The Letter Keeper

by Charles Martin

  Bones was right. This was no accident. The system had been overridden. Shut down.

  Though I hadn’t slept in more than forty hours, nightfall found me wandering the skeleton of the hospital like a man on Mars while Gunner tiptoed next to me, letting his nose lead him. His step-step-freeze, step-step-freeze looked more coyote than dog. He knew, maybe in the same way he knew there was a bomb on my boat, that he shouldn’t disturb anything. So he didn’t.

  At 3:00 a.m., I sat down in what was once the kitchen. The combination of stress, emotions, and exhaustion had come crashing down. I could neither sleep nor think straight. I wanted to run to my computer, tap a few keys, click on Summer’s GPS tracker, and watch it flash in rhythm with her heart. If she was alive, it would flash with every beat. If she was not, it would show constant red until the battery died some seventy-two hours later.

  But there was no cross. No chip. And given the heat of the fire, there were no bodies.

  There would be no pulse. No flash. No “X marks the spot.”

  When I sat against a concrete wall and sank my head in my hands, Gunner lay his head and one paw across my lap. I wasn’t sure if he was half hugging me or wanting to prevent me from hurting myself. Next to us, a ventilation grate washed us in fresh air from the loading dock, which had been used to receive all deliveries to and from the hospital. Trucks supplying the hospital came in through a tunnel cut through one side of the mountain large enough for several side-by-side eighteen-wheelers. Access to the tunnel was granted through a service entrance manned twenty-four-seven by one of the dens, and given the frequency and volume of traffic, it was one of our most secure points of entry. Our guys guarded this breach in the wall with a fanatic zeal.

  While the current and constant flow of fresh air washed out the toxic smell of burnt rubber and chemicals, its designed purpose had been to purge the tunnel of diesel fumes from the trucks. It served like a fireplace chimney. By design, huge fans, now incinerated, once pulled air out of the loading dock and kitchen area and flushed that air out the other side of the tunnel. Up until twenty-four hours ago, it had worked flawlessly. Sitting there feeling the reversed airflow across my skin, I realized the explosion had altered that, creating a fireplace of sorts at the top of the chimney that was larger than the other side. The change was simple physics. The explosion had reversed the flow.

  Every few minutes Gunner’s ears would flicker and he’d stick his nose into the flow of fresh air. Then his body tensed and he sat up.

  This time I did not tell him to go away and leave me alone.

  Chapter 33

  Gunner ran to the grate, sniffed the air, and began digging at the steel with his paws. He did this five or six times, but it wasn’t until he barked that I stood up. When he barked again, I led him around the wall, down a hallway where the roof had been blown off, and into the circular roundabout where the delivery trucks turned around. Gunner’s nose hit the airspace, something registered, and he took off at a dead run down the tunnel.

  Barking.

  Gunner and I ran through the yellow hue of the emergency lighting, winding through curves and cut granite. Four hundred meters later, we topped a small rise and reached the exit where a massive security door now rested in the nonsecure and open position—a security feature programmed to open automatically to allow first responders access. Strange how that had worked and yet the sprinklers and halon system had not.

  While much of the hospital ran off solar energy and a small percentage from our own power grid, no hospital is complete without backup and redundant generators, of which we had several. Those were fueled by propane, which was topped off once a month and held in underground tanks outside the massive door—for obvious reasons.

  Fuel trucks were checked at security and, once cleared, allowed through the gate, where they then drove a hundred meters into a cul-de-sac. Once they turned 180 degrees and were facing the opposite direction, they would stop, transfer fuel to the tanks, and then exit the same way they came in. All of this happened under the watchful eye of our team and several cameras.

  Gunner disappeared out the exit and through the area where the trucks filled the propane tanks. When I got to him, the hair on his back was raised and he was growling at the darkness.

  So I walked into the darkness.

  The fill receptacle for the underground tank lay beneath a hinged steel lid in an area of space about the size of a loaf of bread. Gunner inched alongside me but never took his eyes off the lid.

