The First 48

by Tim Green

  She used the jacket lining to wipe the worst of the pungent slime from her face and rose, trembling, from the grass. She started at the sound of her skiff as the prop clattered noisily against a submerged tree, then ground to an abrupt halt with the violent sound of the snapping of metal. A blue heron flapped noisily up into the sky, startling her with its size.

  In the quiet, she could clearly hear now the drone of the approaching motor.

  She had lost one of her sneakers in the muck. She thought nothing of it until she felt the nasty prick of thorns as she scrambled across the grass finger and toward the thicker trees.

  The ground grew firm beneath her uneven gait and she began to run through the maze of black bark and bright green leaves. She looked up at the sun. It was close to its apex and gave her no sense of the direction she was moving in. She had no idea where she was going. But she knew with the instinct of a wild animal that her hunters were right behind her.

  CHAPTER 33

  Tom, bleary-eyed, looked like he was sleepwalking. He muttered something under his breath, talking to himself. Or someone else. But Mike had seen him appear this way in the courtroom and then snap out of it to deliver an awe-inspiring closing argument. When they reached the elevators, Mike pulled off his glaring yellow badge and deftly tossed it into the side port of a brass trash can. A soft bell rang and the elevator doors slid open. A thinly bearded young man got off and started past them into the newsroom.

  “Excuse me,” Mike said. “They sent me up from tech. Mr. Herman called. Some kind of problem with someone’s computer, Jane Redmon’s.”

  The man raised one eyebrow and said, “I guess they don’t know where she is.”

  Mike shrugged as if that had nothing to do with him and asked, “Where’s her desk?”

  “Over here,” the man said. “I’ll show you.”

  Mike gave Tom a little shove back toward the conference room and started after the man.

  “Go,” he said under his breath.

  Tom went. Mike watched from the corner of his eye. The two men were still visible inside the glass conference room, and their heads turned in unison when Tom appeared outside the door. Tom went in and slammed it behind him. Mike pursed his lips to keep from grinning. The entire newsroom craned their necks to watch.

  “Right here,” the young man said, pointing to a simple blue metal desk in the middle of all the other primary colors. He was looking toward the conference room.

  “Great, thanks,” Mike said. “Freaking viruses, you know?”

  He sat immediately and hunched down over the keyboard. The computer was already on. His fingers pounded away at the keys, bridging the gap between his mind and the computer almost seamlessly. The world around him seemed to melt away.

  No more than two minutes had gone by before he was aware of people standing at his side. A bead of sweat dripped from his nose and spattered down on the space bar. Whoever they were, they were saying something to him.

  Mike ignored them. He was almost into Jane’s hard drive. Once he had it, he’d have to download it. The voice of the person next to him broke through his concentration. They were barking at him now to stop. Mike pounded on. He could feel the sweat in his armpits bleeding into his shirt. There were two of them, maybe three. Someone put his hand on Mike’s shoulder. Mike spun his head up and snarled.

  He shrugged the hand off his shoulder and threw his attention back onto the screen.

  “Someone call security.”

  Mike figured he had two more minutes, and he would need all of that. A small crowd was beginning to gather. His heart fluttered and the air seemed terribly thin. Another bead of sweat fell from his nose.

  “Sir,” someone said. It was an authoritative voice. “Sir, you have to come with us. Sir.”

  Mike’s fingers pounded. They danced. They sang. He was into the hard drive. He had a link to his E-mail address. He felt two strong hands on either arm. Mike tore free and screamed, “Great souls have wills, feeble ones only wishes!”

  He shook them off and pounded a dozen more keys in quick succession. They grabbed him again, harder this time. Mike rose from his seat and roared. People stepped back. They had him good now, two big men. Mike saw the hourglass icon in the middle of the screen. The tiny green light of the hard drive beneath Jane’s desk flickered wildly. The whole thing was emptying itself into his E-mail.

  He pushed back into the guards and kicked out with his right foot. The computer screen imploded with a rich thud. Blue sparks spilled out onto the desk and cascaded down onto the floor. Someone yelped.

