The Rivers Run Dry

by Sibella Giorello

  “Be careful, Raleigh.”

  I looked up. He was staring out the screen door, his face filled with angular shadows, the hash of metal over his ruddy skin like woven chain mail.

  I counted my steps to the bamboo stalks. The dogs lunged. And the wind made itself known in the sibilant leaves, the canes striking against each other with a hollow knocking sound.

  chapter twenty-three

  I parked down the block, still on Fir Street, and called McLeod.

  “I found the birth father,” I said.

  “Lutini just told me,” he said. “What’s your read?”

  I described his background in gambling, and the religious conversion that separated him from the world of poker and his daughter. And then I told him about the note, tucked into the edge of the mirror.

  “The handwriting looks identical,” I said.

  “You think it’s him?” McLeod said.

  “Something’s wrong with the guy.”

  “Is Jack with you?”

  “No, sir.”

  He paused. “Who’s with you?”

  “Nobody.”

  “You went in alone?”

  “I was making a quick call, just to get a read. I wanted to make sure he was the guy my source said he was. By no means was he considered a threat. Nobody believes he’s involved but I’m not so sure.”

  “So you went in alone?” McLeod repeated.

  “You saw the finger. I’m not wasting time, sir. We’ve got to bring him in.”

  There was a significant pause.

  “I’ll get surveillance on the house,” he said. “Lutini’s already called the local cops; they’re on their way. We’ll get a search warrant ASAP, bring this guy in tonight. The notecard’s in the bathroom?”

  But before I could answer, there was a loud static crackle, followed by a muffled sound. Like the phone was being cupped. McLeod came back on. “Yeah, okay. Don’t leave until the locals get there. Tell me again, the card said what?”

  “The word ‘obedience.’ But the word ‘die’ was separated from the rest of the word.”

  “‘Die’ is in obedience?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t flush it. Anything else?”

  I recalled my approach to the house, how the front door was open. And at my knock, he did not react with suspicion. He was expecting somebody to pick up a dog.

  “If it’s him, he’s even more dangerous than we thought.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “An FBI agent in his kitchen, asking questions, and all he wants to do is preach. It fits Lutini’s profile, about teaching lessons. And what the handwriting examiner came up with.”

  “‘Obedience.’”

  “Correct. He told me he wanted his daughter out of gambling. He might believe his own redemption depends on it. Kidnapping might seem like a justifiable means to the end.”

  When the police cruisers turned down Fir Street, I closed the phone and climbed out of the car, briefing two officers to watch the house; nobody was to leave it. But I didn’t go into detail, since it was possible the local cops were buddies with Bill Johansen, at least acquaintances from all the complaints from Dr. Strangelove.

  When I climbed back into my car, waiting for the Feds to arrive, it was ten minutes past 9:00 p.m. I stared out the wind-shield, the streetlights reflecting off the dark underbellies of the low clouds, the billowing shapes looking strange and tormented.

  Twenty minutes later, the FBI showed up.

  And I drove away, trying not to think about the fact that one of the agents was Byron Ngo.

  It was just past 10:00 p.m. when I drove down the VanAlstyne’s long driveway, my headlights flashing on red maple leaves washed from the trees.

  Two surveillance vans were parked outside, and McLeod stood by the front door under an enormous coach light. Next to him stood a state trooper, the door guard. It wasn’t Lowell.

  “Sir,” I said to McLeod.

  His white shirt was rumpled, the starched cotton fractured into acute angles. “We just got another note,” he said. “I sent it down to the lab. But it named you.”

  I told him I’d already talked to the examiner about the ESDA that showed my name scrawled on the paper above the note.

  He shook his head. “That’s not it. We got another one. Come inside. The parents are restless.”

