by Karen Randau
At home, I heated the casserole Ronald and I didn’t eat the night before. Emma enjoyed helping me set the table. David, Emma, Cliff, and I ate in silence, each of us focused on our own thoughts.
At last, David set his napkin next to his plate and scooted out his chair. “Time for a bath and reading, Munchkin,” he said to Emma.
As they retreated to their rooms, Cliff and I wandered to our suite. We cuddled on the loveseat discussing our next moves until he laid his head on my shoulder with a long yawn.
“Come on.” I got up and held his hand while he stood. “You go to bed. I’ll get back to my research and watching the security cameras.”
Other than a family of wild pigs, a stray cat, and two elk, nothing passed by our cameras while I searched databases and websites, and then opened Google Earth and found Frank Miller’s one-bedroom cabin near the Rim Vista reservoir. I zoomed out to see what was around it. On property about a mile away stood a large building with several cars parked in a circular drive that curved around boulders and a pine tree.
The scent of brewing coffee alerted me to the end of my shift. I looked at the index card to confirm who was next. David.
I slipped into bed beside Cliff. He gathered me into his arms, and I drifted to sleep folded around him and listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat.
In my dream, my left arm was paralyzed. The bearded doctor who tried to inject Cliff at the Phoenix hospital descended toward me, his hypodermic needle looking large and dangerous. He moved the needle long enough for me to recognize the sorrow in his icy blue eyes.
“You’re that doctor.”
The sound of my voice woke me. I pushed on Cliff’s shoulder to roll him off my numb arm, sat up, and stared at the clock on the nightstand beside me. It was three in the morning. My house was dark and quiet. While I massaged my arm to get back feeling, I remembered that it was Philip Quayle’s turn to watch the feed from our security cameras.
“Cliff.” I nudged him.
“Huh.” He propped himself up on his elbow. “What’s wrong? Do we have an intruder?”
“No. Everything is fine. I had a dream. That doctor we met in Phoenix. Grigory Sorokin. He’s the same doctor who tried to inject something into you when you were in the hospital. When we were at his office, he shaved off his beard, so I wouldn’t recognize him. That’s why it took so long for him to join us. He only said a few words at the hospital, and he was stressed and then in pain from me kicking him. When he talked to us at his office, he enunciated his words, so I wouldn’t identify his voice. But he had the same piercing blue eyes filled with anguish.”
Cliff swung his feet to the floor. “You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
I picked up the backpack that still held Cliff’s computer and followed him to the office attached to our suite.
“When we were driving from Phoenix to Rim Vista, you suggested following the money. That led me to the pharmaceutical company owned by Kyle Park, the person who sent Mary and Colonel Brandish out to be killed by an exploding cow. If I keep following that money trail, I think I’ll find the connection between Park and Anatoly Yashkin. In the research I’ve done tonight, I’ve discovered that he’s a doctor who served in Afghanistan and the Russian army lists him as missing in action. I couldn’t find a photo.”
39
Cliff took his computer from the backpack and sat across from me at the desk we chose because it featured two work spaces. While the laptops powered up, we discussed our plan for the day.
“Didn’t you say Frank Miller has a small cabin near the reservoir?” Cliff asked.
“Yes.”
“How does he make a living?”
“He’s retired. He worked as a janitor for two years at a pharmaceutical company in Ohio. There is no record of his existence before that. He has a retirement account from that company. It’s been bothering me that a maintenance person has a retirement account large enough to live on after such a short time on the job. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”
“Yeah. You follow that.” He tapped on his keyboard. “I have an email from Ronald about the pathogen they used on us. I’ll follow that.”
I returned to the Google Earth view of Frank Miller’s cabin, zoomed out to find the neighbor’s property, and wrote the address. Checking with the county tax collector, I discovered the three-acre lot with a forty-two hundred square foot home belonged to a company named Dalks Inc.
I asked Google to translate the phrase. Old English for clasp. I rearranged the letters, looking at it backwards. Sklad. What was a sklad?
I Googled it. My eyes froze on the right column on my screen. Besides sklad being a Polish word for composition, it was also the only inhabited town in northern Russia. I asked Google to translate the word, then looked for the incorporation papers for Dalks Inc.
“Cliff, I think I found something. There’s a huge house close to Frank Miller’s cabin. It’s owned by an Arizona corporation with a mailing address in Jackrabbit Crossing, Arizona. The mailing address differs from the address of the house. The company name means storehouse in Russian, and it is the name of a miniscule town in northern Russia. Other than Frank’s cabin and that house, Google Earth shows nothing else for miles.”
“Jackrabbit Crossing isn’t far from the reservoir,” Cliff said. “We should check out the mailing address. Depending on what we find there, maybe we’ll visit the house. Except…” He leaned into his computer screen.
“Did you find out anything about the pathogen they used on our town?” I asked.
He glanced up as if surprised, then clicked. “Ronald’s email said it was based on a chemical the Russians tested in the 1980s in Afghanistan. I researched that. It was called Skladium.”
