Nothing Left: A Jack Cameron Thriller

by Scott Blade

  The diner that she told me about was a nicely renovated place. The building was old with brown brick and a single large streetlight rooted out at the edge of the parking lot. The light was shared between Heston Street and most of the parking lot for the diner.

  The diner had a parking lot all to itself, but on both sides of the diner were other businesses with shared their walls inside of small, Midwestern-looking shopping plazas like strip malls, but not so jam-packed with stores.

  Gerry was a woman in her mid-forties and she was the youngest employee in the diner. The other two waitresses were older black ladies with big smiles and friendly demeanors. Both had long, manicured fingernails. They stood side by side behind the counter and talked and giggled like they were a couple of old birds gossiping. They reminded me of this trio of older black ladies that we had way back in Carter Crossing, my hometown.

  Gerry saw me come. She smiled and waited for me to sit in her section, which wasn’t on purpose, but a happy accident that worked out. I was going to ask for her service anyway because I needed a favor and Vaughn suggested her, which made me figure that if any of the workers in the diner were willing to help me, it would be her.

  She walked out from behind the counter and stopped at the edge and grabbed silverware out of an old white cubby. I heard it clanging together as she pulled it out—a fork, a knife, and a spoon. She clumped them together in one hand and grabbed a menu out of another cubby made out of wood and attached to the wall next to the counter.

  She walked toward me and must’ve seen that I already had a menu because she left the one that she had grabbed on an empty table.

  Gerry stopped in front of me and said, “Hi, hon. Do you need some time to look at the menu some more?”

  She leaned over me and jerked a napkin out of a stuffed napkin holder and laid it out on the surface of the table like a picnic blanket. She laid the silverware out on top.

  I said, “Hi Gerry. Vaughn sent me here to see you.”

  She said, “Oh, good. Will she be joining you?”

  I said, “Maybe. But maybe not.”

  She said, “Want to order something?”

  “Coffee,” I said.

  She said, “Any food?”

  I said, “Not now. Just coffee and I need a favor.”

  She said, “What’s that?”

  I said, “I need to borrow your cell phone. I promise not to break it.”

  She said nothing.

  I said, “Or steal it.”

  She said, “Did you lose yours, sweetie?”

  I said, “I don’t have one.”

  She paused and seemed to think about it. People were funny about their cell phones, which I completely understood. Cell phones were full of all kinds of personal information including passwords and contacts and emails and even debit and credit card numbers. Nowadays, a person’s cell phone was like a diary, bank account, and private photo album all wrapped up in one. It was a personal vault of information that people voluntarily carried around with them and linked to the internet.

  Giving it to a friend to borrow required a certain amount of trust and giving it to a stranger was normally out of the question. You wouldn’t give your diary to a stranger or your bank account information or your pin numbers or, possibly, your naked selfies.

  I said, “Don’t worry. I’ll give it right back. I promise. You can hold my ID if you like.”

  She said, “No, that won’t be necessary.”

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out an old version of the iPhone, which I was sure was the iPhone 4 because it had that steel and glass look, which I remembered from that design and model.

  I reached my hand out, open palmed and watched as she dropped the phone into it like a set of car keys from a reluctant drunk driver passing off his keys to a designated driver.

  I said, “Thank you so much.”

  She nodded and asked, “Just don’t make an international call. I don’t have that feature and AT&T charges an arm and a leg for it.”

  I nodded and said, “I only need the internet. I won’t be making any out-of-country calls. I promise.”

  She smiled and turned and with her eyes peering over her shoulder, she said, “Be right back.”

  I turned to the cell phone and realized that I had forgotten to ask for her passcode, but then I wiped the unlock button and saw that it didn’t have a passcode.

  The screen unlocked and came to the home screen. Her iPhone was rather barren compared to most people’s that I had seen in the past. There were your basic apps and nothing else, no excess and no folders and no more than the one page. There was no reason for an extra page because there were no spillover apps.

  Her wallpaper was a photo of her and a young girl, maybe a daughter, although I assumed it was most likely a granddaughter because of the huge age gap. The girl was young, maybe five or six or seven.

  I pressed the Safari icon and the internet browser opened.

  I clicked on the Google search box and typed my first question, which was where was the FBI field office located in Colorado. Denver was the location that I assumed and it was correct. In fact, the Denver office served every county in Colorado and Wyoming as well because Wyoming didn’t have its own field office. I had been to Wyoming before. It was a sparsely populated state, for the most part. The state had a population of only around six hundred thousand people.

  The thing was that the location of the FBI field office made perfect sense because Denver was the capital of Colorado and the most densely populated part of the state. Therefore, it was the obvious choice to set up the FBI’s field office back when the FBI was strategically placing them all over the country. However, Denver was toward the middle northern half of the state and Hope was located at the bottom eastern corner. Denver was rather far.

  Therefore, what were the odds that the FBI field office in Denver would’ve happened to have sent one of its FBI agents down to Hope at the same time as Vaughn and I had found two crooked dead cops? The obvious answer was not good, not good odds at all.

