“No. I came in that way and didn’t see them.”
“How could you come...?” A puzzled look up the hill.
“Harv, you tell me where they’ve gone or...”
“Or what?” He leered. “You going to break my arm?”
“If necessary. Where? Tell me!”
Harv’s eyes glittered. “Little bitch!” He reached out, putting his beefy hand on her chest. She clamped her hands on top of his and bent the fingers back. He dropped suddenly to his knees. She got hold of his thumb.
“Ow! That hurts!”
“It’ll hurt more. Where did Frank take Hudson?”
Perspiration appeared on his forehead. “I don’t know! They didn’t tell me.”
“They?”
“Dora and Frank. Shit! Let go, will you! It’s FBI stuff, you know that! Dora’s the agent, not me!”
“She’s not FBI. You’re all in some kind of a plot; you’ve tried to kill us before.” She squeezed harder. “Is that where Frank’s gone? To kill Hudson?”
“Ow! Ow! Ow! Christ, stop!”
“Tell me and I’ll stop.”
“Yes! Yes! He’s taking him out in the desert! Please...agh!” With a sharp pull, Cilla dislocated his thumb. He rolled on the floor grabbing at it, screaming with pain.
“They must have gone south,” Carver had come into the room. “Is he under control? I’ll get the car.”
“Loni. We can’t leave her.”
“Every minute lessens Hudson’s chances.”
“Damn you, Wally! Don’t you think I know that?”
She moved to a side table and grabbed a heavy bronze candlestick. Harv was moaning, holding his hand, oblivious to everything. She started out of the room. Dora appeared in the doorway holding the pistol.
“What’s going...Loni?...How...Harv!” She ran to the big man. “What’s happened? No, hold it right there!” This to Cilla who started to move toward her.
“My thumb! She’s broken my thumb!”
“Poor baby!” She knelt, peering at his hand. “We’ll put some ice on it.” She waved the pistol. “We’re going to the kitchen.”
She got Harv, still moaning, to his feet, and then stopped still, staring hard at Cilla. “You can’t be Loni. I left you on top of the hill.”
“Did you leave me dead?”
Dora cocked her head, bewildered. “Of course not. I fired at your feet, just to scare you off...What the hell am I saying? You’re not...” She peered closer. “My God, those are your clothes! How did you get down before me?” She swung to look at Carver. “You! You’re the sick old fart that came to the door. What the Christ is going on?”
“You’re in over your head, Dora,” said Cilla.
“Eh?” She turned to her. “What do you mean?”
“She means your mind is going,” said Carver.
“None of this is real,” said Cilla.
“Ooooh! Let’s get the ice,” moaned Harv.
“Shut up, Harv. We’ll find out how real it is!” She pointed the pistol at Cilla.
“I’m over here.” Loni leaned against the doorframe.
“What?...”Dora swung toward the door. Cilla kicked the pistol out of her hand. It skidded across the floor. Carver picked it up.
Cilla faced her. “Dora, where has Frank taken Hudson?”
The woman was still trying to take in the situation. “Frank? How should I know? Let me get some ice for Harv.”
“We haven’t time for this,” growled Carver moving toward her with the pistol. “Listen carefully, Dora. Minutes count, so I’m not going to waste even one. I’m going to put the first shot through your dress, the second through your hair, the third in you.” The pistol exploded. Dora cringed at the sound.
“No!”
Carver fired again.
“Aagh!” Dora grabbed at her head. “Stop! Stop! He took him to the desert! I don’t know where, I swear I don’t!” The words tumbled over each other. “He said he was going out where it’s hard and flat and there are no roads.” She crouched in fright, elbows close to her body, hands hiding her head. “Don’t shoot! Please! I’ve never been out there!”
“When did he say he’d be back? Quick!” Carver pointed the weapon at her face, where she could look down the barrel.
“For dinner? Yes! I’m sure he...” Her voice faded as she saw the fierce look in the old man’s eyes.
Cilla picked up the telephone. “We’ll never find them on our own.” She dialed.
