He had told her she could trust him. It wasn’t something that came easily for her, but the look in her eyes told him that she had done so in spite of the dangerous consequences.
As he opened the door to the conference room, he found himself fervently hoping that he wasn’t setting her up for another letdown.
*
Lewis didn’t say anything as he flipped through the pages. He looked up at Kyle, his eyebrow raised skeptically.
“I know it seems far-fetched,” Kyle said. “But what if she accidentally stumbled onto something? Even you’ve said that’s how some of the hardest cases are finally broken.”
“She’s a reporter,” Lewis growled. “The last thing we need is another pain-in-the-ass reporter spreading wild-ass rumors and making us look like a bunch of jackasses.”
“That’s a lot of asses,” Marasco muttered with a smirk.
“That’s not what she’s doing,” Kyle said. “She never mentioned anything about doing a story on this.”
“Did you ask if she was?”
“Well, no,” Kyle admitted.
“And by accepting this, you have just given her confirmation of her story,” Lewis said, his voice rising. “Now she can write that the FBI has received information regarding a possible connection between the plane crash and the murders, and we won’t be able to deny it. She knows it’s true, because she’s the one who fucking gave it to us!”
Kyle flinched. “She wants to find out who killed her grandparents,” he protested weakly. “She’s trying to help us.” But after what Lewis had just said, he was beginning to have second thoughts himself.
Lewis muttered something under his breath and shook his head as if disgusted with Kyle’s naiveté. Marasco just sat there, watching the show with a shit-eating grin on his face. All he needed was a little popcorn. Kyle wanted to tell him to go fuck himself.
Lewis banged the papers hard on the table to straighten them and then shoved it all back at Kyle. “Fax it to Seattle,” he growled. “They can follow up with the NTSB and GenTech, and we’ll follow up on the local aspects. And you’d better hope like hell this doesn’t show up in the papers.”
CHAPTER 51
Washington, DC
The streetlights were just coming on as dusk settled across the city, reflecting in the curbside puddles and causing the wet streets to shine as if they were made of obsidian. The earlier showers had cleared, leaving a cool air that smelled crisp and clean as it spilled into the back of the limousine. If only the city’s soul could be cleansed so easily, Thomas Wade thought as they passed by the Capitol building. He took another drag on his cigarette, letting the smoke billow out through the cracked window. Although, it would take more than a gentle shower to wash away the stink and decay that was slowly eroding Washington’s once-proud status as the capital of the greatest nation on earth. What was needed was more like a fire hose to flush out all the withering old farts and left-wing liberals. Wade smiled at the thought of himself in front of a big red pumper truck, hose in hand, blasting the old farts off their feet and rolling them down the gutter into the sewer.
Wade took a drink of his scotch on the rocks, relishing his vision almost as much as the taste of the liquor as it mixed with the lingering smoke and nicotine. He held it there for a moment, letting it roll across his tongue. He savored the warm, tingling burn as it slid down his throat.
He checked the time on his gold Rolex Presidential and frowned at the tightness in the shoulder of his jacket. He hated wearing tuxedos. They were too tight, too constricting. It was like wearing a straitjacket. He much preferred the loose-fitting jackets of his custom-tailored suits. But on occasion, as was the case tonight, when he was attending a fund-raiser for one of his more important supporters in the Senate, he was forced to put on the preferred costume of the politico in order to ensure that his organization would continue to be well funded. It was a necessary evil and a minor inconvenience compared to what he gained in return. Besides, the fund-raisers themselves were almost always entertaining. He enjoyed watching all the old farts strut around as if they were the president-elect, pretending to be all chummy and committing their support to one other, all while secretly planning to stab each other in the back, each of them desperately craving more power and prestige than the man next to him.
But what Wade found especially amusing was that most of them had no real idea of who he was or what he did, yet he held more power than any of them. Knowledge, as everyone knew, was the real power. And Thomas Wade knew things that none of them, including even the president himself, knew. It was better that way. Just like the suits Wade preferred to wear, it gave his organization a freedom of movement that would have otherwise suffered from the constraints of the governmental tuxedo.
And then there were the young wives and interns in their slinky, low-cut, designer gowns with glittering sequins and silicone implants. Wade had enjoyed more than one of the senators’ wives or mistresses at similar functions before. Perhaps he would do so again tonight, he mused with a sly grin.
Wade’s reverie was interrupted by the ringing of the limo’s telephone. After he set his scotch in the drink holder, he picked up the phone, waited for the tone, and then entered in the day’s code. Like all of the phones Wade used, this one was secured with built-in encryption and decryption circuitry that required the entry of the proper code before the system would accept the call.
“Wade here.”
“The picnic basket is packed and ready,” said the deep voice on the other end. Wade recognized it as Mitchell Ainsworth, leader of the recon team. “Meet me at the park in the morning.”
“I’ll bring the potato salad,” Wade replied and then hung up without further comment. He dialed the code for an outgoing call and punched in another number. He took another drag off his cigarette while he waited for the connection.
“Colquitt here,” came the answer.