  He walked across the polished foyer into the living room populated by FBI agents and techies—I saw both Tweedles—and beyond to the dining room where an empty mahogany table would seat twenty comfortably, and then he walked into the kitchen. Martin VanAlstyne stood at the island wearing a dark nylon jogging suit with gray piping. The skin on his face had an unnatural shine. In one hand, he held a glass of orange juice, and when he set it on the black granite countertop, the burst of citrus color seemed extraordinary because the room had a mono-chromatic rigidity. Black counters, white cabinets, stainless steel appliances, black-and-white ceramic tiles laid in checkerboards across the floor.

  The assistant, Sequoia, stood behind her boss, clothed in black. The expression on her face could have been taken from the freezer.

  Mrs. VanAlstyne sat on the other side of the room at a white marble table, the window panes behind her obsidian with the night. Her pale hair was pulled into a ponytail. She looked haggard. Lucia Lutini sat next to her, brown eyes focused.

  McLeod said, “Agent Harmon, as I told you, went to see the birth father. She believes there’s some likelihood he’s involved in your daughter’s disappearance.”

  I heard Mrs. VanAlstyne swallow a section of air. I glanced across the room. The husband’s face was set, like a slab of marble. It helped explain the physical distance between them; she’d told him the truth, and now warring factions had separated with their aides-de-camp.

  McLeod explained how our surveillance would continue on Bill Johansen’s house until the search warrant was signed and an arrest was made.

  “When this last note came in, Harmon was in his house. So he’s got somebody helping him. It would be a mistake to put all our eggs in one casket.”

  I glanced at Martin VanAlstyne. The wave of contempt that washed over his lean face constricted the muscles around his mouth. But this was a day of grand disappointments and Allen McLeod’s verbal incapacity appeared to join the rest of today’s trouble. Just as quickly as it arrived, the disdainful expression evaporated.

  “Since we’ve got surveillance on the birth father, we’ll tackle the note.” McLeod turned to Mr. VanAlstyne. “You’re certain you can raise the money by midnight?”

  “I’m certain,” he said.

  “Mr. VanAlstyne, we are doing everything possible to get your daughter back,” McLeod said, mistaking the expression he saw on the man’s face. “You have my word on that.”

  I could see the cogs clicking past each other, all the latches of thought within Martin VanAlstyne’s mind, rotating over the recent developments that had altered his well-ordered life. My daughter? Your word?

  But he didn’t reply.

  And McLeod was already turning to leave, walking from the kitchen through the long opulent maze of the VanAlstyne residence. Lucia stayed at the table.

  I followed McLeod.

  We gathered on the lower level, in a room filled with pristine fitness equipment. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors reflected a view of the white Berber carpet, so spotless I could see the fine spray of black rubber shavings under the treadmill.

  I sat on one of the padded black benches, near the triple rack of chrome free-weights, the dumbbells stretching across the wall, doubling in the mirror. Our SWAT guys fanned out among the other benches, and I counted eleven of the fourteen agents from Violent Crimes. McLeod stood at the front of the room with Basker. And just before he began talking, Jack came through the door, his face flushed. He made brief eye contact with McLeod, who nodded at him.

  “Glad you could make it, Stephanson,” McLeod said, “Now, everybody, I want this to be clear. It’s not s
omething I would say in front of the family, but if we have a choice between losing their money and losing our agent, we lose their money. Got that? I know it sounds obvious, but you’d be surprised what happens when you’re talking about half a million dollars.

  “Now the instructions are as follows,” he continued. “The perp has singled out Harmon. We don’t know why. But he wants her as the designated drop. The perp is mentioning her by name. So we take this guy seriously, got it? The note says she’s to take the money up Tiger Mountain at 1:15 a.m. Sharp. Alone. That’s less than two hours from now. If anybody follows, the note says the VanAlstyne girl dies and then Harmon dies. Of course, we’ll follow.

  “Second. The note says Harmon is to hike to the first signpost on the trail. We know from experience that this will not—again not—be the actual drop point. He’ll bounce her from there to another spot. And he’ll be watching for us. SWAT will be positioned in the woods around that first spot. And we’ll have agents fanned out over the mountain.”

  He looked at Basker. Basker nodded.

