“A little of all that, if you don’t mind. As far as you here, it’s more preventive than anything else. I don’t really think you’re in any danger.”
“But finding Sturgis would help,” said Hudson.
“Of course.”
“Read us that note we found, Wally.”
The old man read aloud, “`Might as well live in a cave as here with my angst. Try to turn things around. Going back to Mass. Thanks for your help. Preston.’”
“Analyze it,” said Hudson. “The key word is angst; it’s not one in common usage.”
“Probably not in any usage by Sturgis,” Wally said wryly.
“He says `turn things around.’ If we turn angst around we could get Stang.”
“Damn! He mentioned a Phil Stang,” said Wally. “Why didn’t I see that?”
“Who has a vacation home at Stillings Grant!” Cilla finished. “It’s only a few minutes from here.”
The Stang house was a small ranch set well back from the road. They left the car a few hundred feet away and walked up to where they could see the house, but so a stand of hemlock hid them from view.
“It’s probably empty,” said Cilla. “Phil doesn’t ski any more, so he almost never uses it in winter.”
“Somebody’s used it,” said Hudson.
Krestinski squinted. “What do you see that I don’t? Don’t a lot of people keep their driveways plowed even if they aren’t there?”
“Icicles.”
The FBI man raised his eyebrows. “That an unheated house might not have? Okay. Stay here.” Without waiting for acknowledgement, he strode along the road and into the driveway. The others could see him peeking through a garage window, then turning to nod at them before going up to the house’s back door.
“The car must be there,” said Hudson.
Knocking brought no response. Krestinski tried the doorknob; it was open. He went in, shutting the door behind him. The group waited. A minute went by. Then two. The door opened, and the agent came out and walked over to them.
“He’s here.”
“He’s dead?”
Krestinski’s focus was on Ingalls. “Frances, I want you to wait outside the door and make sure no one goes in that house until the lab people arrive. There’ll be a crew here in an hour.” He turned to the others. “Yes, he’s dead. Now, let’s us go back to your house, Hudson.”
As Ingalls walked to the Stang house, the rest climbed into Hudson’s car. Starting the engine he said over his shoulder to Krestinski who was in the rear seat, “There’s something else in that house besides a dead Sturgis, isn’t there?”
“Maybe.”
It had started to snow.
Chapter 15
It was getting dark as they drove down Swallow Hill Road; the trees, faintly sketched through increasing snow and already with a heavy layer of frosting, looked like an old fashioned daguerreotype in the deepening dusk. Dr. Evans had been called as acting coroner; he and helicoptered-in FBI people were now at the Stang house.
Cilla brought out vegetable stew in the kitchen, as Frances arrived, relieved from her post. After hanging her coat, she took John Krestinski into another room to talk. Ten minutes later she came out and went through the living room to the kitchen on the back of the house.
“Anything I can help with?”
“Thanks, no,” said Cilla. “It’s already done, I’m just finishing.”
“I’m real sorry I broke your cup. I don’t know when I’ve been so startled.”
“Have you been with the FBI long?”
“All my life.” She grinned. “Dad planned it from the day I was born. Even to my name.”
“Frances Ingalls?”
“Given Brown as a middle name.”
“He must have been a feminist. I don’t think I’ve met a lady agent before.”
“And black ones have been even rarer.”
“Give you problems on the job?”
“Sure, at first. Things are different now.”
They smiled at each other. Frances leaned against the counter. “I talked with John for a few minutes just now. We don’t feel the danger to you has disappeared with Sturgis’s death.”
“Why not? If the ones who invaded our house realize he’s dead…”
“They won’t. John’s not going to announce it.”
Cilla stared at her.
“Even if we did, it might not make a difference, Cilla. But I told John keeping the news quiet has got to be with your approval. Yet that said, you might be in serious danger in any case.” She took a breath. “You see, it isn’t just about drugs anymore, it’s knowledge of some sort. Something Sturgis could have passed along to his daughter.” She raised her chin, looking at the other’s face. “Your picture was in the Boston newspapers a while ago.”
