by W B Garalt
Executive Assistant Director Don Chace directed his secretary to book him onto the next flight to Halifax, off the record.
Chapter 23
On this critical Wednesday Chip, Danyel, and Brad were processing the scant discoveries of information and facts which they had gathered since they arrived on the scene in Nova Scotia the previous day. None of the trio were satisfied that they had obtained sufficient accurate data on which to base a strategy for further actions.
Brad was now dealing with a critical distraction. He had committed to making the Lear Jet available to another Partner back in Ithaca by Thursday. Obviously Chip and Danyel were compelled to pursue every lead they could uncover relating to the Bickford Lab investigation, since several Partners might be in dire circumstances. Brad knew that CEO Chip Chaplain had pushed the Bickford Lab acquisition from the start, right after Ernie’s death, probably as a favor to Ernie Bickford’s widow. Chip had also applied some of his executive privilege by rushing into the investigation without consulting the general partnership.
“I’ve got to get the Lear 45 back to Ithaca today for a prior scheduling,” Brad stated to his two fellow Partners.
“We can’t leave here now, there’s too much in question with our guys missing and not enough answers,” Chip answered. “I need every body and brain we have available to get to the bottom of what’s happening here.” Brad hesitated. “Chip’s need to stay in Nova Scotia at this point is partly due to guilt, and partly to cover his ass,” he calculated silently.
“I hear ya, Chip, but we can’t stop the wheels from turning in the rest of USAP. There’s a whole lot at stake besides this,” Brad argued, sounding more like a CEO than Chip was at this point. “I’ll set up transportation for bringing back the crew once you round them up,” he offered.
“I’ve got the Cessna amphibian which is ‘loaded for bear’, but it can’t carry six of us,” Danyel indicated to Chip, making finger quotes to represent the secret armament.
“Yeah, yeah,” Chip said with resignation. He realized that he had no choice under the current circumstances, but he also made a mental note to pay close attention to Brad’s challenge of his authority, for future reference. Brad shepherded them to the Cesena floatplane moored in the boathouse. He gave them a briefing, ‘just in case’, on how to load the stored missiles and how to activate and fire the covertly-installed hidden grenade launchers.
Later, after dropping Brad at the airport and watching him take off in the Lear 45 for his trip back to New York, Chip and Danyel drove north to the ferry depot to dig for information on the previous night’s activity. They were acting on the suggestion by Danyel that, if the investigation somehow drew the crew over to the mainland, the direct route would have been by airplane or boat. Since the weather during the last two days was poor, flying was unlikely.
After arriving at the Nova Scotia New Brunswick docking facility Chip and Danyel located the port manager’s office. The office secretary indicated that the manager was at lunch. She suggested that they might do the same while waiting for his return for a scheduled launching in forty-five minutes. Lacking any other option, the couple sought out a safe-looking café along the waterfront.
Over wine and crab cakes, the conversation centered on the crowd forming at the nearby ferry departing gate. The majority of travelers appeared to be native Canadian Indian family groups.
“I’ve had to look twice at some of the bigger guys,” Danyel mentioned. “Some of them could pass for Lamar.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Chip responded. “It’s possible that Lamar could have taken a hop over to the Mainland looking for family. I remember him saying something about a sizable government-sponsored Indian reservation on the ‘other side’. The others might have gone with Lamar as escorts,” he theorized. Danyel acknowledged the possibility. She seldom questioned Chip’s insight in matters relating to investigation, he was usually spot-on.
Relaxing here on a scenic waterfront, on a nice fall afternoon with a beautiful, fair-haired young woman, Chip’s mind began to wander. Peering into her icy, penetrating blue eyes, he was jolted back to reality as he was reminded that Danyel had been totally business-like since her arrival at the Bickford house during the storm. His conjured-up notions, which may have been caused by the romantic setting, withered and quickly died.
Chip glanced at his watch and noticed that forty-five minutes had sped by. He left a fifty-dollar bill on the café table as Danyel got up from her chair, and he accompanied her back to the port office.
The Port Manager was a rotund, red-faced man named Westcott. He had a shiny, bald scalp that reflected the early afternoon sun streaming through a transom window above his desk. He listened alternately to Chip and then to Danyel, as they described their quest for clues to the whereabouts of their cohorts. Chip sensed that Westcott understood every word that Danyel spoke but, when talking to him, he asked him to repeat quite often. It seemed like while Chip was speaking, Westcott was still thinking about Danyel. He also referred to Danyel by name but didn’t seem to remember Chip’s name.
Westcott did, however, know his business quite well. He indicated that the Halifax-New Brunswick schedule listings were tailored to coincide with the tide changes. Danyel questioned if the schedule could be predicted accurately. It was explained that the tides were astronomically pre-determined by the Canadian Meteorological Bureau. In eastern Canada the differential in depths between high and low tides along the shores was substantial. The forecasted high and low tides shown on the ferry schedule between Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, as an example, were computed not only for the times of each day, but also took into account the tidal depths which were influenced by phases of the moon on various calendar dates.
