Suddenly Bob stood up and took a step toward the grating, gazing intently at Bishop, dismissing Judd completely. Understanding abruptly filled his face. “The general,” the retired professor said calmly. He analyzed the other man’s features and color of hair and eyes. He knew that the man standing before him was Fitch’s father. He clarified, “Fitch only has to look at you to see what he will look like when he’s older.”
Bishop nodded, nothing was betrayed behind his expression. “If Fitch gets any older,” he added earnestly, although softly, in a clipped tone that brooked no denial.
“You’ve come to save your son, then,” stated Bob in a neutral voice. “Rushing in to deliver the day. Like John Wayne.” The voice was neutral but the words were mocking.
“Do you have children, Mr. Wren?” Bishop asked, ignoring the meaning of the words. Joe Peter snorted loudly in the next cell.
Bob considered his answer carefully. He didn’t particularly enjoy speaking in the cultured, articulate manner that this conversation required, but he suspected the general would summarily dismiss him if he did anything else. So he used large words, and his most cultivated timber as he spoke, “My children were the young students I taught for decades. Young men like Fitch who have intuitive, conceptual, and perspicacious minds. Young women who came into the university seeking knowledge and open to a cornucopia of innovative ideas. I would have nurtured those fresh young minds for as long as I could, given the opportunity. Instead, I vegetate in the mountains, giving back to the earth what I’ve sown. Despite my complaints, I have discovered that my life’s work has been satisfactory and that being put to pasture isn’t the ordeal I have maintained it would be. Although there are occasional lapses of despondency, young men like Fitch always reminds me of what it’s like to have utter faith in one’s beliefs. I wonder if you could say the same?”
A smile curved across Bishop’s face. Bob’s precise use of the English language was not lost upon him. “You seem to be everything my son has told me, Mr. Wren.” He paused and correctly gauged the sudden look on Bob’s face. “Yes, my son does speak with me about a variety of things. Some would call him precocious. I value his intelligence. I value that he does not think in similar ways. And I value his life.”
Bob frowned. It twisted his genial face. “Your son, General. He has values, too.”
It was Bishop’s turn to frown. His son was in trouble. Fitch has made errors in judgment; it has nothing to do with the boy’s values. “Why don’t we cut to the chase? There aren’t any monitors back here, no recording devices, and I won’t be repeating our conversation to anyone. And according to what the young lady in front shared with us, the other officers may not be back for hours. I’d like to know if you know where my son is going.”
Bob thoughtfully rubbed his beard. “It occurs to me that you’ve gotten here awfully quick. Entirely too fast for a concerned father. Your son was missing only yesterday. Last night as a matter of fact.”
Joe Peter made another noise from the other cell. “Even if he is the head mofo in charge of the National Squealer’s Association. Is it really true that you guys monitor all the e-mail ever sent?”
“You said, he talks to you,” Bob said. “He called you. Called you from my house. And you let the Feds have him.” There was a sound of unqualified disbelief that emitted from his mouth, “I don’t frigging believe this.”
“Oh, that’s downright frigid, man,” said Joe Peter contemptuously. “Your own son.”
“I won’t attempt to justify it to you,” Bishop said. His voice remained smooth and collected. “I believe in our legal system and if...”
Bob laughed, completely abandoning political tact and proper language. “Yo, man. Generalissimo. Let me clue you into the four-eleven. Your son is not the bad guy.”
“The girl...”
“...Is not the bad guy,” finished Bob for him. “It happens you know. Men in charge can be twisted, too. Rodney King. Six million Jews in WWII. Men who are shot, while trying to escape. If you value your son, you should give him credence to what he told you.”
“What he told me...” Bishop trailed off uncertainly.
“Yes,” said Bob. “What he told you is what? Far-fetched. Unbelievable. Implausible. Inconceivable. Out-of-the-question. Maybe even impossible?”
Bishop said nothing. There was nothing to say.
“You gave him a second chance, Mr. General,” Bob said. “Maybe you need to give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“She’s a murderer,” said Bishop concisely. “How can there be any doubt of that?”
