Formula of Deception

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  Fool. How did she know this wasn’t a trap? Anyone could have picked up Bertie’s phone, especially the killer, and found someone to read a script of what to say.

  Could she take the chance? Bertie had told her she was getting the information on her sister.

  A plan formed in Murphy’s mind. The mail and packages came in the morning and were left on the side table in the living room. The house would be open during the day. She knew Olga’s and Denali’s routines. If she timed it right, she could snatch the envelope when they were busy. She could park at the private landing field and approach the house on foot via the trail.

  It just might work.

  As for how she would drive through Kodiak without the police spotting her, a quick internet search turned up the great news that a cruise ship was due to dock in the morning. Lots of tourists. Lots of chaos.

  Murphy stood in the bedroom doorway staring at the glorious king-size bed. She’d bet her favorite #10 flat brush that it was a pillow top. Unfortunately, the blinds were open, and should that snoopy neighbor return, she’d notice closed blinds or a sleeping stranger in the bed. Murphy would have to sleep on the couch.

  She snuggled up with a turquoise pillow embroidered with a sea horse, then tucked a striped blanket around her legs. The sofa was reasonably comfortable. All she had to do was close her eyes . . .

  The house loomed ahead of her in the trees, the rusty truck perched on her right. She picked her way through the garbage-strewn, overgrown yard. She clutched a pistol.

  The pale-yellow light from the window flashed on something moving. She stepped closer. More movement. Then one head rose. A rat.

  She took aim and shot it.

  Another rat appeared on her left. She fired at it. Three more appeared, then five, then the yard was full of rats, swarming her. She fired again and again, but each rat she hit created three more. She screamed.

  Murphy opened her eyes. She was soaked with sweat. Gray dawn touched the edges of the blinds. Mint walls surrounded her. The beach house. No rats.

  After her breathing returned to normal, she rose and headed to the kitchen for coffee. Then a shower. Horrible dream. She hated rats.

  Rats.

  Warm water poured over her head and ordered her thoughts. Laboratory rats. Experimental rats. Rats in a box taken to Kiska Island. Lucas said his great-granddad was a medical doctor. Like a scientist. There was only one reason someone would hide a submarine, build a facility on a remote and obscure island, and place two men there with rats.

  Biological weapons.

  Murphy shut off the water and swiftly toweled herself dry. She knew the word on the back of the photo Frances had showed her. Not Cyuinard. He’d written Our own private Gruinard. She dressed, grabbed her cup of coffee, then sat at the computer and typed in the name. A webpage devoted to the island came up.

  “British military scientists used Gruinard Island, located off the coast of Scotland, for biological weapons testing during World War II. Using sheep, the scientists tested anthrax—”

  Anthrax! Did Paul Stewart and Leif Berg infect the rats with anthrax and send them to Kiska as a weapon? No. In the close confines of a submarine, the rats would have infected the crew.

  She read on.

  “The anthrax spores, however, proved to be too hearty to use as a weapon, causing contamination for decades. Gruinard Island had to be extensively decontaminated in the 1990s and was uninhabitable for almost fifty years.”

  But anthrax might explain the five dead men on Ruuwaq Island. If they’d accidentally landed on a WWII biological warfare site . . . No, that wouldn’t work either. Vasily had come across them shortly after they’d died. He wasn’t infected. Nor were she and Bertie when they’d explored the island.

  Ryan mentioned Reinhard Heydrich had died of botulism. The Nazi officer was connected to Paul Stewart in a letter that also noted Operation Fair Cyan. Maybe Operation Fair Cyan was the United States developing botulism.

  Enough speculation. She had a mission to fulfill.

  Murphy watched the beach for snoopy neighbors with dogs. A cold wind blew in from the bay with intermittent rain showers, undoubtedly keeping the woman inside.

  Only one way to discover if the police were waiting to ambush her. Get in the rig and drive. She grabbed a rain jacket and Elin’s Glock and purse, then got into the SUV.

