Shell Games

by Kirk Russell

  His radio crackled a couple of times and he talked to Cairo, then to Chief Keeler who let him know several uniformed wardens were on their way to help. The road entered trees and dipped as it crossed a creek bed, then climbed steeply up switchbacks to the next ridge and he turned around there because he could no longer see the ocean and reasoned that her purpose for driving up here would have been surveillance of the coves or bluffs below.

  And then another idea occurred to him, of what she might do if she was being pursued and couldn’t get through on a cell phone or radio. He drove slowly back down, remembering the places they’d used before, locations where you could get a vehicle off-road. He returned to the concrete culvert that carried a creek beneath the roadbed, parked and walked down to the dry creek bed, looked in through the culvert pipe. A circle of light came through from the other side, the downhill side. Cool air flowed down through with the faint breeze up from the ocean. The bottom was stained dark and powdery moss had dried well up the curve. He crouched and walked through the culvert and on the other side saw a turned-over rock, the raw soil underneath. He looked down the dry bed and saw tire marks against a boulder. He found marks from scraped paint, studied the color, then tried to get Cairo on the radio to tell him he was going to hike down the creek bed. Farther down, he began to put it together, found a second set of tire prints and realized it had been a pursuit. He paused at broken taillight glass, knelt and picked it up.

  Petersen wouldn’t wreck a vehicle to chase a jeep or anything else down a creek bed unless there’d been a very good reason for it. But this could be something altogether different, the paint color coincidence aside. Kids out four-wheeling and drinking beer, could easily be kids, he thought. He stopped at a gash in a tree, touched the blue paint left there, and looked at the V-shaped tire prints alongside the trunk, touched the grooves with his fingers. It was too violent. Someone had been chased. He tried Cairo again.

  Where the creek dropped off a three-foot ledge, both sets of tracks cut into the topsoil, digging in as they made a hard turn and climbed away from the creek bed. They’d skinned the dry grass down to bare soil trying to climb up the slope. He climbed rapidly toward the ridge, having no trouble following the tracks. The driving had been rough. The lead vehicle had ploughed through low brush on the steep slope, tires tearing at the soil, and he guessed they’d been afraid of stalling and had pushed it hard, kept the engine revved. He neared the ridgeline, saw blue sky low at the tree bases and knew he was close to getting a wider view. At the top was a rock outcropping and looking down, he saw her blue 4Runner.

  Standing on the outcropping, looking out on the ocean, he got through to Cairo and worked his way down to her truck while talking to him. The driver’s window and the back were open and the truck was empty. Droplets of blood had spattered on the dash and on rocks outside the truck and he told Cairo they’d need dogs. He clicked off the radio, yelled for her, and tried to follow the blood, but it petered out quickly. He smelled gas leaking from the truck and saw where the suspension had hooked on a rock. She’d been chased. It was a gutsy thing she’d been trying to do to get down this slope. Without doing anything to disturb evidence, he tried to think it out. If she was injured, bleeding, and still trying to get away, she’d take off in the easiest direction, or take up a posi-tion with her weapon. The bleeding was concentrated around one area of rock. Why had she stood in that spot? Held at gunpoint? Told to stand there? Or she got out of the 4Runner hurt, but with something pressed against the wound, dazed and trying to stop the bleeding before trying to escape. She’d go down the slope, try to reach the trees and lose herself. That was the next place to look.

  From below, it was easier to see what had happened. It looked like the right rear tire had dropped off the side and when the truck started to slide off it had bottomed out. With enough time she would have freed it and he took that as another sign that someone was right on her. She didn’t have time to get the truck free and had gotten out. She must have been outnumbered or wouldn’t have run.

  He kept working his way down. Berry bushes grew in damp ground at the base of the outcropping and there was low brush in front of the trees. Then the slope dropped away and he searched in the trees and brush until he heard engines grinding above him.

  By mid-afternoon, close to forty people and bloodhounds from Santa Rosa searched the surrounding terrain. Her car was dusted inside and out for prints and a cast taken of the other vehicle print. Marquez watched the dogs work the scent back up the hill, then went up to talk with the big-bellied man who was working them.