“When we had the Governors’ Cup, I was in one of the photos taken at Great Haystack. But they didn’t print my name.”
“Exactly, they didn’t identify you. Those looking for Sturgis surely know what his daughter looks like.”
“And thought I was her and came up after me? No way. Once they got here they’d discover I wasn’t a Sturgis.”
“Maybe not the way they’d look at it. How long have you been living here? In Bartlett.”
“Now, four months. But I was brought up here.”
“The last few years you’ve been, what would you say, out of circulation?”
“I’ve been at an ashram in New York State, if that’s what you mean.”
“Not a place with heavy coming and going traffic. Or where a lot of news comes from?”
“No.” She turned back to the stove.
“So from an outsider’s point of view, you just appeared here with no history before four months ago. Which is when we put Loni in the program.”
“Could Loni run a ski area?”
“Had you before this?”
Cilla stirred in silence. Then, “So I’m Miss Sturgis. Your cheese in the rat trap.”
“Not very delicately put, but yes. We think Sturgis knew something of such importance that they blew up his car as a warning, then his house to silence him. Professional criminals don’t look for publicity, and bombs are high profile. Sturgis, or what he knew, must be of such enormous importance that they were willing to risk a police spotlight. The only chance we have of bringing them out in the open is his daughter.”
“Then why not use his real daughter?”
“Can’t. She’s now in Witness Protection and out of our reach. Aside from that, she hasn’t got the guts to be…”
“Your sitting duck,” finished Cilla.
“Look, you’ll be under heavy protection. Six agents are being assigned, I’m one of them, and, if you’ll let me, I’ll stick to you like glue until this is over.”
“I work, Frances. I can’t just sit around waiting for your thugs to jump me.”
“I don’t want you to vary your schedule at all. You can find something for me to do at Great Haystack. I do ski.”
“Skiing isn’t where I’m at. Most of what I do is office work.”
“Good. I was a personal secretary before I got accepted by the Bureau. I can organize anything.”
Cilla gave a half-smile, “You haven’t seen my desk,” then faded. “I want to talk to Hudson. It’s got to have his approval.”
Coming out of the kitchen, they found Bob Gold talking with the three men.
“You alone?” Cilla asked Bob.
“Just me. Dropping off Hudson’s sweat suit he left at the Club. Andre didn’t think his city car would make it up the hill. You know there’s five or six inches out there now, and still coming.”
“What’s a city car?” asked Frances. “Everyone here drive an SUV?”
“Frances, this is Bob Gold. He means a car with rear wheel drive. You need front wheel in the mountains.”
“Not an SUV?”
“You see more of them in the suburbs,” said Bob with a measure of scorn.
“Bob’s got a
stripped down Volvo,” said Hudson with a grin. “He doesn’t go much for comfort. This time of year he spends most of his time climbing icicles or wandering in the woods with the moose.”
“Sounds great! On skis or snowshoes?”
“Both. Done any yourself?”
“Sure. Maybe I’ll take you up on at a little cross country,” said Frances with a sly smile.
“Think you can keep up?” asked Gold.
“Maybe. You sound pretty tough,” said Frances.
“Mr. Gold was a Navy Seal, Frances,” said John Krestinski. “I would guess his toughness can’t be questioned.”
“How about yours,” Bob asked Frances. “I understand you’re a Bureau Bunny.”
Frances was startled. Krestinski reassured her. “I told him. I think he might be helpful in what we’re… are we on track?” he asked Frances, nodding his head toward Cilla.
“We need to talk to her husband.” She turned to Gold “Bureau Bunny? This from a bathtub sailor?”
“Talk to her husband about what?” asked the husband.
John Krestinski jumped in before Bob Gold could respond, “Preston Sturgis was just the visible part of an iceberg whose size we can only guess. We need your help to get to the bottom of it.”
“You kept us away from that house as though it had the plague,” said Hudson.
The FBI man chewed his lip.
