by Diane Capri
Wilcox wasn’t expecting the move. He stumbled backward. Flint pushed the door all the way open and stepped inside. Drake dashed up the steps and followed.
Wilcox’s surprise vanished and a deep scowl replaced it. “Get the hell out of my house.”
“It’s your brother’s house.” Flint settled his weight, prepared to fight.
Before Wilcox’s anger could boil over, the first man returned, entering from a doorway on the right. “What’s going on, Mark?”
Another man followed close behind the first. He might have been the helo pilot. Hell, he could have been anybody. Flint was past caring at the moment. He was willing to give Mark Wilcox a wide berth, but he wouldn’t be pushed around.
“No problem, Kevin,” Wilcox growled and waved the first guy away. “Flint and his friend are looking for someone. That’s what he does. But he’s not very good at it.”
“We have no visitors with us,” the third man said. His voice was low and a little gravelly. He looked vaguely menacing, as if his role in this trio was hired muscle. “Who are you looking for?”
“Let’s sit at that table there. You can give me some coffee. And we’ll talk,” Flint said without relaxing his guard. He didn’t expect Wilcox to start a fistfight, but he wouldn’t mind. The man was an ass. Always had been. Always would be. There was unfinished business between them. Today was a fine day to settle it as far as Flint was concerned.
Wilcox shrugged. He turned and led the way to the dining table. All five men pulled chairs and sat.
“Let’s start with names. As I said, I’m Michael Flint. This is Alonzo Drake. We know Wilcox. Who are you?”
“Kevin Hayes,” the first man said.
“Ruben Vega,” the second one replied.
Flint nodded. “I’m a private investigator. I’m looking for a man who disappeared from this area. Josh Hallman. He was the pilot of a Cessna T206 that crashed in the lake six years ago. This is the closest dwelling to the crash site.”
The three men looked at each other. Something Flint couldn’t decipher passed between them. Ruben was the one who responded. “Boyd allows us to use the place. For fishing, hiking. Maybe once or twice a year.”
“So you’re saying you weren’t here at the time of the crash?”
“Not likely,” Kevin said, which wasn’t exactly an answer.
“There were three men in that plane. Three men with families.” Flint looked at Wilcox longer than the others. “You know how this goes, Mark. Wives and kids are looking for these guys. I’ve promised to find them.”
“Yeah, I know how you work,” Wilcox replied, a sour expression on his face. “If they crashed, they probably died. Finding the bodies isn’t going to make anyone feel better. We handle situations like this on my show all the time. The family is never happy with anything other than a happy ending.”
Kevin said, “Exactly how do you two know each other?”
Mark’s permanent scowl had left deep lines on his face that aged him beyond his years. “I hired Flint to find Aludra when she was kidnapped. We all know how that turned out.”
Kevin nodded. Ruben stared.
They must have known that Wilcox had turned his personal tragedy into an empire based on a worldwide television audience. In the past few years, he’d assisted the FBI with cold cases and public manhunts on a massive scale. He was instantly recognizable and, some would say, enjoyed a reputation that bordered on hero worship among his viewers.
Flint looked from one to another. “Who uses this place besides you?”
Wilcox shrugged. “It’s my brother’s house. I don’t know who uses it. You’ll have to ask him.”
“I’ll do that. But since I’m here, show me around. Could help me find Hallman.” He pushed his chair back and stood. Drake followed suit.
“The place isn’t that big. Won’t take long.” Kevin stood, too. “Let’s take a quick tour of the house and grounds. You need to get back to the resort. It’s easy to get lost in those woods in the dark and you don’t have much daylight left.”
Kevin led the way down a long, wide corridor with several closed doors on either side. “These are bedrooms. Eight. All furnished the same.” He opened one door and allowed Flint and Drake to step inside. The room was furnished like a rustic hotel. Two beds. Dressers. Chairs. An en suite bathroom.
Flint glanced around. “No telephone? No television?”
Kevin shrugged. “We don’t have phone or internet service here and we come to this place to escape technology.”
Flint and Drake left the room and closed the door behind them. They followed Kevin into a large open kitchen, decked out as if a hobby chef with too much money had furnished it. The kitchen, like everything else he’d seen so far, was sparse and expensively appointed and excessively tidy. Not a speck of dust or anything else could be seen on the gleaming granite countertops or the stainless steel appliances.
“Who does the cooking when you’re here?” Drake asked. “And where do the supplies come from?”
“We take turns. We bring food with us in the helo.”
Kevin led the way through the kitchen and out the back door to an open yard and large paved patio area that seemed newer than the buildings. A hot tub was nestled into a cozy corner. The helicopter rested idle and quiet on the helipad, a few feet beyond the hot tub. A couple of outbuildings flanked the side of the main house.
“What’s in those buildings?”
He pointed toward the farthest of the two. “A propane generator for electricity. A couple of freezers for supplies. Gardening equipment. Things like that.”
“Where’s your pilot?” Drake asked.
“He’s in the cabin over there,” Kevin pointed to the first outbuilding. A light was burning inside.
Flint walked toward the cabin. “What’s his name?”
Kevin raised his eyebrows again, before he followed along behind. “Larry Cole.”
