The Vortex

by Robert R. Dozier

  Carefully, she approached the stairwell and looked down. It was dark. No one had turned on a light. Steeling herself, she took one carpeted step after the other, listening to the strange noises all the while. Once, a stair did squeak, and she held her breath, waiting for a cessation of sounds to indicate whoever or whatever was making the noises downstairs had heard her. After twenty or so seconds, when the noises showed no interruptions, she exhaled slowly, and continued her slow decent.

  Finally, at the bottom landing she peered around the wall corner and tried to see what was making the noises. The room was dark. A faint light from the windows on the street side outlined a few pieces of furniture, but as far as she could tell there was no one there.

  Gathering her courage, she felt around the wall for the light switches, prepared to run back up the stairs if need be. Her fingers found the switch, and, before her courage failed her, she switched on the light.

  Looking quickly around the room, she was surprised to find it empty. Then she thought she heard the front door slam. Rushing to it, she tried to yank it open only to find it was still locked. Hurriedly sliding the dead-bolt lock back, she opened the door and gazed out into the street. It was empty.

  Non-plussed, she slowly worked the dead-bolt to see if it operated correctly, relocked the door, and then went to the telephone which was sitting on a bar on the right hand side of the room. She paused after picking it up and thought, what the devil could I say? You see Officer, the men ran out through a locked door – AGAIN! She replaced the telephone on its hanger and ran her fingers through her hair, staring at the relocked door.

  CHAPTER TWO

  TEN DAYS LATER, CURT JENSON drove into a run-down service station on Highway 44 in New Mexico. As he slowly climbed out of his car, he involuntarily stared at the bluish mountains in the distance. The sight triggered memories of hunting and camping trips he had taken with his father and his friends in the mountains of Western Montana. He could almost smell the wood smoke of the campfires, hear the wind in the trees, and sense that magnificent feeling of being one with nature he had always felt when he was on one of those trips. As always, there seemed to be something there, just outside of his thoughts, just on the other side of his imagination that seemed to be the answer to an important eternal question he felt rather than knew….

  A young voice interrupted his reverie,

  “What’ll it be?”

  “Fill her up, and check the oil,” he answered, trying to hold on to the pleasant memories of his youth. It was no use. He was back in the land of the living and all of the free-roaming thoughts he had been enjoying during his driving through the vast spaces of Nevada, Arizona and New Mexico had left him. Spotting the rest room, he went in to freshen up.

  As he splashed his face with water, he reflected on the many service stations just like this one he had stopped in during his travels. One hundred? Five hundred? He saw the familiar sign over the urinal. “WE AIM TO PLEASE – YOU AIM TOO, PLEASE!” His favorite was one he had seen in eastern California: “Please do not throw cigarette butts in the urinal as they get soggy and are hard to light.”

  Smiling, he splashed water on his lean face and tried to dry it with a paper towel. He noted that his sandy hair was growing over his ears. He really needed a haircut; scraps of paper clinging to his jaw reminded him he needed a shave, and the dark circles under his eyes told him that he had better not try driving all night.

  While he had been on the road less than twenty-four hours, the birthday party Diane had had for him – the “BIG 30” she had called it – had lasted all night, so he had had no sleep then. He had had to check in at the office before he left – so he had been awake about two days and two nights. Not too smart, he thought, but he could catch up when he reached Albuquerque. Back out in the bright sunshine he paid his bill, re-mounted his off-red charger and galloped back into the loneliness of the long distance driver.

  Curt could have flown from San Francisco to Albuquerque, and even though his boss had suggested the idea, he never considered it. One of his greatest pleasures was driving long distances alone. There was something relaxing, soothing, and even therapeutic about encasing himself in an automobile and cutting off the world. He had no car telephone or cellular phone, nor would he even play the radio once he was underway. He purposely varied his speed so as not to be caught up in the packs of cars that came buzzing from behind and passing each other from time to time. He wanted to be alone, with long hours of silence, with magnificent vistas of mountain ranges or flat deserts with no hints of human habitations or human activities. In such situations, his tensions oozed away, pressing problems could be placed in proper perspective, and life itself could be frozen and examined at leisure.