  The road was less than seventeen miles from Pasagshak Bay to the town of Kodiak. Clutching the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands, she checked every passing car to be sure they didn’t slow down. Rain made it difficult to see cars and passengers clearly, which was a plus for her.

  You’re walking into a trap.

  Bertie would want her to have the information on her sister. Who else would know about that?

  Her thoughts flittered around like a crumpled newspaper in a strong wind.

  The town buzzed with the cruise-ship tourists scurrying around under umbrellas. She slid down in the driver’s seat as far as possible as she drove through. Her grip didn’t loosen until she was through town and driving out Spruce Cape Road. No traffic passed her on this drizzly day. She drove slowly, looking for a turnoff that might lead to Salmon Run Lodge’s private airfield.

  She almost missed it. An overgrown, rutted lane led from the road. After pulling off, she drove a few hundred feet before a chain with a No Trespassing sign on it stopped her. This had to be the place. She parked, making sure the vehicle was out of sight of the main road. If she’d figured right, the airfield would be empty. She could cross it, find the path leading to the lodge, wait for a time when everyone in the house was gone, and retrieve the package from Bertie.

  The lane opened up to a primitive airfield—mowed grass with a tattered windsock—and a gray metal-sided hangar on the far side. Pulling her rain jacket tighter, she crossed the field to the hangar and scanned inside. A de Havilland Beaver—possibly the same plane Jake had flown to Ruuwaq—was parked inside next to an older Ford diesel truck with a snowplow mounted on the front.

  The trail leading to the lodge and cemetery started near the hangar. She followed it until she reached the fork. From there, she crept through the spruce and underbrush, watching. If the package was a trap sprung by Clinton Hunter, he’d be watching the lodge, waiting for her.

  When she reached the equipment shed, she ducked inside. Through the dirty window she could see the front of the lodge. Olga and Lucas walked down the stairs and got into a parked car. Olga had been carrying a sheet of paper. Murphy would bet that was the grocery list for the week. Excellent. She’d have at least an hour, possibly two.

  Once the SUV pulled out of sight, she headed for the woods around the lodge. If Denali was in the living room, he could easily see any approach from the front or this side of the building. The kitchen, on the far side, offered good access.

  She could feel the ticking of passing time as she worked through the woods. Rainwater soaked her jeans and the bottom of her sweater. Her hands were freezing.

  No light showed from the kitchen, but she scouted the room through the windows before approaching. She slipped through the door and shook off the rain, then listened for the sounds of Denali’s wheelchair or the padding of his dog. Silence. The room smelled of fresh coffee and cinnamon. She thought of Elin on the first day she arrived and swallowed hard.

  A quick peek through the door showed the living room empty.

  A large manila envelope rested on the table.

  Go now.

  She dashed through the door, snatched up the envelope, and peeked inside. Newspaper articles, police reports.

  A voice came from near the stairs. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Murphy spun around.

  Denali rolled closer, pulled back the blanket over his legs, and lifted a pistol aimed at her midsection. “Move away from the door.”

  She did as directed, gaze never leaving the gun. Maybe she could lie her way out of this one. “I’m . . . I’m sorry I missed work yesterda
y and this morning. I saw both Elin and Father Ivanov die in the car bombing. I was mentally screwed up . . . I needed some time—”

  “Stuff it, Murphy. For all I know, you set the bomb.” He lifted his chin toward the stairs that led to her room. “The police are actively looking for you. They’ve been all over your room looking for evidence, and I overheard them talking about reconsidering you as a person of interest in the arson at your landlady’s place.”

  “But—”

  “Save your protests. Tell me what you’ve learned in your snooping.”

  “What? I don’t know what you mean.”

  He pulled the trigger. A chunk of log wall flew off and nicked her hand, drawing blood. “Don’t lie to me. The next shot will be in the knee. What do you know?”

  She dropped the envelope. Headlines poked out. “Serial Killer . . .” Her legs were rubber. “Your father, Paul Stewart, must have returned from a trip off Ruuwaq and found his partner, Leif Berg, dead. He saw that as a chance to start over, to walk away from his family. To walk away from you.”