“That’s it? Sturgis had Bubonic Plague?”
“No. He died peacefully.”
“Like Jim Evans people,” said Cilla.
“What do you mean `Evan’s people’?”
“A young girl took sick at the ski area and died in the hospital. Afterwards Jim said he’d had some other deaths that were similar.”
“How similar?”
“They all died peacefully - his word - with their mouths open as though they were ready to speak.”
“Shit. Were any of them in contact with Sturgis?”
“No,” said Wally.
“You can be certain of that?”
“Yes. There were no signs he’d been more than a few steps from the cabin until he went to the Stang house.”
“What’s the matter, John?” asked Cilla. The FBI man had closed his eyes, and leaned back in his chair.
After a few seconds he apparently reached a decision. He studied his listeners. “This has nothing to do with why we’re here. At least it didn’t; now I don’t know. What I’m about to discuss is to go no further than this room. Is that understood? If anyone disagrees, the conversation stops here.”
The wind had come up and drove snow against the windows, making little pit-pat sounds, and dancing the flames in the fireplace. Krestinski looked at each of the three, then, apparently satisfied, nodded and continued. “Do you remember reading about a town in Massachusetts named Stewart?”
“Sure,” said Hudson, “they had an outbreak of sickness there. Last fall. You saying we’ve got that here? I thought they caught it before it spread.”
“I’d hoped Stewart was the end of it. Just an isolated occurrence. They tell me they happen periodically; a small group of people comes down with something unfamiliar, something doctors try to treat, but with no effect. And after a while it’s over, and everyone holds their breath for a long time afterwards. Stewart was in October. Since then there have been no other cases. Until now, if this happens to be the same.”
“They die the same way?”
“Everyone uses almost the same words you have to describe it. Peaceful, mouth open as though about to speak. Sturgis might have been in Stewart. But how would the others here catch it?” He looked at Hudson with unseeing eyes.
“Do they know how this whatever-it-is is transmitted?” asked Cilla.
“Is it a virus or bacteria?” added Hudson.
Krestinski gave a small shake of his head. “We’re not sure it’s either one.”
“Hasn’t it got to be?” Cilla frowned.
“There are chemicals,” began the FBI agent, “but I’m way out of my field.”
“So what’s this about needing our help. Sounds to me like a CDC problem. Jim Evans said he was going to contact them.”
“It isn’t about the bug. Or it wasn’t. There’s something else happening. The Sturgis business is a whole other story.”
“Sturgis dead, end of story,” said Wally.
“I don’t plan to announce his death,” said Krestinski.
“What?” Wally might have bitten into a sour apple.
“With the permission of all of you, of course, since there is still a certain amount of peril.”
“A certain amount! Hudson’s house has been invaded!”
“Wally, as soon as this storm is over I’ll have six agents on Swallow Hill Road. They’ll be watching both houses. No one’s going to get through.” He looked around at the others. “Listen, I’m new to the Sturgis situation, too, but Frances and the others who’ve been working it have done an excellent job with its links. Let me explain that. They didn’t confine their investigation to just the main character. They looked at the supporting cast and backdrops. They found that the cleaning woman who did Sturgis’s apartment building died in the early morning hours of the day after the bombing. Her fingernails had been pulled out, which apparently brought on a heart attack.
“During the weeks immediately before he disappeared, Sturgis took most of his dinners at the Onyx Club. The day after his apartment was bombed, the doorman at the club was found dead in his home. He had also been tortured. Someone was trying to obtain information. Whatever it was they didn’t care what they had to do to get it. The only way to uncover these people is if they think Sturgis is still alive. We must have them. What he knew may involve the lives of many people.”
“Cilla’s being one. Is that what we’re talking about?” asked Hudson.
“Frances Ingalls will stay with her day and night.”
“Ah...” Hudson began.
“In a guest bedroom, of course. She can cook, stack wood or set a broken leg.”
“And organize,” said Cilla.
