In Cave Danger

by Kate Dyer-Seeley

  “It’s good, huh?” Matt asked.

  “Um, it’s awe—some,” I replied. “Good suggestion.”

  “Yeah, I’m telling you, Bend has a great pub scene. In some ways even better than Portland because it isn’t as saturated, you know?”

  I nodded and polished off the last bite of my sandwich.

  Matt finished his Cubano, then swirled his beer. “Listen, Megs, I don’t even know what to tell you. It’s crazy and terrible, but your instincts are right. Before you—we—go jumping to conclusions, let’s see how it plays out over the next day or so.”

  “But don’t you think it’s weird that I found the lava samples in Sam’s pocket?”

  He looked thoughtful. “Yes, but there could be tons of possible explanations. Maybe he stuck them in his pocket when he was working and forgot to catalog them or something.”

  “Maybe.” I wasn’t convinced. “Matt, I don’t know how to explain it, but this one just feels really dark to me. Maybe it’s because I liked Kira so much, but no, it’s more than that. It’s like I’m a part of it.”

  “Meg, you’re not a part of it.” Matt’s voice was firm. “Unless you make yourself part of it.”

  “I know, I know . . . but.” I didn’t finish my thought. Matt’s disapproving frown told me that he didn’t get it.

  “Do me a favor and at least give it a day, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He drained his glass. “I’ve got to get back soon, but there’s something I need to tell you, although now I’m not sure.” He sighed.

  “What? What is it? You can’t say something like that to me and expect me to drop it.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ve been totally wrapped up in training and doing this job shadow and trying to make sure I hit my deadlines for the O that I haven’t had much time to look deeper into the Meth Madness source that was last seen here.”

  Matt had successfully tracked down the best lead we’d had in the Meth Madness investigation, PDJ. A source that Pops had planned to meet the day that he was killed. We thought we were close to learning something important, but right after Matt met with PDJ he died of an apparent drug overdose. Then Matt had found another drug runner with ties to PDJ in Bend. We had been plotting what to do next. With every step we took forward it felt as if we took twenty backward. Plus, neither of us knew who to trust. Matt’s philosophy was taking a slow and methodical approach. Which wasn’t exactly mine.

  “Did you learn something new?” I sat up and could barely contain the eager quality to my voice.

  “No, not exactly.”

  “Not exactly?”

  “Well, there are rumors that the source has been spotted around town in the industrial area.”

  “Let’s go. What are we waiting for?”

  “First, I have to get back to work, and I’m sure that you’re going to have some work to do too now that your cave tour is on hold, but more important we’ve talked about this. We need to be very careful and proceed with caution.”

  “Okay. We will, but we can’t let this lead slip away either.”

  “I know.” Matt rubbed his temples. “I just wish I knew who to turn to. I’ve made a couple of calls to the DEA. I think they’re our best bet, but I don’t think the agent I’ve spoken with believes me at all. I’m sure that he thinks we’re a couple of crazy kids or conspiracy theorists.”

  “Then we have to do it ourselves. Forget the DEA. Forget the police!” I didn’t mean to shout, but it was true. “Sorry, but what’s the alternative? I’m going to walk around for the rest of my life knowing that someone got away with murdering my dad? No. No way. We’re in this already. We’re all in. I’ll take that risk.” I sighed. “You don’t have to take it with me, but I’m ready. I have to know, whatever the cost.”

  He gave a slight nod. “I understand. I’m all in too.”

  “So tonight? Let’s meet for dinner and map out our plan.”

  Matt looked resigned, but he agreed. “Okay. Tonight.” He stood, kissed the top of my head, and gave a half wave. “See you then.”

  I watched him walk away. I knew that he was scared. I was too, but the time had come. I was ready for answers whatever the outcome.

  Chapter 12

  I should have heeded Matt’s advice and focused on my feature, but I was too wound up. I wished I had never heard of Meth Madness or PDJ. A small part of me was angry and bitter with Pops for leaving me to sort out what had happened to him. When I got the phone call that Pops had been involved in a biking accident, I refused to believe that he was dead. Pops was more safety conscious than anyone I knew. He always wore a neon orange vest and his helmet, and he had more lights on his bike than an airport runway. How could he have been killed on his bike? He had been riding on an open stretch of road. As the haze of grief began to lift a bit I realized that his death wasn’t an accident. Pops had been intentionally mowed down.

  It all began years before with the Meth Madness story. Covering the meth epidemic in Oregon may have made Pops go slightly mad. He was so entrenched in exposing the high-ranking officials involved in a sophisticated labyrinth of drug trade and giving voice to the many faces of meth that he may have lost sight of his journalist ethics along the way. The O, because of Pops’ urging, dedicated countless staff and hours to Meth Madness. Above-the-fold features, columns, and full-color photos of meth users with pocked faces and missing teeth ran for weeks. The weeks turned into months and the months to years. Pops had become one with the story, and then he became the story.

