by Bob Blink
“As well as anyone here. He wasn’t around very long, and wasn’t what you’d call sociable.”
Laney dug out the picture he’d showed to Agnes and handed it to the young man.
“Yeah, that’s him,” the man said without hesitation. He handed the picture back with a helpful smile.
“And you are?” Laney asked.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Fred Hickam. I’m one of the reporters here.”
“Do you have any idea where Mr. Ray might have gone on his pursuit of the Pulitzer?”
“I think he’s trolling,” Fred said.
“Trolling?” Jake asked.
“Yeah. Looking around for something. His first freelance was a story from here in the city. Then a week later, we got something from New York. The last couple of submittals came from Europe. We haven’t had anything for more than two weeks now.”
“You are familiar with what he submits?” Laney asked.
Fred grinned sheepishly. “Wally has me take a first look to see if there is anything remotely interesting. The focus of our paper is somewhat narrow, and Henry had grander visions.”
“Is Ray a good reporter?” Jake asked.
“Surprisingly good. He had a nose for the facts, and is tenacious enough to go after them. Appears to have no other interests, and therefore spends a lot of time pursuing whatever grabs his attention.”
“Have any of the stories he sent in been published?” Jake asked.
“One of them. One he wrote just after getting to Europe.”
“It would seem difficult for him to support himself if only a single story in more than a month was accepted,” Laney noted.
“I think he submits stuff elsewhere,” Fred replied. “He has to know that this paper isn’t that broad. Probably gives Wally first shot, then submits elsewhere.”
“Has anyone had any contact with him since he left?”
“I doubt it. No one from here for certain. He hadn’t made any friends, and I think I’m the only one he spoke to other than Wally and Agnes. I tried to email him after that story was accepted, but never got a reply.”
“Do you have his email address?” Laney asked.
“Sure. Just a minute.”
Fred went back to his desk and flipped through an old fashioned rolodex. He wrote something on a yellow tablet, and then tore off the sheet.
“Here,” he said, handing it to Laney. “I doubt it will do you much good.”
Jake and Laney took a moment to open the drawers and have a quick look, but as promised by Fred Hickam, there was nothing to be found.
“What now?” Jake asked.
“I want to have a look at Ray’s house. I guess we need to drive over to Oakland.”
Fred Hickam watched as the two men drove away from the facility. He walked downstairs and out into the open, where he pulled out his cell phone and made a call.
“The man you said to watch for was just here. He was pretending to be from the FBI. Another man was with him. The way he dressed and carried himself, he might have actually been FBI.”
Fred listened for a moment and then said, “I understand.” Then he hung up and headed back into the building.
Chapter 7
Laney drove, but Jake acted as navigator as they found their way onto the freeway and headed across the Bay Bridge. Laney gave Jake the address which he entered into the vehicle’s mapping program, and he quickly saw that Ray had had a place near the intersection of Shattuck and Telegraph in Oakland. It was just a short distance off the 24 Freeway, and Jake knew enough to get them within a couple of blocks without electronic aids.
“I think that’s it,” Jake said, as he pointed out a dark brown stucco house nestled between a pair of similar structures which looked in far better repair. Henry Ray wasn’t one to keep his place nice. Even the lawn had mostly disappeared leaving behind dirt and a number of large trees with huge gnarly roots that snaked across the yard. The circumference of one of the massive trees was large enough that Jake was certain he wouldn’t be able to reach all the way around with both arms fully extended. The leaves were mostly gone save for a few withered hangers-on that had somehow survived the winter. Finding the house had required several loops around the small neighborhood streets, but when Laney pulled in next to the curb, Jake was able to confirm the address. He passed the good news to Laney, and they climbed out of the car to have a look.
“Not the best neighborhood,” Laney observed as they walked up the cracked walkway to the porch.
The wooden slats of the porch were in need of refinishing. They were no longer even, and several squeaked as they walked across to the tired and worn door. There was no doorbell, so Jake pounded on the door. No sound of footsteps or acknowledgement came from inside. That wasn’t unexpected. The place had been visited by the FBI before, but no one had been home.
“We should have stopped downtown,” Laney said. “Carlson should have forwarded the search warrant by now. Now we’ll either have to go back to the City, or find a police station or Kinkos somewhere.”
“Kinkos?” Jake asked.
“Someplace with a public fax where she can send us the paperwork,” Laney explained.
Jake shook his head in amusement. He turned away from the door and examined the neighborhood. He spotted an elderly gentleman sitting on his porch across the way, watching them with some interest. A trio of young toughs was huddled together on the corner three houses away. While they tried to look uninterested, they also were keeping a watch on Jake and Laney. It was likely the house hadn’t had so many visitors in months.
“We haven’t got time for that,” Jake said. He turned back toward the door and planted a solid kick opposite the door handle. He had noticed that there was no dead bolt, and the aging wood hadn’t looked very strong. His assessment was correct, and the door slammed back with a loud bang.
“Jake, we can’t simply break in. There are rules and a procedure to follow.”