“Oh… we’re getting close,” I said. “The name of the company that owns the big house near Frank Miller’s cabin is Dalks Inc., which is sklad spelled backwards. That’s a town in northern Russia.”
“Sklad is the name of the town in Russia where the Russian government ran a toy manufacturing facility no one in America ever thought made any toys,” Cliff said.
“Why would the Russians name their pathogen after a town they claim doesn’t make it and then start a company so easily associated with it?” I asked. “The lack of professionalism makes no sense.”
“Who knows? The Russians claimed to destroy all the Skladium when they pulled out of Afghanistan. A mutated form of it killed residents and animals of a small Afghan village near the base where Mary served. And…” He clicked again before continuing.
“I looked in an international military database for Anatoly Yashkin. He’s from northern Russia. He disappeared the same day as the attack on Mary and her commanding officer. Here’s his picture.” He turned his computer to face me.
My stomach rolled at the same time goosebumps formed on my arms and my ears buzzed.
“That’s Frank Miller,” I whispered, as I cringed at the white hair, bushy brows, and hazel eyes in the photo. “Look up the doctor in Phoenix who tried to drug you in the hospital, Grigory Sorokin.”
“I already did. He’s also from northern Russia. He served in Afghanistan in a military hospital with Yashkin. Afghan rebels injured Sorokin when they overran the base. The Russian army discharged him, and he legally migrated to the U.S. with his family after the Soviet Union dissolved.”
A wave of chills rolled up my spine. “The battle where Sorokin was injured… that’s the same battle where Yashkin disappeared and the Russians listed him as missing in action.”
40
Cliff called his boss to discuss our findings while I made a hearty breakfast and packed a light lunch in case our day lasted longer than we expected.
“Ronald said to take it easy, put eyes on the buildings, and report anything out of the ordinary to him.” Cliff pocketed his phone and pulled me into a hug. “Let’s have a picnic in the woods.”
“Sounds like a perfect day.”
David and Emma must have smelled the bacon cooking.
I heard Emma running down the hallway before I saw her. “Bacon! Yummy for my tummy.” She rubbed her belly, then wrapped herself around my legs.
“May we join you for breakfast?” David pulled Emma’s arm out of the grip she had on my legs.
“Of course,” I said. “Could you set the table?”
Cliff pushed aside the tablet sitting next to him and helped David distribute the plates.
We sat together and discussed our plans for the day. David agreed to take Cliff’s morning shift monitoring the security cameras, so we could investigate the Dalks organization’s mailing address and visit their house near the reservoir.
“We should be back in time for me to take the two to four shift monitoring the cameras,” Cliff said with a snicker. “If we aren’t, send in the cavalry.” He tore off a corner from his notepad and wrote Ronald’s phone number, handing it to David. “This is nothing more than a recognizance mission, so I expect no excitement. You can never be too cautious though.”
David accepted the paper. “If I don’t hear from you by two, I’ll tell your boss to send in the troops. In the meantime, I’ll research the components of skladium along with what happened to it after the Russians claimed to destroy it.” He turned to Emma. “Can you help me out by watching a couple of episodes of Sesame Street?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’ll stay out of your way.”
Cliff led him to some resources he could access without police credentials. “These should be more informative than what you can find freely on the Internet.”
Did his chest puff up?
“I have some of my own resources,” David said with a grin.
While they talked about whose resources were the most powerful and would reap the most answers, I called my mother to let her know all was well.
“Have you felt me prayin’ for your protection and wisdom?” Mom asked.
Not wanting to disappoint her, I said I did. “Cliff and I are taking a sightseeing trip to Jackrabbit Crossing today. We should be home by two or so.”
“Don’t let Cliff do too much,” she said in her motherly tone. “We don’t want him to relapse.”
I promised we’d be careful, then picked up our picnic basket and followed Cliff to his unmarked police vehicle.
Our first stop was going to be Hawthorne Farms to look for the cigarette butt that Frank Miller ground out when David and I first met him.
As we approached the property soon after leaving town, Cliff slowed and turned into the driveway.
“It’s barricaded,” he said.
I couldn’t read the lettering on the sign that sealed the lock.
“I’ll go look closer.” I exited the car.
Approaching the white page with the blue letters of the CDC logo, I glanced up and winced at the sight of acres of white plastic that covered the crops. The notice across the gate said the farm was out of business and now the property of the U.S. government.
I stared at the lettering for several seconds. These were friendly people who sold organic produce every Saturday at the farmer’s market. Why would the Russians want to put them out of business? Were they collateral damage to a larger plot that had nothing to do with them? The tears that ran down my face made little sense. I barely knew these farmers, but they symbolized how callous and senseless this attack was.
A noise drew my attention to the barn. I kept my back to Cliff, so he wouldn’t see me wipe the tears from my face.
A man in a yellow biohazard suit with a clear face mask exited the barn through a doorway made of clear plastic.
I ran back to the car. “It looks like the government at last has discovered that our town’s illness was at least in part due to something sprayed on this farm, and they’re not taking any chances. They seem to be using the barn as a research lab or something.”