“Did you see her kill someone? Is there some kind of video-taped evidence, showing her pulling the trigger, attaching the bomb to the freaking airplane?”
“How can you be so cocksure?” asked Bishop. “Perhaps my son has been fooled, even duped by a clever child, intent on purposes unknown. I know Fitch is no murderer. How do you have this faith in Fitch?”
“I know the kid,” Bob said. “Better than you do. If you think he’s guilty of what they’re saying he’s guilty of, even if we’re discussing abetting a murdering psychopath, then I feel pity for you. But don’t believe me. I doubt if there’s enough evidence to back up the rest of the story.”
“There was a gun found in your house,” Bishop stated baldly. “An unusual weapon, issued to law enforcement only as a rule. But one that has no identification numbers on it. Not the exterior, nor on the interior. A specially made Glock-18A, a virtually untraceable weapon, and most illegal.”
“The girl had the gun,” admitted Bob. It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d considered the aspects of the scenario.
“The inference is that this is probably the murder weapon used on the security guard in the hospital, as well as the federal agent at my home.”
“What security guard?”
“Ah, two men were murdered at a hospital near my home. The same hospital that Theodora Andrea Howe was admitted into for injuries sustained in some kind of accident. One was shot in the back. The other possibly was pushed down the stairs.” Bishop smiled grimly at Bob. “You weren’t aware of this?”
“No, but it doesn’t change anything. Where does a little girl get a gun like that, General? And how is it that no one in the hospital doesn’t notice that she has it? And furthermore, it wasn’t an accident that landed her in the hospital. Do you know the circumstances behind her admittance?”
Bishop waited patiently.
“I didn’t think so, considering the manner in which you’re flashing bits of information about. She jumped into a bay and rescued some little boy from drowning.” Bob returned Bishop’s grim smile. “Some fierce murdering woman that. Saves a little kid from Davy’s locker, and then goes on a rampage. Shooting two men and what did you say, pushing the other down the stairs to his death? She must weigh all of a hundred and ten pounds with her tennies on, and her head comes up to my armpit. Does that sound lame or what? Ask yourself something, General. If she could kill all those people, why didn’t she kill me? Why didn’t she kill Fitch? Too many unanswered questions here. I think you’ll have to find the answers yourself.”
“Perhaps I will,” Bishop concluded. “Perhaps I was in error when I informed the FBI Director of Fitch’s whereabouts.”
“A little bit of advice,” F-Bob said, his voice biting. “I wouldn’t be trusting the people who have access to the very type of weapon that is supposed to be the murder weapon. It’s suspect all by itself.” He paused for a moment. “Oh, yes, may I recommend an interesting author to you? Informative and scintillating. His name is Morris, Edward, Morris. Check it out.”
Bishop made a noise under his breath, and motioned at Judd. “We’re leaving.”
As they exited the interior part of the substation, they heard F-Bob and Joe Peter yelling, “Attica! Attica! Attica!”
“F-Bob,” said Bishop mildly.
“What’s that, sir?” asked Judd.
“Mr. Wren there, used to be a physics professor. An accomplish
ed man. One of his failings, however, is that he often used to take the side of the student body over the administration, inciting student protests concerning many civil events during the last few decades, shaking the foundations of the university at every opportunity, bucking the system in ways that would have made Martin Luther King, Jr. and Mohandas Gandhi proud. It’s said that the dean so often commented, ‘Fucking Bob, again.’ that it was bastardized into F-Bob, and used by one and all, friend and foe alike. He even seems to like the moniker.”
“And what about your son, sir?”
“I think I’ve got the information I need.”
Mary Jennings said from her desk, “Sergeant Galloway is on his way.”
•
“They’re going to be hunting us like hounds,” Teddy said, mildly. “God, am I stupid? I didn’t just have to grab the one person I most shouldn’t have grabbed, but the absolute worst person I could have grabbed. And you finked on me.”
