11
WASHINGTON, DC. OCTOBER 18. 7:30 P.M. EASTERN STANDARD TIME.
A day-old Washington Post was tucked between the backseats of the car. Divya was busy on her phone, so Jake skimmed the paper, looking for something interesting. They were headed to another chichi restaurant after another day’s work.
“Overpopulation Viruses” in Slums
Alarm African Officials
Nairobi, Kenya—Local health authorities are reporting a dramatic uptick in mortality rates from transmittable diseases among the poor. The outbreaks are attributed to crowded living conditions and lack of clean water.
Oyhed Ausim, chief physician at the nonprofit Kenyan Children’s Clinic, called these new health statistics disturbing. “As the population continues to grow, we will reach a critical mass, if we haven’t already. From that point on, viruses will spread and mutate at an alarming rate, a rate that no nation in the world is prepared to cope with, especially Kenya. It’s horrifying, really.”
In Asia, where several nations are battling population-fueled disease outbreaks, government officials have convened to consider various proposals to stem the problem.
On Maryland Avenue, the driver stopped and opened the door for Jake, who walked around to the other side and opened Divya’s. She was still sitting, waiting for him to do so. The driver was savvy, allowing Jake the opportunity to be gentlemanly.
You’re not helping! Jake wanted to say.
“Thank you.” Divya got out of the backseat.
“So what’s this place all about?” Jake asked, referring to the restaurant.
“You’ll have to wait and see.” She winked. Flirty again.
Jake handed the driver a tip, likely not a very good one in this town.
Inside, cool-blue neon backlit the serpentine bar. Ice was packed in stainless-steel trays beneath the booze, chilling raw oysters from various regions, all marked with small slate boards and chalk. The room was bustling, and Jake could hardly absorb the frantic scene.
Their water glasses were filled. Crystal goblets. Within a minute, a server came by to ask for their drink order.
“Veuve, please,” Divya requested.
The young man nodded. “And you, sir?”
“Old-fashioned.” Jake felt as though he might need it to get through the evening.
“Yeah, you are.” Divya brushed his slacks with her bare foot.
Ugh. “Champagne? What are you celebrating?”
“A reunion.” A stunning, devilish smile.
They toasted with their water.
The drinks arrived just in time. Divya was asking Jake about his ex-flame Elspet. What happened? Not exactly Jake’s favorite topic of conversation. Somehow his fumbling answer led to the recent drama surrounding Noelle, which wasn’t any better. Jake ended that topic too when Divya said Noelle didn’t deserve him anyway.
This made Jake miss Noelle immensely. He had no idea what type of woman Divya thought he deserved, but he knew the comment was a slight against Noelle. Something Noelle herself would never have said about anyone.
Jake’s first old-fashioned went down easy, so he ordered a second. The tranquil azure lighting and clean steel decor—plus the bourbon—soothed his mood.
Still, all he could think about was going home.
After the two bourbon drinks and a glass of water, Jake excused himself to go to the bathroom. The door was heavy stainless, like an entrance to a walk-in freezer, and the attendant rushed from inside and pulled to help him.
“Thanks, got it,” Jake said. He meant Unnecessary.
The stall doors and walls went floor to ceiling. Obviously, hearing another man’s bowel movement wasn’t in line with the “chic, upscale environs” the restaurant intended to create. Or whatever Divya had called it. Some silly phrase meaning overpriced.
Jake sidled up to the urinal.
“Not from here?” the attendant asked. Jake turned around, hoping the man wasn’t talking to him. There were no other customers in the room.
Jake went to the sink, washed his hands, and avoided further conversation. “My oysters are getting cold.” He accommodated the man with a smile.
* * *
They didn’t get back to Divya’s until 11 p.m. Jake was upstairs in the guest bedroom changing. He had a French 75 in his hand, a drink he wasn’t familiar with but that Divya had forced on him. Not bad, really. Fancy gin and champagne. Better than a Pabst. Walking over to the bedside table, he took his cell phone from his pocket. He had forgotten to turn it back on after dinner.