  I whispered, “What do you see, boy?”

  More growling.

  “Easy,” I said, allowing my eyes time to adjust. When they did, I slowly lifted the lid. I’ll give you one guess as to what lay tucked inside.

  Chapter 34

  I’ll never know how Gunner smelled the handkerchief from more than a winding quarter mile away, but somehow, with the reversal of the airflow, he had. Was it Summer’s sweat? Her perfume? Or was it the fresh blood? I don’t know. I just know that he did. As I stood there staring in disbelief, I tried to force my mind to click into gear.

  Think, Murph. Think.

  The blast had not blown it in there. The blast would have incinerated it. That could only mean the handkerchief had been placed inside that lid—by hand and probably in haste. Its location was purposeful. No accident. Summer must be trying to tell me something, but what?

  Was she alive? Was Ellie? Angel? Casey? If she wasn’t, then who put the handkerchief in that location? Why? I tried to block the questions as I ran back through the tunnel. I found Bones in Den 2, which had been converted to Command Central. He was hovering over a cup of coffee, his Sig hanging in a chest holster, and he was staring at video replays of Main Street looking for clues. He, too, was dead on his feet. I threw open the door and spoke to Eddie while pointing at the screen. “Bring up all of yesterday’s video of the delivery gate.”

  Eddie’s fingers sounded like horses’ hooves pounding the keys.

  At 10x speed, starting with the morning of the wedding, which was now nearly forty-eight hours ago, Eddie began playing the video. Several trucks rolled in, then through the tunnel where our cameras captured them along every inch of the route. Each one circled the roundabout, then backed up to the loading dock and offloaded their delivery. Then our folks checked the contents and signed the papers, and the trucks returned down the tunnel and out the gate. Everything worked as it should.

  Then a large propane truck appeared around 10:45 p.m. I spoke out loud to Bones. “Does that strike you as strange?”

  He nodded at the driver of the truck. “Those guys are local. Nine to five. They’re not long haul.”

  Bones was tracking with me. Long-haul drivers make deliveries when they reach a destination. No matter the time. So almost 11 p.m. wouldn’t have been too unusual. But guys who punch a clock deliver on a more regular schedule because they’re part of a route. More like a mailman. I spoke to the team of guys who had gathered just over my shoulder. “What time is that normally?”

  More keys clicking. “Over the last six months, between 9:45 and 10 a.m.”

  “Like clockwork,” I said.

  “And how long do they normally stay?”

  “Forty-five minutes max.”

  Bones looked up at me. “What are you getting at?”

  “Eddie, bring up my toast at the reception.” Eddie complied and the video began playing. “Can you slow it down?”

  Eddie slowed the video. Summer appeared. Glass in one hand, handkerchief in the other. “Stop.” I pointed at the screen, then unfurled my fingers, allowing Summer’s handkerchief to hang from my hand. “I found this tucked inside the lid where the trucks fill the tank.”

  Bones eyed it. Then me. “That means . . .”

  I spoke for both of us. “They may not be dead.”

  Bones was now firing on all cylinders. Problem solving. “But why there?”

  “Unless it blew in there mysteriously, which I doubt, it was placed there purposefully. Which suggests intention.
Which could also mean she’s trying to tell me something.”

  He nodded in agreement. “But what?”

  I pointed at the truck on the screen. “When did that thing leave?”

  We watched as the truck exited the gate at 12:02 p.m.

  “And when was the explosion?”

  Bones spoke from memory. “12:04.”

  “Does it strike anyone as strange that our unscheduled propane delivery enters and then exits what is normally Fort Knox just two minutes before an explosion blows half the mountain away?”

  Silence enveloped Command Central.

  Bones looked at me with both anger and tears in his eyes. I glanced at Eddie, who rewound the video of the truck leaving the gate. Four cameras had captured it coming and going. Everything looked perfectly normal. Nothing out of the ordinary. “Bones, how many people do you think could fit in the tank of that truck?”