  The pistol wavered a bit, then steadied. “She was barely twenty-one when she got married and became pregnant with me. My mother told me my father wanted her to end the pregnancy. She refused.”

  “So Paul didn’t want to be a father, didn’t want the responsibility. He needed a way out. He knew if he simply disappeared, your family would keep looking for him, so he faked his own death. The family accepted his ruse, and in June of 1946, they buried that body from Afognak Island in the family cemetery. Paul Stewart took the identity of Leif Berg.”

  “Go on.”

  Put it all together. You have nothing to lose but your life. “During the war, Paul and Leif worked on a biological weapons project, Operation Fair Cyan, on Ruuwaq Island. It was a top-secret project. So secret that the government hid the use of a submarine, the Grunion, to supply the Quonset hut and conceal the work.”

  “Very impressive. I suppose your buddy Ryan told you about Fair Cyan.”

  “He’s not my buddy. Where is he, by the way?”

  “Gone.”

  She didn’t like the tone of his voice. She risked a glance out the window.

  “Don’t look to be saved by Olga either. She won’t be back for hours.”

  She could make a run for it. She’d certainly get away from him. The bullet was another matter. “I’ve told you what I found out. Now you tell me what happened to your father after the war.”

  He glanced down at his gun for a moment, then swiftly returned his focus to her. “What he did after the war was despicable. Have you ever heard of Unit seven thirty-one?”

  “Seven thirty-one?” Of course. She had thought Ryan meant July thirty-first. He hadn’t clarified what he meant.

  “The Japanese conducted human experiments in Pingfan, near Harbin, Manchuria, from the 1930s to 1945. They used Russian, Chinese, Korean, and even US prisoners of war. Men, women, and children, all referred to as ‘logs,’ were experimented on. Thousands died.”

  Her stomach heaved and head buzzed. She didn’t want to hear more.

  “The work they did was equal to what Dr. Mengele performed on prisoners in Auschwitz. The Japanese studied the effects of frostbite, bubonic plague, syphilis, cholera—”

  She threw up her hands. “Wait! Why isn’t this common knowledge?”

  “Two reasons. The US government was so anxious to get their hands on the research and keep it from the Russians that they let the perpetrators go free in exchange for information. No war trials. No crimes against humanity. No Nuremberg. In fact, most of those responsible in Japan went on to positions of great respect and honor. They prospered. Because America buried the truth.”

  “And?” she asked faintly.

  “All the people they experimented on died.”

  She took a half step back.

  He raised his pistol.

  She froze. “Why are you telling me all this?”

  “I didn’t want to. I wanted you to go away.”

  “You poisoned the sandwich.”

  “And you gave it to my dog. I almost shot you then.”

  “Why try to kill me?”

  “There wasn’t enough in the sandwich to kill you, just make you sick. Just make you go away.”

  She shook her head. “You could have fired me.”

  “Olga took a shine to you. She would have wondered why I’d fired someone who finally knew how to set a table. She would have found you and brought you back. And there would have been questions.”

  “But why? What did I do?”

  “You made people talk.” Denali shifted the gun. “Sooner or later, someone would have talked.”

  “About what?”

  His eyes narrowed and lips pulled against his teeth. “You want to know about dear ol’ Daddy? He relished the research of the Japanese in Unit seven thirty-one. When he went to work as Leif Berg after the war, first at Fort Detrick, later at Deseret Test Center outside of Salt Lake City, he couldn’t wait to get his hands on the Unit’s work at our own biological weapons locations. He was a big part of the cover-up. He was one of the principal scientists who reviewed the results of the Japanese experiments. He used their research to develop more biological weapons, worse weapons.” His face had turned red. Spit gathered at the corner of his mouth. “Dad was the mastermind behind the 1950 simulated germ warfare attack in San Francisco, one of the largest human experiments on unsuspecting people.”

  “I don’t—”

  “You don’t have to believe me. It happened. Of course, I only found all this out much later.”

