by Andy Straka
I nodded, absorbing the news.
“Where am I?”
“You're at MCV Hospital, in a room reserved for VIP patients.” He glanced at Ferrier. No doubt the detective had pulled some strings. “My name is Dr. Grinell. I'm a toxicologist and the medical director of the poison control center.”
“How long have I been here?”
“Since last night.” The filtered sunlight streaming through the smoky glass seemed to indicate it was early afternoon.
“Can I get some water or something?”
“Of course.”
We went through a little rigmarole of Marcia pouring me a cup of water and the doctor helping me to adjust the bed so I was sitting a little more upright.
“Okay to talk with him alone now, Doc?” Ferrier said.
“I don't see why not.” The physician looked at me. “You're in pretty good physical condition for your age, Mr. Pavlicek. That's been of great benefit to you in this instance. Whatever you're doing, keep it up. Just don't go around getting stabbed with any more needles.”
I nodded. The doctor left the room, closing the door behind him.
“Well,” Ferrier said, “here we all are.”
“And glad of it,” Marcia said, still holding my hand.
“What do you think he meant by ‘for my age’?” I asked.
She shook her head and rolled her eyes.
Ferrier cleared his throat. “Uh, you wanna explain to me, Frank, how come I found you almost dead on the lawn outside that apartment?”
“Did you get them?” I asked.
“Get who?”
“The guys who gave me the shot and dragged me out there.”
“No. I saw two characters run away when I shouted from the parking lot, but after I took one look at you I figured I better call the ambulance and stick around until it got there.”
“You made the right decision,” Marcia said.
Ferrier crossed his arms. “Who were the two men?”
I looked over my shoulder, realizing I was wearing nothing but a hospital gown. “Where are my clothes?” I said.
“I think they're in the closet,” he said.
“Can you get them for me?”
He stared at me for a moment.
“I'll get them,” Nicole said. She opened the closet door and began gathering up my jacket and shirt.
“Just the pants,” I said.
“Just the pants,” Ferrier said.
“Right.”
He sighed.
Nicole handed them over.
“Thank you,” I said. I searched along the seam until I found the back pockets. The photo was still in the left one. I nodded. “Good.”
“You gonna answer my question?” Ferrier said.
“Yeah. Your people got that apartment sealed?”
“We do now.”
“I've got a hunch you may find some interesting information on that computer, maybe even some fingerprints.” I caught Marcia's eye. “Everything okay up at your house?” I asked.
It might've seemed like an odd question under the circumstances, but she got my drift. She nodded.
I turned back to Ferrier. “Anybody know where Toronto is?”
Nicole said, “I think he's, um, still doing what you asked him to do.”
“Okay.”
“Are we going somewhere with all these random thoughts?” Ferrier snorted.
“Yes,” I said. “First off, I think I know who has Cartwright Drummond, or at least who may be with her.”
“Really? Who might that be?”
I pulled out the photo and showed it to him.
“I don't recognize the girl, but the guy … “
“Is Penn Hersch,” I said.
“Hersch. Isn't he one of Haynes's roommates or something?”
“That's right.”
“Where'd you get the picture and who's the girl?”
“Okay,” I said. “Here's the deal. I'm pretty certain the Second Millennium Foundation has another purpose besides helping out kids in need.”
“Such as?”
“Such as specialized money laundering.”
He looked perplexed. “What kind of money laundering?”
“Those letters on those two checks?”
“Yeah, what about them?”
“I think they represent two different people. Each with a special relationship to Tor Drummond.”
“What kind of relationship?”
“He's their father.”
No one said anything. Marcia was shaking her head in disgust.
Ferrier looked interested. “You're saying Tor Drummond has been supporting a couple of illegitimate children and using Second Millennium as a front, mixing up their support with support for a whole lot of other kids?”
“Exactly. I think that's the story Diane Lemminger was working on. She come out of the coma yet?”
Ferrier shook his head.
My back hurt. “Can you guys crank this bed up a little higher?”
Marcia and Nicole jumped up and managed to find the right button to push to accomplish the task.
“I don't get it,” Ferrier said. “This may be tabloid kind of stuff, but you've been hinting all along that the congressman might be involved in his daughter's disappearance or something worse. Then you claim his man may have tried to off the TV show gal. But why? Hiding support for a bunch of kids Drummond's sired out of wedlock may make him a schmuck, but it doesn't make him a criminal.”
“That's where it gets complicated. My guess is Cartwright Drummond knew something about Second Millennium. Diane Lemminger said she talked to her about it while Cartwright was still in Japan.”
“So?”
“I don't know. She might've said something to her father. And I've got a strong suspicion there may be more to Second Millennium than just hiding illegitimate children.”
“You still haven't told me who this girl in the photo is.”
“Her name's Averil Joseph. Her mother is Roberta Joseph, the nurse who runs the foundation for Drummond. I think she's the A person supported by the checks.”
“So Drummond has the mother of one of his other kids running the money show. Good way to keep things quiet, I guess,” he said.
“Long as the checks keep flowing,” I said. “And guess who might be the P person?”
