“Right. And I’ll bring some Velcro,” he murmured, and disconnected.
Ace was as close to Mira as anyone could get, he knew how to shoot the gun he owned, and he wouldn’t hesitate to use it to keep Mira safe. Sheppard would pay him. In cash. No record, no paper trail, no proof. That way, Cordoba or any other bureaucrat like him wouldn’t be able to toss it back in his face someday.
The Tango Key forensics lab couldn’t compare in scope or size with the Bureau’s main forensics facility in Quantico, Virginia. But whenever Sheppard needed something yesterday, when he needed efficiency, precision, and insight, the Tango lab provided it. Its facilities handled DNA analysis, trace evidence, computer/Internet fraud, and latent prints, Tina Richmond’s baby. In addition to latent prints, Tina’s unit also handled photographic analysis and sketch art.
Sheppard and Goot were in her office on the second floor of the building that housed the lab, standing in front of a 24-inch computer monitor, watching the seven-minute film for the third time. It unfolded in slow motion now so they could take a closer look at each frame.
“He obviously edited the film,” Tina said. “And was very careful about removing anything that might give a clue about his location. But it appears that Adam is being fed and that he has a lot of stuff to keep him busy—books, a laptop, an Xbox, and an environment that’s comfortable.”
“The lighting is consistently artificial.” Sheppard remarked.
“Except for here….” She paused the film, then moved forward and paused it again. “And here. Streaks of natural lighting.”
“He never shows a window,” Goot said. “Why not?”
“Because we might see something identifiable,” Tina replied.
“Or because there are hurricane shutters on the windows and that’s why we see just a few streaks of natural lighting,” Sheppard speculated.
“A lot of places in the Keys still have shutters on the windows,” Tina said. “But most don’t. That would help us to narrow down the possibilities.”
“The music selections,” Sheppard said. “What do they tell us?”
Tina brought up a separate window on the computer. “They’re all snippets of musical scores from films. We’ve identified music from six of the eight films. The Fugitive, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, and Hollow Man share themes of alienation and isolation. Death Wish, Fatal Attraction, and Dirty Harry are revenge movies.”
“Okay, so he feels alienated and isolated,” Goot said. “That’s not news. Most sick pups feel that way. And he’s saying that revenge is his motive? Sure, that’s possible.”
“In the three alienation-theme movies, the protagonist was a good guy caught in difficult circumstances,” Sheppard said. “In The Fugitive, Dr. Kimble didn’t kill his wife, but everyone thought he did so he had to go on the run. In Cuckoo’s Nest, we all know McMurphy wasn’t nuts, but the establishment thought he was. In Hollow Man…”
“That character isn’t as clear-cut,” Tina interrupted. “But if we look a little deeper, to the poem that inspired the film…”
“T. S. Eliot” Sheppard said.
“You got it.” She flipped open a folder and took out copies of Eliot’s poem.
It had been years since Sheppard had read Eliot. But as soon as he read through the poem, an excitement bubbled up inside of him.
“Between the idea and the reality,” Tina said quietly, reciting the poem from memory, “between the motion and the act, falls the shadow. For Thine is the Kingdom.” She paused. “He is the shadow. And the shadow is God, at least in my understanding of this poem.”
“A man who thinks he’s God.” Sheppard nodded. “It fits.”
“So what’s God look like?” Goot asked. “We have anything from the police artist yet?”
“Well, this artist’s sketch is based on Ruiz’s description of Jim Jones.” She played the keyboard. “We’ve gone this route before, guys, when Annie was kidnapped. The technology has improved a lot in a year. But this time we’ve got just a sketch to play with rather than actual photos, so it’s trickier.” Her fingers played the keyboard and the artist’s final, colorized rendition of “Jim Jones” came up on the screen.
A Caucasian between the ages of thirty and forty. Slender, elongated face. Narrow chin. Full, expressive mouth. His eyes remained a mystery. He appeared to have a scar above his left eyebrow. His dark hair was conservatively cut.