“The party’s a go,” Wade replied, smoke billowing from his nostrils. “Make sure your man Bennett is there bright and early.”
“He’ll be there at 0600, as we discussed.”
Wade rolled his eyes at Colquitt’s use of military time. The poor bastard just couldn’t let it go.
“Just remember, this is your party,” Wade said. “If it rains, you’re the one who’s going to get wet, not me.”
“It won’t rain,” Colquitt replied confidently.
“That’s what the weatherman said this morning,” Wade replied ominously before he hung up.
CHAPTER 52
Montana
Sheriff Greyhawk listened while Kyle went over the information he had received from Montana Fish, Wildlife & Parks regarding the disappearance of the goats around the Salt Lick. “I finally got a hold of the ranger who was interviewed for the article,” Kyle was saying. “I asked her if they had ever found out what had happened to the goats, and she said, ‘No, it was as if they just disappeared.’ I asked if she thought poachers might have killed them, and she said it was possible but doubtful, since there wasn’t really anything valuable about them. I then asked her if they might have died from some disease or poison. She said it was possible but that from the number that appeared to be missing, she thought it was odd that none of their carcasses had been found like those of the deer.”
“Deer?” Lewis asked.
“Yeah, she mentioned that there have been several cases of mutilated mule deer being found around Hungry Horse. She said the carcasses had been hacked up pretty bad, as if a hunter had taken a big knife or machete to them, but that none of them showed any gunshot wounds.”
“Do they know what killed them?” Lewis asked.
“That’s the odd thing. She said she wasn’t sure. She said most of them were torn up pretty good, like they had been mauled and partially eaten after the fact, but they don’t think they were killed by other animals. They also checked them for chronic wasting disease, but none of them showed any signs of it.”
“Did they check for any other diseases?”
George asked. “It’s possible that after they died, the carcasses became bloated and split open, making it look like they had been cut up.”
“I didn’t think about that,” Kyle said. “But I did ask if they had run any other tests or samples from the animals and she said no. She said they tested for chronic wasting disease by taking a sample of the animal’s brain and that afterward the animals and all the tissue samples were destroyed as a precaution.”
“So it’s possible they were killed by some other biological agent and they just didn’t know it,” said Lewis.
“It’s possible,” Kyle agreed.
“Did she mention anything about any of the people who performed the tests getting sick?” Lewis asked.
“She didn’t say, but I didn’t think to ask about it either,” Kyle admitted.
“Call her back and tell her if they find any other animals like that not to touch them and to call us immediately,” Lewis said. Then he quietly added, “I hope to hell we don’t have a gotdamned biological disaster on our hands.”
George nodded in agreement, but something about this new possibility concerned him. From the time he had first investigated the Joneses’ cabin, he had sensed that something had been wrong with the forest. He had spent enough time traveling through it when he was younger that he could tell when something was wrong. He had first noticed it standing in front of the Joneses’ cabin on the night after their murder. The woods had been unnaturally silent. But there had been something else—a darker, forbidding presence that had hung over the valley like smoke from a forest fire. He had felt it again when they had returned to Tucker’s cabin after his disappearance.
For the first time in the investigation, they seemed to be pursuing a direction that fit with what his instincts had been telling him.
There was a knock at the door, and Lydia stuck her head in. “Sheriff, there’s a call for you. He says he’s your cousin.”
George’s brow lowered in a mix of confusion and concern. The only reason he could think of for the call involved his grandmother. “I should take this,” he said.
He went to his office to take the call in private. As he sat down, he looked at the picture of himself and his mother. Though taken so long ago, the pain and bitterness still seemed fresh. He took a moment, steeling himself before picking up the phone.
“Sheriff Greyhawk,” he said slowly.
“Uh, hello, sheriff,” the boy on the other end stammered. “It’s Joseph. I … I wouldn’t have called, but I didn’t know who else to call.”
“What is it?” George asked.
“It’s Grandmother. I don’t know what’s wrong with her. I think she’s dying.”
George remained silent. He had closed the door on that part of his life so long ago that the boy’s pronouncement failed to affect him. To him, he had been without a family since the death of his mother.
“And what would you have me do?” he asked. He had not meant to seem callous, but his deep voice made it seem so anyway.
“I … I think she’s having fever dreams. She sleeps almost all the time, but then sometimes she starts thrashing about and babbling, something about monsters in the mountains and calling out for Little Hawk, over and over. I try to talk to her, tell her it’s just a bad dream to try to settle her down, but she just keeps calling out for Little Hawk, saying, ‘It’s time. It’s time,’ over and over. You were the only one I could think of who might know what she was talking about.”
“I cannot help her,” George replied bluntly, anxious to end the call. “She clings to the old ways and refuses to allow anyone to treat her with modern medicine. Call the medicine man and see if he can help,” he said, even though he knew it wouldn’t do any good, just as it had failed to help in his mother’s case. “There is nothing I can do for her,” he said and then hung up.
