The redhead nodded. He reached inside his jacket and plucked a cell phone off his belt. With a quick punch of numbers and a short wait he said, "Sir, I have a police detective here who's checking into our progress for his department. He'd like to talk to you."
McCallum watched as the redhead nodded to whatever words his boss was saying, then clicked off the phone and replaced it. "They're two blocks to the north of here," he said to Henry. "He'll be waiting on the north corner with three others."
"Thanks," Henry said. "And good hunting."
All five men smiled at them as they climbed back into the now even hotter interior of Henry's car. McCallum could tell the smiles were very nervous, as if they were hiding something. But he had no idea what it might be.
"This is just too damn strange," Henry said. "Never seen anything quite like it before."
McCallum totally agreed with Henry. He'd never even heard of anything like this happening before. "You notice they were all carrying?" McCallum asked.
Henry nodded. "Yeah. Hope they're not planning on gunning down the old guy when they find him."
McCallum only snorted at Henry's attempt at humor as Henry made a wide U-turn and headed north, going just fast enough to cool McCallum a few degrees.
A block later Henry nodded toward a group of five more suited men walking up the sidewalk on the right carrying photos. They, too, were clearly out of place in this area of town.
"So why," McCallum said, "would a small army of armed men spend a day in Portland searching for an elderly man no one cared about when he wasn't missing?"
"That's something I intend to find out," Henry said.
McCallum certainly hoped so. The more this case and the Harris case progressed, the more questions he had. In all his years he'd never had anything like this happen before. Usually questions led to answers.
All these questions led to was more questions.
"So you've never read of anything like this in one of those mysteries of yours?" Henry asked.
"If I had," McCallum said, "would I be roasting my tail out here on the streets with you?"
"A fella can hope," Henry said as he pulled over into an open space a half block short of the designated corner. Within a half minute they were crossing the street toward a group of four waiting on the corner in the shade of the building.
Three men and a woman stood and watched them approach. McCallum could tell that two of the men were like the others, professionals carrying weapons; most likely licensed revolvers in shoulder holsters under their arms. The other man was a computer-nerd looking guy, balding and wearing an old T-shirt. The woman was a tall, statuesque blonde wearing a silk blouse and designer pants. She appeared to be in her thirties and she was still turning the heads of those walking by on the sidewalk.
Henry, with McCallum following, walked up to them with his badge held in front of him so they could all see it.
The woman stepped forward, smiling first at Henry, then a little more friendlily at McCallum. "Glad your department is checking on our progress, Detective," she said. "I'm Neda Foster." She pointed to the nerdy guy. "This is Dr. Cornell."
Dr. Cornell smiled at Henry and then at McCallum, but McCallum could tell the doctor was clearly nervous for some reason. Maybe the same reason the other guys down the street were nervous.
Neda went on with her quick introductions. "This is Lyle Wilson, head of Underground Investigations of Seattle."
McCallum knew the name from the card. Same guy who had gone to the nursing home.
Neda then indicated the second man, wearing a fairly expensive suit and a dress hat that shielded his face from the sun. "This is Robert Earhart of the FBI."
McCallum wasn't sure, but he thought he saw Neda Foster almost break out laughing at the looks that must have been on both his and Henry's faces. Robert Earhart was not only with the FBI, he was the director of the western division of the FBI.
Earhart stepped forward and extended his hand to Henry. "Glad to meet you, Detective… ?"
"Greer," Henry managed to say as he shook the FBI director's hand.
Then Earhart turned to McCallum. "I didn't catch your name?" he said, extending his hand.
"Richard McCallum, of McCallum Investigations. I was hired by the family to find Albert Hancer."
Neda Foster's face turned into a stone mask and McCallum had a hard time not smiling right back at her as he shook Earhart's hand.
"Well," Earhart said, stepping back beside Neda Foster, "it seems we all have an interest in finding Albert Hancer."
"Some more than others," Henry said. "Just how many people do you have working this search?"