Although shallow-draft by design, Westcott explained, even some ferry boats were prevented from docking during extreme low tides in certain locations. Ferry runs were also reduced and sometimes canceled during winter months.
Chip thanked Westcott for the detailed information as the port manager was beaming a broad smile at Danyel.
“Oh, by the way,” Chip asked as though it was an afterthought. “We noticed quite a large group of Native Indian folks lining up for tickets. Is that typical here?”
“Actually it’s quite common,” Westcott replied. “From time-to-time they go in groups over to the ‘Forty Five River’. That’s where the Fundy National Park is located and there’s a reservation there.” Nodding a thank you, Chip and Danyel made their exit.
As they walked to the borrowed service car Danyel wondered aloud whether they, or at least one of them, should hang out by the ferry port to watch for any of the missing crew that might be returning. Chip considered it but suggested that under the circumstances they had better stick together. Danyel pointed out that she was capable of handling herself. Chip could not deny that realism, but his contention was, “First, the crew might never have gone to New Brunswick, and second, if they had gone, and returned a day behind schedule, they would certainly be expected to make contact.” Danyel acceded to that premise, but with reservations.
Danyel was thinking back to the vision of those men among the Native Canadians they had witnessed as they waited for the ferry. She was consumed with the image of the close resemblance they bore to Lamar. She couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a connection between the Native Canadian Indians and the loss of contact with Max and his companions.
Chapter 24
The sun was bright in the cloudless sky and, with a slight southwest breeze the weather was pleasant. What was far from pleasant, however, was this prolonged, brutal, nightmarish abduction Maggie and Max were enduring.
At their current location, a sizable ledge on the side of a small mountain, they had been sitting on a stone bench for at least a half-hour now. Manacled together as they were, each with one hand in front and one behind their backs, movement was minimized unless they murmured a message in advance. If one had an itch, one could scratch it or ask the other to. Itches
were not the most pressing problem for Maggie, however, because of her damaged, and possibly fractured, right hand. It was swollen and reddish-purple. Max asked continually about the pain and Maggie insisted that she felt a dull ache with numbness. Neither of them was able to diagnose those symptoms and even if they could, neither of them could remedy it. At least sharing it verbally provided the only available solace to Maggie. Max was dealing with slightly blurred vision accompanied by a dull, throbbing headache, probably from a slight concussion. Neither had consumed much food or drink in the past two days.
Their captors were being joined by Native Canadian Indians in groups of five or six. They were coming out of the brush on the river side of the ledge which overlooked the river valley below. These were the paddlers that Maggie and Max had watched as they crossed the river in canoes from the western side. Most of the groupings appeared to be comprised of a mature male, one-to-three females, and other, younger males. They were dressed in colorful, soft leather or short-napped fur garments adorned with an abundance of beaded and woven decorations. The males had feathers attached in various jaunty positions, mostly around headbands. Colorful face paint was also evident on some of the males.
The scene was developing into some sort of celebratory ritual and it was apparent to Max and Maggie that they were the subjects. They supposed that scenario was the case, and discussed it in whispers between them.
In the grotto- like cave opening opposite the river valley, a stir of activity heralded the eventful entrance of several new players. The captives had shifted their seat positions and were now facing the cave opening as, one-by-one, six male Native Indians of advanced ages emerged and sat on the ground, cross-legged, across the cave entrance. Off to their right side, three younger males dressed in regular civilian street clothes seated themselves similarly.
“Those are the ones that drugged us and brought us here!” Maggie exclaimed. Max acknowledged her outburst but shushed her so that they could follow the proceedings. Opposite the captors, a tall, stately Native Canadian Indian entered the arena from the left and bowed to the seated panel of elders.
“That’s Lamar!” Maggie shouted, “Lamar! Lamar!” She repeated it until an attendant from behind approached and covered her mouth with a sort of muzzle.
Upon hearing the outburst Lamar looked toward the two captives and raised a finger to his lips as a sign of silence to them. The ‘muzzler’ from behind Maggie loosened the muffle slowly, as if to test her silence. Satisfied that she would refrain from outbursts, he removed the muzzle.
On both sides of the cave opening the natives from the reservation across the river, and additional natives from wherever, were filing in and sitting down in a grand semi-circle facing the river. Sitting alone in the center of a forming human amphitheater, Max and Maggie realized that they were about to be judged for some misdeed against these people. They had no clue as to what that transgression might be and could only sit there on that stone bench and listen for what the accusation was based on.
“What, in God’s name, is Lamar doing here?” Max murmured. “Is he behind all of this?”
“It looks like he’s in charge of this to some extent,” Maggie responded. “But why?”
They sat dumfounded, unable to fathom the extent of their predicament or why at least somebody from USAP, a prominent, highly-regarded international security organization, hadn’t made an appearance before now.