  He never tired of it. Once, the summer before his senior year in high school, he had squandered all the money he had been saving for college and made an entire circuit of the United States. His old Chevy constantly broke down and he constantly repaired it – never knowing where or how long he would be stranded in out-of-the-way places. With a sleeping bag, water, a Coleman stove, and a box of tools, he could stop anywhere. He came home tired, broke, many pounds lighter, but happy and immeasurably enriched. His father had grunted his disapproval, but his mother had understood: outwardly treating the odyssey as a natural part of growing up, but when alone, questioning him eagerly about the sights he had seen and the people he had met. It was then that he had realized that while he looked like his father, tall, sandy haired with a strong jaw, he was really more like his mother, with her never-ending, uncontained curiosity about life. When both died the next year, the gap left by his mother was the greater of the two.

  The proceeds from the sale of the small ranch, plus the surprisingly large amount of insurance his father had carried, gave Curt a new independence he had never conceived of before. Properly invested, his income for life would be enough to allow him to choose a career unaffected by the usual problems of pay. His grades were good enough in high school to get into Berkeley, so there he went, majoring in history, ignoring the grumblings and warnings of the lack of a job market for history graduates.

  He managed to obtain his BA in three and a half years, his MA in one, and his Ph.D. in three; loving every minute of it, especially historical research. A favorite game he and his mother had played was to read detective novels together, attempting solutions to the crimes after each chapter. He found historical research much like that, playing detective on the activities of those who lived in the past.

  Even before he obtained his Ph.D., he knew the warnings of his mentors had been correct. The job market for history Ph.D.’s was practically non-existent. Teaching, something Curt was not sure he really wanted, was out of the question. The job opening at Confidential Investigations, Inc., however, offered him the opportunity to continue research, although he realized that only his independent income made taking such a low-paying position possible. He found that it fitted him to a “T.” He was so good at it that in less than three years he headed the entire research division with a staff of over fifteen. His pay increased with the growing awareness of the bosses that they had somehow hired a genius researcher. His social life filled out as well, dating a wide assortment of women, exploring the pleasures of the Bay Area. He was well on his way to carving a permanent niche for himself in San Francisco. This troubled him. There was something wrong about it, somewhere. When he was offered the chance to do research in the field, playing detective, he jumped at it. Now, as he headed for Albuquerque, he forced himself to think about his objectives, on what was actually his first full-fledged field investigation. He was to find someone.

  Normally, Confidential Investigations did not deal with either criminal or missing person cases. They served several law firms in California whose emphases were in civil law. One of these law firms, Browne, Rabinowitz, and Fontenella, however, had engaged them to discover the whereabouts of Elizabeth Aikens, the sister of their ch
ief client, Charles Aikens, perhaps the richest man in California. It was to be a discrete investigation, with no shock waves, publicity, and so forth. Apparently Charles was only slightly worried that something had happened to his sister.

  Several times in the past she had disappeared for three or four months only to reveal her presence in some third world country pursuing some philanthropic activity. Elizabeth was wealthy too, and was trying to put her money “to its best use”, as Charles had explained in his letter. This time, however, Charles had lost contact with her for nearly six months. He also believed his sister was “a bit touched” and did not want his family affairs paraded in the public prints. As Charles Aikens was such an important client, and the fee was so generous, Bob Myers, one of the co-owners of Confidential Investigations, had devised a cover for Curt’s mission – The Baca Case.

  It was rather routine. Alfredo Baca, an old man of 70, had suddenly disappeared, and his granddaughter as well as his former employer had reported his disappearance to the police and newspapers. If asked what a member of Confidential Investigations was doing in Mexico, Curt could produce an authorization from the granddaughter, now Maria Lopez, to discover the whereabouts of her grandfather. It was thought best to have a missing person’s case as cover so that its research would be essentially in the same areas as the primary case. It was also hoped that, as Curt was not a usual field investigator of Confidential Investigations, his activities would not arouse any suspicions from reporters. Indeed, that was the primary reason Myers had suggested Curt take the case. He knew that Curt needed a vacation, and thought this would keep him from burning out on the job, thus, he could hit two birds with one stone.

