by Jason Dean
She saw Art looking at the letter with narrowed eyes, then at her. ‘Randall Brennan,’ he said softly. Then he glanced at the newspaper and turned it over so the top half with its photo of Bishop was showing again. He leaned back in his chair and looked at her. ‘Your man’s taking a bit of a risk coming here, isn’t he?’
And right there, Jenna could tell he knew. That he’d put it all together and come up with the only possible answer. Didn’t anything get past this guy? She sighed and said, ‘That kind of depends on you.’
‘I guess it does.’ He clasped his hands together and chewed part of his lip. ‘Although I admit I’d be interested to hear his side of the story.’
Jenna thought he might say more but he just faced the screen again and said, ‘I didn’t think websites like this existed any more. I expected pages of wild theories, but the author just lists the facts, often taken directly from police records. Very impressive.’ He turned to her and said, ‘Would you mind turning on the lights, Jenna? It’s getting dark.’
‘Sure.’ She went over to the doorway and pressed the wall switches, and three oval ceiling lights came on. ‘So does the stuff in there jibe with what you found in Ebert’s room?’
Looking at the screen once more, Art said, ‘I didn’t search his room.’
‘But I thought . . .’
‘Oh, I was supposed to. But as soon as I reported back to Hoover with my findings regarding Ebert’s medical history and the disappearances, he ordered me back east immediately.’
‘He didn’t want to follow it up?’
Art smiled. ‘I didn’t say that, did I? In fact, I can guarantee he did follow it up; he just used an agent other than myself to do it. I told you he didn’t trust anybody. He especially didn’t like the right hand to know what the left was doing. If I’d found something in Ebert’s room I might have made the connection between him and the Zodiac, and Hoover couldn’t afford that possibility. I never saw the room and I never saw Timothy Ebert.’
‘But somebody must have.’
‘No doubt. And I’m sure Hoover built up one of his famous files . . .’
‘Later, Art,’ somebody bellowed from downstairs.
To her surprise, Art shouted back, ‘Go easy, Jake.’
Jenna leaned against the conference table with her arms crossed, smiling at him.
Art smiled back. ‘Sorry. Our daily routine, come quitting time. Only Cory and the tourists to go, and then we’ll shut up shop for the night.’ He tapped a finger against the letter. ‘So this Willow Reeves is the name Cavendish is operating under now?’
Jenna nodded. ‘But under different ownership. Some non-profit organization bought them out in 1970.’ She scrunched her eyebrows together. ‘Kaiser something or other. Foreign-sounding. It’s at the bottom of that letter.’
Without looking, he said, ‘Kebnekaise.’
‘Hey, that’s it. How’d you know?’
‘I told you it was a mouthful.’
She stood up. Uncrossed her arms. ‘Hold up. Are you saying . . . ?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s the name I saw next to Ebert’s on the billing records. I thought it was the name of a person, but it looks like I was wrong.’ He shook his head. ‘Isn’t that always the way? Answer one riddle and another takes its place.’
‘You’re not kidding,’ Jenna said, almost to herself. ‘Just who the hell is Kebnekaise? And who’s Timothy Ebert?’
She walked over to the window and looked through the shutters again. There was barely any light left in the sky now. Magic hour was definitely over. She lowered her gaze to the car park down below and saw a Porsche pull out of the gate and gently accelerate away down the solitary road with its headlights on. Probably the pilot, Jake, on his way home. The only cars left now besides hers were a Discovery, a Chrysler, a Chevy and a Mercedes. She continued watching the Porsche’s progress until it passed another set of headlights, headed this way.
Jenna turned to Art. ‘He’s here,’ she said.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Bishop parked the Lexus a few hundred yards down the road. After wiping down everything he’d touched, he locked the doors and walked towards the Metroblade building. Both floors still had lights on and five vehicles were still parked in the spaces outside. When he got closer, he made out Jenna’s Honda. He passed through the open gate and headed for the covered entrance on the left. Keeping out of the light, he peered through the glass doors and saw a well-lit reception area but no movement of any kind.