Neda laughed. "Enough to find Albert Hancer, we hope."
There was a faint chime and Earhart said, "Excuse me." He pulled out a small phone from his jacket pocket and clicked it open. Without a word of hello he simply listened, then said, "I'll meet him there." Then he clicked the phone closed.
He turned halfway to Neda Foster, but without any thought of keeping his information from McCallum or Henry, he said, "The vice president has altered his schedule and is flying here. I'll meet him at the airport."
Neda nodded.
Without another word Earhart turned to Henry and said, "Nice meeting you, Detective." Then nodded to McCallum. "Mr. McCallum."
Then he turned and strode up the street.
"The vice president?" Henry said softly as he looked at McCallum. "Is he looking for this guy, too?"
McCallum turned to Neda Foster. "Is he, Ms. Foster?"
Neda Foster laughed, a simple laugh that seemed to hang in the air between her and McCallum. Then, with a smile that said clearly that she was enjoying toying with McCallum, she said, "Yes. Actually he is."
"McCallum," Henry said, his voice half angry. "What have you gotten me into?"
"That," McCallum said, "is a question I hope Ms. Foster can answer."
She smiled at him. "I hope so, too."
Chapter Seventeen
A hole in the ice is dangerous only to those who go skating.
—REX STOUT
FROM TOO MANY COOKS
2: 1 0 P.M. JUNE 24.
NEAR HELLS CANYON AREA, OREGON
The hot sun beat down on the two men in the open Jeep as they bounced over rocks and sagebrush on a road that seemed to have given up the claim to the name years before. Now only two faint tracks through the brush led the way. The rolling, sagebrush-covered hills of the high Oregon desert seemed to stretch into infinity on three sides, with sharp, snowcapped mountain peaks blocking the way in front. Hells Canyon, the world's deepest gorge, ran down the middle of those mountains, forming the border between Oregon and Idaho.
Cobb Turner drove his new Jeep Cherokee, his black hair streaming behind him as he laughingly forced the Jeep forward, bouncing over anything that got in his way. Cobb's father owned a twelve thousand acre cattle ranch to the west of their location. Cobb had been born and raised on that ranch, and had come home for the summer from his second year at the University of California at Berkeley. As far as he was concerned this area was his personal backyard and he loved it here. He didn't notice the heat, his suntanned body covered only with cut-off Levis.
Beside him, clearly not enjoying himself half as much as Cobb was J. W. Steele. Steele had been Cobb's roommate in Berkeley and had agreed to come to the eastern Oregon ranch to see him for a few weeks. Fair-skinned and originally from the midwest, the dry heat of the high desert had been keeping him inside the big house at the ranch more than anywhere. Today, to protect himself from the burning heat, Steele wore a long-sleeved cotton shirt, Levis, and a wide-brimmed hat. With one hand he gripped the dashboard while holding his hat in place over the bumps with the other.
"Almost there," Cobb shouted over the roar of the engine as they bounced over another ridge and went into a dust-swirling descent into a small gully. He banged the jeep through a wash and then shifted down to spin dirt out behind him as they fishtailed up the bank on the other side.
&nb
sp; Cresting the top opened up a wide vista of hot high-desert country. In front of them a steep, rock-walled canyon twisted off in both directions. A stream twisted its way through the middle of the canyon two hundred feet below, surrounded by green bushes and small trees. It was the only green as far as the eye could see.
The canyon was called Sheepeater Canyon after a family who had homesteaded it a hundred years ago and then had to kill mountain goats to get enough food to live through a hard winter. They had left the following spring and no one had lived near the canyon for over a hundred years. Their old homestead was now nothing more than a pile of logs near the north end of the canyon.
During the first settlers' stay in the canyon they had discovered a series of caves, now called the Sheepeater Caves. They were large lava tubes that had been exposed to the air when the canyon was formed. As a kid, Cobb and his brothers had explored a lot of the caves. He hadn't been back for over ten years and finally, this summer, he was making the time.