  He weighed his head side to side. “Properly outfitted? Maybe a dozen. Packed like sardines?” He shrugged. “Twenty-some.” He turned to me, the picture clearing in his mind. “That thing would make an excellent Trojan horse.”

  I nodded. “Which is the only reason I can imagine Summer would tuck that handkerchief inside the lid. She knew, sooner or later, that Gunner—who runs around this place at will—would find it.” I shook my head. “How else would she tell us?”

  Bones stood and pointed at Eddie, whose fingers immediately produced a map of Colorado. Bones looked at me. “If he clicks that button, it’s T-minus seven days. Track them too soon and we can lose them in transit because we haven’t given them time to get to a destination.”

  I finished his sentence. “And track them too late and they’re gone forever.”

  Bones crossed his arms and started at the screen. “It’s delicate.”

  “Currently, whoever has them doesn’t know what we know. He thinks we think they’re all dead. And given that’s what he wants us to think, he’s probably not in a great big hurry, and he’s probably not looking behind him. But sooner or later, and probably sooner rather than later, he’ll strip the girls of everything and might even find our trackers.”

  “Which means we’re on the clock.”

  Bones nodded.

  Eddie spoke. “If they’re in that tank, or in anything enclosed in metal or concrete or whatever, the signal won’t initiate the tracker until she’s outside.”

  “Unless she’s sitting by a window. And Summer would be.”

  Bones turned to me. “What about Angel, Ellie, and Casey?”

  “We never told them about the GPS. No need to worry them.”

  Bones spoke again. “But if they’re alive, I’d bet most everything I have that Summer has told them by now.”

  I spoke almost to myself. “Why take only them?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It seems targeted. Why take only Angel, Ellie, Casey, and Summer when sixty-three other women sat defenseless during the moments following the fire and leading up to the explosion? Our attention wasn’t focused on them. We were trying to put out the fire. Get kids out of the hospital. They had us by the jugular. If they really wanted to hurt Freetown, or they were in it for the money, why not back up a tractor trailer while our attention was elsewhere and load it up with as many as they could? It just doesn’t make sense.”

  Bones stared beyond me. “Unless it’s personal.”

  “Correct.”

  Bones continued, “The only reason to single them out and walk away with those four rather than two dozen is because somebody is trying to make a statement.”

  “You mean like the statement they made with my boat?”

  A nod. “Maybe.”

  “You think it’s Mr. Montana?”

  Bones shook his head once. “It could be anybody, but I wouldn’t exclude him. I might even put him at the top of the list.”

  “So let’s assume for a minute that it’s personal. If it is, then he’s not in it for the money. In fact, he may not sell them at all.”

  Bones scratched his beard. “I’d rather he auction them. Post their faces on the black web. That would buy us some time.”

  “If he doesn’t, we can be pretty certain this isn’t a business proposition. This is personal. And if it’s personal, and if he’s as wealthy as he’d have to be to pull off an explosion like that”—I pointed to the hospital—“both here and on my island, I can see two possible outcomes. First, he’ll unload them in Canada or Mexico. Wash his hands and either dump them or give them away.”

  “Which means their life expectancy isn’t long.”

  “I agree.”

  Bones raised a hand. Playing devil’s advocate. “Why would he do that?”

  “To hurt us.” A pause. “Revenge . . . plain and simple.”

  “But would a guy who just went through all this trouble get rid of them that quickly? Whatever happened here took planning. A guy who can plan like this wouldn’t score the winning touchdown only to hand the ball to the ref and jog to the sideline. He’d dance a little.”

  “If I was my enemy, I’d do backflips.”

  Bones nodded. “Which brings us to option two.”

  “He wouldn’t be in a hurry. He’d savor the moment and sit in his smug retreat while the dust settled. Once he felt enough time had elapsed, and we’d accepted their deaths, he’d begin trickling videos to my inbox, which he’d string out over time, depicting the hell in which they lived. Then, just before we lost our minds to grief, he’d dump their bodies where we’d find them or sell them overseas.”