  “Three. Harmon will be wearing a transmitter. She can tell us what the next spot is, when she finds out. SWAT is going to track her—again, without detection—but this is going to be difficult, people. It’s night, it’s dark out there. That’s his plan. He knows this mountain.”

  Jack raised his hand.

  “Stephanson, go.”

  “Any other ways we can track Harmon?”

  I stared at him. His face was unreadable.

  “We’re sending up a plane. The pilot has FLIR.”

  FLIR, or forward-looking infrared, meant a small camera was mounted on the front of the plane. Roughly the size of a basketball, the infrared camera was controlled by the copilot.

  Jack raised his hand again.

  “Stephanson.”

  “You don’t think the perp will hear the plane’s engine? If he says not to follow, the plane is a huge tip-off.”

  I still couldn’t read his expression. I looked at McLeod.

  “The pilot will stay far enough away laterally, it’ll be difficult to detect the engine. And they’re calling for rain, which will help with sound.”

  Basker said SWAT was driving to Tiger Mountain in the next five minutes, to fan out among the trails with topographic maps, wearing body armor, carrying radios, and packing M4s.

  “It’s too risky for Harmon to carry an HT,” McLeod said, referring to the Handie Talkie that provided two-way transmission. “If he hears us talking to her, it’s over.”

  He looked at me. I nodded. My hands felt clammy.

  “When Harmon gets to the final drop point, wherever that is, we follow the pickup. Most likely, it will not be our mark, just some dope he hired. But we can’t afford to lose him. We’ll follow him to the kidnapper, who leads us to the girl. Preferably alive. And Harmon makes her way back down the mountain.”

  Just like that.

  “All clear?” he said.

  chapter twenty-four

  Tiger Mountain was the third mountain in the Issaquah Alps, two hills away from Cougar Mountain, where Courtney’s car had been abandoned. In the Tiger Mountain parking lot off I-90, McLeod held up an aluminum-frame backpack, grasping it by its upper edges, like a man offering to help a woman into her coat.

  I slipped my arms through the padded nylon straps, shrugging the pack into place. Broken into twenties and fifties, $500,000 weighed a considerable amount and it forced me to lean forward to counterbalance. When I glanced up into McLeod’s face it was lit by the headlights of his car, and it appeared that some of his characteristic abstraction was gone. No worries about protocol, no concern about regulation, no more bureaucratic distractions that tripped him into malaprops.

  “Too heavy?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” I lied. “I’m fine.”

  He placed one hand on my right shoulder, closing his eyes. I stared up into the clouds, the western edges tinged by a diffused orange color, light pollution from the city. I would not have taken my supervisor for a praying man, but then he was a man who focused on power, where it resided in any given situation, always pointing himself toward it. He opened his eyes.

  “Your transmitter is good for four hours,” he said. “If you need batteries, we put spares in the pack. But be careful. Don’t let him see you doing that.”

  I nodded.

  “We’ve got eleven agents on this mountain, Harmon. The plane is tracking you overhead. We won’t lose you.”

  I nodded, turning, and walked toward the trailhead. A damp chilly dew descended on the fallen leaves, causing my boots to slip on the ground. The backpack bearing down on my shoulders, I shined my flashlight up the trail, my breath appearing in foggy cumulus clouds before disappearing into the dark. I stopped once to drink water from the plastic bottle secured to the side of the pack, and listened for the airplane but could not hear it.

  When I started up the trail again, sweat rolled down my back, and in the nocturnal solitude my mind performed mean tricks. The trees turned sinister, limbs reaching for me like grasping arms. The low bushes snarled. The rocks seemed as coiled as rabid vermin. Hiking at a deliberate pace, I tried to keep my breath steady. When that failed, I thought of my mother, of the times when her mind slipped into precipitous depths and sent back paralyzing delusions. I knew the power of tangible fear. It pressed against the crumbling wall of my mind, I pressed back.

  “I’m past the one-mile mark,” I whispered into my one-way transmitter. “I can’t hear the plane. I can’t see anybody.”