Cobb wound the jeep along the top of the canyon for a half mile until the road finally dead-ended with rock cliffs falling away on both sides.
Within minutes Cobb was leading the way, headed down a steep rock-and-sand trail into the canyon with Steele doing his best not to fall. Both men carried flashlights, a bottle of water, and some snacks. Cobb figured they'd spend an hour or so in the main cave, then head back for dinner.
It took them a good twenty, very hot minutes to make their way down the two hundred foot wall of the canyon and another twenty minutes to work their way up the brush-covered canyon to the mouth of the main cave. Cobb couldn't remember it taking that long as a kid, but memory did that sometimes.
The mouth of the cave was huge, over one hundred feet from ground to top and double that wide. Cobb knew it got even larger inside. It was a spectacular natural room that early Indians in the region had used for shelter. He and his brothers had spent many a fun afternoon in that big cave.
"What do you think?" Cobb asked, pointing up at the huge opening in the side of the rock canyon wall.
"Wow," Steele said between pants. "That's big."
"Told you," Cobb said, scrambling up the slight incline to the mouth of the cave. "Watch for snakes."
"Snakes!" Steele said.
"Rattlers," Cobb said, without turning around. "They won't bother you unless you step on them. Just be careful."
Cobb crested the slight incline so he could see down into the cave and stopped. "What in hell is—" A white light shot out of the cave and caught him. After a moment he slumped to the ground.
From behind him Steele saw the white light catch his friend. "Cobb?" he shouted as his friend fell. That was the last word he got out of his mouth.
A large, snake-like being stepped up beside Cobb's body and aimed something at Steele. The white light froze Steele in position.
A moment later he, too, was unconscious.
The next morning Cobb's Jeep was found one hundred fifty miles to the west, parked at a popular swimming area in the Columbia Gorge. The men's clothes were piled on the backseat.
They were presumed drowned.
Chapter Eighteen
Facts are not judgments, and judgments are not facts.
—-DICK FRANCIS
FROM IN THE FRAME
2: 15 . P.M. JUNE 24.
PORTLAND, OREGON
For the past twenty minutes McCallum had become more and more frustrated. And he had been pretty frustrated to begin with. After Earhart of the FBI left, Neda Foster had excused her group for a moment, without answering one of McCallum's questions. They had retreated to a spot near the brick building, in the shade. That's where the three of them had stayed, talking for the entire time while McCallum and Henry stood near the corner, doing their best to stay out of the hot sun..
Five minutes before, Henry had gone and gotten them both ice-filled lemonades from a nearby cafe. Those were now gone, as was McCallum's patience. He was about to barge in on their little conference when the guy from Underground Investigations plucked his cell phone out of his pocket. He quickly snapped it closed and the group headed for McCallum.
"There's been no luck finding him yet," the tall blonde said. "We're planning to continue searching for another hour and then call it off."
McCallum looked at Henry, then asked, "Got any other plans for the afternoon?"
Henry laughed. "None that really matter."
McCallum turned back to Neda Foster. He had a plan to get some answers out of them. "Let me get this straight, since you've given us no answers. You and your people are searching for Albert Hancer. Correct?"
Neda Foster nodded.
"And you think he may have checked into a room in this area sometime over the last week."
"Somewhere in the center of the city," Dr. Cornell said. "Where an elderly person would not be noticed. At least that's the theory we're working on."
McCallum heard the word center. These poorer neighborhoods were near the center, but not exactly at the center. "Well, there may be a few places you're missing. Places only locals like us would know."
Neda Foster looked at Cornell and her security man, then turned back to McCallum. "If you wouldn't mind helping us check them out, it would really help."
McCallum laughed. "As Henry said, we're not really that busy the next hour or so. But only if you promise to answer a few of my questions when we're finished."
"You have a deal, Mr. McCallum," Neda Foster said, sticking out her hand so they could shake on it.