  Congress passed landmark legislation, and Pops’ articles were picked up by the AP and NYT. Meth became front page news throughout the country, and Oregon was the epicenter of the crisis. However, as more reporters turned their focus to the illegal drug it came out that the O (and potentially Pops) had falsified statics. Pops was put on leave and the paper had to retract a number of stories that it had run. The threat of being permanently let go might have made most people reconsider, but Pops wasn’t most people. He pushed on and went deeper underground. He was convinced that the powerful players in Oregon’s drug trade were responsible for hundreds of deaths from the highly addictive drug and for paying for silence.

  Matt and I had been researching every lead since Pops’ death. I thought we had a break a while back when we discovered one of Pops’ sources, PDJ. Matt had tracked PDJ down in one of Portland’s tent cities, but then PDJ ended up dead from an apparent overdose, and we hit another dead end. But we caught a stroke of luck when a friend of PDJ’s told Matt that the story he was looking for was here in the industrial district of Bend. I was close. Maybe closer than I’d ever been, and I wasn’t about to sit still now.

  Greg hadn’t responded to my e-mail, and after a check of social media and a few lame attempts at sketching out a new story plan, I couldn’t sit still. “Forget it,” I said aloud, and shut my laptop.

  I could do my own stakeout. I didn’t need to wait for Matt. What harm could there be in bringing my notebook to the industrial district and taking a few notes? If anyone asked what I was doing or noticed me, I could simply say that I was working on a story. That wasn’t exactly a lie.

  I grabbed a floppy hat and an oversized pair of sunglasses and stuffed them in my beach bag along with a travel-sized bottle of sunscreen, my notebook, and a pen. From what I could tell on my GPS, the industrial area where our source had last been spotted was in a section of the city near the train tracks. My map showed that the area consisted of warehouses and mills. Blending in might be an issue. I hoped that my disguise and cover about working on a story were viable.

  The afternoon sun was blistering. Good thing I have a hat, I thought as I drove outside of the Mill District and into an area of large, nondescript warehouses. Maybe this was going to prove more difficult than I imagined. There weren’t even sidewalks along the streets, and there certainly weren’t brewpubs or restaurants. How was I going to sell the idea that I was working on a story for Northwest Extreme here?

  I was about to give up
when I spotted a drive-through coffee kiosk in the parking lot of one of the warehouses. Jackpot! The bright yellow coffee shop, aptly named Motor Mocha, had a small deck complete with fake palm trees and two small bistro tables. It might be lacking ambiance, since the view from the deck was of ugly, slab-gray concrete warehouses, but it would work for my cover.

  I parked the car, pulled my hat over my eyes, and walked up to the window. A girl about my age wearing a bikini greeted me. “Hey, how you doing?”

  “Good.” It was everything I could do not to stare at her coconut husk bikini top.

  “Are you lost?” She twirled her braid and chomped on a piece of gum.

  “No, why?”

  “You look like you’re ready for the river.”

  “Oh, right.” I laughed. “Yeah, I’m actually a journalist. I’m working on a story, but everything downtown was so packed that I came in search of somewhere quieter to write.”

  She chewed gum on one side of her mouth. “Whatever floats your boat. We don’t get many tourists, but I wouldn’t say it’s quiet here.” Right on cue jackhammers sounded in the building behind us. “You want something to drink?” she shouted over the noise.

  “I’ll take an iced mocha,” I shouted back.

  The noise was deafening. I should have brought earplugs.

  She handed me a frothy, iced chocolate drink through the window. “Good luck!”

  I thanked her and spread out my writing gear on one of the bistro tables. The deck vibrated from the motion of the jackhammer. My pencil shook as I tried to create a chart in my notebook.

  After a few minutes the hammering stopped. However, the lingering ringing in my ears took longer to go away. I noted the date, time, and my location. Never having been on a stakeout before I had no idea what or who I was looking for. I figured I would know it when I saw it. A train rumbled, making the ground shake again and sending an ear-piercing whistle into the air.

  The coffee kiosk sat in the middle of three warehouses. Two of them were obviously in use, and there was surprisingly more foot traffic than I imagined. Workers wearing steel-toed boots and hard hats pushed heavy pallets between buildings, and delivery trucks rolled in and out of the parking lot. The last building looked as if it hadn’t been used in years. The windows had been broken out, and the delivery doors had been boarded up. There was no sign of movement or deliveries to the abandoned building.

  I got lost in watching the workers go about their jobs completely oblivious to the fact that I was taking notes on how they moved and interacted with one another. This world was so different than the environment and swanky offices at Northwest Extreme. And while there wasn’t much of a connection with my story, I couldn’t help but become captivated watching men heave heavy wood beams onto the flatbed trucks and manipulate equipment that I couldn’t even name.

  Two hours and two mochas later, I was about to give up my stakeout. It had been interesting to watch the crew of workers operate heavy machinery in this heat, but there was no sign of any other activity or anyone who might have a tie to Pops’ death.

  I was starting to pack up my stuff when I noticed two homeless kids—or at least I assumed they were homeless from their tattered clothes and bulging backpacks—wander up to the abandoned building. My heart rate picked up. I clutched my pencil and positioned my sunglasses over my nose.

  Could this be it?