“I’m sure there is” Jake replied. “Trust me, it’ll be fine. Let’s see what we can find.” Then he stepped into the house.
Uncomfortably, Laney followed along behind him. Carlson had said to keep Jake out of trouble, but he was certain she wouldn’t be happy when she heard about this. The room was dark with the shades all drawn, but when Jake tried the light switch, the power was still on. The low wattage light bulb didn’t fully illuminate the room, but it made it possible to see the ancient furniture and general dusty appearance of the room.
“Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in a while,” Laney noted.
Jake nodded and led the way. The kitchen confirmed Laney’s observation. The door to the refrigerator was propped open and the light inside was off. The shelves were barren, everything having been cleared away at the time the unit was powered down. Other than a few canned goods in the pantry, all other food items had been cleared away as well.
“He planned on going away,” Laney observed.
The rest of the house supported the observation. The beds were stripped and bare, and both the closest and the dresser showed signs of missing items. What remained was of poor quality and poorly organized.
It didn’t take long to search the small home. Clearly Ray had lived here for a long time. Besides the kitchen and living room there was only the bathroom and two bedrooms. The second bedroom had been made into a work study area. Three walls were covered with bookcases filled with books on a variety of subjects. Manila folders were stacked everywhere, although all looked old and irrelevant. Jake and Laney thumbed through several, but quickly decided they could be ignored. The only thing of interest was a relatively new map pinned to the wall next to the desk. A series of pins had been stuck into the map. They were connected by a piece of red string.
“He plotted out a route,” Laney observed.
Jake noted that the first pins were from England, and then France. Fred Hickam had said one of Ray’s freelance articles had come from England.
The sirens that Jake had been hearing for
a while were suddenly much louder and came to a whooping top just outside.
“Company,” Laney said unhappily. “It appears one of the neighbors called in our B&E.”
Jake walked over to a window, pulled aside the shade and peered outside. A Black and White with two policemen was indeed parked out front. Both men were out of the vehicle and headed toward the house. One had his hand on his service weapon, while his partner carried a shotgun. He quickly looked around the house, and decided there was nothing else they would find here without a careful and systematic search. Even then he doubted there would be anything. Clearly Ray had not been operating out of here for some time.
Laney had taken his badge folder and had slipped it into the breast pocket of his jacket so that the badge was prominently displayed. Jake smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder, and then back-tracked.
* * * *
“Interesting,” Jake said softly.
“What did we find?” Agent Laney asked after looking at Jake and realizing what must have happened. Laney examined the door that he’d had the feeling Jake intended to break down.
“Let’s go,” Jake said and turned back to the car. Once inside and headed back toward the city, Jake explained what had been inside.
“A map of Europe?” Laney asked.
“It looks like he had a plan of some kind with a series of sites he wished to visit. Unfortunately, there was nothing that explained what he was looking for. Carlson should send someone official with the search warrant. It might be interesting to compare the map to locations he’s known to have been in Europe.”
“We can tell her during the call,” Laney suggested.
“Let’s see if Wally has returned on the way back home,” Jake suggested.
Wally was back, but he was of no help. He claimed to know nothing about Ray, and was too busy with getting the evening edition out to really focus on their questions. Jake would have liked to speak with Fred Hickam again, but he wasn’t around any longer. Agnes had said he was off on a story across town. They would have to return in the morning if they wanted to see him.
Carlson had listened carefully to their report. She had made progress of her own, and summarized the results of the day’s efforts.
“We dug up the old police file on Pati Ray’s death,” Carlson said. “The report records her brother having said she was an erratic driver and hadn’t been paying close attention. Nothing in the officer’s report indicated that Henry Ray felt the accident was anything other than negligence on the part of his sister. It was a single vehicle accident. She drifted into a parked construction vehicle, impaling herself on a load of steel pipes. Henry was lucky to have survived himself. The front windshield was totally destroyed. Apparently he saw what was coming at the last minute and ducked.”
“Did you learn any more about her family?” Jake asked.
“Nothing on the father. That was nearly two decades ago. One of the neighbors who still lives where Pati was born indicates the mother had a large number of men passing through those days. She had no idea if any of them might have been the father. I doubt we will have any luck in that area. Only Henry is still around, and he’s the one we are looking for.”
“Pati is a little easier. She lived in a small apartment in Berkeley. She played at being a student. She was in with the drug group, and like her mother seemed to be involved with a lot of guys. Several of those still living there indicated she was a bit of a scatterbrain, and to their knowledge didn’t have any single guy she was close to. It’s unlikely that we’ll find anything there, but we’ll keep looking.”
“So unless we find Henry, we’re unlikely to know much,” Jake observed. “What about the trucker and the bombers?”
“The bombers we haven’t located. The bombs were put in place some time ago, and simply waited until the day they were to be triggered. We don’t know who placed them, not who triggered the explosion, that of course, now never happened. We did however, find your trucker.”
“I’ll bet he denies everything,” Jake guessed.
