by R. R. Irvine
“Are you home already?” He sounded delighted to hear from her.
“I haven’t left the Hilton yet.”
“There’s still hope for me, then. How about lunch?”
“I know a great place in Berkeley.”
He laughed.
“Is your offer of help still open?” she said.
“Absolutely.”
“Ken Drysdale sent me a fax with the names of twelve World War Two pilots.”
“The IRS frowns on doing personal business over the phone, which means I’m going to have to see you again to get those names.”
“My plane leaves in two hours.”
“Tell me which airline and I’ll meet you at the airport.”
“Southwest.”
“Thirty minutes?”
“I haven’t had breakfast yet.”
“I’ll eat one with you, then.”
The airport restaurant looked as if it had been cloned from McDonald’s, but the croissants were up-market and crispy. Nick, wearing her number-one Macy“s special, blouse and skirt, now badly wrinkled despite labeled promises of iron-free care, added marmalade to her croissant while McKinnon read the fax.
As soon as he finished, he asked, “Any idea why it ended so abruptly?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say someone walked in on him and switched off the machine.”
“We should make copies of this.”
“I already did that at the hotel. You can keep that one. I have another in my purse. I also mailed one to myself.”
McKinnon toyed with his croissant. “Why would you take that kind of precaution?”
To avoid answering immediately, Nick bit into her pastry and took her time chewing. What would he think if she told him everything? Would he think her crazy?
She swallowed convulsively. Going down, the croissant felt as though it had sharp edges.
“Do you think your friend’s in trouble?” McKinnon asked.
“I hope not.”
“Even if somebody walked in on him,” McKinnon went on, “that’s no big deal. You don’t hang a person for unauthorized use of equipment.”
“You don’t kill someone for writing the truth, either. But the reporter who wrote about my B-17 is dead. So is the man who found it in the first place.” Nick shuddered.
McKinnon leaned across the table to take hold of her hand. Concern showed in his face.
“You know something, Ms. Scott. I think you’re the kind of woman a man like me could take home to his mother.”
The breath went out of her.
“Now stop stalling,” he said, “and tell me what the hell’s going on.”
Nick hesitated. She prided herself on being self-sufficient. She’d had to be. Her mother hadn’t been capable of cooking dinner, or choosing what clothes to wear, let alone looking after anyone. Nick had been the woman of the house as far back as she could remember.
McKinnon squeezed her hand. “You have my promise. I’ll run these names through the computer as soon as I get back to the office. One way or another, I’ll track them down for you.” He grinned. “Who knows? We might even come up with some back taxes owed.”
Suddenly, the words started tumbling out, her initial discovery of the B-17, followed by Beckstead’s death, the arrival of his so-called next of kin, Guthrie’s heart attack, and the death of Mark Douglas and his story in the Albuquerque Journal.
For a long time after she stopped talking, McKinnon just stared at her. Every once in a while he’d take a bite of croissant and chew thoughtfully, his eyes never leaving her, his free hand holding onto hers. She regretted her frankness, but the need to tell someone, anyone, had completely overwhelmed her. She’d just have to hope she could trust him.
Finally, she could stand it no longer. “Say something, dammit.”
“Jesus, Nick. I don’t want to believe any of it, but I do.” “Thank God for that at least.”
“How do you feel about displays of affection in public?”
“What?”
Without answering, or letting go of her hand, he rose from his chair and kissed her. His touch was electric, though it didn’t rival that first contact with the Scorpion“s wingtip. Some romantic she was, Nick thought, and put more effort into the kiss. The wattage was increasing when she remembered where she was and pulled away from him. He licked his lips and sat down again.
What the hell was she thinking? She hardly knew the man. From noon yesterday until now was not enough time to fall in love. It had to be adrenaline, that’s all, triggered by Ken’s fax, by her fears, and by feeling so damned alone. McKinnon was an available shoulder to lean on, nothing more. He was good-looking, though, no doubt about that.
