff just made a critical mistake. A fatal mistake.

  She thought about her options for a moment and realized that Chief of Staff Evan Makley was a bigger liability to President Rebecca Rudd's administration than Senator Richard Boden had been. When Wiley split Jake and her up, he tasked her only to observe and gather intelligence on Makley but that time had now passed. Now was the time to take action.

  Swift and decisive action.

  She picked up the phone and dialed Elmore Wiley.

  27

  A breeze slid down the mountain and across the small town of Butler, Tennessee. It was everything Ashley Regan had expected. She gazed across Watauga Lake and saw fishing boats and water skiers slicing through the calm waters. A serene lake where parents took their families on all-day outings, anchoring in a shady cove along the 106-mile shoreline and letting the kids swim while mom and dad enjoyed a cool drink on deck. Or perhaps, camping on one of the many islands inside the peaceful lake.

  At one end stood the Watauga Dam, 318 feet tall and over 900 feet wide. Watauga Lake extended eighteen miles from the dam before the shoreline doubled back. At the base of the dam the water was 280 feet deep at the lake's fullest stage. But this year had seen a severe drought, the second year in a row, and the lake was nineteen feet below full stage.

  This information was important to her after she spent the morning scanning the history records at the Butler Museum and talking to the old man at the Butler Country Store and Bait Shop. Five hours ago, when she and Christa Barnett drove from Banner Elk, North Carolina to Butler, it would have seemed like useless information. Now, it was worth over two million dollars.

  At nine o'clock this morning when the two women arrived, Regan set out to do what they had done everywhere else, case the area to determine the location of the cemetery and grave. They also scouted the primary and alternate access points along with all highways and roads leading in and out of Butler. Careful preparation and planning were necessary to achieve her goal. What she found when the two of them arrived in Butler was totally unforeseen.

  There was no grave for Norman Albert Reese, Jr. in the Butler Cemetery. As a matter of fact, the only Reese graves in the cemetery belonged to his parents, Norman, Sr. and Sarah Hawkins Reese, both who died over fifty years after their son was killed in the war. She scoured through the archives of the museum and found only one entry about Norman Jr.'s burial. According to the records, his family refused a military funeral and buried him on the family homestead where he grew up. She could find no further mention of Norman, Jr. or the Reese homestead.

  The cemetery was a dead end, Regan pulled into a Butler Country Store and Bait Shop to get gas for the rental car. It had a rustic overhang and a single gas pump. Hanging on the screen door was a long, flat, plastic bag filled with water. She walked in and noticed an old man with a cane rearranging cigarette packs in the rack behind the counter. Two aisles were stocked with fishing gear—rods, reels, tackle, nets, paddles, life jackets, and more. The old building was musty. She heard a gurgling sound coming from a tank in the back of the store. Minnows in the tank with an aerator, crickets in a cage making annoying chirping sounds next to the tank, and a box of black dirt lined the back wall. The handwritten sign above the box read Worms.

  She grabbed two soft drinks and two bags of chips and took them to the counter. She looked at the screen door. "What's with the bag of water?" She motioned toward the door.

  "Keeps the flies out." The old man never looked up.

  "How's that?"

  "When the flies get near it, they see their reflection. The bag makes their reflection look like a much larger bug so they fly away."

  "Does that really work?" It sounded like country hocus-pocus to her.

  "It wouldn't be hanging there if it didn't." He looked up at her for the first time. "Will this be all?"

  She nodded and slid the items across the counter. While the old man took her cash she noticed sever
al old wartime photos on the wall behind him.

  She pointed to one on the wall. "Is that you in those pictures?" She asked.

  "Eh?" He cupped his hand around his ear. "Speak up missy."

  "The pictures." She raised her voice. "Is that you in the pictures?"

  He turned around and looked. "That's me and my friend in all these pictures." He limped with his cane and pulled one off the wall, blew several years worth of dust off of it, and placed it on the counter in front of her. It was a picture of two men in uniform, barely old enough to be considered men. He tapped on the picture. "He's dead now."

  "I'm sorry," Regan said. "How long ago did he die?"