“Based on the images in the DVD and the video clip Ruiz provided, we know that Jones is probably six feet or a little taller,” Tina explained. “His legs are muscular, suggesting that he’s in good physical shape. Maybe he works out. I ran this sketch through our database, using an updated version of the software that helped us identify Annie’s kidnapper. It searches for certain matching facial characteristics.”
“With those shades, he looks like Tommy Lee Jones in Men in Black,” Goot remarked.
Tina laughed. “Funny you should say that, Goot.” She brought up a photo of Tommy Lee Jones as Agent K in MIB, and enhanced his face. “Same sunglasses. I think the resemblance is intentional.”
Sheppard made a mental note to check local gyms and the few video stores that remained in the Keys.
Tina hit several more keys and a lineup of mug shots appeared. “Here are the eight closest matches that the program found.”
A quick glance told Sheppard that none of the eight was an exact match. But two looked eerily close to the final sketch. “Numbers four and six,” he said.
Goot agreed. “What’ve we got on them?”
“Number four.” Tina brought up a larger version of four’s mug shot. “This guy did three years for armed robbery in Miami and before that, he did time for grand larceny. He was released two years ago, did parole in Jacksonville, completed it, and his present address is unknown.”
“A guy who thinks of himself as God doesn’t steal.”
“Unless he demands a ransom,” Goot added.
“If he demands a ransom, then I’m going to have to rethink my gut feelings,” Sheppard said. “What about number six, Tina?”
“Meet Spenser C. Timble, age sixteen or seventeen in this photo. He lived with his father, Ray Timble, in a trailer outside of Seattle, left after he got a GED, apparently moved in with a friend. The trailer burned, the old man died of smoke inhalation. He apparently had been drinking pretty heavily. Anyway, the son came under suspicion, but was never found and nothing was ever proven.”
“Then why’s his photo even in a database?” Sheppard asked.
“Because if we fast-forward several years, we meet Spenser C. Wickett.” She brought up another photo, an older version of Timble. “During the nineties, he spent six years in Silicon Valley and made a fortune off stocks. Charges were brought against him for attempted vehicular homicide—he apparently tried to run over an ex-girlfriend. But she dropped the charges and not long afterward, he sold his stock holdings and left California with five or six million. He hasn’t been heard from again.”
“He died?” Goot asked.
“No death certificate was ever filed. According to the IRS, he paid his 1999 taxes in March of 2000, but that’s the last the IRS ever heard of the guy. I ran his Social Security number, checked with Ma Bell, property records in South Florida, the credit bureaus, customs… and hit dead ends at every step of the way. No Wickett.”
“Damn,” Sheppard murmured. “You did our work for us.”
Tina shrugged. “You know how I am. Once I catch a scent, I can’t let go of it. The Silicon Valley firm he worked for started out producing business software, but has expanded into other areas. We use some of their products in forensics.” She handed Sheppard a folder. “Everything I uncovered is in here, including fifty copies of the sketch.”
“What did he do between Seattle and Silicon Valley?” Sheppard asked.
“Unknown. He probably had another identity.”
Sheppard gave Tina a quick hug. “Thanks for all your help.”
“You going to release the sk
etch to the press?” ma asked.
“Not yet.” Sheppard looked over at Goot. “I think it’s time we worked the phones and hit the sidewalk with copies of this sketch.”
“Sounds like a plan, amigo.”
Outside, Sheppard and Goot paused on the front steps. The brutal sun was releasing its hold on the sky and slipping down behind the trees to the west. By nine P.M. tonight, Sheppard thought, it would be only a few degrees cooler, maybe in the high eighties, and the generator at Goot’s place wasn’t powerful enough to keep the AC running. That meant Sheppard would be sleeping on the futon in his office again.
“How wide a net are we casting here?” Goot asked.
“Every gym and video store from Tango Key to Big Pine.”
Goot whistled softly. “Let’s take it island by island. And first we need lists.”