  Across the room, Tom burst out of the glass office and came bellowing toward them.

  “Let him go!” Tom said.

  Don Herman was behind him. The guards looked stupidly at Tom.

  “I’ll sue you both personally for assault,” Tom said with a roar, thrusting his finger at them.

  “Let him go,” Herman said. “Let him go.”

  Mike shrugged free.

  “You have no business at that computer,” Herman said to him. “I want you both out of here. Now. Or I’ll call the police.”

  “Something they might be able to handle,” Tom said. “Come on, Mike.”

  A lane opened as people cleared the way for them. The guards shifted nervously. Mike knew he shouldn’t look, but he couldn’t help himself. Beneath the desk, the small green light continued to flicker. He had destroyed the monitor, but that wouldn’t stop the computer from continuing to download the hard drive.

  “What was that all about?” Tom said under his breath as they walked to the elevator.

  “Dismantle the bridge shortly after crossing it,” Mike said quietly, holding out his pack of Big Red.

  Tom nodded and took one.

  Mike glanced back again as he stuffed a stick into his mouth. As long as no one looked closely at it for another ten minutes, he’d have everything they needed.

  CHAPTER 34

  Mark Allen walked down the back stairs and left the big stone house through the rear door. There was a spruce stand out back that had a winding path through its bed of needles. At the path’s end was an outcropping that overlooked the trees and water to the north. From there, everything but the heel of the foot-shaped island was visible, including a portion of the small airstrip and even the notch that marked the beginning of North Pond. The outcrop itself was a massive slab of granite, big enough for a picnic. Somewhere nearby, a balsam tree shed its warm scent. Even without a breeze, the sweet smell reached Mark Allen’s nose as he sat atop the sparkling pink stone. He was lost in thought.

  The stillness was suddenly ruptured by the distant echo of a shotgun. Mark jumped to his feet. The sound had come from the direction of North Pond and the old coast guard station. The girl.

  Another shot echoed past.

  Mark turned and ran toward the house, letting himself in through the back door. The gun room was locked. Mark punched in the code and the latch clicked. Inside, he grabbed a gun from the rack lining the wall. A .12-gauge Remington 1187 with a black synthetic stock and a shortened slug barrel. From a drawer he took three boxes of hollow-point slugs, stuffed them in his pocket, then reached for one more. A set of handheld radios were lined up in their charger. Mark took one of those, flipping it on to channel two, and then grabbed one of a dozen small army packs that hung from a set of wooden pegs.

  His jeep was still parked in the shade underneath the porte cochere, just below the battlement outside Carson’s office. Mark fired it up and took off down the path. Before he rounded the bend, Carson yelled to him from the battlement, asking where he was going, but Mark pretended he hadn’t heard.

  A brown cloud of dust chased the jeep across the island. The sun bore down, making the wheel hot to the touch. Mark heard the crackle of the radio from the passenger seat. He jammed on the brakes. The dust cloud engulfed him, turning the sun into a passive pale disk. Mark coughed and covered his face with one hand. With the other, he snatched up the radio and brought it to his ear.


  “—the boat and there’s tracks on the south side of the swamp.”

  A voice Mark couldn’t place. Static. Then nothing.

  “Okay, you keep after her. I’ll go get the dogs.”

  It was Dave.

  More static. Nothing.

  Mark looked around in panic, as if Dave was about to materialize in front of him. He took a couple deep breaths and put the radio down. He was in the widest part of the foot, just past where the road broke off to the west and the airstrip. The swamp was due west of where Mark was now, in the ball of the foot. There was no direct path, but most of the half-mile was a low hill covered with hardwoods that were navigable, even with all the tangled undergrowth of summer.

  If Dave was coming for the dogs, he might already be on his way down this road. Mark pulled the jeep off the path and down into the trees where it couldn’t be seen from the road. He hoisted the pack onto his back and slung the shotgun over his shoulder. The radio clipped onto his belt.