  The man grew silent. He rubbed his arthritic hands across the glass covering the photo. "One month after this picture was taken. We went off to war together." He paused. "I came home in a cast. He came home in a box."

  "I'm so sorry to hear that." Regan genuinely felt sorry for the old man. She knew what it was like to lose someone close. Her parents died while she was attending college. During her freshman year, her mother got sick and battled breast cancer. While she was undergoing chemo, her father was diagnosed with Stage 4 prostate cancer and died two months later. Six months after his death, her mother died from an infection contracted during her treatment. "Which war was that, Korea?"

  He didn't answer at first. She could tell his thoughts had drifted elsewhere. She guessed back to the war.

  "World War II," he said. "We took a mortar round in our bunker. Landed five feet from Norm. Blew him to pieces. I was further away, but shrapnel still tore up my leg. Almost lost it."

  Did he say Norm? Could she be so lucky? "Norm? Was that your friend's name?"

  "Yep. Norman Reese. Died one month shy of his twentieth birthday."

  At first, she thought the odds of running into the one man who could help her locate Norman Reese Jr. were staggering. Then she remembered the sign said population 3977 and realized in this small southern town, the odds were probably pretty good if she talked to the elderly. People in this part of the country don't leave like they do in larger cities. Families had been here for many decades. Some, even longer.

  In retrospect, this is exactly how she should have started her inquiries. This man knew more about the town than she could ever hope to find in the Butler Museum.

  "That's horrible. He was so young. Is he buried in the cemetery here in town?" She knew he wasn't but it was a good leading question without tipping her interest in the man.

  "Naw. His parents buried him on their old property. Had fifty acres on a bluff on the Watauga River. They buried Norm on a knoll overlooking the river and Old Butler. It was Norm's favorite fishing spot. He used to have an old tire swing hanging from an oak tree. We'd swing over the river and drop in. He was actually born under that tree." The old man went quiet again.

  "It sounds like a very pretty place. Do his parents still own it?"

  The old man looked at her without speaking. She felt like he was looking right through her, knowing that it was all a ruse. She had a rush of anxiety but covered it with a smile. The same smile she always gave Samantha whenever she wanted her to do something. Thinking of Sam Connors made her feel guilty. It had been two weeks and Sam still wasn't accepting her calls. She missed Sam and vowed to go back home and patch things up with her. And with any luck at all, going home a lot richer.

  "Nope. They're dead."

  "Are all of them are buried on the property?"

  "You sure ask a lot of questions, young lady."

  "Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to sound nosy. You're such a nice man and your friend obviously meant a lot to you. I meant no disrespect." She stuffed her wallet back in her purse and turned toward the door.

  "No, no. It's just that I haven't talked about Norm in such a long time. Brings back so many memories. Norm's parents died after the TVA flooded the valley, so they're in the cemetery down the street."

  "TVA?" She turned around and walked back to the counter.

  "Tennessee Valley Authority. You see, Watauga River used to flood a lot back in the day, and after the big flood of 1940, they decided to construct a dam and flood the entire valley. They started building it and then along came World War II, which put a big stop to that project along with all other domestic work projects, and the government's focus shifted to support the war. After the war was over though, the TVA came back in and started working on the dam. They tried to move Norm's body several times but old man Reese wouldn't let 'em. Every time they'd show up, he'd run 'em off with his shotgun. I think he might of shot one of 'em."

  "So what happened to Norm's body?"

  "Still in the ground on that knoll, far as I know." The old man picked up the picture, grabbed a dirty rag, wiped the rest of the dust from the top of the frame, and hung it back on the wall.

  "Well if they flooded the valley, where is this knoll you're talking about?" Regan had gotten lucky. Extraordinarily lucky.

  "Like everything else in Old Butler that wasn't torn down or relocated to New Butler, it's underwater. Been that way since 1948 except that one time they drained the lake to repair the dam." The old man reached below the counter and pulled out a map of Watauga Lake. He grabbed a marker and circled a small area on the map. "The old Reese place was somewhere around here. Under about sixty feet of water."