He moved in closer and saw the reason why.
Reaching back under his shirt for the Beretta, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. As he walked towards the front desk he smelt it. And then he reached the woman he’d seen from outside. She lay sprawled on the floor next to an overturned chair. She had two large-calibre holes in her forehead. He bent down and touched her arm. Still warm.
With his gun leading the way, Bishop crept down the passageway on the right. Through the glass doors at the end, he saw three empty helipads. The middle one was illuminated by ground lamps, while four elevated floodlights further out bathed the whole area in amber.
Bishop backed up against the left-hand wall and peered round the first open doorway. He saw a long, thin room with charts and maps all over the walls. A large desk held what looked to be ground-to-air communications equipment. Sitting in a swivel chair was a male figure. Bishop didn’t need to check his pulse. Both legs were stretched out and his head was tilted back, eyes gazing sightlessly at the ceiling. There was a wide slit where his throat used to be.
He moved to the second doorway and glanced in. This room held a sofa, four desks arranged in a square and a kitchen at the far end. A body lay face down on the floor, next to the sofa. Bishop could see it was another male. A pool of black liquid surrounded him.
Bishop turned, entered the stairway alcove opposite and slowly climbed the steps, banishing from his mind all thoughts that history was repeating itself. He wasn’t responsible for these people or their safety. He couldn’t have done anything to stop this.
But Jenna was another matter entirely.
At the top, a door bearing Mandrake’s name was ajar. He pushed it open with a knuckle and stepped inside, gun first. At the far end, near the desk, he saw an old man in a suit lying on the floor. He guessed he was looking at Mandrake.
Bishop squatted at his side and saw a deep gash in the skull. Up close he could see that Mandrake’s chest was still moving. He checked his pupils, then reached into the man’s jacket and pulled out his wallet. He found an expired pilot’s licence and grabbed the desk phone. As he leaned over to dial 911, he saw a small notepad open on the floor.
‘What are you reporting, sir?’ a female dispatcher asked.
‘Medical emergency.’ Bishop gave the address and said, ‘Patient is male, sixty-nine years of age and unconscious. Name is Arthur Randolph Mandrake. Violent head trauma due to assault with a blunt instrument. Likely occurred within the last fifteen or twenty minutes. Breathing is shallow and dilated pupils suggests possible coma. He’s in the front office on the second floor. There are bodies downstairs, too.’ He hung up, remembering to wipe the phone with his sleeve. Then he reached down and picked up the notebook. A stylized, two-colour headshot of Elvis looked back at him.
Which only confirmed what he already knew. Jenna had been snatched. Bishop had missed her by a matter of minutes. He should have gotten here faster, or spent less time going through that damn website. Or he should have accompanied her out here in the first place, regardless of the risks. He was at fault. He knew that. And it didn’t take much guesswork to figure out who’d taken her. Or what might happen to her if he didn’t get her back. As he placed the notebook carefully in his pocket, he made himself a promise that he’d return it to Jenna by hand. Whatever it took.
Then white light filled the office and Bishop squinted at the approaching helicopter lights. Looked like somebody was coming in for a landing. He dropped his gaze to the road below. He could make out re
d and white flashing lights in the distance, coming this way. And they didn’t look like the ones you found on ambulances.
Bishop had a feeling they were for him.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Behind the door, Bishop saw a coat hanger bearing two Metroblade windbreakers. He slipped one on and then ran down the stairs as the whup, whup, whup of the helicopter vibrated through the building. A small voice in his head warned that Jenna could still be there. But his gut knew otherwise. She would have been with Mandrake, and she wouldn’t have left her notebook by choice.
In the comms room downstairs, he found a set of ear protectors and added them to his outfit.
He slammed the rear doors open and ran the two hundred yards to the helipad, stopping just outside the perimeter of ground lights. Looking up, he saw the copter coming in at a steep angle less than a hundred feet above him. Slipping his gun into the windbreaker’s pocket, Bishop lowered his head as the landing lights passed over him towards the large H in the centre of the landing area.