It buzzed for a minute straight after he turned it on. Six voice mails, all from J.P. And two text messages. He read the texts first:
Dude—need you! Esma is missing. Something’s wrong.
And,
Please call back! ASAP!
The messages had their intended effect. Without listening to the voice mails, Jake dialed J.P. It rang twice before he answered.
“Hello?” J.P. sounded foggy. Probably drunk.
“What’s going on?” Divya peered in the room mischievously. Jake waved her away.
“Man, she’s gone. Without a trace.”
“Esma? You said she went home to Mexico.”
“She did, yeah. Then she told me she was coming home. She missed me. Now she’s missing. Kidnapped.”
“How do you know?”
“She told me. Texted saying she was on her way. When I tried to call her, there was some dude’s voice.”
Jake immediately recalled Liz Hingley.
“That doesn’t mean she’s missing.” Jake thought about how to word this. “Maybe she was just with a friend.”
“No, Jake. I know you’re smart, man. But I get this feeling. I’ve got some instincts too.”
Jake knew this was true. Still, he couldn’t help but think, Yeah, instincts and about fifteen beers.
“Did you call the police?”
“No help. They think I’m off my rocker. What’s the next step?”
Jake thought on it. He hated to doubt his friend. If J.P. said Esma was kidnapped, Jake would believe him. “I’ll look into it. Text me her cell number and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, man. I mean, God, thank you!”
“No problem.”
“Jake, one more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“When can you come home?”
In the doorway again, Divya stood. All five feet ten of her. Legs alone seemingly longer than that. Bronze-dark skin, fully nude, breasts befitting a woman half her age, her smooth skin glistening from her head down. Handcuffs dangled from her fingers.
“Let’s play criminal investigator,” she interrupted. Not asking.
“Soon, buddy.” Jake hung up the phone.
Jake tried to stand up and stop her. Before he could, she was at the bed, gently pushing his shoulders, forcing him to lie down, whispering: “Relax, you’re only under arrest.”
He’d had enough. Enough of this town. Enough of Divya’s constant advances that stemmed from God-knows-what psychological issues.
Still, something in his mind said Go with it. Give in. What man rejects a model-caliber woman with no clothes on? And she was familiar. It was all too easy.
Divya pulled his wrists between the hand-turned wooden dowels on the headboard and locked them with the cuffs.
“Do you remember the library bathroom during criminal procedure class?”
Jake could only nod, like a sex-crazed teenager. She started kissing his neck, her nipples bearing the mass of her breasts onto his own chest.
I’m outta here tomorrow, Jake thought. And pulled against the cuffs, straining to try to kiss her back.
12
WASHINGTON, DC. OCTOBER 19.
8:30 A.M. EASTERN STANDARD TIME.
Divya was quietly snoring. Mo
re like heavy breathing. Either way, Jake used to find it adorable, sexy somehow. Now it disgusted him. A satisfied snore. A reminder of the mistake he’d made the night before. What the hell was I thinking?
He got out of bed. Searching the floor for his boxers, he found them camouflaged against the peculiar pattern of the Persian rug. He got on his phone only after leaving the bedroom. Jake wanted to make a quick escape.
He felt like a caged animal, anxious and irritated. He rolled his neck and paced like a tiger on display while the phone rang. It was a dim, cloudy day. Out the hallway window, the fancy cars and brownstones glared back at him, moody fetishes of misguided ambition. Hungry desire. Wealth. The signatures of arrogance.
He gave the airline agent his name. Where he was.
“And where are you headed, sir?”
“Home. Jackson Hole. As soon as possible.”
“No problem.” The clatter of a keyboard sharpened by the amplifier of the phone. “Looks like the next available is 12:15 p.m. Dulles.”
“What’s the fare?”
“Let me see . . . $935. It’s very last minute.”