“I don’t want you to go,” he said.
“Ken expects me to be in Berkeley. If he’s all right, that’s where he’ll come, to my apartment.”
“If what you’ve been telling me turns out to be true, if people have been killed deliberately, then maybe you shouldn’t go there.”
She thought that over for a moment, fingering the chain that held the dog tag around her neck. “There’s some research I have to do. But I’ll be careful.”
“When I track down those names of yours, it will be from confidential sources. That’s not the kind of information I want to leave on your answering machine.”
“So say something cryptic. No names or anything. I’ll recognize your voice and call you back.”
She stood up, “It’s time for my plane.”
“Be careful,” he said.
“You, too.”
“Don’t worry about me,” McKinnon said. “Everybody’s afraid of the IRS.”
CHAPTER 27
Drysdale wondered why the MPs had kept him so long without bothering to question him. For that matter, nobody had said a word after locking him up. That was three hours ago and him sweating blood the whole time. And for nothing, it turned out, because here he was being escorted to his car, MPs on either side of him, practicing that ice-cold straight ahead stare of theirs. Well, by God, two could play that game. He set his teeth and glared.
He just hoped that Nick had gotten his fax. To make sure, he’d phone her the moment he reached the airport.
One of the MPs handed over the car keys and stepped back, hand on his holster, as if to increase his field of fire.
“Intimidation doesn’t work on civilians,” Drysdale said, then opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat.
The moment he closed the door, both MPs pointed him on his way without so much as a word. Even the guard on the gate stayed mute as he raised the traffic barrier and waved Drysdale through without the usual inspection.
Drysdale stepped on it the moment he cleared federal land. At the first side road, he decided to head away from Montgomery, intending to circle around the state capital until he could be certain he wasn’t being followed.
In that part of Alabama, the farm houses he passed looked as bleak as those old Depression photographs in Life magazine. The countryside in between was heavily wooded, not with big trees but that spindly second growth that comes after clear-cutting. Here and there, cows grazed in small clearings.
He slowed, enjoying the quiet beauty. Lowering the window, he took a deep breath of country air. For the first time since the MPs had walked in on him in midfax, he began to relax. He had the road to himself. In fact, he hadn’t passed another car since turning off the highway.
Maybe he’d been worried for nothing. Maybe the MPs grabbing him had been pure chance. Sure, technically he’d been using military property for personal use, but so what. Everybody did it, or so his buddy, George Lewin, had said when he turned a blind eye. So what set off the MPs? The only thing Drysdale could think of was his records check. But hell, that didn’t make sense. Old Air Corps records weren’t usually classified. And even if they were, any reporter armed with the Freedom of Information Act could get access if determined enough. Besides, old P-38s were nothing but relics, antiques practically, nothing to get
stirred up about. The B-17 was ancient history, too, for that matter. Even if they’d lost track of it by mistake and felt guilty about the bodies turning up after so many years, there was no reason to get excited.
So why had the MPs come down on him? Acting on orders, of course. But whose? Just like the lawyers showing up in the desert and stealing Nick’s find.
Nothing made sense, but it was happening just the same.
Drysdale checked the rearview mirror. Nothing.
You“re getting paranoid, he told himself. Tell that to Mark Douglas.
Son of a bitch! A windshield glinted up ahead. He double-checked the rearview again. Sniffers liked nothing better than to sandwich you, one vehicle in front, another trailing. But the road behind him remained clear.
He squinted against the afternoon sun. A quarter of a mile ahead, a red pickup truck was parked on a dirt side road. Just sitting there.
Drysdale picked up speed, until he was doing seventy-five as he passed the pickup. In the rearview, dust rose as the truck turned onto the road and followed him.
Drysdale began to sweat. Part of him figured the truck being there was just a coincidence, the rest of him felt foolish for turning onto a side road in the first place.
