“Borland is not going to accept that.”
“Make him accept it,” Mac counseled. “For his safety and for yours, let it go for tonight. See if you can find a dark SUV that might have been shot up. Canvas the area around the County Line. Pull traffic camera footage, if that even exists around here. Talk to others in the bar, and ask them if they saw anything. Do the other police work that needs doing. For now, I’m not talking about what Rawlings and I were working on today.”
“I don’t know, Mac,” Brock replied, not wanting to let it go.
“Do it, Leah. Do it,” Mac urged. “Have your people work the scene. Trust me on this. You looked me up. You know my history. I know what I’m talking about.”
Brock stared him down for another minute, reading him. “Okay.” She sighed, unhappy, and stuffed her notebook in her wool-coat pocket. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“That makes two of us.”
There was a commotion to their left, and it was Rawlings’s father, the former sheriff, and Sam’s son, Bobby, who looked terrified.
“That poor kid,” Mac muttered, shaking his head, sick.
“I need to go.”
“Yeah, you better.”
Brock walked away, and Mac leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and exhaled, wondering what to do next. The night was like a bad dream. He had no idea what his next move needed to be. He didn’t even want to think about it.
“Are you Mac McRyan?”
Mac opened his eyes to see a nurse standing in front of him with a cup of coffee in her hand. “Yes, I am.”
The nurse was shy. “This is weird, I know, but five minutes ago a very nice man asked me to bring you this coffee and this envelope.”
“A man?” Mac asked, on alert now, scanning the area.
“Yes,” the nurse answered. “He’s gone now.”
“Did he give you a name?”
“No.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Yeah, he was … maybe six-foot, thick, with wide shoulders and a barrel chest. He had silver, whitish, short hair.”
“How was he dressed?”
“In all black. He was wearing a black wool coat, black turtleneck, and black pants and shoes. He was dressed pretty sharp for around here, actually—kind of distinguished.”
“And all he said was to hand this to me?”
The nurse nodded.
“Okay, thank you.”
The nurse walked away. Mac looked to his left down the hall. Brock was talking to Borland, Rawlings’s dad and son, as well as with other officers, restoring calm. There was a hallway ahead of him, and Mac walked down it, out of the view of everyone, and into an empty hospital room. He set the coffee on a table and opened the package. Inside was a note and cell phone. The note provided a number and said: Call this number. It’s important.
Mac did as instructed.
“Mr. McRyan, I presume.”
“Who is this?”
“A friend.”
“A friend? Friends don’t need nurses to deliver burner phones.”
“I sent coffee.”
“Why do I remain skeptical?”
“I don’t blame you, based on the events of this evening. I saw what happened to you and the sheriff. I was parked just back up the street from you.”
“You saw?” Then Mac quickly thought back to just before Rawlings was struck by the SUV. “You’re the black Escalade. The honking horn? That was you?”
“Yes. I wish I could have done more. I really do, but that black SUV was on you before I really recognized what was happening. The horn, I’m sorry, that was all I could do.”
“You’ve been following me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to see how far you would get. Or more accurately, my employer wanted to see how far you would get.”
“Why?”
“Because he thinks he might be able to help you.”
“Help me? Help me how?”
“You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
“Who is he?”
“Not yet. My instructions are to take you to him.”
“Take me to him?”
“Yes. Do you want to go for a ride?”
Mac thought for a moment. Was this a setup? He was right to think that way after all that had happened. But then again, why would they do something so elaborate one hour after trying to so crudely gun him down in the street? They wouldn’t—probably—and he wanted answers. “I’m game.”
“Good. Meet me at the Williston airport in one hour. And Mr. McRyan, there’s one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Come alone.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Mr. McRyan, my name is …”
Leah drove Mac back to his hotel, escorted by two other patrol cars. She came up to his room, and the two of them cleared it while two other patrol units carefully prowled through the parking lot. “I’m going to station someone outside,” Brock suggested. “You need to get some rest, and you can’t get it if you’re constantly watching the door.”
Mac grimaced. “Leah, I really wish you wouldn’t. In fact, I need you to do me a favor that you’re really not going to like doing.”
“What?”
Mac explained.
“You’re right, I don’t.”
“But will you?”
Brock assessed him quickly and then sighed. “You’re going whether I help you or not, correct?”
“Yes.”
Twenty minutes later, after a quick shower, a change of clothes, and a quick text to Riley, Mac was sliding out the back of the hotel, dressed head to toe in black, with his hood pulled over his head, jogging through a gap between two buildings to find Brock waiting for him in her unmarked cruiser on the street on the other side.
She drove him to the Williston airport.
“Good luck.”
“I just might need it,” Mac answered, checking his Sig one more time before he tucked it behind his back in his waistline. He did the same with his backup Glock on his ankle, and then he exited the car, taking his backpack with him.
Mac walked into the small empty terminal and saw a man meeting the description the nurse gave earlier. A white-haired man, dressed all in black, was waiting for him by a door leading out to the tarmac.
“Mr. McRyan.” The man extended his hand. “My name is William Phelps. Retired, United States Secret Service.”
Mac sized Phelps up. “Retired, huh? How long?”
