by Jay Klages
A vital-sign monitor stood next to the bed, indicator lights unlit and the blood pressure cuff lying on the top. The toilet and sink were in the far left corner of the room, a foldable steel chair by the closed entry door on his right. The room looked grungy.
He reached to scratch the top of his itchy head and instead felt some kind of bandage there.
What happened? I was driving, sliding, rolling.
Natural light shone through a rectangular window. He tried to sit up and take a closer look but couldn’t lift his chest off the bed. When he pulled the blanket farther down his body, he saw two thick black nylon restraints running over his chest and midsection in parallel, continuing around the sides of the bed and underneath it.
What’s this? Why the straps?
The door opened toward him and he shut his eyes. Quiet footsteps approached his bed and paused. He smelled the slightest trace of perfume. A thumb gently pulled his right and left eyelids up while a flashlight shone in each eye.
He kept his eyes open. The caregiver was an attractive woman in her late thirties with blue eyes, olive skin, and black hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was tapping notes on a tablet computer.
“Where am I?” he asked.
The woman’s eyes connected with his and she took a small step back from the bed. She wore a brown, crinkly long-sleeved shirt with two flap breast pockets. A small gold patch was affixed to the right pocket. With the matching cargo pants, the outfit looked outdoorsy—not typical hospital garb.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Sims?”
She knows my name.
“Not so good. Where am I?”
“You just take it easy. You’ve had a long night and long day. I put eight staples in the top of your head to close a nasty laceration, but you don’t appear to have a concussion. You had a dislocated elbow and your back has a large contusion. You were also very dehydrated, but you should be good with your fluids now.”
“Thanks for the first aid, but I’d still like to know where I am and why I’m strapped in this bed.”
“Your questions will be answered soon enough, I’m sure.” She was pleasant but didn’t smile. “Just rest some more and I’ll check you again tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? I can’t get to the toilet if I’m strapped in here.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that right now. I put a catheter in for you. We’ll take it out before your meeting tomorrow. Now I’m going to give you something to keep the pain down so you’ll get some more sleep.”
“Meeting?”
“Uh-huh.” She stuck him with a needle through the unbuttoned seam of his pant leg and tossed the syringe in a red plastic disposal can. She turned on her way toward the door.
“Try to sleep, Mr. Sims. You need it.”
He looked at the catheter running into the urine bag and then gazed back up at the ceiling. The painkiller made his eyes begin to shut after five minutes.
As his mind relaxed, he remembered lying on the ground on his back, looking up at a beautiful blue sky filled with puffy, swirling storm clouds. Cool, wet grass cushioning his head.
The sound of flies buzzing around him broke the calm. He sat up and noticed he was bleeding from somewhere on his head. Bleeding like a leaky faucet. The blood had soaked through the top of his wet T-shirt, giving it a shiny maroon sheen.
He got up and tried to walk, but could only shuffle for a while until his boot dragged and caught an exposed root. He fell down hard and rolled on his back, wheezing and coughing. The flies were all over him. He thought he was going to die.
A large black ATV approached and a tall man wearing a black helmet and a loose gray shirt dismounted.
He couldn’t see the man’s face behind the dark helmet visor, but he spotted a name on his shirt as he leaned in closer.
CONSTANTINO.
CHAPTER 7
Saturday, June 8
3:30 p.m. (PDT)
Portland, Oregon
Agents Velasquez and Morris walked together down the fourth-floor hall in the main office building of the Portland FBI field office, a three-building complex on eight acres at Cascade Station, Portland PDX Airport. When they reached the briefing room, they opted for a quick stand-up meeting. Morris took a large swig from a one-liter bottle of Diet Coke and shut the door.
“So what the hell happened with Flash?” Morris asked.
Velasquez set his notebook computer down on the table along with a digital map printout with portions he’d highlighted in yellow. Velasquez was thirty-six years old, a short man with dark-brown eyes and clipped brown hair spiked in front. Even though he was 30 pounds over the 149-pound weight class of his Oregon State wrestling days, he exuded a natural athleticism and often paced around in a hunched stance like he was stalking an opponent for a takedown.
