by David Freed
“Me? I’m just a guy with a bad headache and a hankering for acid indigestion.”
I snatched up the turkey jerky and aspirin and walked out to the car.
To the west, the clouds broke, and for a few fleeting seconds, I could make out mountain peaks—the same mountains where I’d first spotted what remained of a winged phantom lost long ago. The phantom’s last flight, according to my spook buddy, Buzz, had been in support of a highly classified mission to arm nations friendly to US interests in and around South Asia—countries that I assumed included Pakistan, India, and, one of America’s strongest regional allies back then, Iran. Jalali and his squatty friend, the fireplug, were from Iran. I knew of absolutely nothing to link either man to the murder of Chad Lovejoy, or whatever it was that had been stolen from the wreckage of that airplane. Nor, for that matter, was I aware of one iota of evidence tying them in any fashion to Savannah’s disappearance. But when you’ve spent the majority of your professional life at Defcon 1, suspicious of everyone and their motives, there’s no such thing as coincidence.
I drove the neighborhood for a couple of minutes, then circled back to park a block away from the Dutch Mart Gas and Grub where I could establish a relatively unobtrusive surveillance position. With the back of the SUV positioned toward the convenience store, I angled my side and rear mirrors to maintain eyes-on, sat back chewing my overpriced aspirin, and waited to see who came or went. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was better than nothing.
More than anything, I wanted my phone to ring. I wanted Savannah to call. I wanted to hear her voice tell me she was safe. I wanted her to be upset with me for having overreacted at the B&B, booting Preston Kavitch’s door the way I had. But the phone remained silent. I checked the call log; there was nothing.
Other men under similar circumstances might’ve prayed. I’d prayed plenty when I was a kid. I begged God every night to remove me from my latest foster home hellhole, and to find me a family, a real family, with people who genuinely cared about me. The Almighty never seemed to hear me, though. Either that or he was always too busy to respond. Soon enough, you stop asking. I knew under present circumstances that the Buddha wouldn’t be of much help, either. I realized as I sat there, watching that convenience store, the only power I could rely on was my own.
After nearly an hour observing a procession of ragged but otherwise benign-looking customers pulling in for cigarettes and beer, I turned over the Yukon’s ignition and drove on.
Amid the snow, searching for Savannah, traffic on Lake Tahoe Boulevard quickly became slow-and-go—a mile-long backup of four-wheel drive pickup trucks and luxury SUVs mostly, with a few beaters thrown in, many hauling snowboards and skis on their way to the freshly powdered runs at Heavenly Mountain, northeast of town. I rolled down my window, inching along in the right lane, and studied every fogged-up, snow-covered vehicle that rolled past me in the left lane, hoping against hope that I might spot her.
A stocky dude in his early twenties with a sandy crew cut and black ski bibs apparently thought I was checking out his girlfriend and took offense. He rolled down the passenger window on his black Hummer and leaned across her lap, giving me the stink eye.
“What’re you staring at, asshole?”
I ignored him.
The inside of my throat was burning. Probably from the aspirin. I needed something to wash it down, and quickly. Up ahead, past a hemp shop where a Jamaican flag hung in the window, was a sign for a bakery. I hooked a right into the snow-covered parking lot.
The bakery was warm and smelled of chocolate. The cherubic girl behind the counter sported a sterling ring in her lower lip and a purple streak in her dark, punk-style hair.
“What can I get you?”
“I’d like some water.”
“Bottled or tap?”
“Is bottled faster?”
She didn’t understand the question.
“Bottled,” I said.
“Bubbles or no bubbles?”
“I have no preference.”
“Would you like—?”
“Look, just some water. Please.”
She reached into a large cooler behind her and handed me a cold bottle. I chugged it down. My throat felt considerably better.
“Anything else for you today, sir?”
I showed her Savannah’s photo.
“Any chance you’ve seen this woman?”
“Definitely.”
My pulse quickened.
“You have seen her?”