  The only logical conclusion was that Agent Oliver was here for a reason and that reason was related to the two dead cops. Had to be. My conclusion was that it was because he was here investigating them himself.

  I clicked on the screen’s back button and returned to the Google search page and I typed in my next question, which was about Saunt.

  I wrote Ryan Miles Saunt and I got one exact hit and a bunch of generic ones. The first one was a Facebook page, but it wasn’t for Saunt, but for a business called Skylark Company.

  I looked at it. It looked like some kind of computer business or online business or software company. The page had about two thousand likes and dozens of photos. I clicked on the photos and saw several pictures of Saunt, smiling and hugging different people. There were several more pictures of Saunt shaking hands with other business-looking people.

  There were many photos of what looked like different company picnics and relay races and family days. The company employees appeared to be a happy bunch, like one big corporate family. I ignored the rest of the photos and returned to the main page.

  I clicked on the “about” page and read up on Skylark.

  Skylark was a business owned by Ryan Miles Saunt and founded way back in 1995. It started as a software development company and prospered through the internet bubble and then had some rough patches in the 2000s, but remained open.

  I couldn’t find any information on what exactly they had designed, but it was something lucrative enough for Saunt to have about a hundred employees. It appeared that it was the same hundred that he had had for a decade. The building had remained the same since 1995, located in Pablo, which was the next biggest urban area in Colorado from Hope. It was about two hundred miles to the northwest. It wasn’t a major metropolitan area, but was an actual dot on a map, whereas Hope was not.

  I started to look down the page and found a link to Skylark’s home page. I clicked on it and waited for the internet bar to l
oad.

  Just then, Gerry returned with my coffee in a white mug and a white saucer underneath, which was a little fancy for me, but I didn’t complain.

  She set the saucer down on the table and the coffee on top. The black liquid inside rippled around by the effect, but not a drop was spilled. She was a professional.

  Gerry asked, “Do you still need my phone, Hun?”

  I smiled and said, “Just a little longer, ma’am.”

  She said, “Take your time.”

  I nodded.

  She remained where she was and then she said, “How about some food, hon?”

  I said, “Not for me, ma’am.”

  But then, as if on cue, my stomach growled and that was when I realized that there had been a delicious smell wafting at me from the far-off kitchen. It was faint at first, but soon became luring, too luring to disregard, and I realized that I hadn’t eaten since much earlier in the day. It was at some gas station way back off of Interstate 70, a stop in a town called Oakley, which made me think of the sunglass manufacturer, but I was sure that they weren’t related because everything was made in China or Mexico nowadays.

  Back in Oakley, Kansas, my ride was waiting and using the men’s room. So I didn’t have much time to stop and sit and order food. I had grabbed a bottled water and one of those gas station hotdogs that spun on a rotisserie for God knows how long, but it turned out to be the best $2.80 that I had spent in days because it was beyond satisfying. It restored my energy levels for the rest of the afternoon.

  But now, I was starving and the smell of fresh French fries and greasy burgers on the grill was overwhelming me. So I said, “On second thought, I will order something.”

  Gerry said, “Oh, great.”

  She reached into her apron and pulled out a blue ink pen and a yellow receipt pad.

  She asked, “What’re you having?”

  I said, “You got a cheese burger plate?”

  She said, “The best around!”

  I said, “Sounds good.”

  She started to write down the order and wrote down the prices for everything item.

  She asked, “What kind of cheese?”

  I said, “Cheddar.”

  She asked, “All the trimmings?”

  I nodded and said, “Some of those fresh fries too.”

  She nodded and wrote it down and then she scooped the menu up from the table. She turned and walked away.

  I looked back down at the screen, expecting to see the website for Skylark. Instead there was no page. There was only one of those broken-link pages, warning that the page I was looking for was closed.

  I clicked the back button and went back to the Facebook page for the business and started scrolling down the page to view the comments.

  That was when I found that the comments were all negative ones, some with bad language. I read the first couple and then I skimmed several more. They all were basically the same and they were all addressed to Saunt.

  The comments ranged from nasty remarks to straight questions, but they all wanted to know why Saunt had closed the company.

  I cut and pasted the name of the company into a new Google search page and came up with some online news articles from the local paper and television news in Pablo.

  I clicked on the newspaper’s link and briefly read about the sudden closing of Skylark, which employed lots of people and contributed to the local economy. The article only speculated about why Skylark’s founder and CEO closed the doors so abruptly, but the rumor was that he had gone completely broke and in a matter of only two months.

  He literally stopped coming to work and withdrew all of the money out of his accounts and the company’s accounts. The news article said that he hadn’t broken any laws by doing so and that there wasn’t any known investigation into his disappearance. But it was unusual that Saunt drained his banks accounts and left his company and his house sitting abandoned. There was no public record of him selling either off. Currently both were still owned by him.

  I read a little farther and found that he had no wife, no son, but that he had a daughter. The local school distract had no record of Saunt pulling her out of school, but the day before he abandoned his company and home had been the last day that the school had records of Janey attending classes.

