by Rick Mofina
Death was winning.
Emma’s only hope was gone. Tentacles of smoke pulled her back through the horror that had descended upon her.
Back to the crash, back to Joe and Tyler.
She could not succumb to her pain.
She had to keep moving.
Just over twenty minutes later and a few blocks away, Emma cupped her hands around a hot tea while sitting alone at the Burger King that was near Polly Larenski’s house.
There was a pay phone out front. Emma had stopped to consider it on her way into the restaurant and jotted down the number. Now, she compared it to the one that had been used for the late-night call she’d received at home.
It was identical.
This was the phone Polly had used that night to tell her Tyler was still alive. Emma had come full circle.
Your son was chosen.
Polly Larenski’s files were lost in the fire.
Emma had come so close to the truth. But now it was gone. Now she had nothing.
Don’t give up, she thought, as she got into her car. Do something.
She concentrated.
There was one last thing she could try.
A horn honked behind her.
The blast yanked her from her brooding, reminding her that she was stopped in slow-moving traffic on the freeway, northbound from Santa Ana. If she could get downtown in time, she might have a shot, she thought. But traffic all around her was at a standstill.
She arrived at the Golden Dawn Fertility Corporation before closing and went to the reception desk. “Emma Lane,” she said. “I need to see Christine Eckhardt. Please, it’s urgent.”
“I don’t think she’s available to see you.” The receptionist, appearing slightly flustered, ran a polished fingernail down an appointment sheet when Christine Eckhardt emerged with her briefcase on her way out.
“Emma?” Christine was surprised.
“We need to talk about Polly Larenski.”
“We just heard. It’s terrible. One of the doctors saw it on KCAL and we got a call from police looking for family. They traced the parking sticker on Polly’s car to us.”
“I need to talk to you about what she told me.”
Christine’s face reddened. She started shaking her head and glanced at the receptionist.
“I really can’t; I’m sorry. It’s a terrible time for everyone. I’m so sorry but I just can’t talk to you, Emma. I really have to go.”
Christine headed for the door, giving her a compassionate but awkward smile that vanished when Emma seized her arm.
“Emma!”
“I just came from the fire, and I need to talk to you, Chris. I am your client, remember?”
Christine stared at her for a tense moment, then nodded to the sofa in the waiting area, keeping things within view of the receptionist, who was braced to call security.
“I talked to Polly about my baby and she told me she sold private information from your files, our DNA—”
“Stop, Emma.”
“Why?”
Christine swallowed hard and dropped her voice.
“You’ve threatened to sue the company. I’m a partner and I was legally bound to report your threat to the board. I’ve been advised by our legal department not to talk to you as anything I say could potentially be used in your case against us.”
“No, Chris, you don’t understand.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I was upset then.”
Christine stood.
“You have to go, Emma. Go home, get some rest. Get some help.”
“No. I need your help. Please, I’m begging you.”
“It’s all very, very tragic.”
“I’m begging you, please.”
“I can’t talk to you, I’m so sorry.”
“No, please just listen to me!” Emma reached for Christine’s wrist.
“Larissa, can you call Mac in security to help Emma to her car?”
Emma released Christine’s wrist, her voice breaking when she said, “That won’t be necessary.” She stood, touching her fingertips to the corners of her eyes. “You were an angel when Joe and I first came to you for help.”
“I’m so sorry, Emma.”
“Not sorry enough to help me.”
By the time Emma had returned to her hotel room she was numb.
Smelling the smoke on her clothes, seeing her disheveled reflection in the mirror, she realized she needed a shower.
As steam clouds rose around her, she sobbed in great heaving waves. Overwhelmed by anguish she slammed her back against the wall and slid down to the shower floor, letting the water rush over her as she hugged herself in vain.
She’d already come apart.
Emma was exhausted when she stepped from the shower. As she pulled on a robe, the phone in her room rang and she answered it.
“Emma?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, thank goodness, it’s Aunt Marsha in Big Cloud.”
“Hi.”
“Emma, are you all right, dear?”
“I’m so tired.”
“We were so worried. You gave us a scare, leaving like you did. We didn’t know where you were. A concerned FBI agent gave us your hotel number. Emma, you’ve been through too much. Please, come home.”
Emma didn’t answer because she didn’t know where home was anymore.
“Emma?”
She remained silent.
“Sweetheart, do you want us to fly there and get you?”
A long silence passed, Emma felt warm tears flow.
“No. I’ll come back.”
The next morning, Emma’s jet lifted off from LAX to Denver with a connection to Cheyenne. As she gazed down at the eternal urban sprawl she felt so small.
So lost.
And so alone.
She reached into her bag and touched Tyler’s stuffed bear. As the plane climbed into the sky she was suddenly lying on the road again in Wyoming, reaching for her husband’s hand.
I don’t know if I can do this alone, Joe. Help me find him.
48
Rabat, Morocco
I’ve been sent a package from a dead man.
The thought raced through Jack Gannon’s mind as he locked his hotel-room door, then tore open the yellow padded envelope from Adam Corley.
What he found inside was a small camel.