“Oh, for sure.”
“Where?”
“On TV.”
“You saw her on TV.” I was puzzled. “When was this?”
“Last week.” The girl looked at the picture once more. “She’s on Real Housewives, right?”
I forced a smile. “Not exactly.”
“Well, one of those shows, right?”
“She’s missing. I’m trying to locate her.”
“Oh.”
I ordered black coffee along with turkey and Havarti on a baguette. I ate the sandwich quickly. When I was finished, I called Streeter. He didn’t answer. I left word on his voice mail that I had some information for him on the downed Beechcraft and asked that he let me know if he’d heard anything from the hospital on Savannah.
“I’ve checked out of the B&B,” I said. “I’m not sure where I’ll be staying tonight, but I’ll leave my phone on. Call me.”
The snow was coming down heavier. I pondered my options and quickly concluded that I had few. Driving around in a blizzard, showing random people Savannah’s picture, seemed pointless. The woman at the newspaper said she’d run a notice the next day. That was at least something. I decided to return to Tranquility House, to see if Streeter had gone to question Preston Kavitch, like he said he was going to. As I pulled out of the parking lot onto Lake Tahoe Boulevard, a red-over-silver Subaru Outback drove past from my right to left. The driver, a man of indeterminate age, was wearing a dark-colored baseball cap.
Savannah was sitting in the passenger seat.
I fishtailed out of the lot and across the road, nearly slamming into an eastbound Range Rover and an old Buick heading west. Both drivers hit the brakes, skidding on the snow and laying on their horns as I shot the narrow gap between them.
I couldn’t see inside the Subaru—snow obscured the station wagon’s back window—but I could tell that whoever was behind the wheel knew how to drive in winter by his lack of sliding. I could also tell that he knew he was being pursued. Repeatedly, I flashed the Yukon’s headlights on and off, on and off, pounding on my own horn, trying to get him to pull over, but he did the opposite, ratcheting up his speed to more than forty miles an hour. Half of that would’ve been too fast given the deteriorating road conditions, but he wasn’t about to stop.
We wove crazily through traffic, passing a CVS pharmacy on our right, and blowing through a red light at Fairway Avenue. Fortunately, there were no other cars in the intersection or we would’ve been creamed.
The Subaru kicked it up close to fifty mph. Snow rooster tails arced from his back wheels, spattering my windshield as I rode his back bumper. Even in four-wheel drive, I could feel the Yukon’s front end dancing on the snow. A sane person would’ve slowed down. He drove faster. So did I.
Up ahead, I could see that the road narrowed to one lane for construction, and that traffic had halted. That didn’t stop the Subaru’s driver from cutting hard left, into the opposite lanes, with me right behind him. The line of oncoming vehicles parted like the Red Sea, cars and trucks sliding to the side of the road as the Subaru tried to get away.
And then, for once, karma found me.
At Takela Drive, the light turned red and a FedEx truck pulled out moving right to left, directly into our path. The Subaru driver was too quick on the wheel and too heavy on the brakes. He spun—a 360-degree turn, up and over the curb, across the sidewalk and into a stand of juniper bushes, directly in front of the local California Department of Motor Vehicles office.
I slammed my gear shift into “park” at the curb and jumped out as he flung open his door. He was a big dude, around fifty, with a big, lumberjack-like beard in a big, shearling sheepskin coat.
“What in the name of Jesus do you think you’re—”
I was on him before he could finish his sentence, grabbing him by his coat, hauling him out, and shoving him face down in the snow in front of the DMV, my forearm around his throat, my knee in the small of his back.
“Move and I’ll snap your spine.”
I looked over at the woman sitting in the passenger seat. Her hair was dark red and shoulder length, like Savannah’s. Only this woman was about twenty years younger, considerably less attractive, with a long, drawn face. She was terrified of me.
“Please, sir, don’t hurt my father.”
