Brave New World_A Sam Prichard Mystery

by David Archer

  “Money is not a problem,” Becky said. “This last job, it was—well, it was pretty big. Probably his biggest payday ever. I have all of that, now, I guess.”

  “Yes, well,” Landry said, “that’s the other thing we need to talk about. As you may know, your husband got many of his jobs through me, including, I’m sorry to say, this last one. He made it clear to me that if anything went wrong, I was to make certain you did not try to access any of those funds. He wasn't sure something would happen, but he was concerned enough to leave a letter with me that’s addressed to you.” He took an envelope out of his desk drawer and passed it to her, and she saw her name on the outside of it in Mac’s handwriting.

  She stared at the envelope for a moment, then tore it open. There was a single sheet of paper inside, and she saw that it was handwritten, as well.

  Becky,

  If you’re reading this, then I’m already dead. I’m so sorry to leave you alone in the world, and if I had known for sure that this would happen, I’d never have gone through with this job. I've heard just enough to make me wonder, though, so I decided that it’s more prudent to take some precautions than to simply hope for the best.

  First, I hope that you’re all right. The way we planned everything, I don’t believe anyone will have figured out that you were involved in recovering those financials, but if I’m dead, then I could be wrong. I’m also not there to keep you safe, so I have thought about this long and hard. I do not want you to access any of those accounts, because it’s possible there is some sort of coding involved that could lead them back to you. If there is, the people behind this job will then know that you must be aware of what I've done, and that will put you in grave danger.

  The trust that I've established for you, which Mr. Landry will help you to access, will be more than sufficient for your needs for the rest of your life. The money in those secret accounts, however, could shorten your life, and so I want you to turn all of those materials over to Mr. Landry. He will dispose of them properly, and make absolutely certain that no one is ever aware that you were involved with them.

  Becky, I have loved you more in our short time together than I have ever loved anyone in all my years. Please honor my wishes in this matter, because even in death, I’m certain that my soul would be tormented if my foolishness brought you harm.

  And don’t mourn for me. I brought this on myself, but you don’t need to grieve. Go and find happiness, Becky. Who knows? Maybe I’ll be able to play guardian angel and help you find someone who can love you as much as I did.

  With all my love, and for all eternity,

  Mac

  Becky read through the letter twice, something about it just not feeling quite real, but finally she had to blink back tears. Despite the disparity in their ages, she had truly cared about Mac, and she had known that, in his own inimitable way, he really had loved her. This letter was even more proof of that, if she ever needed it.

  Still, she thought, something about it… She decided to proceed cautiously, and not reveal too much until she was sure she was making the right move.

  She looked up at Landry. “I wasn't aware that you even knew about all this,” she said. “I’ve got everything hidden away, because the police were asking a lot of questions right after—after they found him. I’ll have to go and get them and bring them back.”

  Something in Landry’s face suddenly seemed off, as he stared at her. It suddenly dawned on her that he was sweating, and that he was swallowing hard every few seconds. She was very glad she had decided to refrain from telling him the materials were in the hidden compartment in the bottom of her purse.

  “Well, we could go and get it now,” Landry said. “I think, the sooner you get rid of that stuff, the better off you’re going to be. We can talk about the trust while we’re in the car.” He turned his chair and got up from behind his desk, and Becky noticed the gun that he had under his suit jacket.

  “Okay,” she said. She reached down as if to pick up her purse from the floor, and slipped her hand inside it. She wrapped it around the stun gun that Mac had insisted she carry and brought it out suddenly, while Landry was coming around the desk. Without hesitation, she jabbed it into his ample belly and pressed the button.

  It was all she could do to hold it against him for a couple of seconds, but she did. Landry convulsed and fell, and she instantly snatched the gun from his holster and dropped it into her purse. She hurried to the door and opened it, then turned and waved as she pulled it shut behind her. “Okay, and thank you,” she called out. She turned and saw the receptionist smiling at her, so she thanked the woman for her time as she walked as calmly as she could out the office door.

  The elevator would take too long, she knew, so she opened the door that led to the stairs and hurried down them. It was only three flights, and she made it quickly, then rushed out the front door of the building and into the parking lot. Her car was only a few spaces away from the door, and she was in it with the engine started as the security officers came running out the front door.

  She put the car in gear and backed out, spun it around, and slammed it into drive without ever taking her foot off the gas. The front tires squealed as they changed direction, and then the car shot forward. She rolled out of the parking lot and turned left onto the street, then made a right turn only a couple of blocks later. She continued to make random turns for several minutes, and finally pulled in behind a gas station to catch her breath.

  Something was wrong, she knew. She still had the letter clutched in her left hand, and looked at it again as she tried to get her heart and breathing under control.

  That’s when she realized what had bothered her about the note. It was the kind of thing she could miss while she was upset, but now that she was focused on figuring out what was wrong, she caught it. Mac had written her many notes during their time together, and there was one thing he never, ever failed to do. Whenever he signed a note, he always added a tiny little heart. He told her it was his way of making sure he never forgot to express his love for her, but this note didn’t have it.