It was a beautiful object a bit larger than Gannon’s palm. According to the tag affixed with a gold tassel to its neck, it had been carved from walnut wood by an artist in Essaouira, a town along the Atlantic coast.
Gannon also found a handwritten note in the envelope. “Jack: a gift to help you remember Morocco —Adam C.”
Nothing else.
Gannon sat at the desk, puzzled.
Why did Corley send him this and when? He turned it over, running his fingers along its smooth surface. It was almost blood red with nice, overlapping grain. Its meaning was a mystery that Gannon was pondering when his phone rang. He placed the carving in his computer bag then answered.
“Mr. Gannon, this is the concierge. As you requested, we’ve looked into flights. You can depart Rabat early tomorrow morning on an Air France flight to Paris’s Charles de Gaulle, where you will connect to New York for arrival at JFK late in the evening.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Would you like us to confirm it on your credit card, sir?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Very well, we’ll slide the ticket under your door later and arrange for a taxi for 6:45 a.m.”
After hanging up, Gannon turned on his laptop. Among his e-mails were several from Oliver Pritchett in London and Melody Lyon in New York. Her most recent one asked, Haven’t heard from you—what’s happening?
It gave him pause.
How could he begin to answer her?
Well, other than being abducted, stripped and tortured, not bad.
Gannon decided it best to call Melody but when he reached for his phone, he started sh
aking. He ran his hand over his face.
Somehow the world felt different.
He felt different.
Now he understood why some assault victims refused to talk. The humiliation of the violation was overwhelming and it brought back images of Rio de Janeiro and the drug gang drilling a gun into his mouth, pulling the trigger on an empty chamber.
This sort of thing doesn’t happen to guys like me. I’m a blue-collar nobody who grew up in Buffalo. I don’t need this crap. Maybe I should find a job at some safe suburban weekly.
Maybe I don’t have what it takes.
Shut up! Suck it up. You asked for this, Gannon. You yearned to work for the WPA. Well, you got your wish, pal. Don’t forget, Gabriela Rosa and Marcelo Verde paid with their lives for this story. So did Maria Santo, and now Adam Corley. Remember what Melody said—Find the truth, no matter where it leads. This is how we will honor the dead.
Gannon collected himself and started an e-mail to Melody Lyon.
A source was murdered before we met. I was questioned by police. I’m now on my way back to NYC with more crucial information. I’m okay. I’ll discuss it with you in New York.
After he sent the e-mail his body shook again.
Maybe if he just talked to somebody, somebody he trusted. He pulled out his wallet for a Buffalo number. It took a few seconds for the overseas connection to go through.
“Clark Investigations. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
In that moment, Gannon pictured his friend Adell Clark, a divorced former FBI agent who ran a one-woman private detective agency out of her modest Parkview home in Lackawanna where she lived with her daughter. A few years back, Clark had been shot in an armored-car heist at a strip mall in Lewiston Heights. He’d profiled her, and they’d become friends and had many heart-to-hearts. Adell knew him better than he knew himself.
Could he bear to tell her what happened?
The message cue beeped.
No. Not now.
He hung up and dragged his hands across his face, then started packing. He was nearly done when his phone rang again.
“Jack, Pritchett in London. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” he lied.
“You know what happened to Adam?”
“Yes.”
“It’s bloody horrible, the British Embassy called his father and he called us. Did you see him before he was killed?”
“No, but I was at his house after it happened. The police questioned me.”
“Do they know who’s behind it? Did they arrest anybody?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Christ, this has to be linked to the intelligence he was gathering. You have to be careful, Jack. This is terrible.”
Gannon glanced toward his computer bag.
“Oliver, something odd happened. I got a package from Corley at my hotel.”
“What?”
“Obviously he sent it before our meeting. It’s a small hand-carved camel.”
“Did he send a note with it?”
“A small one, it said, ‘Jack: a gift to help you remember Morocco —Adam C.’ What do you think it means, given we hadn’t even met?”
“Knowing Adam, it’s more than a gift. I can’t tell you what, exactly. Hang on to it. Were there any documents with it, anything like that?”
“No.”
“Adam was supposed to send me a full report on what he’d learned from his sources and from his trip to Libya, but I haven’t received anything.”
“Maybe he dropped it in the snail mail to you?”
“I don’t know. This whole thing is very bad. Jack, get out of there. It’s too dangerous for you. Equal Globe International has lost two people. Your news agency has lost two people. Get out of Morocco before it’s too late.”
The next day Gannon peered at the Atlantic from the starboard window seat of an Air France jetliner.
He had the row to himself and tried to relax as he studied the carved camel in his hands. He turned it over and over, recalling how Pritchett had said that Corley’s act of sending him the figure must have a deeper meaning.
Like what?
Caressing its smooth surface, Gannon noticed a tiny square indentation in the camel’s belly. He’d missed it at first because it ran along the grain line. Holding the camel closer for inspection, he noticed the grain line was, in fact, a seam. It ran along the length of the carving, dividing it in half.
