I picked up the piece of paper, glancing at the words for about the thousandth time. “They said they don’t want to kill her. They even said ‘good luck.’ It’s like they want us to find this location…to find her. Why take her and play this game, I have no clue. As tough as this has been on you—and I might need a new lining to my stomach when all of this is over—this could get tougher. We have to dig deep and find a resolve that allows us to deal with the peaks and valleys, to keep our sanity. For Mackenzie.”
Tears welled in her eyes, but she somehow kept the flow in check. “For Mackenzie.”
We both took sips from our water glasses, then refocused our efforts on figuring out the answer to the riddle. Both of us started plugging in any type of search terms that related to heaven, tribes, religion—in a general sense and individual ones.
Denise put her hand out.
“Oh, did you say something?” I asked.
“Did you know there are an estimated one thousand religious cults in the United States? They say the exact number is unknown because some do not like to advertise their existence.”
“Okay. Let’s add ‘religious cult’ to our search terms.”
“Got it. Wouldn’t it help, though, if we split up the search terms? Save us a little time, right?”
“Normally, I’d agree, but it would take us just as much time to document everything and then split it up. I say we just both search for everything that comes to mind. If we feel like we’re getting warm, speak up, and then we’ll pivot to focus on a smaller subset of terms.”
She ate the last bite of a nacho and started tapping her screen with renewed energy. Damn, I was proud of her. Most parents—and I exclude myself from this group, since I didn’t really qualify—would wilt under this type of pressure. Her daughter had been kidnapped, possibly by a global crime syndicate, maybe by some other group. She’d been told her daughter would die if she went to the authorities. And now we were chasing down the answer to a riddle—a frickin’ riddle—hoping Mackenzie would be alive and well once we got to this secret location. It sounded like we were acting out a scene from Batman, starring the Riddler.
“Hmm,” she said just as I stretched my fingers until my knuckles popped.
“Hmm what?”
She bit her lower lip, then twisted her head while staring at the phone.
“Who’s hard of hearing now?” I asked. I was okay with a little self-deprecating humor.
“I’m reading this story from a year ago or so. Talks about this religious cult in the mountains of West Virginia.” She lifted her head. “They called it Camp Israel.”
A zap of electricity connected with the base of my skull. Without saying a word, I leaned over the table and read the full story over her shoulder. We researched the topic for another thirty minutes. Along the way, we also found references to other cults, including an active one in Wyoming, outside of Cheyenne. Something called the Scripture Society. We then put in more time trying to learn about that group. They were rumored to be holding people against their will, and there had been reports of rape and incest. They had also built up a large cache of weapons, according to one report, so authorities were hesitant to raid the place.
It was down to two places.
19
We spent the next thirty minutes debating the merits of both locations, which, as I pointed out, also meant we were debating the merits of two religious cults.
On the surface, the Wyoming location should win hands down. Tallest mountains—check. Most coal production—check. They also had some type of so-called “tribe”…which, keeping with our premise, we’d interpreted as a group of folks bound by a religious affiliation, those who had shared goals and values. The Scripture Society fit that bill.
“More than anything, Oz, they’re active,” Denise said of the Scripture Society. “They have some type of agenda—all these cults typically do. We just don’t know what it is, exactly. I think that gives them the advantage. We don’t know if that Camp Israel has anyone around. The story said the leaders had been arrested after fleeing the country. I think they’re actually serving time in a federal prison.”
This caused me to pause. I stared at the man with the wrinkled newspaper and rethought my logic. Then, I laid my palms on the table, which I immediately regretted—my hands were quickly coated with invisible sticky goo.
She handed me a wet napkin, and I wiped off my hands. I said, “You’re right on all of those points. And if this had happened anywhere in the contiguous states, I might agree with Wyoming. But this all started in Hawaii. That’s not someplace you can just drive to. Most people wouldn’t think about going over there unless they were on vacation or something really important drew them there. I keep going back to what spurred this kidnapping—your discovery of money laundering. The yakuza were the only ones who could feel threatened by you spreading news of that crime. I know this Kapule fellow has denied his group is connected to taking Mackenzie, but there still remains a possibility that some part of that group could be involved.”
I gave myself a moment to replay what I’d just said, to see if I believed it. And also to see if Denise would revolt. Following a thirty-second span in which she studied her phone and then looked at me while twirling a lock of hair around her finger—all in silence—I made my final argument.
“The Wyoming group is on lockdown mode, by the sound of it. They might have some twisted agenda that we’re not aware of, but why would they kidnap a girl, bring her to their facility? That would only invite more heat, not less. On the other hand, this location in the mountains of West Virginia… Where did you say it was, exactly?”
“Uh…” She checked her phone. “In a rural area near a small town called Parsons.”
“It’s in the middle of nowhere, and I’m guessing that it’s either abandoned or maybe even been destroyed. Let’s just say I doubt they’ve built high-rise condos on the property. So, what better place for a group like the yakuza, or some offshoot of that group, to set up a small camp? It might just be four or five people involved here.”
She started nodding. “How confident are you?”
I put a finger to my chin. “Maybe a whopping fifty-two percent. But, in an election, that means I’d have the mandate of the people,” I said with an authoritarian tone.
