Killer Mountain

by Peter Pinkham

  Governor Ducharme closed the door of his house behind him and stood leaning on it. After a minute his wife poked her head into the hallway.

  “Well hi. What are you doing standing there?”

  “Come into the study, Grace. We have to talk.”

  “That sounds serious. What’s up?”

  He said nothing until he’d hung up his coat and they were both seated in his favorite room. If either drank, this is the time to pull out a bottle of old something, he thought.

  “It’s come, Grace. The unthinkable.” He told her about the letter and the joint actions being planned.

  She sat quietly, listening. “Is it just New England?”

  “As far as we know. Nate talked to Carol Sorrentino in New Jersey, not mentioning the letter of course. He’s convinced she’s gotten nothing.”

  “Do you think everyone will pick up and head south?”

  “Anyone who can probably will. There aren’t that many who can just walk away from their lives, for something that may be an empty threat.”

  “Do you think it is?”

  “No.”

  “The business in Stewart, that only lasted a few weeks?”

  “The deaths all occurred over four days.”

  “Perhaps businesses will just shut down until after the 22nd. Maybe you should even encourage it.”

  “Maybe. We don’t know how soon after that they’ll strike. It might take them awhile to make arrangements, whatever they are.”

  “Do you suppose they’ll drop something from an airplane? Is that how they’ll do it?”

  “No. That will be covered. The skies over New England will be kept clear. Any plane without proper identification will be forced to land. Or be shot down.”

  “Then how will they distribute whatever it is?”

  “We’re going to make it just as difficult as possible for them. Starting tomorrow, we’ll have roadblocks on all the major highways, with state police searching each vehicle. Just a gesture. We don’t know what we’re looking for, and it could be very easy to conceal. I’ve read about poisons and germs so concentrated that just a few drops can wipe out a city.”

  “In the water supply?”

  “Yes. The guess is that’s what happened in Stewart, though when they tested it they found nothing. We’ll have armed guards around city reservoirs. The smaller towns will also be protected, but we’ll have to ask for volunteers from them to help.”

  “Won’t they up the timetable if they know you aren’t going to pay?”

  “We’re not going to come right out and say that. Over the next three days we’ll have our state budgets analyzed by the press. They’ll draw their own conclusions.”

  “You’re not going to respond directly? Is that wise?”

  “The only direct contact is with an account number in a Swiss bank. That doesn’t allow for much dialogue.”

  “But you’ll have to tell the press what you plan to do.”

  He nodded. “Better a slow realization than an abrupt shock.”

  Far from Bedford, New Hampshire, a white ambulance with side lettering imperfectly painted out slowly cruised a broad expanse of Arizona desert. The driver was looking for something. Later he appeared to find it, for he stopped and got out to walk a distance from the vehicle, wiping the sweat off the band of his wide-brimmed hat. Then he returned for his passenger who got out slowly, revealing hands bound in front of him. The two walked a few hundred feet to a clump of burroweed and cactus framing a small declivity, the passenger in the lead, the driver prodding from behind with a pistol. They disappeared behind the sparse vegetation. Presently there was a shot. After a long silence, the wide hat could be seen emerging, the pistol at the man’s side. He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. With a last look around, he drove off, leaving the desert to its late afternoon heat.

  Chapter 30

  Wally rubbed sleep from his eyes on his way to the telephone. How many times had it rung before he was awakened? He picked up the receiver.

  “Yes.”

  “Wallace Carver?” A woman’s voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Hold for Mr. Krestinski, please.”

  It was over a minute before the agent was on the line.

  “Wally. John Krestinski. Cilla called yesterday, but I haven’t been able to get back to her until now. What’s happening?”

  “You’re on that six billion letter?”

  “Yes, so I haven’t much time. Have you found Loni?”

  “Yes, but not Hudson.”

  “I thought they were together.”

  “They were taken to Sedona, Arizona where we both are. By the time we were able to rescue Loni, a member of the gang had taken Hudson into the desert, with the probable intention of leaving him there. He himself was to come back here to the villa they were using. He never showed. Cilla and I went after him, but had to give up after nightfall.”

  “Wally, were any of the gang captured?”

  “Two, a husband and wife, Harv - presumably for Harvey - and Dora Fender. They’re at the Sedona Police Station.”

  “Good! Hold on a minute.” The line went silent for over two minutes. Then, “Okay, I’ll be out there this afternoon. How’s Cilla taking it?”

  “Hard. She’s still in her bedroom, but I doubt if she’s slept. I looked in on her during the night. She was sitting in a chair looking out the window at the dark. No tears.”

  “Could the two of you meet me at the Sedona Police Station at three o’clock your time?”

  “Yes. I’ll get her there.”

  “And Loni, where is she?”

  “She’s here. Sleeping. She got cut a little and had to have some stitches at the hospital outpatient.”

  “Bring her too.”

  “There’s a connection between what’s happening here and the governors’ letters?”

  “Would I be coming out if there weren’t?”