“Krestinski?” asked Carver.
“Yes.” As the phone rang at the other end, Cilla said, “Loni, are you all right? We...” Into the phone. “Mr. Krestinski please. Cilla Rogers calling from Arizona.” Back to Loni. “Did she hurt you?”
“The bullet drove a stone into my leg. It’s okay.” Cilla could see a thin stream of blood running down Loni’s leg. “She scared the shit out of me though; I thought for sure it was the bullet. This blubbering pile of meat is her husband.” Harv was wrapped inside his pain, continuing to make noises.
“John?...Oh, well when...? I see...No, I haven’t...Yes.” She hung up and turned to Carver. “I’ll get the car. We go it alone.”
“Krestinski?”
“Isn’t in or expected, nor is anyone else from the way this man was talking. Something’s happened. He asked if I’d seen the news today.” She handed the pistol to Carver. “You call police, I’ll get the car.” She hugged the girl who could be her twin. “We have to go after Frank. You’ll be okay, we’ll have the police out here in no time.” She held Loni so she could see her face, gave a quick smile of encouragement and ran out.
Carver, keeping an eye on Dora and Harv, dialed 911 and spoke. “We need an ambulance and some police...I don’t know the address here, but if I leave the telephone off the hook can you trace the call?...There’s no time for questions, can you do it?...Good.” He put the receiver on the table and turned to the “agents”. “All right you two, into that storage room I saw off the kitchen.”
He told Loni to wait for him in the den, then herded Dora and Harv into the windowless room. After a little extra safeguard, locked the door behind them. He called, “Loni will be right outside the door with the pistol and instructions to shoot if either of you attempt to get out.”
Back in the room with Loni, “They won’t bother you, and someone should be here soon. Are you alright?”
“Sure,” said Loni. Carver was about to say more, when a honk from outside told him Cilla had the car. He touched his chin, telling Loni to keep hers up and went out. Cilla gunned the engine as he climbed into the front seat. He grabbed the armrest to hold on, then opened the map. “This only looks like a driveway. It merges with another road in a few miles.”
“What did you do with them?”
“Locked them in a storage room. No windows.”
“Harv is strong. He could break down the door.”
“Not any more.”
She looked at him. “You didn’t...?”
“No. Just a tap on the head. I told Dora I was leaving the gun with Loni with instructions to shoot if the door opened.”
“But you didn’t. Leave the gun.”
“No. We might need it.”
They drove in silence for a while, on a road that at times almost disappeared. But the way was clear enough.
“Would you have shot her?” asked Cilla.
“She’d be no use to us dead.”
“Only a ploy, in other words.”
Carver stared straight ahead. “I hope your ploy doesn’t prove fatal.”
She glanced at him. “Mine?”
“Your `leaving’ Hudson.”
“I was the dangerous one. I had to keep him away from me, how else was I going to do it?”
“You probably weren’t. But look what’s happened from what you did.”
“Damn you, Wally! Don’t you put this on me!”
“You must know Hudson well enough by now to predict his actions. Did you expect he’d sit in his room counting the hairs on his chest?�
��
Cilla eyed him coldly. “He doesn’t have hair on his chest; it’s on his head. Wallace Carver, have you stopped to think that none of this would have happened if you hadn’t agreed to take in your old friend Sturgis?”
With disgust, “Of course I have.” Though where the disgust was aimed was not clear.
The road suddenly ended at an even more rudimentary road running perpendicular to it.
“Go right,” said Carver.
The rocky road they were bumping along made conversation difficult, to the relief of both. Carver, a very private person, found admitting an error to anyone difficult. To this young woman... What was it about her that made it particularly distasteful? Because it showed weakness. For Wally, weakness was the cardinal sin. Wolves make dinner of weakness, cutting the faltering animal from the pack. When his case in court had least merit was when Carver was his most confident. And it usually worked. Opposing attorneys found themselves settling on terms less favorable than they’d have demanded of another opponent. A thought inserted itself. Unwelcome, he realized he’d been suppressing it. In the airport garage at Logan she’d suggested the rental car office. On North Garrison Street it had been her plan not his that got them into the house and Loni out. Damn it, he was along to supply the brains, not this half-breed fresh from two years in that ashram, where dropouts from life congregate to put their one horsepower thinking apparati in mothballs.