“Eight years.”
“Did you work protection?”
Phelps nodded and answered with a confident grin. “I did. If you want, call Judge Dixon. He knows me pretty well.”
“Does the Judge know you’re up here?”
Phelps shook his head. “No. He knows nothing of this, but again, if you want to call Judge, do it. I’m confident he’ll vouch.”
Initially hesitant to call, Mac also suddenly remembered that, to a certain degree, the Judge got him into this to begin with. Mac woke the great man up from his slumber. “Mac?” a groggy voice growled. “Christ, it’s … 3:04 in the A.M.!”
“Sorry, Judge, couldn’t be helped,” Mac retorted lightly. “I have a question for you. Does the name William Phelps mean anything to you?”
“William Phelps? … William Phelps…” the Judge mumbled quietly. “Wait a minute. Do you mean Bull Phelps?”
Mac took one look at Phelps and thought the moniker might fit. “Says he worked for the Secret Service back in the day?”
“Yeah, you could say that. He was the head of the presidential detail before he retired.”
“And was his retirement honorable?”
“Yes, it was,” the Judge answered with a yawn, still waking up.
“Can I trust him?”
“Three presidents of the United States did.”
“Judge, that wasn’t my question. My question is can I trust him?”
“Mac, why are you asking
? What the hell is going on?”
“He’s standing in front of me here at the Williston, North Dakota airport, asking me to go somewhere on a Lear jet with him to meet someone. He won’t tell me where we’re going or who I am meeting. In other words, this is a total leap of faith. So again, I ask you, can I trust him?”
“Put him on the damn phone.”
Mac handed the phone to Phelps. “You’re up.”
“Judge, sir, how are you? Yes, sir, it’s been a long time.”
The two men spoke for a few minutes, and then Phelps finished with, “Judge, he’s in good hands. I trust the man I’m working for. I give you my word. Yes, sir.” Phelps handed the phone back.
“Mac,” the Judge stated, fully awake now, “he won’t tell me who it is either, but I know Bull. He’s a good man, an honorable man. You can trust him.”
“That’s all I needed to hear, Judge.”
“Is this about Shane?”
“It is, and the other things all tied up in that. I think I know what happened to Shane, Judge. I’m hoping this mystery man will be able to help me confirm it and prove it, or all this is just a big waste of time.”
Phelps led Mac out to the jet. Once inside, the plane was immediately cleared for takeoff and began taxiing. “The flight will be about an hour. We’re heading west.”
“Are we going to so remote a place I won’t figure out where we are?”
Phelps smiled and shook his head as the plane lifted off the ground, “No. I imagine not. We’re flying to Bozeman, Montana, and then we’ll take a forty-five minute drive.”
“South, I assume?”
“Affirmative.”
“Big Sky?”
Phelps nodded. “That’s the general area.”
An hour later, the jet landed, and Phelps led Mac to a waiting white Ford Expedition. They were forty-one minutes into the drive south of Bozeman on US Highway 191 when Phelps turned the Expedition right off of the highway, motored through an arched entrance, and carefully made his way up a winding switchback-filled road. Five minutes later, they pulled to the main entrance of an expansive and well-lit lodge.
Phelps led Mac inside into the foyer and then left down a long hallway that led into a spacious library. Sitting in a chair by a roaring fire was an older man, dressed in a dark green quarter-zip sweater and tan slacks, with a mane of gray hair combed back. He was much older now, in his midseventies by his estimation, but Mac recognized him from pictures and video he’d seen long ago.
“Good morning, Mr. McRyan. Thank you for coming,” the man greeted with a slight drawl. He stood and extended his hand. “My name is—”
“Antonin Rahn.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“I may be an environmentalist, but I didn’t stop being a capitalist.”
“I see that you’ve heard of me, Mr. McRyan,” Rahn stated, finishing the handshake with enthusiasm. “Please sit down. Bull says you’re smart. My first impression is that he is correct.”
“Mr. Rahn, why am I here?”
“You’re also very direct.”
“It saves time.”
Rahn nodded. “Let’s sit down. Relax, Mr. McRyan. You’re quite safe here.” With everyone seated, the old man answered Mac’s question. “The direct answer to your question, Mr. McRyan, is that Callie Gentry was my goddaughter.”
“Goddaughter?”
“Yes. Her father was my closest and dearest friend. He made me her godfather. When he died of cancer ten years ago, he made me promise to look after her. I was doing pretty well until a couple of weeks ago.”
This explained, at least in part, why Rahn had surfaced. “Then you know who Shane Weatherly is.”
“Oh, I do indeed.”
“He was the godson of Judge Dixon,” Mac replied.
“Then I imagine the great man loved Shane like one of his own.”
“He did.”
Rahn nodded and then reached for the fireplace poker and adjusted the burning logs and embers, goosing the fire. “My children have both died, Mr. McRyan. Unfortunately, my relationships with them were”—the old man sighed—“very poor. Nonexistent really, which is my fault and my fault only. I have some grandchildren but no real relationship with them either, though I’ve tried. So Callie, while being my employee, was also the closest thing I had to family. I feel I have some responsibility for her death. It is why I thought it time that you and I meet. I think I may be able to help you.”