I rolled him over. Under his coat was a cleric’s black shirt and white collar. A silver crucifix hung from a leather strand around his neck.
A clergyman.
Way to go, Logan.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“It’s been said of me. I’m sorry, sir. I thought you were somebody else.”
I helped him to his feet, dusting the snow off of him. For someone who’d just been chased down and assaulted, he seemed surprisingly forgiving.
“We all make mistakes,” he said.
“Some of us more than others,” I said.
The minister volunteered that his daughter was recently diagnosed with cancer, and more recently divorced from a domestic abuser against whom she’d had to take out a restraining order. They were driving to San Francisco to meet with her oncologist when I showed up in their rearview mirror.
“Her ex-husband has a Yukon just like yours,” the minister said. “That’s why I didn’t pull over.”
I showed him Savannah’s picture and explained why I’d chased them. The minister commented on how pretty she was. He hadn’t seen her around and offered to pray for her safe return. I told him I could use all the help I could get.
The Subaru, from everything I could tell, appeared to have sustained no damage. The minister rocked it out of the snow and I helped push it back across the sidewalk, into the road.
“I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances,” he said. “You seem like a good man.” He handed me his card. “You should think about coming to Sunday services. You’d be amazed, the miracles that can occur when you put your life in the Lord’s hands.”
“If you say so.”
We both knew my going to church would be a miracle in itself.
“I wish you His grace,” he said.
“Safe travels. Good luck at the doctor.”
The minister’s daughter tried to smile.
I watched them drive on, haunted by the expression on her face. I could tell she wasn’t long for the world. Call it a gift or a curse. Frequently, I can look at someone and know intuitively they’re going to die young. We were studying the Civil War in high school, rotogravure photos of young soldiers, when I first realized I had that skill. Those soldiers who’d been killed in battle all seemed to share the same look as they stared into the camera: a faint, almost imperceptible sadness in their eyes, as if they knew they wouldn’t make it to old age. I caught the same look in the eyes of otherwise happy classmates who would die prematurely while driving drunk or by some terrible disease. I saw it in the eyes of fellow pilots, killed in action, and in the eyes of go-to guys who served with me in Alpha, and who never made it home. Sometimes, when I caught my reflection in the mirror, I thought I saw the same look in my own eyes.
A chill came over me and my teeth chattered climbing back into the Yukon. Even with the heat on high, I shook uncontrollably. The weather had nothing to do with it.
Where are you, Savannah? Please be OK.
I studied her photo, her exquisite face. Whatever ominous portend I’d discerned in the eyes of those soldiers and friends whose lives were cut short, I couldn’t see in hers. I felt relief, if only for a moment. Then my phone rang. The incoming number registered to “Private Caller.”
“Logan.”
“I want you to listen very carefully to what I’m about to tell you.” The voice on the other end was male, late thirties to early forties. He spoke with a decidedly Australian accent. “We’ve got your lady. Cooperate with us, mate, you’ll get her back. Choose not to, you’ll never see her alive again.”
NINE
I sucked in as much air as my lungs would accept and let it out slowly, dropping my heart rate, slowing my metabolism, and narrowing my focus, the way I’d been trained to shoot.
“What’s your name?” I asked him.
“Right. Like I’m just gonna give you my name.”
“Doesn’t have to be your real name. Give me something. We can at least be civil.”
“All right,” he said. “You can call me Crocodile Dundee.”
“Crocodile Dundee it is. Now, if you would, please do me a favor and put her on the phone.”
“You’re not dictating terms here, mate. I am.”
“Put her on the phone or this conversation’s over.”
I was bluffing. The last thing I wanted him to do was hang up on him. But if I’d learned anything as an operator, it was that the minute you surrender authority to a killer or kidnapper early on in any negotiation is the minute you’ll always wish you could take back.
“Fine,” he said, “have it your way.”
A jumble of noise filled my ear—scratching sounds and agitated voices, muffled, like Dundee had put his hand over the phone. I heard him say, “Say hello.” Then I heard Savannah.