Cliff angled around so he could see the man in the suit. “Ronald said today that he told them, but they have said nothing about it to him since.” He called Ronald to update him. As he shifted into gear, he said, “Ronald says we need to keep moving forward before something else happens that the authorities should have warned us about.”
An hour later, we pulled into Jackrabbit Crossing, a town with a population of one thousand fifty two. Cliff stopped the car across from a diner, in front of an empty field covered in wildflowers, discarded soda bottles, and various kinds of snack wrappers.
“This is it,” he said, opening his door.
I followed him to the center of the property, standing beside a manzanita bush. As I walked toward the corner of the lot, my leg brushed against the shrub and startled a family of quail.
They ran past us, and I turned back to Cliff. “I guess this answers the question of whether Dalks Inc. is a legitimate company.”
“Let’s go to their big house near the reservoir.” He pulled out his phone. “First, I want to tell Ronald about this.”
As he spoke to his boss, I took deep breaths to untie my knotted stomach. I turned away from the disturbing sight of an empty field where we expected to find a company connected to Russia. I wondered if we should get a glass of tea at the diner across the street.
As I turned toward the restaurant, a tall, thin woman stood in front of the window watching us. She pulled out a cell phone and made a call, never taking her eyes off me.
I turned back to Cliff. “I’m getting a creepy feeling.” Looking at the time, I added, “We can only spend another two hours out here if you want to be back in time to take your shift watching the security cameras. There’s someone watching us.”
Cliff waved at the woman, and she turned her back toward us but kept her phone to her ear.
“Let’s not get paranoid,” he said. “People around here might not have a lot more to do than to visit with each other over the phone.”
He opened the car door for me. “Ronald said to watch the big house by the reservoir, but from a distance. If anything looks out of the ordinary, he wants me to call him, so he can send backup. After we tell him what’s there, we’ll find a nice spot in the forest to enjoy our picnic and each other.”
The woman watched as we left town.
41
Cliff exited the highway onto a dirt and gravel lane with catclaw acacia shrubs jutting across our path from both sides. I cringed at the metallic sound of thorns and branches scraping against the sides of the car.
Taking deep breaths, I reminded myself that we were just going to look. Then we’d call Robert and have our picnic. We weren’t taking any chances. I focused on the scenery.
Next to a clearing with daisy-like yellow calliopsis flowers carpeting the soil, Cliff turned the car off the road and parked the front bumper against a manzanita bush, between two aspen trees.
“This should keep the vehicle concealed,” he said. He pulled out his phone. “I’ll text Ronald our location. Can’t ever be too cautious.” He composed and sent his message while I leaned against the car trying to enjoy the sun on my face rather than notice the creepy feeling that continued to grow in my stomach.
As we walked beside the forest road, I pulled in a deep breath and closed my eyes for a moment. It felt great to absorb the smells of wet dirt and the earthy scent of the calliopsis flowers. Bees buzzed. Butterflies flitted around the blooms. Water gurgled in the distance. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the surrounding trees. The sun felt like a gentle massage on my arms.
When a white-tail deer leaped across the road several feet in front of us, I observed, “If I didn’t know we were on a mission, I’d think we came here to search for the perfect place for our picnic. I could use a few hours to worry about nothing but communing with nature.” I wrapped my arms around Cliff’s waist. “And being with you.”
He draped his arm across my shoulders. “I could call David and ask him to cover me for my camera-watching shift. We’re just going to put eyes on those two structures, so we can report back to Ronald. If we find anything, he’ll inform the FBI, and it will be out of our hands. We can e
njoy ourselves.”
That sounded perfect, and I congratulated myself for thinking to bring a lunch I could share with my honey on this gorgeous day.
Our path dead-ended at a field of pink and purple lupine plants accented by rust-colored Indian paintbrush. Another road intersected, allowing us to turn either right or left. Cliff pulled our Google Earth map from his pocket, traced our route with his index finger, and pointed to the right. “The big house is that way, but let’s look at the cabin before going there. It’s a half mile in the opposite direction.”
I followed Cliff and walked in deep ruts on the left fork of the dirt road. At the sight of the top of a stone chimney, we stepped off the road to stay hidden behind berry bushes. A few yards later, we stood motionless in front a log home with rock trim around the bottom. Nestled in a grove of aspen trees next to a shallow creek with clear water bubbling across multicolored pebbles, the cabin had a tin roof, a rock chimney, and an attached carport with no vehicle parked under it. Three stairs led to a deck that stretched across the front.
When I squinted to see through the uncovered picture window, I saw no lights radiating from inside the house. Was there even any furniture in there?
I stared at the dust on the screen door. “This place looks abandoned.” I began walking around the berry bushes to peek inside to confirm my suspicion.
Cliff grabbed my arm. “You’re right.” He gestured toward the porch. “Judging from that layer of powder on the steps, no one has been here in a while. But look.” He turned my attention toward a camera attached to the patio cover above the front door.
“Like everything else, dust covers that camera. Maybe it’s one of those fakes intended to scare people off rather than record anything.” I scanned the area for additional cameras, finding one on the carport and two in trees.