Cilla was also suffering her own little hell. She hadn’t thought it a good plan. It was the only plan she could come up with. The man with the whispering voice seemed to know what was going on in her daily life. She had to convince him that she and Hudson had split, that her husband was no longer of value to the man with the graveside voice. Anyone can kill anyone if they want to enough, and these people don’t care how many others get hurt in the process. The use of the bazooka proved that. What else was she to do? She’d had to get Hudson out of the line of fire, and he wouldn’t have gone unless pushed. But the old buzzard was right. She should have thought that one extra step. She ought to have known he wouldn’t go easily. And now...Somewhere ahead a man was driving the only person she really cared about to his death.
The hills began to flatten, miles of desert appearing between solitary peaks. And Cilla kept driving.
Chapter 29
March 13
Norman Ducharme studied the invitation. On the one hand, it was a group on his A list. The Society of New Hampshire Women was a powerful statewide organization, one a New Hampshire governor, with an election to contend with every two years, ignored at peril. On the other hand, it was being held in North Conway, and it was Ducharme’s conviction - one shared by many in Concord - that north of that capital city there were more moose than votes.
“Stafford!”
The call brought his aide through the door. “Yes, Governor?”
“What am I doing June 20?”
“It may not matter.”
“What?”
“Take a look at this.” The aide put a letter in front of his boss. “I just opened it.”
Ducharme read:
Governor Ducharme,
Are you familiar with the word “Armageddon”? Become so. It is what will occur in your fair state should some important financial arrangements not be made. This same letter is being sent to your colleagues in the five other New England states asking the six of you to deposit the sum of six billion dollars to account number 7C869M54HR-GV at Closter’s Bank on Gruber Street in Lausanne, Switzerland by twelve noon on March 17. We are aware that it is entirely possible you receive other such requests from cranks and loonies who have no means or intentions of carrying them out. Do not make the mistake of assuming this is one of those. Our credentials can be verified by contacting Governor Whalen of Massachusetts and asking him to relay the events that occurred in the town of Stewart. This was our doing. Find that hard to believe? Then ask Governor Whalen if any animals died in Stewart. They didn’t, and this bit of information has never been released to the public. Why did no animals die? Because what was used only attacks humans. And outside of the CDC, FBI and other bureaucratic types only we know that fact. Picture the same scenario in a hundred new locations, many in New Hampshire. Would you ever hold political office again? Would there be anyone left to vote for you? The danger in doing business with most of us who obtain funds through duress is that we’ll return for more. That’s why we are seeking a substantial sum right up front, enough to cover our needs forever. We won’t be back; this is a one-time contribution.
It was unsigned.
“Get Nate Whalen on the phone.”
“Right.”
Within minutes the governor of New Hampshire was talking with the governor of Massachusetts.
“You’re the third,” said Governor Whalen
“Tell me about Stewart,” said Governor Ducharme
“Ten people died there last fall.”
“Some sort of a germ, wasn’t it?”
“We don’t know.”
“You don’t know yet?” Incredulity crept into Ducharme’s voice.
“No, we don’t. The FBI and CDC have both worked it.”
“But for Christ’s sakes, Nate. What did the autopsies show?”
“That they just stopped living. One minute they were alive, the next they weren’t.”
“Something contagious?”
“No one outside Stewart was affected.”
“Did the animals die?”
“No.”
“What’s the situation in Stewart today? Has there been a recurrence?”
“No. It lasted only a few days last October.”
“This may be it then. Pandora.”
Governor Whalen knew just what he meant. Sort of like a ghost story told in hushed voices around a political campfire, the conjecture of a “Nutcracker” - a person or group that had gained the power to “crack” the valued assets of a city or state, physically or financially - had been heard at meetings of mayors and governors.