“Hello?” She sounded tentative and afraid, like she’d been crying.
“Don’t worry, baby. You’re gonna be fine. I promise you’ll be home before you can even—”
Dundee was back on the phone.
“Let’s get down to business, shall we?”
My whole body shook with rage. I took another breath and let it out slowly.
“You harm so much as one hair on her head, and I swear, after I find you, and I will find you, you’ll beg for death before we’re finished.”
He laughed dismissively. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with, Mr. Logan. You have no idea what I’m capable of.”
I could’ve told him the same thing, but I didn’t.
“What do you want?”
“You’ll be delivering a package for me,” Crocodile Dundee said. “By air. In your airplane.”
“What’s in the package?”
“That’s none of your concern.”
“Deliver it where?”
“We’ll get to that, mate. Right now, you only need to know three things: if you talk to the cops, your lady friend dies. If you tell anybody else about our little arrangement before it’s concluded, she dies. If you tamper in any way with the package to be delivered, she dies. Do we understand each other?”
I gritted my teeth.
“Affirmative.”
“Excellent. Now, here’s how it’ll go down: the package’ll be waiting for pickup at a predetermined location in the Lake Tahoe area. I will send you a text message with the location. Your phone can receive text messages, yes?”
“I assume so. I’ve never tried texting.”
“Then I’d suggest you practice beforehand. If you do not pick up the package within ten minutes of my text, or I smell a hint of bacon in the area, your lady friend dies. We clear?”
“Yes.”
“After you’ve picked up the package, you’ll receive another text. It’ll instruct you where to fly, the drop-off point. If the package doesn’t arrive within half an hour of the specified time of delivery—”
“—My lady dies. Yeah, I get it. When, exactly, are you hoping to pull off this operation? Because nobody’s flying in this weather.”
“The snow’s forecast to let up tonight. Clearing skies the rest of the week. You should be airborne by tomorrow afternoon at the latest, no worries.”
“Y
ou mind my asking a question?”
“You don’t get to ask questions, Mr. Logan.”
“What did it feel like to murder that kid from the airport? Was it worth it?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, mate,” Crocodile Dundee said with a nervous little chuckle.
Then he hung up.
He knew exactly what I was talking about. He also knew exactly what he was doing. Whatever it was he’d removed from that airplane and committed murder over, was evidently so precious, or dangerous, that he wanted to minimize his risks at getting caught with it by having someone else transport it for him. With law enforcement officers watching the roads, what better way to get away with the goods than by air?
I closed my eyes and tried to calm myself meditatively, but it did no good. I wanted to kill Crocodile Dundee more than I ever wanted to kill anybody. I wanted to rip out his throat the way I’d been trained, to jam my thumbs into his eyes and implode them like hardboiled eggs. True Buddhists, even in their darkest moments, harbor no such fantasies. I didn’t care. He’d kidnapped my woman, terrorized her gentle soul.
He would pay for that with his life.
I DROVE through the cold and snow, back to the bed-and-breakfast, hoping to find Deputy Streeter to see if he’d gone to question Preston Kavitch, but his Jeep wasn’t there. With nothing better to do than foment vengeful thoughts, I parked on the street with the engine running, my phone in hand, and attempted to send Streeter my first-ever text message.
My fingertips were too big for the tiny keypad. I kept misspelling words—when the phone’s infuriating autocorrect function wasn’t misinterpreting them for me. “At Tranquility B&B, need to speak with you ASAP” became “At tranquility choice Neemm too spew Witt you’ll,” followed by, “Bees to speak with youth,” followed by, “Am tranquilizer B&F I homered to spa why you!” Whoever dubbed them “smart” phones must’ve been pretty stupid. It took me five attempts before I finally was able to hit “send.” Streeter responded almost immediately.
“En route your loc 7 min ETA.”
Welcome to the Technology Age, Logan, where the telegraph has become the preferred method of human communications.