McCallum took her firm hand and shook it, hoping his sweaty grasp wasn't bothering her too much. Then he turned to Henry. "The Sundown Hotel first, then maybe the old Radison."
Henry nodded. "We'll use my car."
With Henry driving, McCallum riding shotgun, and the other three in the backseat, they covered the fifteen blocks quickly. McCallum would have wagered anything that this was the first time that Neda Foster had ever been in the backseat of a police car.
The Sundown was an old turn-of-the-century hotel, five stories tall, situated in the center of a bunch of old warehouses now converted to stores and shops. It was one of those old hotels the city left standing to help take care of the housing problem. Mostly hotels like the Sundown were rat-infested dumps run by landlords who spent most of their time at the country club.
They all climbed out of the car and McCallum turned to Neda Foster. "Let me go in and ask. You got an extra picture?"
The investigator handed McCallum a picture of Albert Hancer taken a few months back in the nursing home. It had been blown up and the image cleaned up before it was reproduced. These people sure had the money and knew what they were doing.
Inside, the smell of age and stale piss hit McCallum. Two elderly men sat on two ancient overstuffed couches in what passed as a tiny lobby. An old television flickered in one corner, turned to a soap opera. The front desk was a cage, and a narrow wooden staircase climbed upward beside it. It was cooler in there than on the sidewalk outside, but not by much.
A guy in a T-shirt sat in the cage reading one of the tabloid papers. McCallum didn't recognize him, but that didn't mean that much after three years off the force. Or maybe the guy had never been in trouble with the law. McCallum figured anything was possible.
McCallum walked up and slid the picture through the cage. "I'm looking for a missing person. I'm working for the family."
The guy hardly glanced at the picture. "I don't pay much attention to who lives here. As long as they pay their rent on time every week. At the moment everyone's paid up."
McCallum pulled out his wallet, took a hundred dollar bill, and slid it on top of the picture. He made sure he kept his finger on the money until the guy picked up the picture and gave it a good look.
It was clear almost from the moment the guy actually looked at the picture that McCallum had hit pay dirt. Finally the guy took the bill and slid the picture back.
"Yeah. That old guy's been staying here. First room at the top of the stairs. Haven'
t seen him come or go in five days, though. For all I know he might be dead in there."
McCallum went back to the door and motioned for the others to come in. Then he went back to the desk. "Key?"
"I can't give out keys to just anyone who asks," the guy said.
"If the guy is dead, we may find a way to charge you for his death," McCallum said. "Right, Henry?"
Henry flipped open his badge. "Right on, partner."
The guy's face went white and he slid the key to McCallum.
"He's actually up there?" Neda Foster said.
"Shit!" Dr. Cornell said. "Shit! Shit! Shit!"
McCallum glanced at Cornell, actually shocked at the nerdy doctor's outburst. "I thought you wanted to find this guy-"
Cornell just looked very worried, so McCallum shrugged at Henry and led the way up the old wooden staircase. In the narrow hall at the top the stale smell of piss increased, as did the temperature. It had to be well over a hundred degrees in that hall and it was going to get hotter very fast.
Henry stopped in front of the door at the top of the stairs and waited until everyone was silent, then turned and knocked on the door. "Mr. Hancer? Police. I need to talk with you a moment. Open up."
No answer from inside.
Henry pounded again on the door, this time harder. "Mr. Hancer. It's the police. Please open the door."
Silence filled the crowded hall.
Henry drew his gun and said, "McCallum, you want to help me here?"
McCallum nodded and moved up beside Henry. Over the years as partners on the force they had gone through a lot of doors together. They knew the drill and they both trusted each other. McCallum only wished now that he had strapped on his gun. He didn't know why he'd need it against an elderly man, but he felt naked going through a door without it.
"Open it and I'll go through first," Henry said. "The rest of you move back down the hall a few steps."
They all did as they were told and McCallum stuck the key in the door and turned it, then quickly stepped away.
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