The First 48

by Tim Green

  Mike came out of the bathroom shaking his head. “Nothing.”

  Mike started going through the clothes closet. Tom lifted the mattress and checked under the bed. Mike started checking the air ducts. There were no picture frames on the wall to move. Tom went to the desk. Empty drawers, until the last.

  “I’ve got something,” Tom said, holding up a thin stack of mail and a checkbook.

  “Can I see?” Mike said, hurrying across the room.

  Tom handed them to him one at a time.

  “Power. Cable TV. Water. Phone—”

  “The phone bill?” Mike said, reaching, then pulling his hand back. “Sorry.”

  Tom handed it to him and Mike tore into it.

  “I always tell the husband, or the wife,” Mike said, “‘Get me the phone bill.’ That’s the first thing. People are stupid. It’s like a trail of bread crumbs.”

  There were five pages on Mark Allen’s phone bill. Mike scanned them each, top to bottom, front to back. He looked up at the ceiling for half a second and said, “Two hundred ninety-six calls. Two hundred forty-five to the 315 area code. Eighty-three percent. Two numbers make up ninety-seven percent of those. That’s where we start. Just call them and see what we get.”

  What they got was Mark Allen’s office at Kale Labs.

  “Is he traveling back from Washington today, do you know?” Tom asked the secretary.

  “I believe he’s already here,” she said. “Just out of the office.”

  Tom left his name and cell phone number and said he’d call back. The second number was only two digits different from the one for Mark Allen’s office.

  Another secretary. “Dr. Slovanich’s office.”

  “Is the doctor in?”

  “He’s in the lab right now. Who’s calling?”

  “My name is Tom Redmon,” he said. “I’m supposed to meet with him and Mark Allen. I’m pretty sure they’re expecting me. Bob Kestrel set up the meeting.”

  “You mean the dinner meeting tonight?”

  “Well,” Tom said, “I’d like to see them before that, if I could.”

  “Dr. Slovanich can’t be disturbed now, but can I give you Mr. Allen’s secretary?”

  “No thanks. Do you know when he might be out?”

  “When he’s in the lab, you never know,” she said with a friendly laugh. “Sometimes he’s in there all day.”

  Tom hung up. He looked at his watch. 10:52:33.

  “We’ve got to get there,” he said.

  “Kale Labs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Drive?”

  “No, fly,” Tom said, dialing on his cell phone.

  Kapp was back from Vegas and told Tom he could have the plane for whatever he needed. He described his pilot, Will Munch, as a kid with a sketchy military background.

  “Kid flies my Falcon like a fucking bumblebee, though.”

  Munch answered his cell phone on the first ring. He was polite, but his voice was more adolescent than adult and Tom felt like he was talking to one of Jane’s high school boyfriends.

  “I’m at the Falcon right now, sir. Just finished a maintenance,” Munch said. “I can mount up and be down to Manassas—that’s the closest private airfield to D.C.—in . . . fifty-seven minutes.”

  “We’ll be there,” Tom said. “Waiting.”

  He turned to Mike and said, “On the way to Manassas, there’s one person we haven’t asked about Mark Allen . . .”

  “Gleason?” Mike said.

  “Got your pliers ready?”

  CHAPTER 40

  Mark tilted his head away from the wind and cupped a hand over his ear. He thought he heard the dogs. Baying. Yes, there it was.

  They had her.

  The radio on Mark’s belt spit and hissed. The volume was low and he couldn’t make out the garbled words, but there was no mistaking the tone of excitement. Mark put both little fingers in his mouth and whistled hard. The piercing sound split the wind. He let it linger, dip, then pitched it up high before cutting it sharp. He stepped up onto a fallen ash tree and cupped his hand to his ear again. No dogs.

  He started moving in the direction of the barking, hunched down and careful about where he placed his feet in order not to snap sticks, his eyes sweeping the forest in front of him. He didn’t know what Dave would do if he caught him interfering. He didn’t want to find out.

  Carson had always stood between them. But the way Carson had looked at him this morning. The tone of his voice. Its mocking. On the outcrop, sitting until he’d heard the gunshot, Mark had come to the conclusion that something had changed.