Velasquez traced the paper with his finger. “The GPS shows his vehicle stopped short of the turn to Lost Lake Campground. Hard to tell why . . . he pulled off on the border of the private land boundary—right here. He’s been sitting in the same spot for over twelve hours now. No calls from the cell. There were a few bad rainstorms in the area yesterday and foggy conditions.”
“Shit. Do you think he got stuck?”
Velasquez shrugged.
“Maybe. A Jeep could get stuck on a road like that after a storm even with four-wheel drive. Part of the road could have washed out. If that happened, he’d probably get to Lost Lake on foot, then try to reach out for help at the campground. Make a phone call if he could get a little coverage. Maybe even call the two women he was going to meet with. We talked through these different scenarios, including car problems.”
“I don’t like it,” Morris said. “He’s practically inside the private land. If you’re far enough inside the boundary in a vehicle, a Chapter patrol is alerted and turns you around. That’s what they do unless you somehow book an approved appointment at AgriteX.”
“So do we try and reestablish contact? Have someone call his phone?”
“No, not yet. And I don’t want anyone calling his phone. Let’s have Alderville check the campground in twenty-four hours. I just want to confirm whether he’s there or not. If he’s not there, then most likely they’ve got him.”
CHAPTER 8
Monday, June 10
10:00 a.m. (PDT)
Unknown location
Kade awoke when he heard the door open and footsteps follow—two men, both wearing the crinkly-shirt-and-cargo-pants getup, except in black. They unbuckled his straps and placed him in a wheelchair, handcuffing his right wrist to the chair arm. He no longer had IVs, and his catheter and urine bag had been removed.
He wiped his eyes and tried to get rid of the imaginary glue making them heavy. The man who took hold of the wheelchair was black with a lanky frame and hair in cornrows. The other guy walking in front was white and below average height, with muscles bulging through his uniform like his shirt was a size too small. They wheeled him out of the room and pushed him down the hallway. The surroundings looked kind of like a college dorm without the noise.
They passed rooms with closed doors on each side of the hall as he rolled along, and when they rounded the corner, he looked through a large window panel into what looked like a recreation room. He saw a few chairs, tables, couches, and a baby grand piano, but no occupants.
“Better put the hood on him,” the escort in front of him said in a gravelly voice.
The wheelchair stopped and a moldy-smelling black canvas hood slid over his head from behind. They resumed moving again for a few more minutes, making several turns and pausing at times. Kade heard doors open and close, preceded by beeps from what sounded like access-card readers. He came to a stop for about a minute before someone pulled off the hood and he had to squint in the bright fluorescent light.
“Hood smells like ass,” he said just loud enough to be heard.
The men said nothing. They positioned his wheelchair next to a table with a chair on the opposite side. Another chair was bolted to the floor besi
de him. He saw an opaque glass panel running across the wall on his left and heard the sound of a ventilation fan. The two men lifted him into the bolted-down chair and the black man transferred Kade’s handcuff to a metal loop on the chair arm.
He heard a door open and click shut behind him. A man in his early forties with brown eyes, slicked-back dark brown hair, and the stubble of a beard dusting his face came into view and sat down on the opposite side of the table. He wore the same outdoor sportswear combo that everyone else had on, his brown in color like the nurse woman’s and with the same sort of gold patch on the pocket. The logo on the patch looked like a stick-figure evergreen tree. Kade glanced under the table and noticed this guy wore nylon-and-leather-military-style black boots.
The man pulled out a spiral notepad and a pen from a thin leather case, took a brief look at Kade, fidgeted in his chair, and laid a black pistol on the tabletop about five feet away.
Sig Sauer nine millimeter.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Sims.”