He tried wedging his thumbnail into the seam. The indentation was smaller than a grain of rice. No luck. He took stock of his surroundings, then withdrew a pen from his pocket and managed to insert the tip into the tiny slot. After wiggling the pen’s tip, the two halves of the carving shifted. With careful, controlled effort, Gannon pulled the camel apart into two equal pieces. They’d been hollowed out and opened to a memory card, hidden inside.
How did the airport scanner miss this?
Gannon shrugged, pulled out his laptop, switched it on and inserted the card. Dozens of file folders appeared on his screen. The first was labeled Note to Jack Gannon.
His pulse quickened when he opened it.
Jack: This is rushed. I hope to see you soon but wanted to get this down first. Since my return from Benghazi I have obtained significant new data that relates to what Maria Santo discovered in Brazil and to your investigation. However, since I don’t trust everyone in the intelligence community, I’ve passed this to you. I know I am being watched by people connected to this operation. Now, they could be watching you, too. I don’t know who they are or how far this goes. I therefore have taken precautions to give you a copy of all my files, all the intelligence I have gathered. I include my notes for the report I am drafting on our investigation into a worldwide child-stealing operation that involves illegal adoptions. We’ve discovered that this operation seems to involve more than child stealing and illegal adoptions. An objective or purpose is emerging. No one knows, or has, what you now have. I’ve made arrangements for a local messenger boy I trust to deliver my “gift” to your hotel, as a precaution should something untoward happen before our meeting.
If you’re reading this, he has succeeded.
The problem is, if we have not met, you will not have the benefit of my explaining what I’ve provided and the context. But one thing is certain: Some sort of operation, an attack of some sort, appears to be imminent. Read through this material, see where it fits.
Good luck, Jack.
Adam Corley
Gannon began surveying Corley’s files. It was a long flight, and he would have time to read, but for now he’d scroll through the files quickly and randomly to see what he had.
Here was something on Drake Stinson, the ex-CIA attorney with the Brazilian law firm Worldwide Rio Advogados. Here was something about him in Benghazi at a meeting with some shady-looking types and an American scientist, who used several aliases.
Who was she?
He came to another labeled Extremus Deus.
Never heard of that term—sounds Latin.
As he paged quickly through the files, he caught something that twigged a memory, a reference to LA #181975 to Wyoming847.
Wyoming?
Gannon recalled some reference to Wyoming from files passed to him by Sarah Kirby, Maria Santo’s friend from the Human Rights Center in Rio.
Only Corley’s file seemed larger and more detailed.
He came to a document labeled Big Cloud, Wyoming—Golden Dawn Fertility Corp.
Big Cloud, Wyoming? What was that about?
49
Cheyenne, Wyoming
Dr. Allan Pierce gave Emma hope.
He understood her and today he’d promised to explain how he would help her. This morning she saw the words of her file reflected in his glasses as he studied his patient assessment, profile and notes.
Emma had returned to Wyoming feeling defeated and agreed to see Dr. Pierce, who surprised her because he listened.
He actually listened.
The fatal fire and her futile battle with the clinic in California were devastating setbacks in her search for Tyler. The police in Big Cloud were dismissive of her claims of a conspiracy behind Tyler’s disappearance. These disasters had thrust her into a pit of self-doubt and despair.
But Dr. Pierce had told her that something extraordinary had happened to her at the crash.
Optimism about Tyler now flickered in the darkest corner of her heart as she sat in Dr. Pierce’s office, watching as he reviewed her case.
Pierce had graduated from UCLA and USC and had held the second-highest psychiatric post at Big Sky Memorial Hospital since arriving last year from Los Angeles. In the few sessions Emma had had with him at the hospital, he’d run a number of tests. He was thorough, but more important, he was warm, kind and paid attention to her.
He missed nothing.
What Emma didn’t know was that he was still grappling with the toll exacted on him by his former job where he’d been saddled with an impossible caseload and had grown bitter about his life. When his marriage ended in divorce, he’d come to Wyoming.
As he uncapped his pen he concluded Emma Lane had a severe case of post-traumatic stress, coupled with a profound grief reaction. And she had a fixed delusional system going, too.
Treatment orders showed regular blood work, chest X-ray and E.E.G., and neurology showed zip.
Pierce closed her file and pushed his glasses atop his head.
“Emma, what you’re experiencing is an acute case of grief reaction. It’s early in the process, so there’s no way to predict when it will wane, but it will. However, your case is somewhat unusual, given the circumstances and the intensity of your reaction. And you have other things at work.”
Emma was listening.
“We’ll try to help you understand that, while it is normal to yearn as you are doing, you must accept that you can’t bring your family back.”
“No, wait, I told you that I do accept that Joe is gone, but Tyler did not die in the fire. He was rescued and someone has him.”
Pierce nodded.
“We’ll get you on a healing track by first helping you forgive yourself.”
“Forgive myself?”
“You are showing signs of survivor’s guilt among other symptoms.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Your preoccupation with finding and recovering your dead son is normal. And, Emma, this sense of presence you’re experiencing does occur as part of the grieving process. The hallucination of seeing Tyler rescued, the phone call, things that are even characteristic of spiritual or metaphysical phenomenon—the profound conviction that Tyler is alive in another time and space—this is all part of the grieving process.”