“In return for what?” Mac asked guardedly. If he’d learned anything in life, it was that people like Antonin Rahn didn’t do favors for free.
“Justice for Callie,” Rahn replied, his voice showing a hint of fire. “Boy, you are cynical.”
“Cynicism born of a time spent around people of power and wealth.”
“What do you know of me, Mr. McRyan?”
Mac thought for a moment and then shrugged. “I suppose just what I learned in college and law school, Mr. Rahn.”
“Which is Galveston Bay and the lawsuit, I imagine.”
Mac nodded.
“Well, then you know about me from thirty years ago,” the elderly man rejoined. “That was a long time ago. Times change, people change, what they do changes, what they believe in changes.”
“To be perfectly honest, Mr. Rahn,” Mac declared, “what I’d really like to know is what you’ve been up to the last six months.”
“I imagine you would, as it seems that our interests have crossed paths,” Rahn replied and looked at his watch and patted his stomach. “Are you hungry, Mr. McRyan? I know to you it’s 5:00 A.M., but for me, this is when I get up. And when I get up, I usually eat. Are you hungry?”
All the adrenaline and action of the night had Mac low on fuel. “I could eat.”
Rahn led Mac and Phelps back to the spacious kitchen, where a cook was already up brewing coffee, which he brought over for Mac. “I was told you prefer black,” the cook stated.
“Yes, thank you,” Mac answered and looked over to Rahn. “I see you’ve been looking me up.”
Rahn took a cup of coffee for himself and nodded. “Ever since you became involved in this matter, I’ve been learning about you. I put Old Bull here on your tail when you headed to North Dakota.”
“To watch me?”
“And to protect,” Rahn answered and then sadly shook his head. “There are too many dead.”
“So can you tell me why that is?” Mac asked.
“Well, it’s a long story. Let me give you some background before we get to the present day. I left Texas in 1985 after the mess in Galveston Bay. I was ruined, Mr. McRyan. I had nary a friend left, other than Callie’s father. Leroy Gentry stuck with me.”
“Call me Mac.”
“Okay, Mac, I was done in Texas. I was toxic, so to speak. So I left and bought myself an island in the southern Caribbean.”
“And did what?”
“I sold and completely liquidated my original companies. Then I started new ones, doing the same thing under a new name and structure with new people in charge. With shell companies, holding companies, trusts, hedge funds, I was able to put several layers between me and the actual business. The people running the businesses had no idea they were working for me. To do all that, I kept a team of lawyers in New Orleans busy for the first four years and then a new team of lawyers in New York busy for another five. Now, my lawyers are based in London—a small, obscure firm of seven highly skilled lawyers with one very wealthy client.”
“How did you run your company or companies?”
“I did it from my little island and my various other homes around the world. You see, I moved around a great deal under fake identities. I grew beards, let my hair go long and gray, lost a bunch of weight, and I dropped out of sight.”
“You ran.”
“I sure as hell did. I needed to figure things out, and I couldn’t do it in Texas. In fact, I haven’t been back to Texas since I left, not a once. Texas didn’t want me around anymore, and I can’t say I blame t
hem. In the end, I didn’t want to be there either. There’s nothing there for me anymore.”
“Judge Dixon was looking into finding you,” Mac offered. “He’s not had any success, as far as I know.”
“I’ll take that as a badge of honor,” Rahn replied happily. “If the great Judge Dixon, with all of his resources, can’t find me, I’ve done one hell of a job.”
“So what, you’ve spent thirty years on the run, operating your oil company?”
“Yes, although it is many, many companies now, all smaller entities with anonymous names nobody could possibly associate with the name Antonin Rahn.”
“Like Gentry Enterprises? Soutex Solutions? EMR Group? Like Rig Resources?” Mac proferred, now knowing the answer.
“Indeed.”
“All oil-related companies?”
The old man’s eyes came alive. “Not all. In fact, I like to think I’ve done quite a bit more.”
“Like what?”
“I became an enthusiastic environmentalist.”
“You?” Mac laughed heartily in reply, incredulous. “You, Antonin Rahn, the man who once said he would nuke the EPA if he could, became an environmentalist—an enthusiastic environmentalist?”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Leopards don’t change their spots. Oilmen stay oilmen.”
“Oh, I’m still an oilman. What’s not true is an oilman can’t also care for the world. I didn’t thirty years ago. Not a lick. Now, I do.”
“Really?” Mac remained skeptical.
“You’re really a cynic, aren’t you?”
“Well, when you consider my profession …” Mac replied.
“Fair point. In any event, once I left Texas and bought my island, I had to fill my time. I spent a lot of it becoming an excellent scuba and then deep-sea diver. I discovered the wonders of nature below the surface, and I was captivated. All those years in Texas I worked nonstop, never taking a vacation, never going for a swim, never going to a kid’s ballgame, never taking a break to enjoy the world’s wonders. Instead, I spent every day, every waking hour trying to make every last dollar every honest, crooked, cheap, and sleazy way I could.” The old man shook his head. “What a waste. Years I can never get back.”
Blood Silence Page 27