As the threat of nuclear war diminished, the threat of nuclear terrorism increased. There were too many bombs in the hands of too many people, and, human nature being what it is, some will seek military and political advantage for their religions, tribes or countries. As far back as the Oklahoma City disaster the lesson was learned; how easily it could be accomplished by only one or two men.
In the midst of this fear, the demands may come from those who take advantage of terrorism to blackmail for personal benefit, use fear to collect dollars. They won’t take on the nation. But a city? Or a state? Who’s going to come to their rescue or pursue the bombers after the strike? And, since such extortionists are likely to have little concern for government finances, eventually someone will ask for such a large amount as to “crack the nuts” financially of the city or state if it were paid, or so the thinking went. The tiger was behind both doors, and the city or state was the loser, no matter what the decision of its executive.
The “bomb” could, of course, be something other than an explosive. It was no secret that infinitesimal quantities of some frightening substances could wipe out humans as quickly and in as great quantities as the noisier members of the arsenal.
“Jean Tentas thinks we should pay it.”
“Sure. Connecticut has the highest per capita wealth in the nation. She also probably thinks because it’s a multiple of six we should split it evenly.”
“We didn’t get to that.”
“You know we can’t pay, no matter how little or how much. Once we start we’ve opened ourselves to anyone with a mass weapon.”
“We decided on a conference call at three o’clock. Can you do it?”
“Yeah. I don’t need to check my schedule for this. Does the press have it yet?”
“Not that I’ve heard. Who knows about it in your office?”
“Just Stafford. He opens all my mail.”
“The rest of us the same so far. Only one person other than the governor.”
“
One too many.”
“Yes. It will be out by this evening. Jean thinks we should go public. She wants to in Connecticut.”
“Who haven’t you heard from?”
“George Crothers in Vermont and Les Petrocelli in Rhode Island.”
“I’ll call George.”
“Okay. I’ll take Les.”
Talk about lonely at the top, thought Norman Ducharme. Despite the depressing feeling that nothing positive could result from the call, it was surprisingly comforting to feel others were in the same impossible position. But being in the same position didn’t mean they’d all view it the same. Les Petrocelli came down on Jean Tentas’ side, plumping for going along with the demand. His argument was this was a hostage situation - all six New England states the hostages - and in hostage psychology you never turn those holding them down cold. Talk is better than confrontation and while they were gathering the funds, the FBI would have opportunity to develop leads.
The others were willing to at least discuss this line of reasoning right up until Governor Petrocelli suggested proposed payment of the six billion be split amongst the six states on the basis of land area. This brought Arthur Calley of Maine in with a loud bark that he was damned if it would be any way but by population, and prompted humor from Vermont’s George Crothers who declared the only fair apportionment was by ocean frontage. In the end, reality prevailed. There would be no payment, lest every grifter who could form whole sentences be at their doors.
Language of a joint press release to be issued that afternoon was agreed to after opposition from Les Petrocelli, who felt there was a chance they could get away with saying nothing for a day, and maybe the FBI could turn something up. One more day the threat was kept secret was one day less of public panic. The majority view was more cynical -“realistic” was the word employed. If one person knew something it might stay a secret; since twelve knew, it would be common knowledge tomorrow, and better the story get out in a form causing least panic. The release would be distributed at five PM, in time to catch the evening television news, Internet blogs and morning papers, but after state offices would be closed for the day and unavailable to supply further comment. Each governor would have a memo on the desks of his staff when they arrived the next morning that all questions were to be referred to him or her personally. Tomorrow will be a free-for-all, thought Ducharme; the National Guard put on standby. The FBI had been notified by Nate Whalen at the end of the conference call. After strongly regretting the decision of the governors to go public, the Bureau stated it would take full charge of the investigation and promised to put every available agent on it, though there was unspoken understanding on both sides that if they hadn’t solved the Stewart case in five months, there was little likelihood they could do anything with this one in four days. However, for the first time the FBI had confirmation of human causation and six letters and envelopes to “play with in their lab”, as Jean Tentas rather unkindly put it.
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