“There’s only one gym on Tango and no video stores. But based on what Mira said, I think it’s unlikely this guy is on Tango. Let’s save some time here. We’ll do Tango tomorrow and start in Key West this evening and work our way north. The Barnes & Noble there has power, sandwiches, coffee, and wireless access, so we can download the names and addresses for what we need.”
“I’ll drive.”
As they strode across the parking lot, Sheppard slipped a quarter from his pocket, thought a moment. “Tails is yes, heads is no,” he said aloud.
“This looks like a Mira technique.”
“Actually, it’s an Annie technique. Quick divination, she calls it.”
“What’s the question?”
“Is Spenser Wickett/Timble holding Adam on Tango Key?” He tossed the coin, caught it, slapped it down on the back of his hand. “Heads.”
“So he isn’t.” Goot frowned, eyeing the coin with suspicion. “And this works?”
“Nine times out of ten.”
“Let me try it.” He brought out a quarter. “Is Wickett/ Timble whatever his name is our man?” A big toss. The coin landed tails up on the ground.
“A resounding yes,” Sheppard said.
“Unless this is the one time out of ten when the toss is wrong.”
“Yeah, there’s that.”
But for the first time since Adam’s disappearance, Sheppard felt certain they were on the right track.
Chapter 12
In the Woods
The workmen had left, Mira had turned off the generator, and, for the first time in hours, she was alone in the bookstore, standing in the center of the blissful silence. A soft evening light filtered through the front windows, providing enough illumination for her to see the newly laid floor. Progress, she thought. The walls and the floor were now finished and the roof was supposed to be done within the next two weeks. With any luck, she would be ready to reopen in the fall, in time for the tourist season.
If there was a tourist season this year. Unless Tango Key was brought fully back onto the grid, nothing would be happening at her store or anywhere else on the island. And so far, the power company had given only rough estimates about when full power would be restored.
She locked the front door, shrugged on her pack, and hurried back through the stifling emptiness to the yoga room. The only damage in here had been from water that had seeped under the door from the main part of the store, and it wasn’t serious because the floor was tile. The roof had held, the walls hadn’t leaked or blown down. Maybe the word Nadine said at the end of each yoga class had protected this room: namaste—the divine light in me greets the divine light in you.
The tap of her sandals against the floor echoed and she felt an acute pang of nostalgia for the months before the storm. At that time, her bookstore sales were at an all-time high, Nadine’s daily yoga classes were jammed, Annie was in a good space, Sheppard had moved into her place, life was good.
And now?
Pity party, whispered that scolding inner voice.
She stepped out the rear exit, into the alley, and locked the door. Not that there was anything to steal inside. She just didn’t want to come in here tomorrow and find homeless people camped out on the floor. She probably would feel so guilty about it she would allow them to stay or would decide to forgo books entirely and open a soup kitchen.
As she climbed onto her bike, an eerie sensation crept through her, the kind of thing that made her skin prickle and raised the hair on the back of her neck. She glanced quickly around. Shadows pooled along the edge of the alley, where an overflowing Dumpster verged on the edge of collapse. The stink of garbage suffused the air.
On the other side of the Dumpster, a thicket of trees, bent and twisted by Danielle’s winds, looked like a group of arthritic old people struggling to escape the bogeyman. But she didn’t see anything human.
For just a moment, though, movement in her peripheral vision caused her to look quickly to the right. Something- someone—was materializing there in the shadows. Tom again? Cordoba’s jodhpur-wearing ghost, Graham? The woman from Adam’s room? The nanny? Suki’s father? Hepburn? Mira glanced away, refusing the contact.
She pedaled up the alley between her store and the restaurant next to it and headed for the Tango park. Here, the bike trail would take her half a mile north, then she would have to cut along a dirt road to get to her side of the island. Even though she had a flashlight mounted on the bike’s handlebar, she wished she had left the store earlier or had accepted Ace’s offer of a ride.
Mira touched her pocket and felt the comforting shape of her iPhone, complete with a camera, e-mail, and Internet browsing. A compact little world, she thought, and wondered if the technology had evolved out of the crash at Roswell, New Mexico, in July 1947. The theory was hardly new. Conspiracy nuts had been talking about it for years and there were hundreds of blogs these days that dealt with all things alien. Mira, like Fox Mulder, always had sensed there was truth to these theories, so that wasn’t anything new either. The big question was why she should think about all this now.