  “This is as far as she went,” he said. Marquez laid a hand on the head of one of the dogs. “My money says she got in the other vehicle,” the tracker said. “Or let me put it this way, that’s what my dogs think.”

  “Your dogs think she walked up here and no further.”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “Got in a vehicle?”

  “More than likely. She didn’t walk any farther than where we’re standing.” He pointed at one his hounds. “They don’t come any better than him and he picked up her trail immediately and this is where it stopped.” Marquez had watched the dogs work. He’d seen the same thing. The houndsman picked at a tooth and turned toward him. “You ask me, they brought her up here at gunpoint and carried her away.”

  33

  The search continued on the slope until well after dark and the decision had already been made to go out to the public. They put out a photo of Petersen and her truck and were already getting some response. A couple who’d been picnicking on a cliff above the ocean remembered seeing a white van turning up Teague Ranch Road, its tires squealing. But they didn’t remember the 4Runner and couldn’t say what time in the afternoon the van had gone up the road.

  Marquez gathered the team together near midnight at the cold house and they walked through the search plan for tomorrow. Ten wardens would arrive in the early morning to help and he wanted to widen the search in the area where her truck had been found. They’d walk the whole slope, every inch. Pieces of broken taillights and samples of both paint colors had been taken from the dry creek bed and from the trees the vehicles had scraped, but he wanted to walk everything again. They’d find something they’d missed. He polled everyone for other ideas and then broke up the meeting.

  Before sunrise the next morning he drove to the Harbor Motel where Petersen’s husband, Stuart, was staying. Stuart had asked to go with them this morning and his motel door opened now as Marquez pulled in. He watched Stuart walk over.

  “Just tell me she’s alive,” Stuart said, after they’d started driving.

  “We don’t know anything.”

  “Then tell me why anyone would abduct her. What do they want?”

  He couldn’t answer Stuart’s fear or his own. As they drove through town Marquez’s phone rang. He started into a U-turn before Keeler had finished talking.

  “That was my deputy-chief, Stuart. A ransom note has been e-mailed to headquarters.”

  “What do they want?”

  “My chief forwarded a copy to me. I’ll plug in my computer in your room. We can read—”

  “Oh, God, oh, God, she’s alive.”

  “They’re asking for two million to be delivered tomorrow to a location they’ll provide in the next e-mail.”

  Stuart seemed stunned a moment, then talked as if he was alone, repeating over and over, “I can do it.” His head turned abruptly. “Where does it go?”

  “You won’t have to come up with the money, Stuart.”

  Marquez raced back through town, phoning Alvarez on the way, asking him to let the rest of the team know. He pulled into the motel lot alongside Stuart’s car. In the motel room he plugged into a phone jack and powered up the laptop. He clicked through the passwords into his e-mail with his heart pounding. Stuart stood over his shoulder and read.

  She is alive for now. John Marquez delivers $2,000,000 tomorrow. Instructions to follow. Respond via Marquez at 12:00 noon
22 September.

  Stuart adjusted his wire rims and folded his arms across his chest, then sat down on a chair. “You deliver,” Stuart said, and unfolded his arms again. “They can trace this. The FBI can locate where this was sent from. They have that Carnivore technology and all kinds of stuff now.”

  Marquez glanced at him, doubted he knew a whole lot about that. He reread the e-mail. It had been addressed to CalTip@dfg.ca.gov. and had arrived in the middle of the night. It was lucky anyone had found it this early in the morning, but maybe the FBI had tipped headquarters to watch for an e-mail ransom demand. He knew Douglas had already read it and would be working on a response and wanted to talk with him about it, but wasn’t sure he wanted to do that with Stuart in the room.

  “How do they know your name if the unit is supposed to be covert?” Stuart asked.

  “It may be someone I’ve come up against before.”

  “I wanted her to quit last week. I should have made her. Oh, God, this can’t be happening.”