  As far as Curt was concerned, he could not see any reason for anyone paying any attention to him in the first place, or if they did, what difference would it make to anyone? If things became too complicated or if he needed help, he was to call either Miller or Rodriguez, two of the best agents of Investigations, Inc., the best private investigating agency in Albuquerque.

  His real target was Elizabeth Aikens, age 63, 5’10’, weight 130, graying brown hair, brown eyes, glasses, slight limp from an old hip injury, who booked a flight to New Orleans on October 25, left her house at 1214 Silver Avenue, S.E., but never boarded the plane – and had not been seen or heard of since. A niece, Sheila Cavanaugh, 5’5”, age 28, weight 124, blonde, blue eyes, had moved into the house last month – March – knew he was coming, and was to be his first contact in Albuquerque. All Curt had to do was to establish some patterns in the old gal’s behavior – patterns derived from conversations with said niece – and track down every possibility, not alerting Elizabeth’s attention should he find her and reporting only that she was alive and well wherever she might be. As Aikens’ main emphasis was on the confidentiality of the investigation, all other efforts then being made to find Elizabeth had to be ignored.

  For instance, there was a slight possibility that she had been kidnapped. To test this hypothesis, a dummy office had been opened two months ago in Albuquerque – Charles Aikens’ Enterprises – so that ransom calls could be received. Nothing had been heard. Aikens had, however, considered kidnapping only as a slight possibility. “I’d pity the poor kidnappers” was among his concluding remarks in his letter. So there was Curt’s task. No clues, no ideas, no real urgency even, but the pleasant prospect of spending a few days, maybe even a week, in two of the nicest towns in the Southwest, and maybe, if the trail pointed that way, he might have to take a trip out of the country.

  After checking in at a nice motel, Curt drove to Cavanaugh’s house. 1214 Silver, S. E., which had been Elizabeth Aikens’ home as well, was a large, white, solidly-built house surrounded by carefully-tended shrubs and flowers. The street itself, only twelve blocks from the decaying downtown area, was divided by a wide, tree-studded boulevard. At one time, perhaps in the 20’s and 30’s, this had been an exclusive neighborhood, peopled by the wealthy middle class of the city. The rapid expansion of Albuquerque in the 40’s and 50’s toward the Sandia Mountains had left Silver Avenue behind. For all that, the homes and mature trees gave the street a comfortable, stable atmosphere.

  AT 10:30 a.m., Saturday, Curt walked up the stairs and rang the doorbell, wondering if Sheila Cavanaugh would be home at the time of their agreed-upon appointment. There was an immediate flurry of deep-throated barking and scratches on the door. Curt could hear the voice of a young woman comforting the dog before the door was opened a few inches.

  “Would you mind waiting a minute,” she shouted over the dog’s barks. “I’ll put him in the back yard.” Before he could say anything, the door was quickly closed and the barking receded into the distance. Shortly, the door was reopened and Sheila Cavanaugh, pushing a strand of hair back into place said, “You’ll have to forgive him – he’s new to the place and you’re the first person he’s protected the house from. Please come in.”

  Curt walked in smiling. Sheila Cavanaugh was an extremely attractive woman. Her blue eyes, large and set wide apart, were laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation, and her smile was natural and good natured. She was wearing tennis clothing, with a knobby white sweater thrown over her shoulders. Curt immediately noticed her lithe body and graceful athletic movements.

  “Well,” she said after closing the door, “you must be Curt Jenson. I’m Sheila Cavanaugh,” holding out her hand. Curt shook it and mumbled appropriate noises.

  “I’ve just made a pot of coffee. Want some?”

  “Why, er, yes.”

  “Roscoe, or George, I can’t decide what to call him, is really quite gentle. He’s just getting used to his territory,” she said as she walked to the kitchen, raising her voice as she left the room.

  “Find a seat; this won’t take long.”