Turning, he saw the red flashing lights were more intense. They were possibly already in the parking area. He figured another minute at most and it was game over.
He faced forward, counting seconds and calculating distances in his head. The small, single-engine helicopter was descending on the H with about fifty feet to go. He glimpsed a man and two women in the back and a bearded man in front next to the pilot. They were all staring past Bishop at the light show out front. The fixed skids were already thirty feet above the landing zone. Then twenty. At fifteen feet, Bishop ran forward with his head lowered and met the copter at the exact moment it touched concrete. He pulled the passenger door open, then slid the rear door back so the whole left side of the copter was exposed. The passengers ignored him for the action behind him. The bearded man in front said something, but Bishop couldn’t make it out over the noise of the rotors.
He pulled the gun from his pocket and kept it at his side while his right hand unlatched beard man’s safety belt. ‘Okay, people,’ he yelled. ‘Seatbelts off and an orderly exit, please. Let’s make it quick.’
The three in the back began to undo their belts in unison and the pilot looked at Bishop with his mouth open. Before he could say anything, Bishop laid the Beretta on the floor by beard man’s feet. The pilot looked down and saw it. When he looked up, Bishop made a whirring motion with his right index finger. ‘Keep the engine running, pal. Police emergency.’
He moved back a foot to let beard man out and said, ‘Heads down as you walk back to reception, people.’ To the pilot he said, ‘Are we go?’ Receiving a single nod in reply, he turned to the rear passengers and said, ‘Snap it up, folks, we got a situation here.’
The woman nearest the door jumped out, closely followed by the other two. As soon as they were clear Bishop slid the rear door shut and dived into the front seat, latching the door closed behind him. Then he pulled the ear protectors off and replaced them with the headset at his feet. The sound of the engine and rotors immediately became background noise. Bishop plugged the cable into the comms unit and heard the sound of breathing. ‘Where’s Gregg?’ the pilot said in his ears.
‘In the comms room,’ Bishop said and looked out the window. He saw beard man waiting at the perimeter for his wife and friends to join him. Further back, the building’s rear doors opened and silhouettes emerged with guns drawn. Bishop counted four. Two wore windbreakers similar to his. They weren’t running yet, but they would once they realized the copter wasn’t powering down. Bishop clicked the safety belt home and turned to the pilot. ‘Let’s get going,’ he said.
The pilot was in his early thirties. Short thinning blond hair and a gaunt face with downcast mouth. He said, ‘You want to show me some ID first?’
‘Sure,’ Bishop said and pressed the barrel of the Beretta against the man’s knee. ‘How’s this? Now take us up before I forget you’re a civilian.’
The pilot started flicking switches on the panel above his head. ‘I’m on it. I’m on it.’
‘Back the way you came,’ Bishop said, pushing his frame further down into the leather seat. The outlines were now running towards them and had already halved the distance. He turned back to the pilot. ‘And you should know, if push comes to shove, I can fly one of these things myself. So you’re not indispensable.’ Bishop pointed a finger skywards. ‘Take us up. Now.’
Bishop hoped his captive wouldn’t call his bluff. He’d ridden in plenty over the course of his life, but never as the pilot. Maybe he’d take lessons if he ever got out of this. It was always good to have a goal.
He kept the gun in place and shifted his position as the pilot flicked switches and pulled back on the stick. The four cops – no, two cops and two Marshals – were shouting at them now. Bishop could hear their muffled cries above the escalating whine of the engine. They were almost close enough to touch and Bishop saw the pilot hesitate slightly.
And then Bishop felt the back end rise, tilting the chopper forward slightly before the pilot levelled it off. He lifted the machine slowly into the air, at the same time turning it clockwise so they were pointing east. Bishop took the gun away from the man’s knee and looked down. They were already fifteen feet in the air and rising. He saw both cops and one of the Marshals brandishing their weapons. The other Marshal, a female, had a hand above her eyes, blocking out the landing lights as she yelled into a walkie-talkie. Delaney. Had to be. Calling for air support, no doubt. How the hell did they track me here so fast?
