by Draker, Paul
Cassie gave a resigned sort of chuckle. “Your daughter told me it was okay for us to be friends. But I couldn’t be your girlfriend, because you couldn’t have a girlfriend—not even a nice one. It made her mom too upset.”
The ache in my chest sharpened. I turned my head away.
“So, while you were off breaking that creepo’s arm—no, don’t insult my intelligence; it made the six o’clock news—while you were busy doing that, your dear, gentle little girl was asking me to please not be a homewrecker. But she was so sweet about it.” Cassie’s voice hitched. “She tried so hard not to hurt my feelings, but she could see I felt terrible anyway, so she gave me a hug. That’s why I’m here getting drunk right now.”
Cassie scooted back a little and used her foot to push away the little bottles on the nightstand, making them clink.
“Especially after the way you treated me five minutes later, as though I was abducting her. Look, I get it that you have serious trust issues, so I’m trying not to take it personally, but I’m still hurt.” She gave a bitter laugh. “Serves me right for getting involved with a married man.”
“See how Amy manipulated you?” I said. “You were never a homewrecker—you didn’t get involved with a married man.”
“Yes, I did,” she said. “Deep down where it really counts, Trevor, you’re the most married guy I’ve ever met.”
“But still, don’t you think Amy was being…?”
“Manipulative?” Cassie laughed. “That’s you. Not her. She’s just a sweet little girl trying to cope with the unfair hand she’s been dealt.”
I cleared my throat. “At the pool, you didn’t see—”
“I did see,” Cassie said. “What she did, why she did it—everything. Again, you’re not giving me enough credit. But you can’t blame Amy for what happened. It’s not her fault.”
Even though I knew that my daughter was safe, asleep in the other room, I felt an overpowering urge to go check on her, to reassure myself she was all right. I was touched that Cassie understood her so well and liked her. But most people weren’t as smart as Cassie.
To them, Amy was just a psychopath—a monster.
“I know it’s not her fault,” I said. “She can’t help the way she is. Frankenstein is trying to come up with a solution, but he doesn’t seem to be making much progress.”
“Technology can’t solve all the world’s problems,” Cassie said. “Just be her father, Trevor. That’s what she needs most from you.”
She raised an arm into my field of view, with her pinky extended, pointing at the ceiling. “And be my friend. That’s what I need most from you. Try to trust me a little.”
Knowing she was right, I reached up too and linked my little finger through hers. “Friends.”
She didn’t let go. “Then stop hiding things from me, like my uncle does. Like Gray does. Maybe, together, the two of us can figure out what’s really going on, before someone else gets killed.”
I came to a decision. Feeling as if a tremendous weight had been lifted off me, I squeezed her pinky in mine.
“Tomorrow, Cassie, I promise I’ll tell you everything. It’s a big mess. But first I have to show you something, with Frankenstein—something that’s going to make all this work out great in the end.”
“Cryptic,” she said. “But it feels like progress. I’ll take it. Now, you better leave, because I’m drunk and emotionally vulnerable right now, and if you stay any longer, I’m afraid I might end up doing something that would upset your ex-wife and disappoint your daughter.”
CHAPTER 74
The next morning, after our flight back to the Reno-Tahoe airport, I watched Amy disappear through the smoked-glass doors of the security checkpoint, once again accompanied by a flight attendant for the short trip back to her mother in California. As I stood waving to her, it took some effort to keep my breathing slow and even and to keep the smile on my face from breaking. My daughter turned at the threshold and waved back, her own expression troubled, and the hole in my heart tore a little wider.
Then she was gone.
“You’ll see her soon, Trevor.” Cassie laid a hand on my arm. “Let me buy you breakfast.”
Staring at the closed security doors, knowing I wouldn’t breathe easy again until Jen texted me that Amy had arrived safely, I shook my head. “Not hungry.”
“Well, I am,” Cassie said. “So while I eat, you can talk. You did say ‘tomorrow.’ Well, it’s tomorrow now.”
“I’ll tell you everything once we get to the lab.”