  Marquez tried to keep his voice calm, the tension out of his inflection. He laid out a scenario where they paid the ransom and got her back. When he’d finished, Stuart shook his head vigor-ously, his imagination already forming another conclusion.

  “I think they got your name from Sue. You see, two million is the exact amount I got from a lawsuit settlement. I won a big case against a railroad and they know what I got and they’re asking for it. It’s somebody up where we live who knows what she does for a living and followed her here. The amount is too coincidental. It has to be that.”

  Or she’d found a way to keep Kline from killing her, Marquez thought. She had an idea and begged and argued that she had this net worth via her husband. Gave them facts they could check. He looked at Stuart, his dark hair receding to mid-skull, a delicate almost feminine quality to his features. According to Petersen they’d known within minutes of meeting that they were meant for each other.

  “I don’t care about the money,” Stuart said. “Let’s respond, right now. I know the FBI will be involved, but I want to give them a signal that I’ll pay. Let’s try to move the hand-over time forward. Let’s suggest this afternoon. I have to make calls though. I need to go to my car and get a phone number, and I’ll call my banker.”

  “Hang on a minute, Stuart.”

  Marquez’s phone was ringing and when he saw it was Keeler’s number he excused himself and walked out to his truck, sat there looking at a line of beige motel doors as Keeler explained what was evolving.

  “How long will it take you to get here, John?”

  “Three hours.”

  “We’re going to schedule a meeting around that.”

  “You’ve spoken to Douglas?”

  “Yes, and they want a response made from here, but they want to talk to you first.”

  “I’m on my way.” He hung up and went inside to get the lap-top and let Stuart know they’d call him from Sacramento. But looking at Stuart he didn’t see why he shouldn’t sit in. “I may have to talk you into the room, but why don’t you follow me.”

  Stuart’s white Camry sat uncomfortably close behind him all the way to Sacramento. He led him into the meeting and Stuart must have thought it out on the ride because he conducted his own defense for being there, arguing that they needed him to verify authenticity and for his knowledge of her habits, the things no one else could know about his wife. For words she might use to pass a message in the communication. Then, succinctly and without drama, he presented his theory about how the idea might have been hatched by someone who’d read the newspaper in Redding or learned of the dollar amount of the award by word of mouth.

  Chief Baird deferred to the FBI and they made the decision to let Stuart remain in the room, on the condition that he left during parts of the discussion, which turned out to include questioning about whether Petersen’s pregnancy could be via another man and the possibility she’d staged the event and run off with her lover. And they were interested in Stuart’s money, that the amount he’d made on this last award was nearly the same as the demand. But Marquez caught Douglas’s eyes and knew this part was an exercise. Douglas knew, they all knew.

  Now, as they took a coffee and bathroom break, Douglas slid into a chair next to Marquez. He touched him on the arm, leaned over and said quietly, “You know what’s coming.”

  “And we’ll say yes.”

  “I don’t know how yet, but we’ll be there with you.”

  The door closed and the meeting started again. It was 11:20 now, forty minutes from the deadline. Douglas turned to Marquez after Stuart had been asked to leave the room.

  “Okay, John, what’s your guess? Where’s this ransom going to deliver?”

  “Someplace where he controls the access, someplace not too easy to get to.” Marquez recalled how Kline had used an old mining area in Mexico. He’d bought off the local Federales, and the mines were in dry mountain country honeycombed with dirt roads, con-necting shafts, and scattered entry points with rock overlooks. He went on, “Kline used to prefer the night, but I don’t know how he operates anymore. You’d have to tell me.”

  “He still likes the dark.”

  “He’ll ask for a hand delivery and take that person or persons hostage until he’s sure he’s away safely. We had a case where he snapped one of those neck rings the Colombians were making for a while around the neck of the wife who delivered a ransom.”

  “For those of you who don’t know,” Douglas said, “that was an explosive device that could be detonated remotely and blow the victim’s head off at the shoulders.”

  “He won’t relinquish control until he’s sure. That’s the bottom line,” Marquez said. He could feel their eyes on him. The room quieted and everyone waited on his answer.