Come on. Don“t panic. Chances were that truck belonged to some Alabama cracker. Hell, sniffers stuck to discreet sedans, not flame red pickups riding high on oversize tires.
Still, he regretted his decision not to head directly into Montgomery. On the other hand, that pickup didn’t have a chance in hell of catching his rental, a V-8 Thunderbird. All he needed now was a good straightaway, instead of all these damn backwoods curves. One straight mile. He’d settle for that. After that, the pickup would be history. As it was, seventy-five miles an hour was pushing it on such a narrow two-lane road.
Another glance in the rearview told him the pickup was pushing it, too, because there it was, holding its own, two curves back.
A warning sign, a double switchback, forced him to slow down. There’s no use killing yourself, he thought. If you do, you won’t be of any use to Nick.
He smiled at the thought of her reading his fax and knowing that he’d come through for her as promised. As soon as he got to her apartment, he’d say, Show a little appreciation. Maybe a hug or a kiss. He licked his dry lips. Appreciation was as good a place as any to start. Who was to say where it might lead?
He checked the mirror again and was reassured to see that the pickup had dropped back a bit.
All right, Nick, I’m on my way. And appreciation won’t do it. I’m going to ask you to marry me. I’m going to keep on asking until you either say yes to me or someone else.
Drysdale nodded to himself and backed off the accelerator enough to get better control of the car. After all, it was broad daylight, and chances were that pickup belonged to some kid who liked nothing better than playing tag with tourists.
He was congratulating himself on coming to his senses when he rounded a blind curve and saw another pickup jack-knifed across the road directly ahead, blocking both lanes. Instinctively, he realized there wasn’t enough room to brake. Drysdale swung the wheel hard over, heading for a break in the trees.
The drainage ditch, invisible beneath a heavy growth of weeds, was like hitting a brick wall. His air bag inflated as the Thunderbird flipped end over end. The car came to rest upside down.
Stunned, Drysdale managed to switch off the ignition. Then, bracing one hand against the partially crushed car roof, he used his other hand to release the seat belt and began squirming through the open window.
He was congratulating himself on being alive when he saw the man get out of the red pickup carrying a gun.
Ellsworth Kemp drove away from the burning Thunderbird with an entire Milky Way crammed into his mouth. The face grinning back from the rearview mirror reminded him of a baseball player who’d wadded his cheek with tobacco. Kemp resisted the temptation to complete the image and spit. With a Milky Way wad, spitting cost calories and he needed the energy. Dealing with Drysdale had been hard work.
Kemp hated it when they were stubborn, when they fought back. It was so damned futile. They always gave in at the end. He told them that up front. But there were always a few, men like Drysdale, who felt they had something to prove. In his case, Kemp figured it had to do with the lady archaeologist.
Well, fuck it, that was love for you. It was weakness, particularly for a man in his profession.
Driving one-handed, Kemp used the other hand to unwrap a second Milky Way. He sucked on it. He’d read somewhere that shrinks claimed that cigars were nothing but phallic symbols.
He laughed out loud. What would the bastards have to say about him and his Milky Ways?
He shoved the candy bar all the way in, looked at himself in the rearview mirror, and produced a chocolate grin. His teeth dripped caramel, making him look like some kind of kinky vampire.
He chewed noisily before swallowing his Milky Way. After that, he got down to business on the cellular phone, dialing the number he’d been given, aware that it was a scrambled line but following orders to be careful just the same.
“Record your message after the tone,” he was told.
“As of now,” Kemp reported, “the woman has no backup. She’s out on a limb all by herself, with nowhere to go and no more options as far as I can tell. Even so, it might be best to chop the limb off altogether.”
Someone picked up at the other end, surprising Kemp.
“Do you recognize my voice?”
“Yes, sir,” Kemp said.
“There’s been too much publicity already. What happened today might cause more. It’s best if we wait and see before taking further action.”