Suddenly, a horn sounded from the darkness just inside of the cave opening. From up above on the mountainside, a horn sound blared in return. Upward on the hillside, above and to the right of the cave ledge, a large male could be seen standing in front of the old shed. He had the tapered end of an animal horn, either from a buffalo or bull, against his mouth. The horn sounded a second time. Maggie noticed that the doors to the shed were opened wide and described the scene to Max, knowing that his vision wasn’t focusing normally. Down below, the eldest-looking Native Indian among the seated panel at the cave, rose to his feet with arms outstretched. He was looking skyward and chanting in an unfamiliar language. When the chanting ended, he turned and motioned to someone within the cave. Two Native Indians in plain clothes, carrying or dragging a third person between them, emerged from the darkness and moved to a point facing the seated panel of six. The figure being dragged was released and slumped to the ground in a heap. After being pulled to a sitting position, shaken and slapped in the face, the male figure raised his head.
Maggie and Max simultaneously jerked to their feet.
“It’s Mario!” Maggie gasped as the ‘gagger’ came from behind and silenced her. Another grabbed Max and both he and Maggie were slammed back down on the stone bench. Mario, responding to Maggie’s outburst, groggily craned his neck sideways and peered at her and Max through his slits of eyes. His face was bruised and swollen.
Lamar rose and addressed the elders. In a rather loud voice he launched into a tirade of mixed English and some other language. He was given a stern directive from the eldest panel member which was an apparent order to stifle his discourse. Lamar, composing himself, bowed to the elders and spoke softly, inaudible to the gathering. This act served to calm the situation at hand.
One of the plain-clothed captors rose and addressed the panel. A fifteen-to-twenty word statement was made and he sat back down. There was murmuring among the panel of elders. Lamar then rose again and addressed the panel in a two, or three minute mixed-English discourse. Max nudged Maggie and whispered that it appeared as though Lamar was acting as counsel on Mario’s behalf and pleading for leniency in his defense, for some indistinguishable wrongdoing.
A murmuring among the elders followed and then an apparent question was posed to the plain-clothed group. A negative-sounding response was given. After a period of silence, the eldest of the panel rose and addressed the general gathering. An indistinguishable dialogue followed which was heard in complete silence by the audience. The elder turned to the cave interior and made a hand motion which could not be seen by the gathering. A horn signal was sounded and it was repeated by the horn blower at the shed on the ledge up above. A muted mass response arose from the gathering as Mario was pulled to his feet and dragged to an opening in the brush below the shed above. Laboriously, Mario’s transporters pulled him through the bushes along a series of stone steps which were partially hidden from the gathering. The steps apparently lead to the shed on the ledge above.
“What in hell is going on here?” Max asked rhetorically. “Have we been brought here to witness a trial of Mario for some wrong-doing to impress on us how evil he is, or something like that?” he asked further. “Max, he was really brutally beaten. I think they’re going to punish him, or kill him,” Maggie speculated in a whisper. “They can’t just let him go now, in his condition.”
“Yeah, but what about me, you, and Lamar being witness to it. These people can’t simply let this go as a warning to us because they know Mario works for USAP, and they must know that USAP has connections on a federal level here in Canada. I think this group is aware of that,” Max reasoned in a whispered response.
The world as Max and Maggie knew it had been turned totally up-side-down. Normal, sensible reasoning was not providing the answers to them now. They were at a loss for any recourse, and both sensed that time was not on their side.
Lamar was standing with two of the elders and having a private conversation with them. The other four were stepping away from the cave opening to get a better view of the upper ledge. As Lamar spoke he glanced at Maggie and Max and made hand gestures toward them which indicated that they were the topic of the conversation. Lamar seemed to be requesting something from the elders. He then turned toward the captives and walked over to them while waving away the guards.
“What in hell is going on here? Who are these people? What’s your connection with them?” Max asked the questions in rapid succession.
“These are my father’s people, he was born here,” Lamar stated coldly, as if he was a stranger. “I don’t h
ave good news for you. I have been begging them to let both of you, and Mario, leave with me, but to no avail.”
“Mario has been badly beaten and possibly drugged,” Maggie stated sternly. “How can you stand by and let this happen? Where are they taking him?” she asked.
Lamar explained that he didn’t know much of the language that the Native Indians used. He had learned some of the basics as a child. He pointed out that the six seated elders ruled the tribe and used the plain-clothed men as enforcers. When the USAP foursome arrived in Nova Scotia the Natives had recognized him from his physical resemblance to his father, who had been one of the elder rulers. Word of Lamar’s presence was passed among the locals. In the last two days he learned that his mother had died during the childbirth of his youngest brother. His father left the tribe, took a non-member woman as his second wife, and left the area. Lamar, 8 years old at the time, was taken along by his father and stepmother when they left for New York.
“What are you saying Lamar?” Max asked, realizing that his bond with Lamar through USAP was in question. “Are you going to go back to your roots and give up everything you have accomplished? Everything you have vested with USAP?”
Lamar frowned but did not respond immediately. He was processing Max’s interrogation and looking at Maggie with a strange, detached gaze.
“They are giving me a pass on their grievance against the invading inspection of Bickford Laboratory, as they perceive it to be, as best I can discern,” Lamar answered. “It’s probably because of my genealogy. Right now I’ve got to play the game, because otherwise I would be chained up along with you two.”