“Now you sound like the make-believe voice of the wizard from Oz.”
Everyone had to make a joke about my name. I understood it was too easy to pass up. “Haven’t heard that one before,” I said with an obvious eye roll.
“So, you’re on board with the West Virginia location?”
She waggled her phone between two fingers and let a smile slip through her lips. “I have a map pulled up. Need to fly into DC. Reagan or Dulles?”
I booked us on the earliest flight available, which would put us into DC at almost 10 p.m.
20
The moment the plane landed at Dulles Airport in our nation’s capital, I turned on my phone to validate directions toward what had been called Camp Israel. While the location appeared to be due west from DC, the rural highway system would wind us through the Shenandoah Mountains. I knew Virginia rather well. I’d visited Charlottesville a few times—I had a buddy who went to the University of Virginia. But I’d only been in West Virginia a single time, and that was more of a blur. I mostly remembered seeing beautiful, rolling mountains cast in shades of rust—it was fall at the time—countered with pockets of communities that looked as though they’d been plowed over by military tanks. It was a depressing scene, from what I could recall.
The cross-country flight took its toll on our energy levels. Denise didn’t say much as we inched forward while exiting the plane. I felt my phone buzz twice in about twenty seconds. I pulled it from my pocket and checked the screen. Two text messages. One from Steve Gartner, the other from Nicole. I clicked on the easy one first—Steve’s.
Dude dropped by saying he hadn’t heard from Ray in a week. Wanted update on his case. Ray said you were the man now
. Is that true?
I wondered if this might happen. Ray had been the long-time PI used by Novak and Novak. I’d used him a few times. He’d done a lot more work for my dad. When I’d asked Ray to help find the mystery person who had killed my dad, it had triggered a violent response. Two members of a gang, MS-13, had come to Ray’s office and beat the crap out of him. When I showed up at his office, he was sprawled out on the floor, bleeding profusely, almost unrecognizable. After spending a few minutes to tend to his wounds, Ray unlocked a filing cabinet and pulled out what he affectionately called his “Shit Hit The Fan” bag. It had cash, essential clothing. Might have been a new identification in there somewhere. Regardless, he hit the road, saying if he didn’t leave then, he’d be a dead man. And he strongly suggested I do the same. When I said I wasn’t going to run from the thugs or the man who’d hired them, and knowing my old firm was being sold off and I didn’t have much desire to continue in the legal field, he came up with an idea. He said I should take over Ray Gartner Investigations and that he’d drop his brother a quick line and fill him in—which made sense because his PI office was in the back of Steve’s automotive shop—and then take off. He’d said no one would be able to find him.
Just like that, Ray was off the grid. Not two days later, I received the note from Denise saying I was a father and Mackenzie was in danger.
To say my life had been a whirlwind in the last ten-plus days would be like saying the Pacific Ocean was a puddle of water. But I wasn’t blind. I knew life would return to normal, eventually. What that looked like at this point was hard to imagine. Still, though, I yearned for heading back to Austin with Mackenzie and Denise, setting up some type of co-parenting arrangement. Which also meant I needed cash flow. Why not give the PI thing a whirl?
With the cattle-crawl out of the plane at another standstill, I typed a quick response to Steve.
Dealing with a little personal situation. Hope to have it wrapped up in a few days. Tell the client and anyone else looking for Ray that his silent partner will be back shortly and take care of everything.
The procession moved another six or seven feet until two men clogged the aisle because they were arguing over who should go first in the line. Seriously, preschoolers would have been better behaved.
“Dear God, tell me this isn’t happening,” Denise said, leaning back to whisper into my ear. “Guys always have to show off who has the biggest pair. In my book, both of these fools are—” Her voice had risen as she neared the end of her statement.
I rested my hand on her shoulder before she said it. The last thing we needed was an all-out brawl. I smiled at her; then my phone buzzed again. Steve had responded.
Can’t believe you’d take over that shithole office, but I won’t touch a thing. Let’s talk when you’re back in town.
Ray’s office would have been a great hiding spot for kids playing hide-and-go-seek. Stacks of newspapers, magazines, and other . . . crap were piled six feet high. Ray had needed to frickin’ crawl over his desk to get to the other side. Maybe Mackenzie would help me organize the place a bit, even put up a couple of her paintings.
I smiled, not just at my thought, but at the fact I was even having the thought at all. Damn, a lot had changed in a few short days. I had gone from feeling a bit sorry for myself to realizing my life was less important than at least one other person’s in the world.
“Why are you smiling? This is taking forever,” Denise said.
“Just thinking about stuff.”
Yells of frustration from behind us, and the pair of assholes got their shit together and hurried off the plane.
Movement at last. As we finally made our way into the land of cleaner air, I glanced at the other text, the one from Nicole.
Hi, Oz. I talked to your brother. Sounds like you heard some big news. I’m excited for you, but also hoping you’re doing okay. I miss hearing your voice, feeling your body against mine. Please let me know how things are going and when you’ll be back in Austin. Lots to discuss.