He gave a surprised grunt. “Penn Hersch?”
I nodded. “And guess when the ‘P’ checks started flowing?”
He thought a moment. “They were the first ones, weren't they? Right after the foundation was formed.”
“That's right. Which was only two weeks after George and Norma Paitley were killed by a hit-and-run. Which was the newspaper article we found in Cartwright Drummond's suitcase.”
“Jesus,” he said. “We've gotta find out who killed the Paitleys.”
“We've gotta find Penn Hersch,” I said.
Ferrier took out his cell phone. “I'm calling the FBI right now. But, Frank, you need to level with me. Do you know who stuck you in the neck with that needle?”
“I've got a pretty good idea, Bill, but—” I shook my head and looked out the window. “Yarak,” I said.
“Yarak? Who the hell's that?”
Nicole, who'd sat wide-eyed listening to the discussion, suddenly looked at me knowingly, then bent down and placed her hand on top of Marcia's and mine. She said to Ferrier, “Not who, Detective. What.”
Ferrier threw his hands up in a plea for help. “You folks wanna give me some clue what you're talking about here?”
“Yarak is a falconry term. It means, the highest state of readiness and hunger, eager to hunt,” she said.
33
So that's how it shook out.
What I hadn't told Ferrier was that somewhere in my subconscious darkness of the night before, I'd remembered a Utile detail of the hand holding the needle that had almost meant my destruction: a missing portion of a ring finger. Mel Working's.
Bright and early the next morning, we
were all gathered in a conference room at police headquarters in Charlottesville. Packard and a couple of other FBI agents, Bill Ferrier and Carol Upwood, Toronto and myself. Jed Haynes sat across the table from Upwood and Ferrier. Packard was in command, but since Ferrier was now conducting what amounted to an attempted-murder investigation, Diane Lemminger's as well as my own, she'd agreed to let him open the questioning. There was also the now very much open question of a Paitley murder, so reluctantly, at Bill's request and over Abercrombie's objections, she'd even allowed Toronto and me to sit in. Almost getting killed does wonders for your popularity.
Nicole and Marcia had ridden back to town together, and Nicole was over at Marcia's again to see Cassidy. According to the radio news, Congressman Drummond, his chief aide, and the rest of his entourage were all back in town as well. The congressman himself was scheduled to give a lunchtime speech to his supporters—those special invitations issued to his Eagle Council, one of which I'd received. The outdoor amphitheater, in fact, was just across the way from where we sat. There had been talk of canceling the event, with his daughter still missing and rumors swirling, but apparently Drummond's brain trust had decided to press ahead. The congressman's lawyer had told the media that in addition to his speech, Drummond was planning to hold an impromptu news conference to put out another public plea for help in solving the kidnapping.
Seated at the table, Jed Haynes didn't look nearly as disheveled as the last time I'd seen him. His hair was combed and his face was scrubbed. He tapped his foot nervously on the floor.
Ferrier twirled Cartwright Drummond's silver earring between his fingers. “We think you know where she is, Jed.”
Haynes shook his head. “I've told you, man. I don't know. I didn't see her at all that night.”
“What about your roommates?”
“What about them?”
“What about Penn Hersch?”
“I don't know. Why don't you ask him?” The cops and the FBI were now watching the roommate, in hopes that he would lead them to the girl.
Ferrier drummed his fingers on the table. “When did you find out Penn was Cartwright Drummond's half brother?”
Haynes's eyes grew large. He looked around at the rest of us. “How did you guys know that?”
“It's going to go real hard for you, Jed, if anything happens to Cartwright.”
The young man ran his fingers through his hair. “All right, look. This is all I know. Wright's been pissed at her old man ever since… you know, the divorce and everything. After Penn moves in with me, before Wright leaves for Japan, he starts talking about how he knows stuff a lot worse than that about her dad.”
“Did he tell her Tor Drummond is his father, too?”
“Yeah.”
“The three of you talked about this together?”
“Some. But mostly, Penn and Wright started E-mailing a lot back and forth about it.”
“Was that what this Secret Amphibian business was all about?”
He snickered. “Yeah, I guess. Penn started joking how I might be her swimmer, but he was her secret amphibian, and how they were both going to get back at their dad.”
“So where's Cartwright?”
“How many times do I have to tell you? I don't know.”
“Hell, we've got her bloody fingerprints on her rental car, and traces of her blood in your Jeep. Now you show up with an earring she was wearing the night she disappeared. If you don't know, sure seems to me like someone's trying to make it look like you did it.”
“It was supposed to look like that,” he said.
Ferrier looked puzzled. “Say again?”
“The whole thing was a setup, wasn't it, Jed?” I said. All eyes turned to me. “Brother and sister wanted to make everybody think she'd been kidnapped. And you were in on it too.”
He looked down at the table and nodded.
Ferrier folded his arms across his chest. “What for? What's the point?”
Haynes looked up at him. He shrugged. “They were planning to do something. I don't know, maybe make their father think he was responsible or something, have the whole thing about Perm come out on television, they were saying. But something went wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
He shook his head, looked down at the table again, and closed his eyes. “Penn's weirded out or something. He's acting crazy. He won't tell me where Wright is and… Jesus Christ… he's got a gun.” He started crying.