“Of course! While he has a long rap sheet, this time around he didn’t commit any crime. We are guessing he was told to make the attempt on Zack, and if he wasn’t able to locate him, to simply drop the matter after a couple of days. We searched his truck and found five thousand dollars in reasonably new bills stashed away. The trucker claims the money is the result of a gambling windfall that he didn’t want to report to the IRS. For the moment we had to let him go, but we’ll keep tabs on him. It’s unlikely whoever hired him will approach him again though.”
“Five thousand dollars, and he didn’t have to do anything,” Laney observed. “Someone is being generous. It didn’t look to us as if this Ray has that kind of money.”
“His basic bank account balance is relatively small,” Carlson said. “We did locate another account that has more than two hundred thousand in it. Unlike the bank account, it hasn’t seen any action in over a year. He might have other money set aside somewhere we haven’t found.”
“The latest submittals to the paper agree with what you said about account withdrawals,” Jake said. “It would seem he is in Europe somewhere, or at least he wants it to look that way. Have you had any luck having someone check out where he’s stayed over there?”
“We’ve made some requests of friends over there,” Carlson replied. “It’s interesting that he doesn’t show up daily. He’ll be in a hotel, then is not recorded for several days. He either is staying in some small hostel that doesn’t report foreigners like they are supposed to, or is sleeping in the van his records show he rented.”
“Or he has another ID he is using,” Laney suggested.
“Clearly he knows he needs to keep a low profile,” Jake suggested. “I’d still like to know how he learned about me.”
The next morning after a brief call to Carlson where she reported no progress as yet, they drove to the cemetery in Oakland where Pati Ray was buried. The woman in the small building that sat at the entrance was able to give them a grave number and the general directions to the plot, but it still took them twenty minutes to find the marker.
Jake read the inscription on the stone. “Pati Ray. Born Jan 18, 1993. Died April 23, 2012. Life prematurely ended by governmental manipulation of natural order.”
“That’s an odd inscription,” Laney noted. “It doesn’t sound anything like what the officer reported her brother claimed at the scene of the accident.”
Jake murmured his agreement, but he was more interested in the stone itself. It looked to be newer than the small cement inset over the plot itself. He was certain that it had come later. They went back to the woman who had directed them to the plot, but she had no record of a change to the stone.
“Odd findings,” Carlson said that afternoon when they called her back. “Investigators have visited several of the places he supposedly stayed. At two of them the staff remembered him. They report a young man, mid-twenties, with very blond hair and blue eyes.”
“It’s not him,” Laney replied.
“Why would he choose someone so obviously unlike himself if he wanted to lay a false trail?” Jake asked. “He wants us to know, but why?”
None of them could come up with any answers.
“He could be anywhere,” Carlson reminded them.
“I’m going to have to go back and deal with him at a time when we know where he is,” Jake said making up his mind.
“Maybe you should wait a few days,” Laney suggested. “We might learn something more.”
“I doubt it,” Jake replied. “He knew what we would do, and prepared for it. Meanwhile, Karin and Janna are stashed away for an indefinite period. I sense this guy will wait until the three of us are back together and will carry out his threat if he hasn’t seen any action as requested. I need this matter resolved.”
“When will you go back to?” Carlson asked.
“The last time he was seen was forty-five days ago when he left for his freelance assignment. That seems
like a good place to start.”
“Forty-five days,” Laney whistled. “Can you go back that far?”
“I did that much once before. It isn’t pretty, but I think it should be possible. Near as I’ve found, there aren’t any hard boundaries.”
“When will you go?”
“There’s no point in waiting,” Jake said. “Thanks for what you’ve done. I’ll be talking to your former selves.”
Then he back-tracked. And back-tracked. And back-tracked.
Chapter 8
Jake nearly stumbled as the memories settled in. He didn’t try to sort them out just yet, and he headed for the bathroom medicine chest. This one was a doozie. Why did a multiple jump cause such a headache. Was it the combined input of multiple bits of memory? He didn’t know, but he needed to sit for a moment and let his mind settle. He was glad that Karin and Janna were out shopping for the moment. He had chosen today’s date for the last jump in part for that very reason. He wanted a chance to recover from the transitions, as he knew he was going to need to explain to Karin exactly what was going on. He also liked today because it was a couple of days before Ray was scheduled to make his last appearance at the paper before he headed off to parts unknown for his personal assignment task.
Jake settled into the chair and drank the coke along with several aspirin. The aspirin worked better than other headache relievers, although he didn’t know why. His memory told him that Karin would return today a little after four. That gave him two hours to settle down. He could call Carlson and make her aware of this new situation, at least new to her perspective, but he pushed the thought aside. He wasn’t up to it, besides he wanted a chance to visit the paper all alone without any distracting inputs. There was nothing they would know that would help.
As he rubbed his temples, Jake realized that if he was somehow forced to make a jump back two years, he’d have to do so in stages, with a day of recovery thrown in periodically along the way. A single jump would probably kill him. Then he’d have the trial of reliving two years of his life, trying not to make changes in matters he didn’t want altered. It was something he intended to try and avoid if at all possible.