  A blast of rain pelted the windows on the side of the lodge. Denali glanced out, then to his left.

  She followed his gaze. The wall of family photographs. He seemed to be studying the one with his daughter and son-in-law, then he shifted his focus to the Distinguished Service Medal.

  “So to keep your family reputation from being tarnished by the truth about Leif Berg’s real identity, you had someone blow up the Quonset hut. You had someone murder all those people. Zinkerton to get the evidence. Vasily, Elin, all of them. But I know something—”

  “Shut up.” He lifted the gun. “You were in the middle of an investigation that would have identified all those bodies, the skeleton. With modern DNA testing, how long would it have taken to figure out my father, not Leif Berg, was obsessed with killing people in the worst imaginable ways? And the confession of Vasily? What would happen if the families of the five men who died on Ruuwaq found out they died because of the work done there—my father’s work?”

  “How did they die?”

  “They had to have been exposed! Don’t you see?”

  “After all those years—”

  “The publicity, the lawsuits, would have caused me to lose the lodge. And Lucas would lose his inheritance.”

  “Wouldn’t your grandson want to know?”

  “No! My grandson will never know, because all the evidence is going away. My mother hated my father, and my father destroyed everything he touched. But Lucas will never feel that pain. It’s a simple decision. Get rid of you, get rid of the last witness.” He looked over her shoulder. “Jake, it’s time. Make sure you’re far out to sea before you drop her body.”

  She started to turn.

  Sharp pain. Blackness.

  CHAPTER 31

  Cold. Wet. Murphy’s head thrummed in pain. Face against something hard. Hands stuck. She blinked. What a strange dream. She’d wake up anytime now.

  She tried to make sense of what she was seeing. Blinking didn’t seem to help. Something sticky caught her eyelid. A round shape, dark, in front of her face, looked like . . . a tire?

  The tire moved away. The coldness stayed. She squirmed to find a better place, but her feet were together . . . tied together? She was outside the house, by the pickup.

  No. No. That’s not real.

  Reality smashed into her brain. Denali. The pistol. His last words. Jake, it’s time. Make sure you’re far out to sea befo
re you drop her body.

  Jake was preparing the plane. Of course. Uncle Jake. Denali’s half brother—and obviously the appointed hit man for the family—but why would he take the chance by killing her?

  His words came back to her. They don’t pay me enough to climb cliffs. Money. Jake could stand to inherit a fortune when Denali died. Of course, he’d have to kill Lucas.

  And now she was going to be murdered. Lord, Lord, I don’t want to die. Not today. Please help me.

  Jake approached. Or was it Hunter with a knife?

  She couldn’t get her mouth to work, to scream, to beg for mercy. He reached for her. She rolled away and kicked at him.

  Jake just laughed. “Spunky little thing.” Stepping over her, he lifted her effortlessly under his arm.

  She flailed and kicked.

  That just made him laugh harder. He opened the door to the plane and tossed her in like a rag doll.

  She rolled on the green shag carpet.

  Air wouldn’t fill her lungs. She tried screaming again. All that came out was exhaled air. Hut, hut, hut. He pulled a burlap bag over her face and tied it around her neck. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t . . .

  The noise. A loud, deafening roar. Ground rocking under her. Stink in her face. She opened her eyes. Fabric, burlap, covered her head.

  He’s here, with the knife. Focus.

  She was in the plane. In the air. Her head was pounding. She was going to die.

  If Vesper was right and she had a soul, God was soon going to meet it.

  Was it going to hurt? Would she feel every bone in her body snap when she hit the water from . . . three thousand feet? Five thousand?

  She had failed her mission. She hadn’t found her sister. And now no one would ever find her. Tears burned Murphy’s cheeks.

  The plane engine slowed. After a sudden rushing sound, the engine roared louder. Her ears popped. The plane rocked, then leveled. A hand grabbed her jacket and pulled her upright.

  This is it, God.

  The hand fumbled with the rope tied around her neck. He must want to see her face, her fear, her horror.