Flights to Jackson were always pricey, but $935 was egregious. “First class?” Dumb question.
“No, sir.”
Jake silently weighed his options. “At least it’s not $936.”
“I’m very sorry, sir.”
“Not your fault. Thanks.”
Jake got in the shower. He wanted to wash off all of last night, along with the city and the convoluted arrangement of facts surrounding the GPSN campaign.
Yes, he wanted to help derail the plan to inject a microchip into every man, woman, and child that immigrated to this country. It was against everything he believed in.
What will happen next if Canart’s funding goes through?
Although a mentor once convinced him that making the “slippery slope” argument was a fool’s errand, he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering down that road. The bow-tie wearing, musty tobacco–smelling old law professor had scolded him in front of the whole class. “Weak!” the curmudgeon had shouted, spit flying and pen pointing. “Every decision in the history of man could lead to unforeseen results. You slippery-slopers would hog-tie our decision makers if you had your way.”
So Jake Trent, the attorney, never uttered the perfunctory phrase in a courtroom, and he was well prepared to argue against it.
* * *
The hot shower left him wanting more. The humidity stuck to his body, even in the air-conditioned town house. He yearned for crisp, thin air. For immaculate white snow and effervescent mountain creeks. It would all rush in when he stepped off the jet and walked down the stairs, where the Tetons stood behind him. To the west.
Maybe give Noelle a ring. Tell her he had been afraid. That he had panicked when things got serious, convinced by his past that if something seemed too good to be true, it probably was. And he would confess to her, tell her how he really felt. That he loved her.
His confidence was coming back. The call from J.P. had put him squarely back in his element. He thought about Esma and how he would find her. That was his first priority.
He hoped J.P. was wrong and that Esma was simply incommunicado, but he knew it was a mistake to treat the situation as such before he could evaluate it. He had to be prepared for the worst.
After last summer’s events, he had taken his Glock 30 Mariner Edition out of storage and cleaned it. The 110-lumen Streamlight TLR flashlight and aiming laser was dusty but spot-on. He’d tested it in a canyon a mile from the bed-and-breakfast. Put a cluster of three in a soda can from thirty-five yards. Not bad for being out of practice.
The Mariner had been a gift from a Mossad agent in the Philippines. It was waterproof and fired with deadly force after full submersion. He’d verified that. On its barrel was the acronym OSI. The Office of Special Investigations.
In the bathroom, Jake put on deodorant and did thirty quick push-ups to flush the adrenaline that was flowing through him. He hopped to his feet and wrapped a towel around his waist, which had seemingly become rounder in only a few days in DC. Then he took a deep breath and walked back into the bedroom to face the music.
* * *
“Are you fucking kidding me? Is this because of last night?”
Not a very good start. “No. My friend is in trouble.”
“The whole country is in trouble, Jake!”
“Not like this.” He was packing his bags.
A quick hug and he was out the door. The luxury rental had a parking ticket on its windshield. $170. Parked too far from the curb.
* * *
At the airport, Jake found a café kiosk and ordered a large coffee. He was beginning to feel normal again, although the acidic brew made his stomach turn. It hadn’t seemed to recover from his first-day hangover.
By the time he reached the Dallas/Fort Worth airport, Jake was staggering, too sick to consider boarding his connecting flight. He checked into the airport Hyatt and dialed a doctor. The stomach cramps and nausea made it difficult for him to stand, so he lay in a crumpled ball on top of the bedding. Lights and TV off, he mulled the emergency room. No sleep. There was a physician’s office close by, but they couldn’t see him until the morning.
The night lasted an eternity. It was hellacious. Every object offended Jake: the blinking colon between the alarm’s numbers, the surface of the bedspread. Even the small crack of light shining under the door from the hallway.
In the morning, he mustered up the strength to get into the shower and brush his teeth so that the doctor wouldn’t have to deal with the smell.
Downstairs, he hailed a cabbie, who told him he didn’t look so hot.