  That was three hours ago and now she was sitting in the car staring at the map while Christa drove them back to Butler. She and Christa had just purchased scuba diving equipment from two different dive shops in the Tri Cities area. One in Kingsport and one in Johnson City. She had just spent over three thousand dollars to fully equip both of them with dive computers, buoyancy compensator vests, regulators, masks, fins, tanks, and dry suits. She figured three thousand dollars was a small price to pay compared to the cache she was about to extract from the grave of Norman Albert Reese, Jr.

  28

  "There must be some mistake," Jake said to the man behind the rental car kiosk. "I don't think my vehicle is supposed to come with a boat."

  "Yes sir, Mr. Pendleton. That order is correct. I took the reservation myself. I've never had a special request quite like this one before so it isn't something I'd forget." He typed something into his computer terminal. "It says here the order was placed on your behalf by George Fontaine…and paid for by Commonwealth Consultants of Fairfax, Virginia. Does that sound right?"

  "Yeah, that's right," Jake said. "I just don't understand the boat."

  "There's an envelope on the front seat with instructions from Mr. Fontaine," the man said. "Maybe that will clear it up."

  "I hope so." Jake thanked the man and walked across the lot to the rental, a white Chevrolet Tahoe with a nineteen foot Bass Tracker. A 90-horsepower Mercury outboard hung from the transom.

  The big surprise was what he found in the back of the Tahoe—a full complement of fishing tackle, a dive bag of scuba gear, and tanks. Lying on the front passenger seat was an envelope with a note and a State of Tennessee Non-Resident fishing license. He unfolded the note. It read: 'Enjoy your fishing trip, call me when you're underway.'

  Nothing more.

  Jake folded the note, slipped it and the fishing license back into the envelope, tossed his backpack on the floorboard, climbed inside the Tahoe, and sat in the plush leather seat. Jake paired his Bluetooth headset to his phone then slipped it around his ear, started the SUV, and pulled away from the Tri Cities Airport.

  The dash-mounted GPS screen lit up automatically displaying the distance and route to Butler. The woman's electronic voice called out, "Please drive the highlighted route." Son of a bitch thinks of everything.

  Jake followed the voice's directions and pulled onto Bristol Highway, hit speed dial, and waited.

  Two rings later Fontaine answered. "Been expecting your call. Hope you found everything satisfactory."

  "What's the punch line?" Jake asked.

  "About the scuba gear?"

  "Nope. Got that figured out. Don't know that I quite understand the f
ishing gear unless it's to use as a ruse to get into a particular area. In case I'm stopped or something."

  "A little more complicated than that, Jake. It is your cover to be there because there is a bass fishing tournament on the lake for the next two days. Keep that fishing license on you and play the part. In the bow of the boat you'll find compartments large enough to conceal the scuba gear—tanks and all."

  "It's been a long time since I dove, George. I'm out of practice."

  "Gee, Jake. According to your file, you were certified as a Search and Rescue diver in the Navy as well as certified to operate underwater communications equipment."

  "I was, but it's been probably ten years since I strapped on a tank."

  "Eleven years, five months, and twenty-one days according to your Navy records. Still, it's like riding a bike, right?"

  "You hacked my Navy records? What else did you hack? Wait. Don't tell me. Do you know where I'll be diving?"

  "I pulled the pre-flood land survey records from the TVA from October of 1946 when they recommenced construction on the dam. The grave of Norman Albert Reese Jr. is depicted on the survey. The family refused to let the TVA or any authorities move their son's body. Old man Reese even knew the valley was going to be flooded before he buried his son there so he had a concrete vault installed with a metal lid bolted onto it. He didn't want his son floating up after the flood. He also put a large marker in the ground at the head of the vault. That's what you'll be looking for."

  "How deep is it?" Jake asked.

  "As best as I can figure from the topographic and water table charts, should be around sixty feet. Give or take a few feet. Also the water temperature could be as low as the upper 40's. Research indicates the visibility can range anywhere from fifteen to twenty-five feet so that is in your favor. Another thing, according to the topo charts, the knoll where Reese is buried is only about fifty feet from the shoreline so you might be able to shore dive."

  "How much of this intel do you think Regan and her friend have?"