  The duty officer blinked several times. Loni was without makeup, and she and Cilla together looked straight out of a Double Mint ad, without the cheery smiles. Loni, with a hand-size bandage on her right leg, limped gingerly into the Sedona police station and sat in a straight chair, identifying Dora and Harv in a small voice. Cilla was remote; there was pain there as well, but she didn’t allow it to show. She answered questions firmly and precisely, and avoided all small talk. After the police and the FBI man finished with the Fenders, Krestinski took Cilla aside.

  “Are you alright?”

  “Hudson isn’t.”

  “We will find him, Cilla.”

  Gray eyes held him. “John, Hudson and I are like one person. When one is hurt, the other feels pain. Hudson is hurt, perhaps badly. I do feel that. But I don’t think he’s dead. What I can’t get out of my mind is that he’s lying injured somewhere out in the desert, and we don’t know where to look. Wally and I drove until the road ran out. We’re not even sure it was the right road; there are lots of little branches… ” The words faded with distraction.

  “I’ve arranged fly-overs, low altitude planes crisscrossing southern and western Arizona.”

  “But it’s a big desert.”

  “Hudson had it right. Loni was the place to start.”

  “What have you learned?”

  “We’ve got a bit of the story from Dora and Harv. They say they had no idea of the scope of this thing.”

  “They do, huh.”

  “They say it was Franklin Scoggins, who lives across the street from them, got them to house sit Loni. He said he works for FBI Witness Protection and maybe they’d like to make some extra money.”

  “Frank, the doctor?”

  “He’s no doctor; he actually works in a medical laboratory in Olympia. No police record, but his name has appeared in several nasty cases. Sociopathic stuff. Not enough evidence to hold him on.”

  “John, I heard Dora talking about… taking care of Hudson, with Frank. These are no dupes. They knew what was going on.”

  “But Frank i
s the key.”

  “His voice. It had no emotion… He’s an animal.”

  “Harv says they soon discovered that. He and his wife also learned it wasn’t just `protection’ involved. Dora said Frank has some big deal going. When she realized she and Harv might be up for kidnapping and attempted murder, she gave us the rest. Scoggins never planned to return to that house. He’s on his way back East. She says she doesn’t know where, and I think this time I believe her. There was no reason for Frank to tell her anything. Almost certainly he’s headed for New England.”

  “And Frank is the only one who knows where Hudson is.”

  The way she said it was not lost on Krestinski. By the time the agent had met Hudson, Cilla was already in love with the former college wrestler and single sculls champion, but he’d heard stories of what she was like BH - Before Hudson. Various words had been used to describe her, cold and tough were the mildest. Hudson had changed that; a new, more peaceful Cilla had emerged, one able to function again in a world of men, because one of them had proven that the entire sex wasn’t rotten.

  For the first time, Krestinski was seeing the old Cilla. He couldn’t put his finger on what had changed, but there was an untamed look about her, as though a jungle beast had taken over her body, ready to pounce without warning. It was also the eyes, like gazing into an arctic winter. He caught himself about to step back a pace.

  “We find Frank.” A flat, unemotional statement that brooked no argument.

  He nodded. “Yes. That’s the other way to Hudson.”

  The eyes focused on him. “Have you talked to Loni?”

  “Just about to.”

  “Let me.”

  All the agent’s instincts hollered, “no”. But he had seen the two together; noted the remarkable resemblance. And seen the way Cilla had put her arm around the other girl, protective, almost motherly. Time was a giant factor. Cilla had built a relationship with this girl who had good reason to distrust the FBI. He found himself saying, “All right.”

  Loni looked drained. She was obviously in discomfort, but went willingly to talk with Cilla.

  “Up in Olympia you said you’d talked with Hudson before he was drugged.”

  “At White River. But only for a few minutes. We were planning to talk longer back at the house.”

  “Tell me what was said.”

  “Well...he wanted to know who Daddy was afraid of, and I told him about the people Daddy worked for.”

  “And,” Cilla prompted.

  “There was this guy we ran into in Boston. He was the only one I could remember. Mostly Daddy’s friends are pretty stiff and old fashioned. Some of the kids wear hats like that...”

  “Hats like what?”

  “Cowboy hats.”

  “This guy in Boston you met when you were with your father was wearing a cowboy hat?”

  “Yes, and I don’t know many guys who wear them back East and…”

  “What was his voice like?”

  “That’s so funny you should ask that! I think he had a cold; his voice was husky and very quiet. I had to listen hard to understand him.”

  “I think I know what he looks like, but you tell me.”

  “He was about my height, maybe a little taller. Old but not as old as Daddy. His name was Mr. Cabral. I can’t remember his first name. It was like Gregory, though shorter and foreign sounding. He was in a hurry, almost as though he was trying to get away from us.”

  “Because of your father?”

  “He’s...he was really my stepfather.”

  “Did you feel he was trying to get away from you or your stepfather?”

  Loni wrinkled her forehead.