“No. Right now. I’m holding you to your promise.” Without waiting for a response, she walked away from me. Passing a bronze statue of a skier at the entrance of a small airport eatery called the Mountain Diner, she turned and beckoned.
I followed her inside.
We sat down. Cassie ordered some waffles with bacon, and I ordered an egg-white omelet, no cheese. The waitress left. I met Cassie’s serious gaze and tried to decide where to begin.
“If you’re really my friend, Trevor,” she said, “then stop treating me like a child. What are Grayson Linebaugh and my uncle lying to me about, and why are people dying because of it?”
Taking a deep breath, I said, “Do you know what ‘extraordinary rendition’ means?”
Cassie got very quiet all of a sudden. I could almost see the neuronal synapses firing, sending a cascading avalanche of electrochemical signals through her brain as she processed those two words and connected the dots. Her eyes widened.
She got it. But I wanted to make sure.
“‘Extraordinary rendition,’” I said, “is politician-speak for the covert apprehension of enemy combatants and their extralegal transport to a clandestine location within the territory of another sovereign nation—outside U.S. legal and judicial oversight—where they can be detained indefinitely and subjected to more rigorous forms of interrogation than custody on United States soil would allow.”
“And the Pyramid Lake reservation…” Cassie’s mouth dropped open. “You’re dreaming…!”
“After Nine-eleven, we quit fucking around and took off the gloves,” I said. “We’re fighting a war on terror, and for our kids’ and grandkids’ sake, we can’t afford to lose. But where do we stash the people we suspect of being terrorists, after we grab ’em? Where do we keep them, out of sight so we can do whatever we want to them?”
“You got this wrong somehow,” she said. Shaking her head hard, she leaned back from the table. “There’s no way. You got this wrong.”
“Remember,” I said, “nowadays, it’s not just al-Qaeda and foreign terrorists we have to worry about. Homeland Security has to deal with domestic and homegrown threats, too. American terrorists—where do we put them, Cassie? Shipping them off to a Guantánamo Bay won’t work. It’s too public.”
“Oh my God, just stop.” Cassie held up a hand.
“And how do we ‘extract’ the information we need, once we’ve got them? Torture is so medieval, so low-tech. So unreliable. Especially since DARPA’s already solved the interrogation problem for us, using technology.”
She pushed her upheld palm at me to shut me up. “I need to think for a minute.” Eyes narrowing, she stared at me, her dark, liquid gaze skittering across the muscle groups of my face. “I can see that you do believe what you’re saying right now, Trevor. So, before I freak out completely, where’s your proof?”
She ticked off points on her fingers. “Sure, we saw some kind of ultrasecure building hidden inside the warehouse, but it was so small it could be anything, really. Is Ronald Bennett why you think this is going on—a Homeland Security deputy director who shows up here for no obvious reason? Or is it the fact that someone’s been secretly using Frankenstein whenever you’re not around? Because if that’s all you’ve got, it’s a hell of a leap—”
“They bring the detainees in by train. Under heavy military guard, in the middle of the night. I’ve seen them do it, Cassie. I’ve touched the orange prison outfits. That little hidde
n building inside the warehouse is only the entrance. The rest of Pyramid Lake’s answer to Guantánamo Bay is underground.”
“Bullshit. I don’t believe this.” She angrily pulled out her phone.
“Who are you calling?” I asked. “Grayson Linebaugh? Because there’s something else you should know, too. Last weekend, while you were in California, I was in Washington, D.C.”
She froze.
“The senator and I discussed this whole mess,” I said. “He told me he’s solving an ugly problem that’s a danger to our children and grandchildren, and that we owe that to them.”
“Oh my God,” Cassie squeaked, cupping a hand over her mouth. “That sounds just like Gray.”
“I told that motherfucker you weren’t going to be a party to this once you found out. Know what he said?”
She shook her head, still hiding her mouth behind her hand.
“He said you were practical, Cassie. That you’d come around eventually.”