No shit. Pick up the pace.
The nurse didn’t finish her preexam before calling in the doctor.
“You’re a tough son of a bitch,” he commented, upon looking Jake over. “You’re badly dehydrated. We need to put an IV in, then consider a visit to the emergency room, okay? I’ve got an anti-nausea drug that will help for a short time.”
“What is it?” Jake mustered.
“Probably just stomach flu. A nasty one.”
The medicine, along with the peace of mind that a doctor was nearby, allowed Jake to find sleep right there on the exam table. He woke to a jostling, not knowing how much later it might be.
“Sorry. We’re gonna get you transported over to the hospital so you can recover. Nothing serious. But you’ll be more comfortable over there.”
Jake was too foggy to ask any questions. He drifted in and out of sleep during the ride to the hospital.
13
JACKSON HOLE AIRPORT. OCTOBER 19.
9:30 P.M. MOUNTAIN STANDARD TIME.
J.P. was crawling out of his skin. Jake had texted him in the morning, asking for a ride home from the airport at 7:30 p.m. That flight, United 721, had come and gone on time. Two hours later, J.P. was still sitting in the terminal.
He glanced at the flat-screen, which sat above the bronze relief of the Snake River, with its perplexing weave of meanders and side channels. No news of plane crashes or bad weather. J.P. tried Jake’s phone again, but there was no answer. Shit.
J.P. stood and headed to the parking lot, unsure what to do next. Where the hell is he? It wasn’t like Jake to no-show without calling ahead. Without Jake, he had no real hope of finding Esma. He tried her cell this time. No answer.
Coyotes howled as J.P. walked to his truck, fretting about the imminent arrival of the high-country winter. When the snow covered the ground, the scavengers could only wander aimlessly, praying for a scent of field mice, pika, an elk carcass. They were hopeless but for luck. Like J.P. felt now.
Some would survive the ordeal. Many wouldn’t.
14
DALLAS, TEXAS. OCTOBER 20.
2:45 P.M. MOUNTAIN STANDARD TIME.
Jake cleared his throat and opened his eyes. A blurry white room. No one around, at least not on his side of the curtain. Beyond it, he could hear the pained moans of another patient.
His stomach still ached, but he didn’t feel as nauseated. At least he’d gotten some rest. The hit-by-a-truck feeling would pass soon enough. He closed his eyes again, imagining being home, the Indian summer sun on his skin. When he opened them, the fluorescent lights pierced through his brain. A headache too.
He sat up and cracked his neck. It was day outside, but not sunny. Thunderheads moved across the flat Texas landscape. The clouds could almost be mistaken for towering mountains.
He was dressed in the hospital’s light-blue gown with rubber-grippy socks, and an IV was in his arm. Jake checked his own chart, but it was illegible. Doctors were no better than lawyers. He didn’t seem to be on any medication at this point, so he carefully pulled the tube from his arm and stuck the medical tape over the hole. Then he dropped the gown and grabbed his clothes from the white plastic bag with his initials on it.
After dressing, Jake pulled the curtain aside and headed toward the door. The man he’d heard earlier looked up at him briefly, his face a disturbing yellow, and then vomited into a bedpan. Jake hustled out.
He was booting up his cell phone when he heard his name from behind.
“Mr. Trent! Please!”
A tall, handsome Indian man strode toward Jake.
“Back to the room, please.”
Jake turned. “I’d rather not.”
From the room, they could hear the other patient retching. The doctor looked enervated. “Fine. Follow me.”
He led Jake into an exam room, quickly washed his hands, and then sat on a padded stool. Jake stayed standing. On the wall, a wide-eyed golden retriever puppy stood in front of a fireplace. Next to it was a poster about sexually transmitted diseases.
“Somewhere to be?” The doc was sharp. And not interested in hearing any bullshit.
“Stomach flu, right? I’ll get over it,” Jake said.
River of No Return : A Jake Trent Novel (9781451698053) Page 7