  I kept the flashlight pointed forward, my eyes on the light, following the switchbacks. I thought of Courtney VanAlstyne. I thought of the soil under her torn nail. The panic it represented, the clawing it would take to put it there.

  At the first signpost, I found a piece of white paper. It was folded in half, gleaming under my flashlight. I pulled it out from under the thumbtack on the post, hoping a fingerprint would remain on the tack.

  I whispered into my transmitter. “I have a note. It reads, ‘LEAVE $10,000. PROCEED ON TRAIL TO NEXT SIGNPOST.’”

  I slid the pack from my shoulders, feeling suddenly light, the cold air hitting the moisture on my back and sending shivers down my spine. I kept turning my head, thinking I heard something as I unzipped the main compartment and took out two $5,000 bundles of cash, setting them under the signpost.

  I unscrewed the cap of my water bottle, still listening. Somewhere deep within the dark evergreens, an owl hooted. After that, the mountain sounded even quieter than before. In the far distance, I thought I detected a steady hum, an engine. I hoped. Hoisting the backpack onto my shoulders again, I continued the climb. My hands felt numb from the cold, though my back still sweated.

  Half a mile later, I reached the next signpost. And another note. It gave identical instructions.

  I unloaded another 10K, then followed the trail.

  I found the same instructions at nine more stops, and when I reached the summit of Tiger Mountain, a soft drizzle had begun to fall from the clouds. The skin on my face was slick from sweat and rain and I blinked away the water, shining my light into the forest. I appeared to be on a rough granite outcropping, with a valley to my left where I could feel rushes of cold air pulling down.

  On my right, more woods.

  “Hello?” I said.

  The area was so dark and narrow between the trees it was difficult to find any sort of clearing. I raked the flashlight beam, the pale yellow light striking the gray curtains of rain. And then I saw the white square of paper. It rested on one long wet limb. I walked over, picked it up. The paper was dry.

  “LEAVE THE MONEY HERE. RETURN TO THE TRAIL. OBEY. OR SHE DIES.”

  I read the note aloud. Then a second time, stressing the words “obey” and “die.” Slipping off the pack, I placed the aluminum frame against the tree trunk, the boughs trembling, water falling from the branches, drumming against the pack’s tight nylon.

  My breath was too fast, fueled by adrenaline, and the
rain was coming harder, faster, as though approaching from the sky. I quickly pulled the batteries from the pack’s front pocket, slipping them into my jeans, and walked away, my head down against the rain, my ears straining.

  Suddenly I turned and shined the flashlight.

  The pack leaned against the tree, nylon dripping.

  He wasn’t that stupid, I told myself, turning around again. And we had people waiting for the pickup. I was supposed to leave. I was supposed to obey.

  In low whispers, I informed McLeod that I was starting the climb down without the pack. No word about the girl.

  I walked in silence, wondering if she would be standing on the trail, waiting. If he let her go. We had left the pack. He had the money. My mind filled with hope, with a happy conclusion that would bring this horror to a close, an end that would restore Courtney VanAlstyne to her privileged place in this world, the end that would allow me to walk away. To sleep again. I began running, mind and body racing, and when his hand grabbed my arm, I knew this nightmare was far from over.

  I turned, pulling, trying to shine the light in his eyes. I reached for my gun. But his grip was vise-tight. Something stabbed my side. I doubled over.

  “You move one muscle and your spine goes out your stomach.” He yanked the flashlight from my hand, pulling my gun from its holster.

  “Where is she?” I said. “What did you do with her?”

  He pressed the sharp object deeper into my side. I bent again, the pain crossing one side of my body to the other.

  “Is she here? Is she with you?”

  “Shut your mouth,” he whispered, yanking my hands back. I tried to ask something else, to get him to speak so I could hear his voice again, but the metal hasps closed over my wrists, and the gun shoved deeper into my side until I couldn’t speak. One of his hands moved methodically across my shoulders, down each side of my body, across to the middle again until he found the transmitter. He lifted my sweatshirt and twisted the small box from the adhesive tape.