  “Me, I think. That’s funny, isn’t it? Most guys think I’m easy to look at, but he kept his face turned away from me.”

  “Where in Boston did you meet him?”

  “On Washington Street.”

  “He was just walking along the street?”

  “No, he was coming out of a store. I think it’s the one that sells outdoor sporting goods. I was in there once. You know the type; it has hiking boots, snowshoes, tents. Stuff like that. I got some sunglasses there, the kind that turn darker when you’re in the sun, and...”

  “Did Mr. Cabral mention the name `Frank’?”

  “You mean like the doctor? No.”

  “What else did you tell Hudson?”

  “That’s all, I think. I told you we only talked for a few minutes, and then he said he had to call Mr. Krestinski.”

  “Did he?”

  “Did he what?”

  “Did he call Mr. Krestinski?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t think he had time before he… got sick.”

  “Loni, this is important. I’d like to go over everything that was said and its effect on Hudson.”

  Loni glanced at Cilla out of the corner of her eye. “He didn’t hit on me or anything.”

  “I know he didn’t, Loni. What I’m after is how he reacted to things you said.”

  “Most men do, you know.”

  “I’m sure they do. Start at the beginning. He followed you out from Olympia. Where did he catch up with you?”

  “At White River. I had just let Daddy’s ashes fall into the water.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he could kill me anytime he wanted.”

  Nice approach, Hudson. “Didn’t that scare you?”

  “No. He said he was going to tickle me to death, and I cried.”

  “Then what?”

  “I told you. We talked about Mr. Cabral.”

  “And that’s all? Then you went back?”

  “Yes.”

  “Think. There must have been something else.”

  Loni sighed. “There really wasn’t. We talked about his Uncle Charles.”

  “You’re sure? Hudson doesn’t have an Uncle Charles.”

  “Then why did he say he did?”

  “What about his Uncle?”

  “He threw him in a river back East.”

  “Threw...you mean his ashes?’

  “Sure. I think it was just a line.”

  “Could it have been the Charles River he was talking about?”

  “Oh, yes! That’s what it was! He wanted to know if Daddy had asked me to put him in White River. I told him `no’. Right after that he said something I didn’t understand.”

  “Do you remember what it was?”

  “It sounded like, sockway seebow.”

  “Sokwai sibo?”

  “Yes! That’s what it was.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “You say it the same way he did. What does it mean?”

  “Maybe nothing. That’s it?”

  “Yeah. Then he said he had to call Mr. Krestinski, and we went back to Dora’s house cause he couldn’t call from the mountains.”

  Cilla stood up. “Thanks, Loni. You’ve been a big help.”

  “I have?”

  Cilla nodded.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “What Hudson didn’t get to. Talk to John Krestinski.”

  Krestinski listened attentively. “And your conclusion?”

  “They’re going to do something to the rivers in New England.”

  “Kind of a long leap, Cilla. Is that phrase Abenaki?”

  “Sokwai sibo was their name for the Saco River.”

  “I didn’t realize Hudson spoke it.”

  “Studying it. He speaks more of it than I do; you know Hudson and languages.” For a brief moment she spoke of her husband just as though their lives hadn’t been torn apart by Frank. And the Fenders. And maybe a man in a cowboy hat.

  “I think putting Sturgis’ ashes in the White River made him think of what had happened in Bartlett.” A bright sun shone through the window into her eyes, but she scarcely noticed. “Wally’s cabin is right on the Saco; it takes drinking water from it.”

  “And the town of Stewart is on the Connecticut River.” A spark of interest.

  �
�Maybe the others who died in Bartlett lived on the river. That’s something we could check.”

  “Yes. I don’t know whether to hope we find a relationship or not. We can’t guard every mile of river frontage in New England.” He thought a moment. “This man Cabral, foreign first name something like Gregory. Maybe Harv knows him.”

  Harv didn’t, nor did Dora.

  But the FBI man wasn’t through. “Can we do better than sounds like Gregory?”

  Cilla went back at Loni. “Do you think the foreign sounding name was from the way your father pronounced it or from the way it was spelled?”

  Loni worked hard on this. “Daddy didn’t speak any foreign languages. He didn’t even say the name of French wines the way they do in France. It all came out American.”

  “So it was probably the spelling. Was it longer than Gregory? More syllables?”

  “No, it was shorter.”

  “Did it have an ‘ov’ sound on the end like a Russian name?”

  “No, that’s not it at all.”

  “Let’s try to narrow down the end. Did it end in a vowel or a consonant?”

  “It was a vowel! Aren’t you smart!”

  “Which vowel? Can you remember?”

  Loni did hard thinking. “Oh, Cilla, I’m no good at this. I just don’t know.”

  “You’re doing fine. Choose the one of these that’s closest. Gregori, Gregora, Gregoru, Gregoro, Gregore.” She pronounced each carefully, accenting the last syllable in each case.

  “Gregoro! That’s real close. Maybe a little too long.”

  “Grego?”