“Why didn’t you say something before about Cilla’s resemblance to Sturgis’s daughter?” asked Hudson.
“I never saw her,” replied the FBI man. “I wasn’t aware of the Alexandra situation until your call. Frances has been filling me in.”
“It sounds to me as though we don’t have much choice. Even if we publicly announce that Cilla’s not related to Sturgis, there’s Wally’s connection as his former attorney,” said Hudson. “Whoever these people are, they’ll assume Sturgis passed what he knew along to one or the other of them.” He looked at Krestinski. “There’s also…” His voice faded.
“So what’s the battle plan,” broke in Bob Gold.
“Bob, will you move in with Wally?”
“Sure. Shouldn’t I be here though? I thought Cilla was the one in danger.”
“Agent Ingalls is in charge,” said Krestinski. “It’s her call.”
“How about it, Ingalls? Can you handle it here?” asked Gold.
“Yes. This house will be secure. Can you say the same about Mr. Carver’s?”
“You better believe it.”
“Do you have a weapon?”
“A knife. And my hands. Want to check them out?”
“No.” She turned to Wally. “Does that suit you, Mr. Carver?”
“I can get along with Bob.”
There was a knock at the door. It was one of the crew that had been going over the house where Sturgis had been found. He had a weekly newspaper in his gloved hand. Krestinski took it.
“This come from the house? Last week’s.” He peered more closely. “Some pencil marks on it. `19?”
“Or `17. We haven’t been able to decide. It was the only piece of paper of any kind in the house.”
“Did Sturgis own a gun?” Krestinski asked Frances Ingalls.
“No, none has turned up.”
“All right.” He turned to the man who’d brought the paper. “Anything
else?”
The man shook his head. “We’re not done yet. Storm’s getting worse, though. I won’t be making it up this road again; just hope I can get down.”
Krestinski dismissed him with a wave. “Let me use the phone in your kitchen, Cilla. I want to talk with your Doctor Evans.” He took Frances Ingalls by the arm and went through the swinging door to the kitchen, on what was usually the view side of the house.
“She reminds me of a supply sergeant I knew, Little Rose of San Diego,” said Gold.
“Frances isn’t short,” said Cilla.
“Neither was Little Rose. It was the name we gave her; she was more thorn than flower. `This house will be secure.’” Gold mimicked.
“I think she sounds quite efficient,” said Cilla coolly.
“Let’s not pre-judge her,” urged Hudson. “She has John’s confidence.”
Conversation slowed. The snowstorm was gathering force, and the wind whistled around corners of the house and gusted down the chimney. The swirling white at the windows and the warmth within produced the feeling confirmed New Englanders call `cozy’ and drives the unconvinced to less awesome climes. Thirty minutes had passed when Krestinski emerged from the kitchen.
“It suddenly occurs to me we’ve been taking up one of the more valuable rooms in the house.”
“How about tea or coffee for everyone?” Cilla asked.
“We’ve got cookies and cake too,” said Hudson. “Why doesn’t everybody help themselves.”
The others joined the two agents in the kitchen. The sound of truck gears came from the road.
“Probably the plow,” said Gold. “My car’s on the street.”
“So’s my Pontiac,” said Krestinski.
“Let me have keys, and I’ll move them.”
Hudson grinned as he followed the rest to the kitchen. Bob: a good heart but one that never left the battlefield. He watched Gold collect keys - his own car was in his garage - remembering the first time he’d met the ex-Seal. What was the name of...Terry, who taught karate at the club, had a class of grammar school kids and went looking for someone bigger to demonstrate throws. Gold had been minding his business in the free weight room, when Terry grabbed him by the arm and half-pulling, half-coaxing led him to the mats they were using. Hudson was the only one in the Nautilus room next door. As the two went by, Gold gave him a broad wink. In front of the class, Gold let Terry get a grip, but when the throw came it was Terry who went sailing across the room. Later, over a beer, Gold chuckled and...Something was wrong, thought Hudson. The plow. It didn’t have the blade down.
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