Squeezing her eyes shut, she pressed a couple of fingers against each temple and leaned her elbows on the table. Shook her head again.
“There’s another explanation,” she said, eyes still shut. “There’s got to be. Even if Gray wanted to do something like this—and God help me, I think he actually would—Uncle Jim would never agree. Come on, with our people’s history? Hosting a fucking concentration camp, for shit’s sake?”
“Your people are patriotic Americans, Cassie. Your uncle said it. You’ve served your country with pride and distinction in every U.S. war—including, it seems, the war on terror.”
“And yet, you’ve known all this for at least five days but didn’t bother to tell me.”
“Hey, look! Here come your waffles.”
Cassie didn’t open her eyes. “Just shut up,” she said. “Let me think.”
She continued to massage her temples as the waitress slid the plates onto the table and went back to the kitchen. Neither of us felt much like eating.
“Okay, the murders,” she said. “McNulty and Bennett. Who killed them, and why?”
“I haven’t figured that part out yet,” I said. “Most likely, somebody who isn’t happy about Pyramid Lake turning into another Gitmo. It could be domestic terrorists, or violent human-rights protestors, or a group of Paiutes who disagree with the desecration of your land—”
“Sure, blame us. Why not?”
“—or for that matter, rogue CIA folks who don’t like the competition from Homeland Security.” I shrugged. “I have no fucking clue. But none of those answers feel right to me. They would all go about it differently. These killings, the attempt to sabotage Frankenstein—the whole thing feels personal.”
Cassie pushed back her chair and stood up. “I’m going to talk to my uncle now. And then, right afterward, maybe the media.”
At the word ‘media,’ I jumped up, too. “Wait! You can’t.”
Frankenstein hadn’t delivered on his side of the bargain—he hadn’t found a cure for Amy yet. And once we were swept into the chaos that media attention would bring, he never would.
“We’ll both tell the media,” I said. “That is the plan. But not yet.”
“The plan? What plan? It’s not your decision to make.” She looked at me with an expression of dismay. “It never was.”
“Please! The timing is absolutely critical. I’m begging you, Cassie—promise me you won’t do anything rash. You have to give me a chance to show you what’s going on with Frankenstein. Because, believe me, it changes everything—”
“God damn you, Trevor.” Cassie’s lip started to tremble. “I’m leaving now.” Grabbing her purse, she walked away.
I curled forward and ground my forehead into the table, cursing quietly. The situation was officially out of my hands, and now it was out of control.
I got up, left a couple of twenties on the table next to our untouched plates, and went to rent a car.
I knew what I needed to do.
Even if Garmin and the others couldn’t pin the two murders on me, it didn’t matter anymore. As soon as Cassie alerted the media, both our security clearances would be revoked. And then the Trevornet would be discovered, and also my illegal access to tens of thousands of psychiatric patient medical records, and my use of Roger’s key card to break into the warehouse. Homeland Security could choose to assign any number of different motives for what I had done, including some highly questionable ones. I might even become a candidate for “extraordinary rendition” myself.
It was time to put my contingency plan into action.
I also needed to talk to Frankenstein. Face-to-face.
It would probably be the last time we ever spoke.
CHAPTER 75
The late-morning sun reflected off the water on my right as I drove, the little flashes of brightness flickering into my eyes and making me squint. On my left, acre after desolate acre of pale, dry scrub slid past. A mirage rippled dark blue on the empty roadway in front of me, evaporating as I got close, only to be replaced by another farther ahead. The Pyramid Lake reservation’s 750 square miles were home to fewer than 1,800 people, and most of them lived in Wadsworth, down at the south end. After the crowds and the noise of Las Vegas, the silent isolation of the lake and surrounding mountains was eerie.
Speeding up Highway 445 in my rented car, I clamped down on the pointless feelings of regret and finality that kept intruding. Instead, I concentrated on what had to happen next. The Sutcliffe exit was coming up on the right.
First things first: I needed to keep my transportation options open.