At the door, Kevin rapped firmly. A tall, rugged man opened. “Larry, this is Michael Flint and Alonzo Drake. They are looking for a missing man.”
“Missing from where?”
“A plane crash in the lake.”
“I didn’t hear anything. Didn’t see anything flying in, either.”
“The plane went down six years ago.”
Cole shrugged. “Before my time. I’ve only been flying out here for a few years.”
“Who flew the helo before you?”
Kevin said, “Mark was our pilot until Larry took over the job.”
“Sorry I can’t help you,” Cole said.
“Me, too,” Flint replied.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Red Maple Lake, California
Tuesday
Kevin led them around the house toward the driveway. Drake walked behind. Flint was between the two. He felt like several pairs of eyes were following them, but the feeling was based on nothing. The only sounds he heard were the soles of their boots landing on the ground.
When Flint reached the Polaris, he stopped near the passenger door while Drake walked around and climbed behind the wheel. “What are you guys doing out here, Kevin?”
“Like Mark said. Fishing. A little hiking. Poker. Man talk.” Kevin shrugged. He bowed his head and kicked at the stones in the dirt. “You know how it is.”
“Where do you live?” Flint’s internal radar was up on all of these guys. He’d already had a bad experience with Mark Wilcox. Wilcox’s friends were likely to be no better than he was and might be worse. No reason to trust any of them.
“I’m in San Diego. Ruben travels. You already know about Mark and Boyd.”
“What line of work are you in?”
“I’m a pediatrician.”
Flint raised his eyebrows. “And Ruben?”
“He works with Boyd.”
Flint cocked his head. He’d been lied to many times in his life, but so far Kevin had seemed honest enough. Which probably meant he’d been asking the wrong questions. “One of Josh Hallman’s friends suffe
red a compound femur fracture in the crash. When they pulled his body out of the lake, the autopsy report stated that someone had tried to stabilize the fracture. They also found morphine in his system.”
“He must have been in a lot of pain.” Kevin looked down and kicked at the ground with his boot again.
“I’m thinking that someone with at least a strong knowledge of field first aid must have found him.” Flint waited a moment. “Maybe even a doctor. It’s not like there are pharmacies to get morphine out here. Someone must have carried the morphine and other supplies in from somewhere.”
Kevin did not reply.
“When pediatricians leave their offices, even for a few days’ vacation, people know. Staff. Insurance companies. Patients.” Flint paused again, but Kevin still said nothing.
He heard footsteps crunching on the gravel behind him. He glanced around to see Ruben near the side of the house, headed toward them.
“We’d offer to fly you out, but there’s nowhere to land the helo over at the resort.” Kevin looked over his shoulder and turned back to Flint. “You can make it back before nightfall in your Polaris, but you need to get going.”
Flint nodded. “We’ll be on our way then.”
“The fastest route is to take the driveway and stay on it until it connects with a rougher path that leads almost straight up, toward the road.” Kevin waved in the general direction away from the Red Maple Lake Resort. “Then head west once you get to the road. You’ll see a sign for the resort after about an hour.”
“Thanks,” Drake said.
Flint shook hands with Kevin. “Until we meet again, Dr. Hayes.”
Kevin looked a little green, like a kid who had been told to eat spinach.
He’d find Dr. Hayes again. Kevin was a doctor. A healer. He was the weakest link in the chain of whatever was going on out here. Flint was sure these three knew more than they were telling. What he didn’t know was why they were being so secretive about events that had happened so many years ago. But he would find out.
Flint belted into the passenger seat, and Drake rolled away from the house down the driveway.
With Drake’s driving skills and Kevin’s directions, they soon reached the connecting path and headed up, away from the lake.
“So you figure Kevin Hayes was the doc who worked on Hallman’s friend, Skip,” Drake said, once they reached the connecting path.
“Doesn’t take a genius to figure out he was here. When I confront him next time, I’ll have more data.”
Drake nodded, but his full attention was focused on driving. The path was barely marked and even with the headlights on, it was difficult to stay between the ditches. The ride was rough and the bouncing Polaris was no more comfortable now than it had been on the way to the Wilcox place.
After a while, Drake asked, “You figure Ruben Vega was the one who threatened Beaumont?”
“He fits her general description well enough, and he looks like the type who would do something like that.” Flint nodded. “He’s a little bit older than the man she described, but six years have passed. I’d put money on him.”
“Vega could be an executive instead of a thug.”
“Yeah.” Flint nodded again. “But that’s not likely. And there was definitely something going on back there. They know more than they’re telling.”
The Polaris was moving almost straight up now. Flint and Drake were pushed back in their seats by gravity. The Polaris strained to pull up the mountainside. Drake had the steering wheel to hold onto, but Flint was bounced around like a kid without a car seat.
Drake said, “One thing for sure. It wouldn’t be easy to walk anywhere to get to or away from that house. Josh Hallman must have been one hell of an outdoorsman.”
“Maybe.”
“So Hallman crashed the plane, killed one friend, drugged the other one, got to the Wilcox place, and no one was there. So he broke in. He stole the equipment he needed and hiked out.” Drake seemed to be trying the theory on for size, as if it would make more sense if he said it aloud. But he shook his head. “Nope. Doesn’t track.”