  The dark shapes of the Dobermans came streaking at him through the rich green undergrowth. He saw their liquid blackness even before he heard their guttural grunts. Their mouths hung open, pink tongues lolling, flipping white spit onto one another’s sleek flanks. They surrounded him in a snarling whining pack.

  “Heel,” he said.

  They lowered their heads and frantically licked at his hands.

  “Good boy,” Mark said, scratching the top of the male’s head. He called them by name and rewarded them with thumping pats on their ribs. The youngest female trembled and peed.

  Mark took a rope out of his backpack and strung it through their collars. He wasn’t certain how they would react if Dave called them with his whistle. He knew what they’d want to do, but he’d seen Dave’s shock collar roll their eyes into the backs of their heads. He’d seen them trembling for thirty minutes even after the punishment.

  He no sooner had them looped together than that sweet low whistle came floating up somewhere from the woods below. The dogs spun around, tangling Mark in their makeshift leash. He grabbed hold of the rope and tugged them back. The little female began to bark. Mark heard the whistle again, and the male howled.

  “Heel up,” Mark said sharply. He had regained his feet and was tugging at the rope. At first, their paws dug up fresh black dirt in great hunks, but Mark’s gentle voice prevailed. He talked to them. They continued to bark, and that was okay. He wanted that.

  He tied the rope off around his waist, anchoring his leash in case they tore the rope from his hands. The radio squawked and he lifted it to his ear. He didn’t catch it all, but it was something about the dogs. Dave was following them.

  Mark marched on hard and fast, letting the dogs bark. Dave would follow the sound as long as the dogs gave him a direction. If he heard barking every couple of minutes he wouldn’t slow down to examine the ground. If he did that, Dave might see Mark’s boot prints. Then he’d know. Mark avoided soft ground, instead stepping on rocks and leaves where they lay in thick beds.

  It was an hour before Mark was halfway up the rocky ridge overlooking the South Swamp. Even from there, the ripe scent of rotting vegetation and thick mud infused with sulfur floated up to greet him. Here, Mark tied off the dogs to a sturdy hemlock as thick as his own waist. He was breathing heavily now, and sweat had drenched his clothes. He backed away from the dogs. They rolled their eyes at him and began to whine. The little female yelped.

  “Fetch ’em up,” he said.

  The dogs shot to the end of their short rope and lurched back with staggered yelps. Then they began to bark. Mark covered his ears and backed away, down the rocky path, through the trees. When he got to the bottom of the hill, he stopped. The sound of the dogs echoed through the swamp. One second, their baying came from the south. The next it came from the east. It bounced around crazily, the way he knew it would.

  Mark had entertained himself for hours as a boy sitting beneath that hemlock, calling out swearwords and his own name, only to have them bounce back at him several heartbeats later.

  Dave and his cronies would slog through this swamp until dark.

  Mark hitched up his pack and set off to the east. There was a game trail that ran up the lakeshore that would take him all the way back to where the dogs had treed the girl.

  CHAPTER 41

  Tom pulled around in back of the Motel Six and backed the tru
ck right up to the door. Mike tossed a blanket over Gleason, and Tom carried him into the room under his arm, promising to be nice if he was good.

  They got Gleason propped up on the bed in his Speedo and cocoon of tape before Mike ripped the gag off his face. His cheeks were pink now and worn partially away from the glue. Instead of cursing, Gleason began to blubber.

  “I didn’t hurt her,” Gleason said. “I know I was wrong, but I didn’t hurt her and Thorne didn’t hurt her either. Can’t you let me go?”

  His hair was sticking up, mussed about at crazy angles with the dark roots of his plugs exposed. Tears welled in his red eyes and a flow of bloody snot seeped from his swollen nose.

  “Tell us what you know about Mark Allen,” Tom said.

  “I can tell you about him,” Gleason said. “I want to help you. Don’t you see? I can help. Will you cut my hand loose? I have to scratch my nose. I’ve had to scratch my nose for an hour.”

  “Then tell us.”

  “I couldn’t sleep for three years after that thing with Sook Min,” Gleason said. “You’ve got to understand. I thought she liked me, and things got out of hand. That almost ruined my life.”