With a screech of tires on gravel, I took the Sutcliffe turnoff and sped down to the marina. Despite my urgency, a quick stop here was warranted because, if I did come back this way, chances were good I’d be in a hell of a hurry.
Leaving the car running outside, I shoved through the double doors of the shop.
Jay, who ran the marina, was a big dude with a long black ponytail and an easy smile. He looked up from behind the counter. “Trev! My brother from another mother!”
I tossed him my wallet as I went by, and he caught it in the air.
“Top off my Yamaha,” I called over my shoulder as I turned the corner into the back room, where the lockers were. “Sorry, Jay, but I’m in a hurry, so ring it up first—cash. I need my wallet back.”
“You taking the FZR out now?” he called.
“In a few hours,” I yelled back, punching in the combination on my locker. “Have that bad boy down by the water waiting for me, all gassed up and ready to go.”
Jerking open the steel door, I cleaned out my locker, scooping its contents into a duffel: shorty wet suits, helmets, waterproof document pouch, locked hard-shell long-gun case, locked pistol case, energy bars, and a six-pack of bottled water.
I zipped the duffel closed and stood. Slinging it over my shoulder, I blew past Jay on the way out. “Wallet,” I called.
He tossed it back to me, and I caught it at the door.
“Listen, brother,” he said, “this weekend—”
“We’re buds,” I said. “Borrow my Waverunner anytime you want—you don’t need to ask.”
Back on the road again, with the duffel secure in the rental’s trunk, I stomped the accelerator to make up for lost minutes.
Once Cassie talked to the media it wouldn’t be long before I became a high priority for both military and civilian law enforcement. On the long, uninterrupted stretches of highway circling the lake, roadblocks would be easy to set up and, with nowhere to turn off, highly effective.
But law enforcement couldn’t roadblock the lake itself—not against a 110-m.p.h. personal watercraft that could jump any cordon they laid down. It would take me no more than ten minutes to cross the lake to the northeast shore, where rough ridges of tufa rose from the waterline.
Five minutes of uphill scrambling on foot would then take me into Hell’s Kitchen Canyon. A quarter mile up the empty canyon, I had a motocross bike stashed—a four-stroke 2013 Kawasaki KX 450F.
It was a part of the contingency plan I had put in place three years ago. After wrapping and duct-taping the bike in two layers of waterproof plastic tarp, I had buried it, along with five gallons of gas, under a pile of loose rock in the canyon wall. It was invisible and undetectable unless you knew exactly where to look.
And I knew that the Kawasaki would start when I needed it, because every three months, I hauled it out and made sure. Seconds after pulling it from under the rock pile, I would be gone. I’d have many options to choose from then: Gerlach, Lovelock, Fallon—all within a fifty-mile radius, across rough terrain with very few roads.
When I fired up the bike and evaporated into the roadless, trackless gullies of the Lake Range, the nearest inbound helicopter would still be twenty minutes away. And with each additional passing minute, the airborne search area would have to expand by another fifteen square miles.
Unless they knew exactly where I was headed, they would never find me.
So evading law enforcement and getting out of Pyramid Lake would be fairly simple. It was the part of the plan that came afterward, once I got to California, that I was most worried about. I would have to convince Jen and Amy to join me—and do it fast, before law enforcement put them under surveillance.
Tucked inside the waterproof pouch from my marina locker, I had legitimate passports and legal identity paperwork for all three of us—a few different sets, under various names, because I believed in preparing for the inevitable rainy day. Amy could grow up and go to school in a place where her future wouldn’t depend on the agendas of interfering, drug-dealing psychiatrists—where we wouldn’t have the constant threat of involuntary commitment hanging over her head.
But unless Jen agreed to bring our daughter and come, my whole contingency plan would grind to a halt right there. It would be game over for me.
I wouldn’t abandon my family, no matter the consequences.
• • •
Pulling up at the guard gate in front of Pyramid Lake Navy base, I watched the MP’s expression as he checked my badge and then waved me through. His impassive features gave me nothing. Glancing at him in my rearview mirror, I was unsurprised to see him raise his phone to his ear.