  As he listened to the tinkling of china, Curt noticed the interior of the house. He was in a wide, spacious living room which ran across the full width of the house. Through an archway on his left, he could see s a formal dining room. There were two other openings off the room: one, in the center, into a staircase; another, to his right, into a hallway which led to the kitchen, where Sheila was preparing the coffee. The room was tastefully decorated, with comfortable-looking sofas and chairs arranged around a fireplace – and, on the extreme right – jutting out into the room, was a small bar next to a huge buffet. He walked around the carpeted floor and sat on the sofa.

  “Here we are,” Sheila announced as she came in with a tray and placing it on the coffee table. She sat in an armchair facing him and poured the rich, aromatic liquid into two cups. Curt had difficulty trying not to stare at her.

  “Well, Miss Cavanaugh, how long have you been here?” he motioned with his cup at the room.

  “I just arrived from New York a few weeks ago,” she answered. “And could we use first names? Seems silly calling someone my own age ‘Mr.’”

  “OK – Sheila, then. How do you like Albuquerque?”

  “Haven’t we met before?”

  “I’m supposed to ask that question,” he responded, smiling.

  “No, I’m serious. Have you been on cases in New York?”

  “I’ve only been there twice, but only for stopovers to someplace else. Had I ever met you, it’s unlikely that I would forget.”

  Sheila blushed slightly at the compliment, but continued.

  “Have you spoken to Uncle Charles?”

  “I met him briefly, but his instructions were given to my boss, Bob Myers.”

  “I hope Uncle Charles hasn’t built up Aunt Elizabeth’s disappearance too much.”

  “Well, actually…”

  “The last thing we should do is interfere.”

  “I can see from your attitude that you’re not particularly concerned about your aunt’s disappearance.”

  “Only a tiny bit.” she said. “You see, Aunt Elizabeth is the world’s greatest romantic. I t
hink she’s planned her ‘disappearance’ so that she can do what she wants to do without any interference.”

  “You mean she, in effect, is hiding from…”

  “Well, not exactly hiding – it’s more like she’s covering her tracks.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would…”

  “That’s the part of it that’s hard to explain,” She interrupted. “I think you’ll have to understand Elizabeth before you can try to understand what she did – or what might have happened.”

  “Well, tell me about her.”

  “I’ll do that, but before I begin – why don’t you look over her things – and,” she paused briefly, “read some of her letters to me I’ve kept over the years.”

  Smiling, Curt put down his coffee cup and agreed, but with a proviso.

  “Before I start, though, I’d like you to explain something. You said you were a ‘tiny bit’ concerned.”

  “Oh,” Sheila replied, “after you’ve read her letters we’ll talk about that. Come, I’ll show you the way.” Sheila rose and led Curt up the stairs, turned left and entered a large bedroom, complete with shelves of framed photographs of smiling people which almost circled the room. At Curt’s questioning look, she smiled. “These are people who have meant much to Elizabeth at one time or another. She keeps a collection of human contacts almost religiously. You’ll see from the letters what I mean.”

  As Sheila left, Curt confronted the problem of where to begin. He had never done this before, but from her confidence that he would find out what she had been hinting at, he felt some pressure to do things right. In fact, he felt more like impressing Sheila than anything else at the moment.

  Shrugging off the effects of her presence, Curt examined the room. In the headboards of the bed and in a small bookcase on the floor, he discovered Elizabeth’s main emphasis in reading was Central and South America. Various histories, atlases, sociological works, and political commentaries about those countries formed the bulk of the titles. Looking at the framed photographs more closely, he saw pictures of various Hispanic-looking men, women, and children in jungles and fields, sometimes holding up vegetables at other times standing next to buildings which resembled the one-room schoolhouses he remembered from his boyhood days in Montana. Elizabeth appeared in many of the photos herself wearing field clothes and an assortment of wide-brimmed straw hats, with an arm around a shorter man or smiling at dark-eyed and dark-haired children. She was a handsome woman, he noticed, with a long angular face and a wide smile. The photo Aikens had sent was formal and posed. In these pictures, Elizabeth was warm and natural.