  She examined it closely, and then pulled out one of his old notes that she kept in her purse. The handwriting was close, it really was, but there were slight differences in the way he made a T and an R, the loop was a little too big on the lower case o, and there were other tiny little discrepancies.

  The note was a forgery, there was no doubt about it. Mac had never written it at all, and Becky was suddenly quite terrified. For this note to even exist, someone had to know that she had taken the envelope from Williamson’s body. That meant that they were not only out to recover the documents and debit cards, they would be out to silence her.

  Becky leaned her face into her hands and wept. If Landry was working for whoever had killed Mac, and there was no doubt in her mind that he was, then there was probably nowhere she could hide. She didn’t know Landry well, but he had a reputation for being able to accomplish anything he wanted. He had successfully sued a number of huge corporations, and he had exposed hidden assets of several wealthy local citizens who were going through divorce proceedings. By now, she imagined, he had already filed some kind of charges against her for using the stun gun and stealing his pistol.

  Crying wasn't going to help, though, so she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and forced herself under control. She needed help, and she needed it right away, but there was no one she could think of that it would be safe to turn to.

  Wait a minute, she thought. The article in the newspaper about Doctor Williamson had mentioned that the company he worked for had hired a company in Denver to investigate whatever Williamson had done that got him killed. The only thing they would admit was that something had been stolen and that Williamson was the most likely culprit. Because it was something to do with highly secret technology, though, they wouldn’t reveal any details to the police or the FBI.

  She took out her phone and searched for the article. It took her a few minutes to find it, but the
n she knew that the company handling the investigation was called Windlass Security. She googled them and got an address and phone number, but she was nervous about calling. At the same time, she figured the police would be looking for her car, so trying to drive out of San Francisco was probably not a good idea.

  She picked up her purse and dug into it, counting the cash that she had on hand. It was barely over two hundred dollars, so she would have to risk hitting an ATM. She looked around and didn’t see one close by, so she googled for the nearest one.

  She could not believe her luck. There was an ATM inside the gas station she was hiding behind.

  The phone in her hand rang suddenly, and the display showed a number she didn’t recognize. It dawned on her that the phone could be used to locate her, and she quickly flipped it over and ripped off the back, then yanked out the battery. That, she hoped, would stop anyone from getting her location from it, but she decided she needed to get rid of it in any case.

  She got out of the car, leaving her phone where it lay on the seat, and walked around to the front of the building. The ATM was inside, and a sign on it told her that it had a limit of two hundred dollars per transaction. Her debit card, on the other hand, allowed her to withdraw up to a thousand dollars per day, so she shoved it into the machine five times in a row, and left the gas station with fifty crisp new twenty dollar bills.

  She hated to leave the car, but she couldn't risk trying to drive it around town knowing that the police were probably already looking for it. She walked down the street and found a metro bus stop only a block away. The wad of twenties was shoved down deep in her purse, but she had put some smaller bills and a handful of change into her pocket. When the bus came by ten minutes later, she climbed on and paid the fare, then took a seat toward the back.

  No one seemed to be paying any attention to her, and that suited her fine. She rode the bus to its closest stop to the Museum of Modern Art and got off, then started looking for a taxi. There were two of them in front of the museum, so she walked up to the second one and climbed into the back seat.

  “I need to go to the Pacific Renaissance Plaza in Oakland,” she said.

  The driver looked over his shoulder at her and grinned. Like many of the taxi drivers in San Francisco, he appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent, but he didn’t have an accent. “No problem, lady, but you do realize it’s going to run you about sixty-five dollars, right?”

  Becky smiled. “No problem,” she said. “It's the price I have to pay when my stupid car decides to quit on me just when I have to get to work.”

  He gave her a sympathetic look. “Oh, yeah, that sucks. I’d cut you a deal, but they check the meter electronically every couple hours.”

  “It's okay,” she said. “Hopefully my boss will cover part of it, when I tell her what happened.”

  He grinned again, and turned on the meter as he put the car in gear. The ride took about twenty minutes, mostly because of traffic problems, and she gave him four twenties as she got out of the car. “Keep the change,” she said. Someone had once told her that tipping a taxi driver often kept them from admitting they had seen you if anyone ever asked. She hoped it would hold true in this case.

  An hour later, she walked out of the plaza with a duffel bag holding six new outfits and a few extra shirts, some new bras and panties, and the gun she had stolen from Landry. The pistol was wrapped up in some of the clothing, and she hoped it wouldn’t be noticed in the soft bag. She caught the bus and rode it toward downtown, then got off and walked the last three blocks to the Greyhound station.

  The wig she had bought—on clearance, thank goodness, or she could never have afforded it—made her look at least ten years older, because it was gray. She had used her eyeliner to darken a few crinkles around her eyes, and literally punched herself in the mouth a couple of times to make her lips swell up a bit. The overall effect was startling, or would have been to anyone who knew her. She looked entirely different. The faded jeans and T-shirt she was wearing, each a couple of sizes too big, and the wads of paper she had stuffed under her heels in the cheap boots all combined to make her a taller, thinner, and older woman than she had been when she came in. When she looked into the bathroom mirror at the plaza, she had barely been able to recognize herself.

