by Jack Bowie
“Maybe you’re right, Wilson. I’ll call them right away.”
“Please do, Susan, it would make me feel much better.”
“Thank you, Wilson, for everything.”
“You’re very welcome. Your father was a dear friend. Please take care of yourself.”
She clicked off the phone and slid helplessly down the wall to the floor. Her heart was pounding.
What could she do? The police certainly wouldn’t help. She was the one blackmailing a Senator. Without any real evidence against either Potterfield or Nicholson they would simply throw her in jail. She needed more time and had to get some help.
What about Adam? If Nicholson had found out she had been at Lexington’s perhaps he knew about him as well. He was as vulnerable as she, if not more so. And someone had already tried to kill him!
She ran to her purse to get her cell, kicked the door shut, and dialed. It rang and rang.
“Please Adam, please answer,” she whispered.
It was only then that she noticed the voicemail message.
Chapter 44
Carlisle, Massachusetts
Wednesday, 6:50 p.m.
WARREN CHAMBERLAIN HAD never married. Not a great surprise since Braxton couldn’t imagine how anyone could live with the self-possessed technocrat. But that had never stopped him from throwing the occasional party at his home in Carlisle. From carefully-crafted guest lists, to meticulous directions, to lavishly-catered menus, the events were classic Chamberlain.
Braxton and his wife had been invited to three such parties before he had been let go, so finding the home was not a problem.
He had tried to call Susan again before he left. She still hadn’t answered, so he had left a message describing the email from Chamberlain and the planned meeting.
He had then picked up the Jeep, taken Route 2 out of Cambridge, turned north on I-95 and up Route 225 into Carlisle. By the time he arrived at Chamberlain’s development, the sun had fallen behind the Berkshires and only a bright new moon, ably assisted by Braxton’s xenon headlights, lit his way.
“Development” hardly described the neighborhood. This section of Carlisle was zoned for minimum four acre parcels, each plot holding a huge custom home. The owners were generally the Boston area’s “old money”, established physicians and financiers, although a few newcomers, mostly high tech executives like Chamberlain, had been admitted to the exclusive area. Braxton knew business at Century had been good but still had been surprised that the executive could have raised the cash.
Chamberlain was undoubtedly even wealthier now than when he had built his castle. Century’s entry into the network market had been nothing short of phenomenal. Six months after Braxton had been let go, they had introduced a completely new line of network systems encompassing servers, routers and gateways, exactly the products that Braxton had conceived and developed within the research group. Chamberlain had told him they were cutting the staff on the new products. Apparently he had been the only one they had needed to cut.
Industry analysts had given the products good reviews but had questioned Century’s ability to achieve much share against the entrenched competition. Then Century had gotten lucky. Software bugs started appearing in their competitors’ products. Network programs were notoriously complicated and some errors were to be expected. But these had been especially disastrous and had caused major failures at a number of universities and Fortune 100 companies. Surprisingly, the competitors had been unable to replicate the problems and had been on the defensive for over six months. By the time the problems had been corrected, Century had replaced many of the faulty systems with their own and had gained significant market momentum.
An odd thought suddenly took shape in his mind. Were the problems corrected, or had they just disappeared?What if they hadn’t been bugs? What if they had been the result of sabotage? Could Century have been involved? They certainly had the most to gain. He wasn’t sure what Chamberlain wanted to discuss, but he had a few new questions he was going to ask.
Braxton had been following Minuteman Lane for about a mile and a half when his lights shone on a perfectly square stone fence. Chamberlain’s street number was chiseled on a flat slab of sandstone mortared into the other rocks. It was impossible to see the home from the road. Most of the houses, including Chamberlain’s, were set far back in the large wooded plots. He turned the Jeep into the driveway and slowly drove up the macadam path. Aside from a few crickets, the woods were deathly silent.
He had gone about a quarter mile through the dense oaks, maples and pines when he saw the imposing contemporary around one last turn. The home was an amazing structure, all the more so because Chamberlain had drawn the plans and supervised its construction. Braxton remembered that every Monday morning for a year Chamberlain had subjected his staff to detailed presentations, complete with photographs, of the prior week’s progress. The home was the executive’s one true love.