She pedaled faster, crossed the street to the park. In the first two weeks after the hurricane, the bike trail had been impassable, blocked by fallen trees and debris left behind by the waters that had flooded the downtown. Most of that debris had been hauled off—while most of the debris piled in front of homes had not. The county claimed that the storm had created two years’ worth of refuse and that they simply didn’t have the manpower or the money to haul it all off in a month. And yet, on her daily walks, she had ventured into the mayor’s neighborhood and noticed that his streets were totally free of debris.
The trail started a gradual climb uphill. Just a few cars passed in either direction. Not much was happening downtown after five. Eight or nine restaurants and bars were open after dusk and all but two of them were running on generators. Most people she knew didn’t eat out now. They saved their cash for essentials.
Headlights coming up behind her illuminated the deserted trail ahead and threw the trees on her right into a surreal relief, exposing the new growth on the branches, tiny leaves that looked like green fuzz. Mira kept expecting the car to pass her, but it chugged along behind her, as though it didn’t have any power on this incline. She looked back and the driver clicked on the brights, forcing her to look away.
“Bastard,” she muttered, and abruptly swung the bike into a sharp U-turn and pedaled back in the direction from which she’d come. Mira caught a brief glimpse of the car as it passed, still moving in the opposite direction—small, sleek, some sort of sports car. She pedaled quickly across the road, unease tap-dancing across her heart.
The cross road she’d hoped to take to the west side of the island still lay another half mile up the hill. To disappear here would mean plunging into a densely wooded area where many of the trees had been stripped bare by Danielle and were, only now, showing new growth. Unfortunately, new growth wasn’t enough to hide her.
Another glance at the road. The sports car had turned around and was headed back this way. So had the driver made a wrong turn? Realized he was on the wrong road? Or was this something
she should be worried about?
She didn’t pick up anything one way or another. She rarely could when it involved just her. But she didn’t intend to take chances. Mira leaped off the bike, pushed it into the trees, and ran alongside it, moving deeper and deeper into the woods. It was quickly apparent that she couldn’t keep pushing the bike. The ground was too uneven, riddled with roots and fallen branches. And forget riding the bike, she thought, and quickly slid the flashlight out of the holder, set the bike down in the leaves, and took off on foot, the flashlight’s beam aimed at the ground.
She worked her way toward the heart of the woods, where the trees were larger, had leaves, and grew more tightly together. The squeal of brakes pierced the stillness and Mira broke into a run, crashing through the underbrush, certain now that the driver was coming for her.
And that it was Adam’s kidnapper.
Because I opened the door.
Mira weaved around piles of dead branches, leaped over fallen trees. Despite the fact that she was in good physical shape because of all her walks, blood pounded in her ears and sweat rolled into her eyes. She tripped once and went down on her hands and knees. She remained like that for long, uncomfortable moments, straining to hear anything besides the buzzing of mosquitoes that swanned around her.
Whack, whack, pause, whack, whack. Machete? Jesus God, run like hell. Or hide.
Hide where?
Just ahead, moonlight spilled into an area of fallen pines. Bordering it stood a clutch of banyan trees, their massive trunks and long, twisted arms reminiscent of the Ents in Lord of the Rings. Maybe these trees would talk and move and carry her home.
Whack, whack.
She ran along the edge of the clearing, keeping to the shadows, and stopped close to the banyans. Six of them, growing in an erratic semicircle. A seventh banyan, uprooted by the storm, lay on its side, a pathetic, dying giant, its leaves brown, shriveled, thin, and as fragile as some ancient parchment. Two of the others had lost most of their leaves, had branches like broken arms, and leaned the way the wind had been blowing. The three trees in the center had gone bald at the very top, but in the middle, the branches and leaves were thick, exuberant.
Cold As Death (The Mira Morales Series Book 5) Page 13