Kade stared at the man’s hair. It didn’t look like it could hold much more styling gel in it.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Sims,” the man repeated louder. His mouth formed a natural frown, and now the muscles around his jaw began to tighten.
Kade thought back to mid-May and the day he’d spent with Jerry Lerner reviewing interrogation techniques he could expect. Two days later Jerry had surprised him with an all-night “training” session. Jerry forced him to stand for four hours, naked, in a cold room while being grilled by a guest interrogation expert. Smacked around a few times, then left alone in isolation. A mixture of loud music interspersed with screams and other strange, random noises ensured he got no sleep. That night just plain sucked.
The man slapped the notepad and pen down and put his elbows on the table, touching his hands to his chin. He sniffed periodically like he had allergies or a cold.
“Look, Mr. Sims, I just want to have a conversation. This doesn’t have to be hard unless you want it to be.”
The word conversation reminded him of Lerner telling him to keep his conversation light and his sense of humor intact, without being disrespectful. “Don’t act like a prisoner or an obedient basic trainee,” Lerner had instructed. “And try not to look like a cat in a room fulla rockin’ chairs.”
Stay strong. Control the situation when you can.
“Can I get a glass of water?” Kade asked.
The man nodded to someone behind him.
“And since you all know my name,” Kade added, “I’d like to know who you are, please.”
“My name is Joshua Pierce,” the man said. “I’m the special assistant, reporting to Marshall Owens.”
“That clears everything up,” Kade said and yanked hard on his handcuff. “Who’s Marshall Owens?”
“Mr. Owens is our chief executive officer—he leads our organization,” Pierce said.
“And so where am I right now?”
“Don’t you already know, Mr. Sims? We’d like to learn more about you and why you’re here. Do you know why you’re here?”
“No, I don’t. I thought this was like the park ranger station or something.”
A brownish recycled paper cup of water appeared on the table and Kade drank it down in a few gulps.
“I think you know exactly why you’re here,” Pierce said.
Pierce’s phrase gave him a chill.
“Yeah, I’m all banged up. I think I had a car accident, but I’m not sure. It’s hard to remember right now, that’s all.”
He thought about the planned meet-up with Michele Blanford or Tanya Hollowell. They both probably tried to contact him after he was a no-show, but with no response from him, hopefully they just thought he backed out at the last minute and weren’t overly concerned.
“Where is your car?”
“I don’t know. I was thinking you might be able to tell me what happened.”
“What were you doing on our private land? How did you find us?”
Kade sighed and licked his dry lips.
“I don’t know. Look, if I missed the ‘No Trespassing’ sign, I’m sorry. I just remember it was so foggy and rainy I couldn’t tell where the hell I was.”
“Our organization, our land, is private,” Pierce said. “We just don’t get people wandering out our way. Especially not people with your background. So I’ll ask again: why are you here?”
Kade shook his head like he was trying to wake himself up.
“I was on my way to the Lost Lake camping area to hang out and do some fishing. That’s it.”
“You’re very clever,” Pierce said. “So you came all the way here to fish at Lost Lake?”
“Yeah, from Manzanita. It’s really not that far.”
“No, no, no.” Pierce wagged his finger. “You’ve come from much farther away than that. From the Beltway. Do you still work for the Pentagon?”
“What?” Kade paused and shook his head again. “Uh, no, I was separated from the army about a year ago. Let’s just say they didn’t think I was very clever. And now I don’t feel clever. I feel like shit. I’m supposed to be on vacation. Or at least I was. It doesn’t look like I made it to the lake. I’d be glad to just get on my way and—”
“Vacationing out here? From Herndon, Virginia? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Yeah, vacation. Some camping and fishing. Digging some of those razor clams I heard about. That was the plan.”
“When did you arrive in Oregon?”
Kade took a few seconds, like he was having trouble remembering.
“Saturday. I can’t tell you what day it is today, but I’m guessing I’ve been in Oregon about a week.”
Pierce scratched down a note. “And when’s your flight back?”