Kemp said nothing, wondering if he’d be blamed for any bad publicity that might result from Drysdale’s death. He shrugged. He knew his own limitations. The thought of publicity, or its consequences, had never crossed his mind while on the job. Thinking wasn’t what he got paid for.
“I want no tree limbs removed at the present time. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You can do a little preliminary spadework, though, if you get my meaning.”
“Absolutely,” Kemp said, smiling at the euphemism. Keep an eye on the client while digging a nice deep hole, just in case it might be needed later. Six feet long and six feet deep, Kemp’s specialty.
“I want you back in Berkeley immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
“With luck, there won’t be any more side trips.”
“Yes, sir,” Kemp said, though side trips like today’s were what made life worthwhile.
CHAPTER 28
The moment Nick entered her apartment she sighed with relief. The light on her answering machine was blinking repeatedly. It had to be Ken, checking in.
She dropped her bag, kicked off her shoes, and made a beeline for the playback button. After three hang-ups, she recognized Ross McKinnon’s voice instantly.
“Your records have been checked,” he said from the tape. “At least one discrepancy has been found. As a result you’re now being audited by the Internal Revenue Service. An agent will contact you.”
“Thank you,” Nick breathed. Ross had come up with something, at least one name if she were interpreting the message correctly.
Following another hang-up, there was a message from her father. “Call me back or I’ll send in the cavalry.”
Knowing he’d be at the dig, she phoned the Seven Cities Motel and left a message of her own. “Hold off on the horses a while longer. John Wayne is already helping me.”
Two of them, she thought, Drysdale and McKinnon.
Fingering the Japanese dog tag at her throat, she dialed McKinnon’s number but was told that he was out of the office and not expected back for the day. When she asked where he might be contacted, IRS paranoia set in. She was quizzed as to name, address, and phone number only to be told that Mr. McKinnon was still unavailable.
After escaping the IRS recepti
onist, Nick thought about calling Ross’s mother, but abandoned the idea in favor of a shower and a change of clothes.
Ten minutes later, with her hair still wet, Nick walked to the campus, hoping to catch Marcia Sheppard in her office at the Asian Studies Department in Dwinelle Hall. Marcia, like Nick, didn’t have tenure and had been stuck teaching summer classes. They were both members of the affirmative action committee, another grunt-work assignment for the untenured.
Nick was in luck. Marcia was holding student office hours for her class on twentieth-century Japan, though no one had shown up so far. Her office was one of those windowless cubicles in the bowels of the building. Gray metal shelves filled to overflowing with books and stacks of papers covered every inch of available wall space. The matching desk and chairs, one behind the desk, the other in front of it, were relatively free of clutter.
As usual, Marcia’s meticulous wardrobe—a collar-less herringbone jacket in old rose over twill oatmeal trousers that coordinated perfectly with a pink silk blouse—made Nick feel like a bag lady in her jeans and sweatshirt.
“If you’re here on committee business,” Marcia said, “I gave that up the moment my tenure came through. I couldn’t get out of summer school, though.”
“Congratulations,” Nick said.
Marcia nodded. “I heard about your run-in with the disciplinary committee. From the rumors going around, it sounds like you got a raw deal to me.”
Nick closed the door, sat in the student chair, straight-backed and uncomfortable, meant to discourage lingering, and removed the dog tag from around her neck. “I’d like you to take a look at this for me.”
Marcia cleared a space on her desk, retrieved a magnifying glass from a drawer, and carefully examined both sides of the metal disk. Only then did she say, “Where did you get this?”
“On one of my airplane digs,” Nick said, manipulating the truth. “I found it among the bodies.”
“This is a very rare piece. Not many dog tags or medals survived the war. You see, after we dropped the bomb and Japan surrendered, their soldiers were terrified of our troops. They thought we’d do the same things to them that they’d done to those they conquered. As a result, most Japanese soldiers destroyed the evidence of their military service before the occupation forces landed.”