  His daughter, I thought.

  I went back to the Facebook page and looked at the company pictures again. I scanned the family events including the picnic and relay races. I found a photo of Saunt and the same girl from the video from his camera.

  There she was, Janey Saunt, smiling, happy, and alive.

  The girl from the video, who looked like she was terrified for her life, was Saunt’s teenage daughter.

  Chapter 16

  GERRY RETURNED with my cheeseburger and fries, which smelled just as good as they did when they were cooking back in the kitchen, only now the smell was much closer to me. I was so hungry that I almost forgot about Janey in that split second.

  Gerry set the plate down and steam rose up from the fries.

  She said, “Don’t you like the coffee?”

  She asked because I hadn’t taken a sip yet, which was out of character for me.

  I said, “I’m sure it’s good. Everything looks good. But I’m gonna need to ask you for the check. I have to eat and run.”

  She said, “Okay, hon.”

  She turned and stepped away to add up the total charges.

  I was done using her phone, but she hadn’t taken it back yet. So I left it on the tabletop near the edge for her to pick up whenever she was ready.

  I grabbed a couple of the larger fries and stuffed them into my mouth. They were salted to perfection, but piping hot. I had to do the leaving-my-mouth-open thing and blow air out at the same time. I grabbed the coffee and took a drink. It was good, not the best coffee ever, but far from the worst that I had had. It was still warm, but far less hot than the fries so it counteracted the heat.

  I scarfed the cheeseburger down and ate most of the fries and drained my cup of coffee. I took out a small wad of money and paid the check. I left a five-dollar tip, which was the least that I could do for Gerry after she let me use her phone.

  I got up and headed out of the door back to the Silverado. I wanted to find Vaughn and check on her FBI contact and also to tell her about what I had found, but I decided to go back to the scene of the crime and take another look. She was busy with the FBI, so I’d reexamine the area and see if I could find some overlooked clues. Earlier when we were searching everything, we didn’t know about the missing girl.

  I started up the engine, backed out of the space, turned back to the road, and drove out to the main road. I drove through the town, past a church, a few strip malls, and the police station.

  I drove past the station and then I saw a police car in the parking lot. I thought that maybe it was Vaughn. I slowed and made a U-turn, which I wasn’t sure was entirely legal in the state of Colorado, but I didn’t see why it wouldn’t be. The streets were nice and wide.

  I pulled back into the parking lot and parked the truck. I left the engine running because I took a look at the parked police cruiser and instantly knew that it wasn’t Vaughn’s. Her car had said “Chief of Police” on both doors. This one didn’t say that. It only said “Hope Police Department.” Maybe it was Howard’s car, which meant that there was news about Saunt. I figured that the news wasn’t going to be good, not if he had left his post at the hospital.

  I entered the building and nodded at Franklin, who didn’t question my returning or being alone and this time I didn’t set off the metal detector because I wasn’t carrying any metal. He let me go through and I walked to the first floor. This time I didn’t make it past the front desk because seated at the desk was a police officer that I didn’t know.

  I walked up to the desk and nodded a hello at him. He stayed seated and had a pleasant smile across his face. He was the first black guy that I had seen in the town. He was older, probably close to retirement age.
He kept in good shape for a desk guy. His upper body was really built, like a retired football player who gave up the game, but never gave up his workout regimen. He had a full head of hair with grayed temples. It was kept short, but not military short, more of a casual length.

  He said, “Hello, son. Can I help you?”

  I was still a young guy and sometimes older guys, especially, would refer to me as “son.” Not something that I particularly enjoyed. Maybe it was a common thing among young people. I had seen movies and knew other young guys before and almost all of them hated being called son by older guys. I had particularly hated it because, yes I was a young guy still, but I had been through a lot and I felt that I deserved to be in a separate category over other young guys. I found that the best way to show this wasn’t to stop the older guy and say, “hey, I am not a kid.”

  Instead, what I did was I said, “Actually, you can, pops.”

  Instantly, the desk guy’s smile changed to a serious face and I realized that maybe I should’ve overlooked his “son” comment because I would need his help after all.

  He said, “So what is it?”

  I said, “Has Vaughn checked in with you?”

  His eye narrowed as I said Vaughn, which I imagined was a natural, suspicious reaction since he had no idea who I was and Vaughn was his commanding officer.

  He said, “She hasn’t been around for a while. What’s this about?”

  I said, “Vaughn and I are friends.”

  I watched as his expression turned to one of utter disbelief.

  He said, “How’s that?”

  I had already gotten off on the wrong foot with this guy. No reason to try and back down now.

  I said, “That’s not important. What’s important is have you heard from her?”

  The guy thought for a moment and then he shrugged.

  “No. I’ve only been here for ten minutes. She could be anywhere.”

  I nodded and said, “She’s meeting with an FBI agent named Oliver.”

  He said, “How do you know that?”

  I said, “Like I said, we’re friends.”