Fitch turned off the outboard engine and pulled out the oars. He wasn’t rowing with them, but guiding the small boat away from rocks in the water. It had turned into full darkness, but they could still see the black shapes sticking out of Lake Creek, sharp, jagged shapes that would puncture the boat’s fiberglass hull. “On the other hand,” he said cheerfully. “I might be the one person who can help you.”
Teddy sat against one the seats of the boat, and twisted water out of her shirt. “It’s true. You can climb the hell out of cliffs. I’ll never doubt your ability to drive a motorcycle. Except for the driving off a cliff part. But the rest of it, well, hey. Your grandfather was sick.”
Fitch looked at Teddy suspiciously. He couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic or not. He suspected there was some there, but there was also some recognition. So he changed the topic, “You said you stayed in Louisiana for two years. Something about how you didn’t leave before the worst part. What did you mean?”
“Look out for the rock,” she said quietly.
Pushing off with an oar, Fitch got the tiny boat away from a great piece of lava that had been in this creek bed for twenty-five thousand years. They floated gently down the small river, and he was reminded of the old camp song, Michael, Row the Boat Ashore. He almost started singing it, listening to the gurgling water, and the sound of some night bird nearby, protesting for some reason or another. Suppressing the impulse he pushed off another rock, and winced when the boat scraped over still another unseen obstacle.
After a while, Teddy said, “You’re right, you know.”
“About what?”
“I can’t run anymore. He’ll never stop. I thought he’d have me declared dead after I’d been gone for seven years and he’d be happy with keeping Dad’s money. But he’ll always be looking over his shoulder, looking for me to come out of the woodwork, waiting for the other shoe to drop on his stupid, greedy head.” Bitterness filled her voice, and she turned her head away from him.
Fitch’s voice was appalled as he asked again, “What did he do to you?”
“He kept me prisoner. In the house I shared with my parents. I didn’t leave the property for two years.” She sighed raggedly. “I was just waiting for him to get around to killing me.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
August 16th
A folktale originating in the Pacific Northwest: Mr. Raven was hungry one day and came upon an Indian hunter who had successfully killed several badgers and rabbits. Clever Mr. Raven told the hunter, “I am Raven, the canny trickster. I shall give to you the benefit of my cunning intellect, to help you in your pursuit of furs and meat, in exchange for some of your meat.” The hunter, who had heard many tales of the raven, was impressed that Mr. Raven had chosen him, and agreed heartily, allowing the raven to eat as much could fill him. Every day the hunter worked hard and supplied opossum and fish and shrews to his clever, raven friend. He worked so hard that he eventually observed that Mr. Raven lived an agreeable life, carefree, and slept restfully through the days in the hunter’s teepee. All without sharing any of the intellect he had promised. Finally the hunter told Mr. Raven of his complaint. “Be angry not, my hunting friend,” said the raven. “I shall prove my worth to you. Bring me some pitch from a tree and a stout club.” Once the hunter had attained the materials, Mr. Raven said, “Now go, my friend, and invite the boars from the wood, who have laughed at you because you cannot run as fast as they. Tell them we will dance and have good times.” The hunter did as Mr. Raven requested, and many boars followed him back to his teepee. Soon Mr. Raven had them dancing and laughing and singing. He told everyone to get ready for a large surprise and told them to close their eyes. “Don’t open them until I say that I am ready,” he instructed them. With all the boars’ eyes shut, Mr. Raven went around and poured pitch into their eyelids. When he called, “Ready!” none of the boars could open their eyes to escape Mr. Raven and the hunter. The hunter took the club and killed each boar. And the hunter said to Mr. Raven, “I will never doubt that you are worthy, because you did not need the hands of a man to get meat and hides. You are the most guileful of tricksters.” And the pair stayed friends until time passed.
“All you had was a hospital gown on your back,” said Fitch, obviously giving it a great deal of thought. “Although I wasn’t complaining about that.”
Teddy scowled.
“So you couldn’t have had it at the hospital. What’s this evidence?”
“What did you tell your father?” she asked, ignoring the question.
The small boat bobbed in the current. The gurgling current whispered against the sounds of crickets and frogs. Above them the stars glittered in a clear night sky, a shower of luminous dots of light. Fitch could almost believe that they were alone in this place.