They were fifty feet above the helipad now and still rising. As the pilot steered them over the Metroblade building, he said, ‘Where are we going and what the hell’s going on?’
‘Just keep us in this direction,’ Bishop said, turning to him. ‘Towards downtown. What’s your name?’
‘You’re no cop.’
‘That’s right. What’s your name?’
‘Cory . . . Cornell Mandrake. Where’s Gregg?’
Mandrake, Bishop thought. So this had to be the old man’s son. Carrying on the family business. ‘If that’s the guy in the comms room,’ he said, ‘he was already dead when I arrived a few minutes ago.’
‘Dead?’ Mandrake swung his head round to Bishop and the chopper tilted to the left before he righted it again. ‘What do you mean? I don’t—’
‘The woman at the front desk, too. Your old man was just knocked unconscious. I found him upstairs.’ Bishop thought it wisest not to mention the dilated pupils. Or the third body he’d found. ‘I called for an ambulance. He should be okay.’
Mandrake faced front. ‘Art?’
Bishop kept his eyes on the hand holding the stick. Waiting to see how Mandrake would react. ‘Paramedics know how to move him,’ he said. ‘You don’t. Let’s keep this thing in a straight line, okay?’
‘You killed them,’ the pilot said in a monotone.
‘I got no reason to, but I’m after the guy who did.’
Mandrake grunted. He didn’t sound convinced, but he didn’t change direction, either. ‘And what’s he to you?’
‘A woman came to meet your father earlier. Mid-twenties. Pretty. You see her?’
Mandrake frowned. ‘No.’
‘She was the one the killer came for. Your people just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
Bishop watched Mandrake for a few moments, then removed the headset and pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket. He keyed in a specific number he’d memorized earlier.
The voice that answered said, ‘That you, Jimmy?’
‘Who else?’ Bishop said.
‘Thought so. Gotta admit, you always did have a fine eye for women.’
‘And what would you know about that, Thorpe?’
FIFTY-NINE
‘And here I was, just about to call you,’ Thorpe said, amused. ‘How’d you guess?’
Bishop said, ‘Let me speak to Jenna.’
‘You’ll speak to her when I say so. She wouldn’t make much sense at the moment, anyway; not in her curr
ent state. So back to my question. Cortiss couldn’t have given out my name or you would have come for me before now, so how’d you know?’
Mandrake took off his headset to listen in. Bishop said, ‘You should have taken better care at covering your tracks. I found a chair in Brennan’s office that had your stamp on it. You always did like designer sneakers. Especially those worn by Eddie Sorokin, that Cardinals player you always liked. He must be wearing Nike these days, right? Like the ones I saw you take out your gym locker?’
The Converse All Stars logo on Aleron’s baseball cap had been the spark that helped him make the connection. A circle with a star inside. Simple and memorable, like a good logo should be. At the gym on Sunday, he’d seen that kid’s sneakers with all those stars over them, but no circles. But Bishop guessed they were still Converse sneakers. He figured the designers of famous brands could afford to be a little more creative when it came to logo placement. As long as the complete, intact logo was present somewhere. Like on the soles, maybe. And an indented version of that particular logo would leave a circular space when seen as an imprint. Like the one he’d seen on the chair. He recalled a throwaway comment from Thrope during the Brennan job about how he hated the Converse sneakers Sorokin was wearing at the time, but felt compelled to wear them anyway. A real fan.
‘Good memory,’ Thorpe said. ‘You’re too smart for me, Jimmy, I’m gonna have to watch out for you. Still, at least you found Cortiss for me. I’d been trying to locate my old partner for a while now and you led me straight to him. All trussed up like a turkey for Thanksgiving.’
‘You kill him, too?’ Bishop asked, already knowing the answer. Not that Cortiss’s death would be any great loss to the world.