He sat there a moment, taking several deep breaths to clear his head. He ran his hand across the back of his neck beneath his hair and found it damp with perspiration. He didn’t know why he was allowing himself to be affected by this now, when he thought he had put it behind him years ago. If the foolish old lady was seeking to clear her conscience before she died, she would have to find some other way to do so. In all the years since his mother’s death, he had not found it necessary to forgive her, and he felt no compulsion to do so now.
He pushed away from his desk and started back down the hall to the conference room.
As he passed Clayton’s office, he noticed that the deputy’s door was closed but appeared to have slipped open a crack. It was unusual for Clayton to close his door unless he had someone in his office. George knocked lightly on the door before he stuck his head in. He happened to catch the last of Clayton’s conversation: “Don’t worry. I said I’ll take care of it.”
When Clayton looked up and saw him, he hung up quickly. “Uh, hey, sheriff,” he said. “Something come up?”
“No,” George replied. “Who was that?”
“It was uh, Billy. He, uh … he’s feeling a little under the weather, and I told him if he needed to stay home, I’d cover for him.”
George nodded, but he wasn’t convinced. Clayton seemed to be hiding something, which was completely out of character for him. He remained silent for a moment, waiting to see if Clayton would say anything more, but the usually talkative deputy remained silent.
George nodded and pulled the door shut. Whatever it was, it would have to wait. At the moment, they had more pressing matters to deal with.
CHAPTER 53
Montana
In the kitchen of his small trailer house “Big John” Morris cracked open another Black Star and took a big swig. The trailer was located just south of Route 209, on the eastern side of Highway 83, a few miles north of Swan Lake. There wasn’t anything special about its location as far as Big John was concerned. It had just been the cheapest place he could find when he had been looking for somewhere to stay.
He slammed the door shut on the old refrigerator and hobbled back into the living room where a rerun of Wheel of Fortune was blaring on the TV. He plopped down with a groan, the worn out springs of the brown Lay-Z-Boy creaking in response. Beside the chair was a rickety TV tray, its wooden surface marred with cigarette burns and water rings. He shoved aside the bag of Doritos and the plastic tray caked with the remnants of refried beans from his enchilada dinner. He sat the beer down, wiping the condensation on the belly of his dingy undershirt before he grabbed another handful of Doritos.
He took a look at the board on the TV. “G!” he called out, as if the contestants could hear him.
The lady currently up, a frumpy schoolteacher named Helen, guessed, “P.”
“Dumb bitch,” John muttered, showering Doritos crumbs down his chest.
“Sorry, no P,” said Pat Sajack.
Big John nodded in satisfaction and took a big swig of his beer.
The next man spun. Before his guess, Big John shouted out, “G!”
Larry, the realtor from Spokane with a bad comb-over, guessed, “R.”
“Dumbass,” Big John said, shaking his head in disgust.
“There are two Rs on the board,” Pat replied as the audience cheered. “Spin again.”
“Huh,” Big John’s forehead scrunched up in concentration as he took another swig. Then it came to him.
An eruption of angry barking suddenly came from out back. “Shut up, Butch!” he yelled, but the dog continued its frenzied barking. There was a crashing sound, like that of a garbage can being knocked over.
“Stupid dog,” Big John grumbled as he hefted himself from the recliner. The harsh winter had forced some of the bears down from the mountains. At least one had been rummaging through people’s garbage lately. He limped into the kitchen, flipped on the back porch light and peered out into the darkness. He couldn’t see more than about twenty feet out back. Beyond was nothing but blackness.
He opened the door, the cold air prickling his stubbly beard, and stood there listening. He didn’t want to have
to go out there, not because he was afraid of bears, but because he was tired and the cold made his left knee ache. The damn thing had never been the same after the accident. But at least his disability payments were enough for him to live off of, and it sure as hell beat working for the highway department, sweating your ass off in the summer and freezing it off in the winter.
There was a sudden yelp, and the dog fell silent.
“Butch?” Big John called out, but the dog had stopped barking. The damn thing was constantly running off, chasing after every damn rabbit and squirrel it saw. A couple of times it had come back all scraped up and bedraggled, like it might have tangled with a coyote or a bear.
The sound of applause came from the TV in the living room. Big John slammed the door and hurried back into the living room to see if he had been right.
“All right,” said Pat Sajack. “Time for the next word after we come back.”
“Goddamn it,” he growled. He had missed the answer and he was sure he had known it.
While the commercial was on, Big John pulled on his shoes and lumbered to the closet. He put on his old coat and pulled out the shotgun he kept there. On his way back through the kitchen, he reached into the pantry and took down the battery-operated lantern he used whenever the power went. He stepped out back.
“Butch?” he called out, but there was no sound of the dog.
He hobbled through patches of snow and dead grass, past the rusting carcass of a ’54 Ford pickup that had been there when he bought the place, and into the darkness beyond the reach of the porch light. Thirty yards ahead loomed the dark wall of trees.
Big John had never been afraid of anything. He had always been big and strong enough that no one ever messed with him much. That wasn’t to say that a few hadn’t tried, but they had all learned their lesson quick enough. But tonight, something about the pitch-black forest seemed foreboding, as if something lurked within its depths, something big and mean enough that it spooked even him.
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