  He started off at a slow jog. Images of West Point. Forced marches and fifty-pound packs. Brambles tore at his pants and branches left thin pink scratch marks on his arms. As he ascended the hill, he stopped under a deer stand to listen. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief, then replaced it in his pocket. A breeze suddenly whispered through the trees, and Mark looked toward the sky. High thin wisps of cloud. Horsetails. The first sign of bad weather to come. The breeze kept up, cooling the sweat that remained on his face.

  Otherwise, no sounds. No shots. No shouting. No barking dogs. Yet.

  Mark started off again. As he pushed on through the undergrowth, his face tightened. The wind was playing tricks. He knew that’s what it was. And still he couldn’t stop identifying the sound as the one he’d grown used to as a boy. The low whistle of Carson’s belt.

  CHAPTER 35

  The smell of coffee floated in while Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony played from tiny speakers overhead. Still, Tom couldn’t calm his mind. Mike was hunched over the coffee table in front of their two stuffed chairs. He had everything they’d gone to the paper for: Jane’s entire hard drive; the story on Gleason and her notes, including nearly two dozen sources.

  The problem was, except for a couple politicians, the names meant nothing. To them. Tom thought to call Jane’s friend Gina. She said she’d be right there.

  When Tom saw a middle-aged woman in a beige pants suit and flat shoes with a wild shock of bleached hair, he set down his triple espresso and waved his hand in the air. He stood and offered his chair, taking up a wooden one for himself.

  “Can I see the list?” Gina asked as she took Tom’s seat.

  Mike handed over his laptop, the ISDN line trailing from it like an umbilical cord. Gina laid her index finger along her cheek and covered her mouth. Her lips rustled as her eyes scanned down the screen. She advanced it once, then again. Tom shifted in his seat.

  “Mark Allen,” she said. “He’s the guy you want. Creepy. He used to have Jane meet him in this parking garage.”

  Tom peeked over Gina’s shoulder and scrutinized the name of Mark Allen. There was a cell phone number, the name of a law firm, and the firm’s address and telephone number.

  “Duffy & McKeen,” Tom said with his thumb on the name, turning to Gina. “Heard of them?”

  “They’re mainly a lobbying firm,” Gina said. “Lots of juice.”

  “Fucking lobbyists,” Tom said, wrinkling his nose. “They wouldn’t know a deposition from a restraining order. Evil corporate ass-sniffing bastards.”

  “That office is only about seven blocks from here,” Mike said.

  Tom stood, shook Gina’s hand, and thanked her. She gave him her cell phone number.

  “Anything you need,” she said.

  On the way, they had to pass the parking garage where the Ford 350 was parked deep in a corner spot. Gleason was battened down, but Tom wanted to make sure so they dropped down in and listened for a minute before continuing on. As they walked down 22nd Street, Tom dialed the law office. Mark Allen wasn’t in. A secretary directed him to a partner by the name of Bob Kestrel. Tom told the man it was urgent that they talk. He picked up his pace, and by the time they arrived at the stone building on G Street, they were both in a good sweat. He looked at his watch. 12:34:01. When they walked inside, Tom looked up and around. Marble. Crystal chandeliers. Ornate brass fixtures.

  Tom tried to walk right past the guard sitting at the desk inside the door, but before he could set foot in the elevator lobby, the guard had raised his voice to a level that made him stop and turn.

  “And you are, sir?”

  “Tom Redmon and my friend Mike Tubbs. Mr. Kestrel said to go right up to four,” Tom said, looking down his nose at the guard, who had stood up behind the desk, a handheld radio in tow.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, “Mr. Kestrel told me that . . .”

  The guard’s eyes were glued on Mike’s black White Stripes T-shirt.

  “. . . you’d . . . be coming. Who is this?”

  “My friend. Fourth floor, right?”

  “Yes,” the guard said. He picked up his phone just as the bell on the elevator car rang. “Four.”

  Tom ran his hand over the bristles of his hair and straightened his collar in the reflection of the brass doors as they rode up to four. There was a waiting area. Four tall wing chairs surrounded a glass coffee table on a deep blue oriental rug. A large plum blossom print hung on the wall. Beneath it was a side table with a large vase of flowers. The sweet scent of tiger lilies hung in the air. The receptionist offered them a seat.