  Unfortunately, the next bus to Denver was leaving at ten o’clock the following morning. She didn’t want to be anywhere near San Francisco by then, so she bought a ticket to Tucson, Arizona, instead. It cost her a hundred and fifteen dollars, and after what she had spent at the plaza, that left her with only a little over seven hundred in cash.

  The bus to Tucson was leaving in less than twenty minutes, which was the most important consideration as far as she was concerned. Ironically, it would make a stop in San Diego, where she could actually catch a bus to Denver at ten o’clock that night. She shook her head at the stupidity of bus routes, but it was too late to do anything about it. Besides, the ticket to Tucson might throw anyone trying to track her off her trail for a day or two.

  It was a little after eight when she arrived at San Diego, and she carried her bag off the bus. The Tucson bus was making only a twenty minute layover, but she had no intention of being on it, herself. She looked around the bus station for a few minutes, then spotted a teenage girl checking the change slots on the video games. She walked over and cornered the girl behind a pinball machine.

  “Want to make forty dollars?” Becky asked, and the girl looked at her nervously.

  “For doing what?” she asked, uncertainty in her voice.

  “Nothing bad,” Becky said. “I’ll give you forty dollars cash to take my ticket to Tucson and get on that bus.” She pointed at the one she had just gotten off of. “Look, kid, you look hungry and alone. I know a runaway when I see one, because I've been there. I’m pretty sure you’ll have better prospects in Tucson than you will here in San Diego. How about it?”

  The girl looked at her for a moment, then nodded. Becky handed her the ticket and a pair of twenty dollar bills, then hesitated for a second and added two more twenties and a handful of singles. “If you hurry, you can grab a couple of sandwiches and something to drink to take on the bus with you.”

  The girl stared at the cash in her hand, then looked up at Becky. “Thank you,” she said, and then she grabbed a grubby backpack from the floor and bolted toward the vending machines. Becky watched her as she bought sandwiches, candy, chips, and two bottles of water, then shoved everything into various pockets on the pack as she walked over to the bus driver. He took her ticket without comment, and she turned and looked back at Becky as she got onto the bus. She smiled and waved, and disappeared into one of the empty seats.

  Becky kept watching for a few more minutes, and then the driver climbed onto the bus and closed the door. The big diesel engine grew a bit louder, the bus backed out, and then pulled forward. Becky could see through the windows of the station as it turned and got up to speed on its way to the interstate once again.

  As far as Greyhound knew, the woman who had bought a ticket in Oakland for Tucson was still on the bus and headed for her destination. Becky breathed a short sigh of relief, then went to the ticket counter and paid another two hundred and five dollars to get a ticket to Denver. After her generosity with the runaway, she had slightly over four hundred dollars left, but it would have to do. If she did anything other than what she had in mind right now, she was fairly sure her only certain destination would be a slab at the morgue.

  For a brief moment, she considered using one of those debit cards to try to boost her cash, but that would probably result in someone showing up looking for her within minutes. The more she thought about them, the more convinced she became that they were both a curse that could get her killed and the only possible chance to save her life. She didn’t dare use them, but she couldn't get rid of them, either.

  She went to a nearby restaurant and had dinner as cheaply as she could manage, then wandered around until it was time for her bus to depart. She
climbed aboard and found a seat by herself, and watched the city roll by as it made its way to the interstate.

  Mac, she thought, I hope I’m making the right decision. If I’m not, then I’ll probably be seeing you soon.

  4

  Sam accepted the job with Windlass, which pleased Indie greatly and made both of their mothers very happy. Kenzie listened with rapt attention, then asked if it meant he wouldn’t get shot anymore.

  “Well, we certainly hope it does,” Sam said, but the little girl let out a deep sigh.

  “That means you’re not sure,” she said, shaking her head. “Just try to be careful, okay?”

  Sam pulled her onto his lap. “You can count on it,” he said. “Careful is my middle name, from now on!”

  They all burst out laughing, but suddenly Kim stopped and looked hard at Sam. She stared at him long enough for him to notice, but then she shook her head when she saw that he was about to ask why, so he waited until Grace took Kenzie out of the room to gather up her things for the ride home.

  “What is it?” Sam asked. “Beauregard?”

  “Yes,” Kim said. “Oh, Sam, he says your first job with the new company is going to be bigger and more dangerous than anything you’ve ever done, but he thinks you’re going to come through it alright. He says you need to be careful about the time lady.”

  “Time lady? Are you talking about an accountant or something?”

  She shook her head. “You know better than to ask, Sam, he doesn’t give me details, because he doesn’t get them. He just says you’ll meet the time lady, and you need to be careful about her.”

  “But he’s not gonna get shot, right?” Indie asked. “You said he’ll be okay?”

  “Beauregard says he thinks so, Indiana,” Kim said. “That’s all he knows at the moment, but he’ll tell me if he gets anything else.”

  “Tell him thanks,” Sam said. “And I’ll watch out for the time lady, whoever she is.”