  He interrupted me. “Which is the same thing.”

  I continued, “If this guy is hell bent on inflicting as much pain as possible on me, then he would want as much time to pass as possible to cause us as much pain as possible. Time for him means pain for us. Death by a thousand cuts. Somewhere we took something from him. Caused him pain. He’s not in this for the money. He probably has enough of that. He’s in it for wrath. Revenge. Somewhere in my past I took the one thing he values more than money.”

  Bones spoke without prompting. “Power.”

  “Exactly. Which explains all this. What happened here is not some haphazard thing some guy did in his spare time. This took planning, time, and patience. Which means his motivation is power. It’s the only explanation for the deception. For the timing. For taking the four of them rather than a boatload from the reception.”

  Bones considered this. “So what’s the play?”

  “Make him comfortable. Convince him we have no idea.”

  “While we search like crazy.”

  Eddie sat at the keyboard, waiting. When I nodded, he punched a few keys and the satellite initiated tracking and began its search. The countdown started. T-minus seven days and counting. A minute passed. Six days, twenty-three hours, and fifty-nine minutes. Then another. Six days, twenty-three hours, fifty-eight minutes. Halfway through the third minute, a single solid red light appeared. When it did, my heart jumped into my throat.

  “Where is that?” Bones asked.

  Eddie stared at the screen and clicked the mouse twice. “In a plane. Thirty-nine thousand feet. Final approach to Miami International.”

  “That’s not good.”

  Bones agreed. “He gets them on an international flight, we may never see them again.”

  Neither of us took our eyes off the solid light. Eddie read our concern. “It takes it a minute to read pulse.”

  Ninety seconds later, it held solid. No flash. Eddie tapped the screen with a pencil. “These things have been known to malfunction.”

  My tone changed. “Whose is that?”

  Keystrokes sounded. Eddie looked up at me. “Ellie.”

  “So either she’s dead or it’s not registering.”

  Eddie nodded and said nothing.

  “What would happen if it weren’t next to her? If it was, say, hanging on something?”

  “The satellite would pick up the track but not the pulse.”

  “So it would do exactly what
it’s doing.”

  Another nod.

  I turned to Bones. “If you were locked in a solid metal tube flying close to the speed of sound and you knew the satellite couldn’t read your tracker, what would you do?”

  “Hang it near a window.”

  I leaned against the wall and pleaded with the solid light to flash. It did not. I stared at the ceiling and spoke as much to myself as him. “All we have is supposition and assumption. For all we know, those girls are in Tahiti or Kosovo.”

  Bones agreed. “All we know is that the tracker is”—he tapped the screen—“right there.” He stepped closer. “What do your instincts tell you?”

  “Not sure. But something doesn’t feel right.”

  In these high-altitude parts of Colorado, Freetown was known as a private rehab and addiction facility. That’s all. People who worked here were screened relentlessly and most had either military or government backgrounds. Many of them had worked in intelligence. Our reason was simple—they knew the value of keeping a secret. We weren’t naïve enough to think all our secrets were safe, but it helped. You can’t rescue people from bad people and then expect to keep them safe if you’re constantly airing your laundry. This was why we’d never told anyone’s story, which made Casey so different.

  To ensure a cone of silence, Bones insisted on conducting all final interviews. So he could sniff out a fake. This bubble of self-protection meant we were very careful when the press started knocking on the gate and poking their nose in our business. Most often we responded with “No comment,” but tomorrow needed to be different.

  I stared at the solid red light. “I need to get to that light. And if they’re anywhere near it, get them out of wherever he’s taking them before he knows they’re gone. And I need his guard to be down more than it is.” I turned to Bones. “Which means I need you to buy some time. That smoke cloud won’t go unnoticed. It would help us if you put on your collar and fed the press what we want them to know.”