  “Thanks,” Tom said, smiling, “we’ve been sitting.”

  In a moment, a tall blond man in a charcoal suit with a black and gold herringbone tie walked in and did a double take. His eyes shifted behind his delicate gold-rimmed glasses. He extended a tentative handshake.

  “Mr. Redmon?” he said. “How can I help you?”

  Tom grasped his hand and held on. “We’ve got to ask you some questions about Mark Allen and my daughter, Jane Redmon. She works for the Washington Post.”

  “You said you were a client of the firm’s. What does that have to do with the firm?” he asked, gently trying to draw his hand away, his eyes assessing Mike from top to bottom.

  Mike looked at him coolly. Scratching his beard and snapping his gum.

  “My daughter is missing,” Tom said, not letting go of the man’s hand. “I think you people know why. I want to know where the hell Mark Allen is, and I want to know now.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Kestrel said to Tom, his brow wrinkling, eyebrows knit together now. “Who are you?”

  Kestrel backed toward the receptionist’s desk, wriggling his hand free.

  “Erma,” he said to the receptionist. “Would you call Chip, please?”

  Tom reached for Kestrel again, but the tall man ducked back behind the desk.

  “Where is he?” Tom said, lowering his hips, getting ready to move.

  The elevator rang and out came the guard from the lobby.

  “Chip,” Kestrel said. “This gentleman needs to be escorted outside.”

  “Sir, you’ll have to leave,” Chip said.

  Two more blue-uniformed guards got off the next car. The three of them cordoned Tom off from the desk. Kestrel opened a side door and disappeared. Mike had Tom by the arm again, tugging him back toward the elevators.

  Mike put his lips to Tom’s ear and said, “We’ve got a U.S. senator jammed in the back of your truck. Take it easy here.”

  “He knows,” Tom said, shaking free from Mike, looking at him hard.

  “I know,” Mike said, tugging him toward the open elevator doors. “But this isn’t the way. . . .

  “We’ll get him to talk to us,” Mike said. “I know how.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Dave cut the engines and bumped the old coast guard boat up against the pier. He jumped out from behind the wheel. Quentin lay stretched out on the deck, soaking wet. Bleeding from his ear. One eye a swoll
en knot, oozing blood. There was no one else to help, so Dave grabbed a mooring line and leaped off the boat. After tying up, he considered Quentin for a moment. The man needed medical attention, but he could be replaced. Along with the interesting new weapons, high-quality rejects were spit out of Fort Drum almost every week.

  Dave ducked down into the cabin and tore the sheet off the bunk where the girl had been. He balled it up and stuffed it under his arm. He grabbed his shotgun as he left the boat, then got into the jeep and took off in a cloud of small clattering stones. The ride was short, but fast, and it left his joints numb. The island was roughly the shape of a right foot, with North Bay between the big and the second toe. The kennel and his operations were just below the little toe. The Hunt Club, all the way to the south on the high ground, was in the heel.

  He took a left down the drive and stopped before reaching his lakefront cabin. Before that, on the left was his men’s bunkhouse. The dogs were down a slight grade and around a bend from that. Close enough to make it convenient, but far enough away to mask the smell.

  He whipped the jeep down around the back of the bunkhouse just in time to see Vern opening one of the kennel’s chain-link doors. Dave stopped the jeep and hopped out.

  “Don’t feed them dogs,” he said.

  Vern looked up from the Doberman kennels, puzzled. Under his arm was a plastic tray brimming with bloody red scraps of meat.

  “No?” Vern said, looking and sounding stupid behind his scraggly beard and broken teeth, even though Dave knew he was not.

  “I want ’em hungry,” Dave said, striding up to the kennels.

  The dogs, which had been howling outrageously for their food, suddenly quieted. Dave looked down at them and narrowed his eyes.

  “Let ’em out.”

  Vern stood aside, gaping as the four Dobermans skulked past the tray of meat without much more than a sniff.

  The dogs in the other kennels—retrievers, beagles, and a pair of coonhounds—started up the din again.