  “Then why don’t we insist on a wire transfer or something of that nature?” Chief Baird asked.

  Douglas answered, “It’s like John said, he won’t give us the option.” Douglas turned back to Marquez and asked the question he already knew the answer to. “Are you willing to deliver the money?” Marquez nodded. Douglas glanced at his watch. “Okay, I’ve got five minutes to noon. Anything else? Anybody, any last comments? John, anything?”

  “Send it.”

  The e-mail was short, said they agreed to the terms but needed to verify she was alive. At one minute to noon Douglas talked to the FBI tech, confirming they were ready to go. He hit “send” and Marquez watched the antivirus icon appear and then disappear as the e-mail went. For minutes no one moved, until Baird pushed his chair back, stood up and then rested a hand on Marquez’s shoulder. Marquez sat with the FBI agents for another hour, met briefly with Keeler and Baird, then drove home. They wanted him to wait there to be easily available.

  Once home he checked e-mail every ten minutes. The house felt too small and the waiting inadequate. Then, shortly after 4:00 the response came to Marquez’s mailbox, to an address he used outside the department, mostly for private e-mail. Petersen knew that address and he had to assume they’d gotten it from her. He read the new message then forwarded it before opening the Web site it gave. The message read: $2,000,000 cash to be loaded in waterproofs and Marquez will deliver via Zodiac. Must have a range of 100 miles. Confirm Web site, confirm delivery terms agreed. www.officerinview.net

  Marquez clicked onto the Web site as the phone rang. Douglas. The FBI was already looking at her. Petersen was naked and seated in a chair. Her face carried plum-colored bruises, her arms and legs were taped to the chair. The backdrop was black and he couldn’t read anything in it and realized she was trying to smile. They must have told her she had to smile, and he couldn’t distance himself, couldn’t separate himself as he listened to Douglas’s analysis. He’d brought this on her. Take anything and everything that he’d ever done with Petersen, any of the busts, the surveillances, anything positive they’d ever done together and she would’ve been better off never having met him. He’d brought this to her.

  “It’s intended to shock us i
nto compliance and confirm that she’s alive,” Douglas said, “but it doesn’t confirm she is. The signal is bouncing but the Web site is transmitting real time. However, this may be a digital tape they made yesterday. It doesn’t tell us she’s alive.”

  Marquez heard the front door open and he came to his feet, startling Katherine as she came in.

  “What do you make of the Zodiac?” Douglas asked.

  “It allows him a lot of flexibility. I can run up on a beach or out to sea and a hundred miles is a long swing.”

  “He knows we’ll track you every which way, so what’s he thinking?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Katherine gripped his hand hard as she looked at the screen.

  “I don’t have to tell you she may already be dead,” Douglas said.

  No you don’t have to tell me, Marquez thought.

  “And there’s no guarantee he’s going to let you deliver and go,” Douglas continued.

  “You sound like the guy I buy boat insurance from. After we do a deal he makes sure I know what’s not covered.”

  “You’ve got a family and we can make up an excuse. We’ll get a volunteer, someone that shoots very straight and swims well.”

  “She’s one of my team.”

  “He used this format three times last year and all of the victims were already dead.” Marquez didn’t answer. “I’m going to come see you and we’ll write the response,” Douglas said.

  When he hung up, Katherine said, “John, you already know it’s a trap. I understand wanting to save her, but you can’t do this.”

  “I don’t know any other way.”

  34

  Katherine stayed through a meeting at the house with Douglas. She grilled cheese sandwiches and made coffee. Douglas told him the FBI would get a Zodiac outfitted, but Marquez shook his head, said Fish and Game had a boat. It was already on a trailer and had twin Honda engines, was reinforced, and most of all, it was familiar to Marquez. But how much cash would he carry and how would they get it in time? And how quickly could they close on his position if he needed them? Who was the officer in charge at the Coast Guard? He’d carry his Glock .40, a second gun would be on board, stun grenades, night vision equipment, a short laundry list of defensive weaponry. He watched Douglas’s sidelong glance to the kitchen where Katherine cleaned quietly and was listening.