  “Mark Allen,” Tom said.

  “He’s a bastard,” Gleason said, bobbing his head. “A no-good bastard. Is he the one?”

  “You tell us,” Tom said.

  “Carson Kale,” Gleason said. “Allen is his adopted son or something. Does the dirty work. They threatened me to get some big contract. I didn’t take that shit. . . . I . . . I wanted to do the right thing. . . . Can I use the shower? I smell.”

  Gleason shook his head and started to cry again. “I don’t want to die like this.”

  “When you’ve told us about Kale,” Tom said, “you can wash up. Is he in Watertown?”

  “He’s always there,” Gleason said. “A place called Galloo something. He has a hunt club there. A huge old mansion. I was there. They flew a bunch of us in there for a big party. It was a conference. Kind of.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Right near Watertown,” Gleason said. “I don’t know exactly. They just flew us in. We took two planes. There’s a little runway. They’re a crooked bunch. Kale would do anything for this contract.”

  “Why would they take my daughter?” Tom asked.

  “I don’t know,” Gleason said, his voice breaking. “You’re not going to kill me, are you?”

  Tom pumped Gleason for more information until his watch read 10:28:23. The man knew nothing else of value.

  “You’ve got five minutes to wash up,” Tom said. “Cut his tape, Mike.”

  Mike freed Gleason. Tom kept an eye on him while Mike booted up his computer and logged on to the Internet to download some information about Kale Labs.

  At 10:24:01, Tom banged on the bathroom door.

  “Hurry up,” he said.

  The toilet flushed and out came Gleason, wrapped in a towel with his hair slicked back. His limbs were trembling and when he saw the Super Ball between Mike’s fingers, he began to bawl again.

  “Just put this in there,” Mike said. “We’re not going to hurt you. You just behave yourself and you’ll be fine. I’ve got a disk of you and your hit man on the phone, so you can’t press charges against us anyway.”

  “I won’t press charges,” Gleason said, eagerly nodding his head. “I won’t do that. I’m in the wrong here and I know it.”

  Mike held out the Super Ball.

  “I’m cold,” Gleason said. “Can I have some clothes?”

  “You put this in your mouth and I’ll take care of you,” Mike said.

  A tear spilled down Gleason’s cheek. “You believe me when I tell you I’m sorry, don’t you?”

  “We do,” Tom said. “Now let’s go.”

  “You wrap him,” Mike said, after the senator was gagged up. “I’ll get him a shirt.”

  Mike returned in a moment with a black Star Trek T-shirt and slipped it over Gleason’s head. The shirt came down to his knees and his arms remained inside. As a courtesy, Tom wrapped a belt of tape around the shirt at the waist to keep Gleason’s privates private. Gleason nodded his thanks and Tom tipped him onto the bed, reassuring him that he’d be fine before covering him with the blanket and toting him back out to the truck.

  CHAPTER 42

  Jane thought she heard a distant whistle. When the dogs took off in that direction, she remained standing where she was, the branches swaying, her brackish hair catching in her mouth, and the odor of her clothes making her turn her head into the sharp wind. She shifted to a sitting position, and was clutching the trunk of the tree, thinking about getting down when she heard men’s voices coming toward her.

  She dropped quickly to the ground. They were close. Her eyes searched the woods. A huge fallen tree lay not twenty feet away, brown and eaten by years of decay. Jane limped over to it, moving without a noise, climbed over, and threw herself down on the ground. She burrowed up under the damp crumbling wood as far as she could, then froze.

  She heard their footsteps crackling twigs and leaves. They were just on the other side of her fallen tree.

  Jane tried not to breathe.

  “Where the fuck are those dogs?”

  It sounded like the deep voice of Dave, the man who had appeared at Mark’s apartment. As if in answer, the sound of barking came from the direction in which the dogs had fled.

  “There,” Dave said.

  Jane heard the scuffle of feet, then the snapping of branches as the two men crashed through the woods toward the sound. She let out a big breath of air, almost too big; after a series of short gasps she was afraid of hyperventilation. She breathed into her hands. She shut her eyes and tried to calm herself. She was exhausted. She fantasized about just keeping her eyes shut and going to sleep. Maybe she’d wake up in her own room.