Nicole xoxo
Ah, Tobin. My little brother just couldn’t keep his mouth shut. The familiar pang of wanting Nicole with all my heart conflicted with the pain of what she’d put me through. Sure, focusing on Mackenzie and Denise had threatened my life, but it had served as a needed distraction as well.
Austin. The land of unfinished business. I typed in a quick reply.
Thanks for asking. Hanging in there. Long story, but hope to be back soon.
Take care,
Oz
I released a heavy sigh, but I was happy with my response. I couldn’t completely resist the pull to Nicole, but I also couldn’t pretend that nothing had happened. What she’d done to me, to our relationship, to innocent people, weren’t things that could be easily forgotten. The last thing I wanted to do was jump back in bed with her—literally and figuratively—and then resent her for the rest of our lives.
“Is that your wife?”
I realized we were standing in the middle of a busy walkway outside of the gate. Apparently, I’d been in a daze. “How’d you know?”
“I could see it in your eyes.”
“Didn’t know my eyes could talk.” I motioned for her to follow me. I spotted a sign for rental cars and made our way down an escalator. There, I signed a bunch of papers, and we headed outside to our car. It was snowing.
I couldn’t make this shit up.
“Fuck!” Denise said, dropping her bag on the concrete just behind our car, a generic blue Buick.
I would have suggested that she calm down, but I knew that would incite a strong reaction. It was just human nature.
“We’ll take it nice and slow,” I said, opening the car, tossing in two duffel bags.
I started up the car, turned on the defroster and windshield wipers. Even I could hear the crunching scrape of the wipers against the frozen snow. Fortunately, the car-rental company had included an ice scraper in our “bronze” package. I got out, scraped a bit, then jumped back in the car.
“Your headlights are showing,” Denise said.
I looked down at my chest. She was right. “You’re full of humor.”
“Just drive. But don’t kill us please.”
The roads weren’t too bad. Barely half an inch of snow on the roads. And, unlike drivers in Texas, where any hint of moisture, frozen or not, created a massive freak-out, those on the East Coast were more accustomed to weather issues. They seemed to just deal with it and move on.
Traffic out of DC, even at the late hour, was slow. Too many cars, not enough roads. The pace picked up once we finally got out of the beltway and headed west on I-66. The flakes increased in size the farther we traveled.
“According to weather.com, there’s four inches on the ground just across the border,” Denise said.
“Let’s find a town near the Camp Israel location and try to make it there tonight.”
Denise kept busy—that was always a good thing. I got lost in my thoughts while driving in the heavy snowfall. Initially, I tried to picture seeing Mackenzie for the first time, imagining what I’d feel. What she would feel…if anything at all.
While I tried to avoid it, my thoughts shifted into a flood of questions. How, exactly, would we find Mackenzie? Would there be someone standing at this abandoned camp once we showed up, giving us an ovation for figuring out the answer to this riddle? And then the kidnapper would simply pat Mackenzie on the back and hand her over? My sarcastic imagination only showed me that I couldn’t envision how this would work. Maybe that was the point—keep us guessing right until the end.
There had to be more of a motivation than simply seeing us solve the riddle. That seemed far too simplistic. And it didn’t fit with how a crime syndicate might operate.
Which, for the umpteenth time, made me rethink who might be behind this.
Too many questions, too little time, and, most importantly, no one with any definitive answers.
We kept our talking to a minimum and stayed just below th
e speed limit. Denise said we should strive to make it to Elkins, the only town anywhere near the Camp Israel location, and it had a motel. One.
It was still snowing when we rolled into Elkins. The tallest structure in town first caught my gaze. Just off the town square sat a picturesque church. White snow covered rooftops and tree limbs. It seemed like a quaint town, like something I might see in one of Tito’s Christmas paintings, even if I didn’t spot a single human or moving vehicle.
Denise said, “Cute, but does anyone live here?” Two seconds later, I saw flashing blue and red lights in my rearview. I didn’t have a good feeling about our welcome committee.
21
Looking through my side mirror, I watched the local cop pull his heavyset body out of his police cruiser and plod through the thick snow. Looked more like six inches than four.
“What do you think he wants, Oz?” Denise snapped her head to look out the back window, a puzzled look on her face, and put a hand on my arm. “We weren’t speeding. Hell, we were barely moving ten miles per hour.”
“Nothing to worry about. It’s a small town. I’m sure he just wants to make sure we’re not Bonnie and Clyde.”
I punched down the window.
“Hands on the steering wheel, boy.”
Boy? I did as he said and withheld a verbal jab.
The officer reset his wide-brimmed hat that was covered with clear plastic, leaned down to peek across the front of the car. He had a toothpick on the left side of his mouth. He, who must have been close to my height of six-three, wore a thick jacket over his uniform, the kind that buttoned right at the waist. It wasn’t a good look for a man with a monster-truck tire attached to his midsection.
Denise waved with her fingers.
“Ma’am, just to make me comfortable, I’m going to ask you put your hands on the dashboard.”
“But why is—”
“Just do it, please,” I said to her.
“There you go,” the officer said. “Listen to your husband, darlin’.”
Game ON (An Ozzie Novak Thriller, Book 2) (Redemption Thriller Series 14) Page 8