The FBI agents perked up at that information. Packard turned to one of the others. “Call all units,” she said. “Tell them the suspect is armed and dangerous, but not to move in. He may try to harm the girl.”
The agent she'd spoken to bolted from the room.
Ferrier poured water from a pitcher on the table into a paper cup. He handed it to Jed. Haynes accepted the cup and took a sip. He sat up, wiping the tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand.
“I was pissed at Wright, too, you know. She told me it was over between us. I was just trying to get her to like me again. She's okay, isn't she? She's gotta be okay.”
Ferrier held up his hand. “Whoa, boss. Slow down a minute. We've got your buddy covered. He's at the house. You don't think Cartwright's somewhere there, do you?”
“No way. I'd have heard something.”
“So who sent the ransom letter and the photo?”
Haynes shrugged. “I don't know anything about any ransom note,” he said.
“Looks like your buddy's playing all kinds of games here,” Ferrier said.
“We can sort that out later,” Packard interrupted. “The important thing right now is to find the girl.”
Amen to that.
She looked at Jed. “Mr. Haynes, do you think you'd be able to place a call and get your friend on the phone with you?”
Haynes nodded. “Yeah. Probably.”
She barked an order to the remaining agent. “All right, let's get it set up.”
“What are you going to want me to say?” Jed asked.
“It's pretty simple, actually,” she said.
Five minutes later, Jed Haynes held the phone in his hand while the rest of us were all wired in, listening through a speakerphone. The agent who'd left the room earlier stood over in the corner with a cell phone to his ear.
“Whenever you're ready, Mr. Haynes,” Packard said.
The young man punched in the numbers on the phone. It rang three times. On the fourth ring a voice answered.
“Hello?”
“Penn, it's Jed. That you?”
“Who the fuck you think it is, dickwad? What do you want now?”
“Listen, man. The cops just hauled me in again, raking me over the coals.”
“So? You stuck to your story, didn't you? You better have.”
“No, listen, man, you gotta understand. They know. I didn't tell them anything, but they know.”
“They know what?”
“About you and Wright and all this shit about your father. They even think they know where Wright is.”
There was a string of whispered profanities on the other end of the line.
“I just thought I'd better call you,” Haynes said.
“Fuck you, man. Don't you get it? Today's the day. Don't you ever come near me or my sister again!”
The line went dead.
Haynes looked at Packard. “Was that okay?” he said.
She held up her hand for quiet, watching the agent with the cell phone, who was listening intently.
Ten or fifteen seconds passed. Then the agent with the phone gave a thumbs-up. “Our boy's on the move,” he said.
34
The Ragged Mountain Reservoir sits just off the interstate west of the city, tucked behind a ridgeline at the end of a winding dirt road, beside a summer camp for disadvantaged youth. Only one road provides access in and out of the natural enclave. It is not that long a run back down to Fontaine Avenue leading into the university; the dirt and stone thoroughfare is popular with joggers and athle
tes in training. At the reservoir itself, a hiking trail encircles the body of water, cutting a groomed path through rocks and fallen trees, and there is a little parking area at the trailhead.
“At least we'll know about the girl,” Ferrier said, breathing heavily as we climbed a steep portion of the trail.
“One way or the other,” I said.
Several teams of FBI agents, with all their high-tech gear, had already descended on the area, some in vehicles, some on foot, to attempt to create a perimeter. A helicopter, no doubt with the latest in super-magnification surveillance, was a Utile dot overhead. They'd all tracked Penn Hersch to this location, first in a black Toyota sedan, then on foot along the trail to the opposite side of the reservoir, where he appeared to be approaching an abandoned boathouse. Toronto and Ferrier and I formed a rear guard. A few thin clouds moved across the sky, but the spring sun was otherwise brilliant. It might've been the perfect day for a hike in the woods had it not been for our potentially gruesome mission. Ferrier's radio crackled softly with static and instructions for those in pursuit.
“What's your gut tell you, Frank?” Ferrier said. “This Hersch kid just gone wacko or what?”
My gut and I had not exactly been on speaking terms since I'd encountered that syringe full of barbiturate. “It's whispering that these kids are a lot smarter than we give them credit for,” I said.
The trail descended a long projection of forest leading around the northern tip of the reservoir. Ferrier stopped and pointed across the water. Several hundred yards down the far shore, apparently tangled in vines and barely visible through the brush, was the vague outline of what might be the boathouse.
Crack-ck. Crack-ck.
The sound of gunfire suddenly echoed down the shoreline. A figure could be seen running between us and the boathouse. It looked like Hersch. There were shouts on the radio. We drew our guns and began running.
We sped over a log bridge and up and down more steep trail. The bleat of a motorcycle engine burst to life. More shouts over the radio. Above us, the helicopter appeared as if from nowhere.
The sound of the engine again. Higher up the ridge, a bright yellow helmet flashed by for an instant as it whizzed through the trees. Men with weapons drawn, some wearing camouflage, were in pursuit.