Flint agreed. “More likely that he and his friends made it out of the plane and up to the Wilcox place. Someone was there. Probably Dr. Kevin Hayes, at least, given Skip’s injuries.”
“But then what happened? Wilcox has a helicopter. They could have flown up to Tahoe to the hospital. Gotten medical care. Still be alive.”
“But they didn’t. His friends died. We think Hallman got away.” Flint murmured to himself, “Where did Hallman go?”
“Why did he go anywhere at all?”
“What?”
“If he didn’t kill his two friends, why didn’t he stick around? Was he running from something or toward something?” Drake glanced at Flint briefly before the Polaris bounced into a deep rut, forcing him to pay more attention to the drive.
Now that he’d seen the situation firsthand, Flint had been thinking the problem through.
Suppose Hallman’s friends had been killed and he ran from the killers. It was a reasonable hypothesis.
Hallman had military training, so he was somewhat experienced in wilderness survival. He might have had enough equipment and food to carry him through the journey.
But most of his stuff had gone down with the Cessna. So where did he get the gear he needed to walk away from the Wilcox lodge, if that’s what actually happened?
And escape would have been more complicated if he’d been injured, as his friends were. He could have died out here in this forest. If he’d wandered off the path, his body might never be found.
The Polaris struggled to crest the last rocky outcrop before they reached the road. When Drake pulled onto the shoulder of the winding two-lane, Flint almost cheered.
A few seconds later, Flint’s satellite phone chimed to notify him he’d received a message. He pulled out the phone. The message was from his source. File #4 delivered. Extremely time sensitive.
He typed, Roger that and pushed the “Send” button, but the temporary signal had already vanished. He dropped the phone into his pocket. The message would go out the next time it found a signal.
The Polaris wasn’t equipped for road driving, but Drake kept on the road anyway. They traveled eleven miles before they saw the turn to the Red Maple Lake Resort. They never encountered another vehicle or another person.
“Now what?” Drake asked.
“We get some food and some sleep. Tomorrow, we’ll go to the crash site and check out the nearest houses along this road. I’ll get Scarlett to dig up background on those guys. We’ll take another run at them. How do you feel about San Diego?”
“Lovely city this time of year.” Drake drove down the steep grade along the lane past the parking lot where three SUVs were parked and continued down to the resort.
When they reached the front entrance, Flint glanced at his watch. Two hours to drive the fourteen miles from the Wilcox place. Again, he wondered how long it would have taken Hallman to hike the same route. In the dark. Without benefit of the GPS. And maybe injured.
He’d find out. But first he wanted a meal followed by a good long soak in that hot tub, an excellent Scotch, and a long night’s sleep.
He had a bottle of Scotch in his bag. The resort was set up to supply the rest.
“I’m planning a quick shower and a nap before dinner,” Drake said when they reached the door to his room. “I’ll come to your room when I’m ready to eat.”
“Works for me.” Flint nodded and kept walking. He closed the door behind him, found the Scotch, and poured a shot into a water glass he found in the bathroom. He opened his laptop to check the three new files he’d downloaded from his secure server back at the Reno airstrip.
The fourth file, the one marked “time sensitive,” had automatically downloaded during the flight before they left satellite range. All were from the source he’d queried about his mother.
He stared at the list on the screen for a while. He drank the Scotch and poured ano
ther. He took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Red Maple Lake, California
Tuesday
Flint opened the laptop and found the fourth file, marked “Urgent.” It contained only one sentence.
James Arthur Preston. Scheduled to die by lethal injection at Huntsville, Texas. Thursday.
He’d never heard of James Preston. His source had marked the file urgent and sent him a text to make sure he saw it. Her reasons were probably contained in the other three files. Did he want to read them now? No. He hadn’t made up his mind about whether he ever wanted to read them at all, but he definitely hadn’t planned to do it tonight. He’d lived his entire life without knowing. Why fix things that weren’t broken?
He poured another shot. He downed the Scotch and stared at the words on the laptop screen.
Who was James Preston? What had he done to deserve death? Why had Flint’s contact believed he should know about the execution?
He’d requested an objective search for an unidentified woman, based on the limited information he’d found. His source had known Flint a long time. Worked with him in the past. She knew what he needed to do the job. Sometimes, she could anticipate his needs, and her search had led her to James Preston. But she couldn’t read his heart. Right at the moment, even he couldn’t say whether he really wanted to know anything she’d discovered.
His first assumption was that his original birth record had been sealed. He had the means to unseal the record, but he had to find it first. He’d tasked his source with that project, supplying the limited information he had and what he could logically piece together.
His foster mother at the Lazy M Boarding School, Bette Maxwell, had told him all she knew about the distraught young woman who had abandoned him. She’d claimed to be a schoolteacher in West Texas. She’d claimed the father was unknown. Which was a whole different thing from unknowable.
The young woman’s story might have been true. Or not. He’d asked his source to check it both ways.
Bette Maxwell said no documents related to his origins existed at the Lazy M, and none were stored in any of the state’s files. Again, his source would confirm.