  Instead, she forced them open and wriggled out from under the dead tree. She staggered to her feet and hobbled away. The sun now cast short shadows through the trees. She followed their line. They were pointing away from where the men had run, and if she followed them it would keep her from going in circles.

  Jane reached the water’s edge, the slate-colored water chopping offshore and long shadows cast long and pointed across the stony beach. She looked both ways, up and down the shore. No one was in sight. After the two men, she hadn’t seen or heard a sign of anyone. It was as if she’d imagined it all.

  When she stepped out of the trees, she gasped. Off at an angle on the water was a white boat. A boat with six long poles bent to the whitecapped water and orange planing boards bobbing a good distance behind. Jane could even make out the tiny shapes of the people in its stern.

  She began to scream into the wind at the top of her lungs. She jumped up and down, forgetting completely the pain in her ankle and the bite in her leg. She howled until her throat was raw, but the boat kept going. When she finally gave up, she realized that she was waist-deep in the cool water, the waves slapping her midriff. Tears spilled down her cheeks. She turned away from the speck of a boat and saw something that kept her from coming completely undone.

  From her new vantage point, just beyond a point of land to the south, she could see something that wasn’t trees or rocks, but just the edge of some structure. She pushed through the water toward it, slipping on the algae of the rocky lake bottom, splashing with her hands to keep upright, swallowing a mouthful of water, then another on purpose. Soon she could see that it was a cabin, nestled in a stand of tall old pine trees at the water’s edge.

  When she reached the point, she could see that the cove separating her from the cabin extended quite a way into the island. Instead of walking the shoreline, she plunged headlong into the water to swim the narrow neck of the inlet. She came out of the water, sputtering and barely able to walk. The sight of a thick black wire strung from a large pine tree to one corner of the cabin’s roof gave her new hope. Maybe there was a phone. She stripped down to her bra and shorts, wringing out the jacket she’d tied at her waist
and the T-shirt and laying them on the porch railing to dry in the sun.

  Inside, it was neat but musty. Her one shoe squished with water and her sock left a dirty puddle on the floor. She flipped them off. There was a small front room with a worn leather couch and a card table. Old hunting pictures covered the wainscoted pine walls. The wood was shiny and golden orange from varnish. Over the cobblestone fireplace, the dusty face of a ten-point buck stared down at her.

  A door on the other side of the room led to a small bedroom filled almost entirely by a brass bed with a frilly shaded lamp on its nightstand. Ahead was a short narrow hall that led to the kitchen. Another bedroom was on the right, a broom closet on the left. The door to the closet was ajar, and the black empty space within was somehow sinister. The hair on the back of Jane’s neck raised up and she felt a small chill.

  “Hello,” she said. The squeak of her voice echoed through the empty cabin. After a careful search, she was convinced that the line outside carried electricity, but not a phone line.

  In the kitchen, open shelves held rows of canned food. Their labels were faded, but the images of ripe tomatoes and a split pineapple made her mouth water. She hadn’t eaten in a day.

  She took down a can of pineapple juice and one of tomatoes and set them on the counter next to the sink. She began yanking open drawers in search of a can opener. She found a large butcher knife, tarnished with age. It wasn’t what she wanted, but it would do. She poised it above the can of juice and stabbed down, puncturing it with a sweet sucking sound. She dropped the knife and drank, ignoring the tangy hint of rust. She’d had no idea how thirsty she was.

  When the can was nearly empty, she set it down. Calmer, but now fully aware of just how hungry she was, she eyed the can of tomatoes. The knife was sharper than she’d realized and this time she tempered her strokes. After several steady thrusts, she had a rough-cut circle in the top of the can. She pried at the jagged hole with the knife until it was large enough for her to slip her fingers inside and extract a tomato.

  She’d fished around and nearly had one out when she heard a sound. Footsteps on the porch. Her stomach somersaulted. She scooped up the butcher knife and looked frantically around. There was no place to hide. Through the curtain on the window of the front door, she could make out the shape of a person. The door handle rattled.