“It was the second Saturday after that. June fifteenth, I think.”
“What airline did you take?”
“Southwest.”
“What flight number was it?”
Kade shut his eyes for moment. “God, I don’t remember. There were two flights—Dulles to Chicago Midway and Midway to Portland. Both on Southwest.”
“Where have you been hanging out this past week?” Pierce asked.
“Uh, let’s see. Oswald West, Nehalem Bay, Cannon Beach, Ecola State Park, Tillamook, Saddle Mountain, Astoria and Fort Clatsop.”
“And why did you decide to go to Lost Lake, of all places?”
“I don’t know. It was on my hit list like everything else. A few girls mentioned it to me online when I was planning my trip. And then someone else mentioned it to me in the campground I’m staying at, so I figured I’d check it out.”
“What campground?” Pierce asked.
“The KOA in Manzanita.”
“You brought camping gear with you?”
“No, I rented most of it from the REI in downtown Portland.”
“And what else were you going to do while you were here?”
He gave Pierce a look like he was getting exhausted.
“Some more sightseeing. Beach time. Someone told me about surfing lessons in Seaside a while back, so I thought I might—”
“What did you do at the Pentagon?”
Kade rolled his eyes. “I was an analyst before I was separated. And now I work at Home Depot.”
“What did you analyze?”
“Information.”
“Intelligence?”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever you want to call it. Mostly a lot of reading. You know, world economic studies, foreign affairs, that sort of thing.”
“And so your goal in coming here was to collect intelligence on our intellectual property?”
“Huh?” Kade made sure to look right at him. “Whoa. You’re kidding, right?”
“Not at all. You could still work for the army, or the FBI, or maybe another company. We know your academic credentials. And since our network is very wide, I’m sure we’ll figure out who you’re working for. So why don’t you just tell us yourself?”
“Look,” Ka
de said, “I’m no longer getting a government paycheck, I swear. Only Home Depot. And trust me, it’s not very big. Can I go now, please?”
Pierce shifted in his chair and stared at Kade like he was searching for signals in his face. He then looked at the two escorts and nodded his head once. Kade wondered what was going on behind him but didn’t turn his head.
“We have a dilemma, Mr. Sims. Now that you know about us, we have to decide what we’re going to do with you. It can’t be a coincidence you’re here. So I’ll ask again, who sent you?”
Kade shook his head and flexed his arm in the sling. He thought of other words he could say but decided to sit silently and stare at the tabletop. He took a deep breath while the short, white escort, whose nametape read IGNATY, circled in front of him. Ignaty’s tiny eyes looked like they were stamped right into his mean face. Skin creases and a few light scars radiated out from the sockets. He appeared neckless, like his shaved head was mounted right on his sloped shoulders and fireplug body.
Kade only had time to clench his teeth before Ignaty’s fist landed hard across his jaw. The blow was followed by a hard backhand slap before Kade could raise his elbow to shield his face. Ignaty grabbed Kade’s hair above the back of his neck and jerked his head back to wrap him in a chokehold.
“Mr. Sims?” Pierce asked. “Are you going to answer me?”
Kade gurgled something unintelligible until Ignaty relaxed his grip. He coughed and attempted to shout.
“Look, tell me what to say, if it gets me out of here, okay? I promise I’ll forget this whole fucking thing. But if you’re going to keep me here, I want to speak with the police or a lawyer. You can’t just hold me hostage.”
“Holding hostages is an ineffective way of doing business,” Pierce said. “You’re not answering the question, and you’re making this difficult. Who sent you?”
Kade tasted blood running into his mouth from somewhere on his face.
“I wanted to see the Pacific . . . I’ve never seen it. And I heard about Oregon’s awesome beaches, so I—”
Ignaty punched Kade hard in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him and doubling him over. Ignaty then shoved him upright, grabbed his hair again, and held his head in place while landing another punch to his cheek. Another hard backhand slap followed.