“You said they think you have something, which means that you don’t have it and they think you do or you don’t have it but you know where to get it.” He paused and then answered her question, “I told him where I was. Where you were. That you saved my life. I told him the truth.” Fitch started to scowl himself. Lately, he didn’t like talking about his father, even if the man was going to save their bacon. The general didn’t know what else he had done yet, and his eldest son wasn’t sure if he was going to like hearing it. Admitting that he might have made a mistake was contrary to Bishop’s character, and he wouldn’t admit it easily.
“Then Gower shows up,” she stated icily. “The tall psychopathic blonde man. I saw him in the window as we ripped out. Another few seconds and he would have had you.”
“And you, too.”
“Except I wouldn’t be dying right away.”
“Teddy,” said Fitch slowly. His eyes were black in the night, and he watched her clutch her arms around her little frame and look around her almost desperately. “You’ve hit the news bigtime. Maybe you should consider that they might be willing to kill you on sight now. Think about that. There were other law enforcement agencies involved. Men and women who won’t roll over just because someone flashes a bigger badge than theirs. If I were them, I’d be thinking that your threat ratio has just increased by about a thousand times. That maybe you’re so big of a threat now that as soon as an opportunity arises you’re gonna be history.”
Teddy shivered in the night and wondered how she could ever be outside again in the dark, without thinking of this night or the night before, and how worse it could get. Suddenly, she saw something downstream and sat straight up, ignoring the discomfort of the temperature dipping and sodden clothing, and she whispered, “Turn off the running lights, Fitch.”
Fitch flipped a switch by the engine and the lights were instantly extinguished.
“There’s a bridge downstream,” she said, her voice a thread of sound, her hands urgently gripping the sides of the boat. “And there are cop cars parked on top of it, with their lights on.”
“I forgot about the bridge,” whispered Fitch, staring through a stand of tree. He could see the lights, appearing and disappearing behind a silhouette of black pines that towered ov
er the creek. “The road cuts off from the highway above, crosses this stream, and then rolls back toward the lake.”
“If they’ve gotten to our fisherman, then they’re looking for us, right now,” she muttered.
The boat floated around a gentle curve and Fitch could see what had frightened Teddy so much. They were blockading the solitary bridge that led both to Suttle Lake and Blue Lake, the only way in or out for 99.9% of most vehicles. He doubted whether or not his old hulk of a jeep, with its souped up engine, and extra four-wheel drive gear, could make it up the trail to the Pacific Crest Rim. And if it did, it wouldn’t go far past that. This was the only way out.
“Can you pull it to the shore?”
Fitch pulled out the oars and began to use them. Then Teddy added, “To the side closest to the highway above.”
“What?” he whispered. “It’s not like we’re going to hitchhike up there. They’re going to be going over this area with a fine-toothed comb for the next twenty-four slash seven, unless, of course, they catch us. And then kill us, just like you’ve been saying.”
Teddy helped push off a rock with her hands and then carefully exited the boat, sinking to mid-thigh in frigid run-off. “Help me pull it into the brush,” the words floated across to him. “If they don’t find it until morning, maybe we can pull this off.”
Fitch glanced downstream and gauged the alternating lights on the bridge. Most law enforcement vehicles possessed spotlights, not dissimilar to the one that Waldo Newman had stowed in his tiny boat. They weren’t using them to look over the stream. It gave Fitch a momentary glimmer of hope that they hadn’t yet spoken to the man whose boat they had swiped.
The scraping of the bottom of the boat across rocks and brush seemed inordinately loud to both Fitch and Teddy. Both kept glancing downstream to see what was happening. But the conglomeration of law enforcement was on the eastern side of the bridge. They didn’t move, but were gathered together in some kind of impromptu meeting. Discussing how to kill us more effectively, thought Fitch. But they can’t all be bad. They wouldn’t have to be though. The Feds would separate us, cut off from the other law enforcement, and then they might strike.
Flight of the Scarlet Tanager Page 25