  The homeless kids checked around them to make sure that no one was watching, and then one pulled back a board and squeezed into the warehouse. The other kid followed him. I desperately wanted to run over and see where they had gone and what was inside. But I knew that I couldn’t, so instead I ordered a third mocha.

  The bikini barista dropped her jaw when I asked for another. “You have a problem. I can’t even drink that much coffee. Props, my friend.”

  While she pulled a shot of espresso I tried to sound casual. “Hey, do you know anything about that abandoned warehouse?” I pointed to the building.

  She shrugged. “No, why?”

  “My boss asked me to keep my eyes open for potential space out this way. He’s thinking of moving our headquarters out here. It’s so perfect with all the outdoor adventure around.”

  “Right.” She glanced out the window. “It’s been empty as long as I’ve worked here.”

  “How long have you worked here?”

  “Four years.”

  “Do you know who owns it?”

  “No idea. You could ask at one of the other buildings. I think they all might be owned by the same company.”

  “I’ll do that, thanks.”

  She handed me my drink. “Here you go. I hope you don’t get the shakes.”

  “Never.” I took the drink. “Do you think anyone lives in there?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought I saw a couple street kids go inside.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, they hang around here. Sometimes I give them our day-old doughnuts. My boss gets mad, but we just toss them out.”

  “That’s nice of you.”

  “They’re harmless. It’s no big deal.”

  “Well, I’m off to write again. Maybe I’ll be back for a fourth.”

  She checked her watch. “I close in thirty. The crews all get off at four o’clock, so we stay open until then, but after that I’m outta here.”

  “Good to know. I’ll be sure to pack up before then.”

  “You can stay as long as you want, but I have to lock up the chairs.”

  “That’s okay, I’m almost done.” I took my mocha back out to my spot and stared at the warehouse. There wasn’t any sign of the homeless kids. I made a note of the time that I’d seen them go inside and snapped a quick picture of the boarded-up entrance to show Matt. Then I decided to work on my résumé. I had thirty minutes left until my stakeout would have to come to an end, so I figured I might as well put it to use. And odds were good that I was going to need an updated résumé soon. I only wished that the lie I had told about Greg was true. If he would move Northwest Extreme to Bend, that would solve so many of my problems, but it wasn’t like that was going to happen. I began jotting down my work history. It was hard to believe the incredible adventures and opportunities that I’d had since I started at the magazine. Sure, maybe I fudged my qualifications a bit—okay, well, maybe a lot—but I had come a long way, and seeing my accomplishments on paper gave me a confidence boost.

  I should be able to find another job, right? Maybe it wouldn’t be working for a magazine or newspaper, but I bet that a company would hire me to manage their social media. The results that I’d been able to produce for Northwest Extreme were staggering. Of course, it might be harder to grow a standard business’s social media presence as quickly as I had grown Northwest Extreme’s. Our content was unique and visually appealing. The pictures I’d post of an endurance athlete hanging from a ledge or of a windsurfer catching huge air had garnered tons of shares. If I was working for a software company or a bank I probably wouldn’t see such a rapid increase in fans and social engagement, but nonetheless I had tangible numbers to prove my worth to a new company. That felt good.

  The sound of a horn startled me from my focus. This must be the closing whistle, I thought, watching as workers raced for their trucks and cars. A mass exodus quickly followed. I couldn’t believe how fast everyone left. No one even stopped for a coffee on their way out.

  Guess that was my cue to head out too. I hadn’t made many gains on Pops’ source, but I intended to tell Matt about the empty warehouse and the homeless kids. Since PDJ had lived on the streets, I felt as if they were our closest connection. I hoped that I could convince him to come back with me later tonight and take a look around.

  As I stuffed my notebook back in my beach bag I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. A face appeared from behind the broken board. My heart thumped in a heavy, fast rhythm.

  I squinted to try to get a better look at the face. There was something familiar about it, but I was too far away to
make out any details.

  I blinked twice and then made eye contact with the man. A chill assaulted my body. I couldn’t explain it, but our eyes locked and I knew that he knew that I was watching him. I also knew that I knew him. But how?

  As quickly as he appeared, he disappeared.

  I sat there stunned for a minute. This had to be the source. This was the man I had to talk to. I knew it without a doubt.

  “Hey, I’ve got to lock up,” the bikini girl said, causing me to fall out of my chair.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” She had a chain wrapped around her thin arm.

  “No problem.” I got to my feet and picked up my beach bag. “Thanks for the mochas. They were delish.”

  “I’m here every day. Come back anytime.”

  I smiled and waved as I walked to my car. My feet felt light on the pavement. I had found the source. Now the question was, how to get him to talk to me.

  Chapter 13

  I went back to the hotel to change and check my e-mail. Still no word from Greg. I was starting to worry. It wasn’t like him not to respond. I have a tendency to jump to the worst-case scenario. I hoped Greg’s lack of response was due to his being consumed with the sale of the magazine and not because he was pulling me from the story.

  While I waited for my flat iron to warm up I shot Jill a text:

  How goes the packing?

  Great! I’m stockpiling Skittles. What if they don’t have them in Italy!?! Any hot dates with Matt?

  We’re meeting in a few.

  And?