It wasn’t especially large but was of a striking design with a distinctive look of quality. On his right, floodlights bathed the front of the house showing few windows and sparse landscaping. This was the protected north side of the residence. It offered little opportunity for winter’s winds to steal precious heat from the structure. The severe north facade was in stark contrast to the soaring glass walls and high clerestory windows of the southern exposure. Chamberlain had designed his home as a testament to passive solar technology.
In the front, only enough land had been cleared to place the house and the driveway. The closeness of the woods gave the place an eerie, foreboding feeling. The rear, on the other hand, was spacious, with a large lawn and extensive gardens. Also designed by Chamberlain with geometric precision.
The driveway continued past the front door, turning behind the house to a garage at the far end. Braxton pulled up and parked in front of one of the tall garage doors.
He approached the front door expecting Chamberlain to appear immediately, forewarned by some expensive electronic gadget. When no one greeted him after about a minute, he grabbed the heavy brass knocker on the door and rapped twice. The house echoed with the intrusive sound. He tried the knocker once again, but still getting no response he walked back to his car.
Chamberlain was an obsessively private individual who often barricaded himself in his rear office, oblivious to the rest of the world. Braxton retraced his steps, stepped around the rear corner of the garage and then jumped when an automatic flood lamp clicked on. But there was no reason for him to be nervous. It was Chamberlain’s turn to give the answers this time.
The lamp bathed the expansive rear yard in bright light. Encircling the illuminated lawn and gardens, the woods formed a dark, impenetrable wall. He followed a path to the door of the study and knocked. There was a dim light inside the room but no movement. He knocked again, then tried the door. It swung open and he hesitantly entered.
Braxton had occasionally joined Chamberlain in the room when his ex-boss had wanted to discuss a piece of business away from the distractions of his dinner guests. It was large for an office, over 200 square feet he guessed, and appropriately appointed for the Executive Vice President. A single bookcase covered the back wall, original oils and lithographs decorating the other three. A large modern desk sat in the middle of the room and a small drafting table stood in an opposite corner.
The light was coming from a small table lamp on Chamberlain’s desk. Across from the lamp, he made out the outline of a large LED monitor. He called out, thinking the owner might be in one of the other rooms.
Still getting no response, he walked farther into the room. As he approached the desk he saw that papers were scattered across the top. And the PC was on; a star field slowly spiraled into the screen. Chamberlain had to be around somewhere.
He thought he heard a low groan, like something from a cat or small dog. He headed for the door to the main hallway, keeping an eye on the floor for an errant tail.
Just past the desk he saw a shadow that made hi
s skin ripple with fear. He inched toward it and discovered that the sounds were coming from the same location. On the floor was the body of Warren Chamberlain lying in a pool of blood.
Chapter 45
Carlisle, Massachusetts
Wednesday, 7:05 p.m.
CHAMBERLAIN WAS FACE up, wide eyes staring into the ceiling. Two small red holes stained his white shirt and a trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth.
Braxton saw Chamberlain’s lips move slightly and he leaned down at the man’s head.
“Warren,” he whispered. “What happened? Can you tell me who did this?”
Chamberlain’s eyes didn’t move but he turned his head toward the voice. “Kaaaaa . . .”
Braxton somehow sensed that the executive’s wounds were fatal. He should have run for help, but knew talking with Chamberlain would be the only way to find out what happened.
“Warren, it’s Adam. Adam Braxton. How can I help you?”
Chamberlain seemed to be concentrating his strength one last time. A gurgling sound came from his throat. Braxton leaned down and turned his ear as close to his ex-boss’s mouth as he dared. Chamberlain raised his head for one last effort.
“Use the cash,” he hissed.
“What cash?” Braxton asked urgently. “Where is it?”
Chamberlain’s eyes went dark and his head fell limply to the carpet.
Braxton stared at his nemesis as he lay still on the floor. For all of the anger and hate he had directed at Chamberlain and Century over the past two years, he could not help feeling sorry for the individual beside him. What had he done to deserve this?
Braxton pulled back from the body. What should he do now? He knew he shouldn’t touch Chamberlain or anything else in the room for that matter. The police would go over the scene. They would want to talk to him. Maybe someone would finally believe what was happening.
As he turned to get up, a flash of light caught the corner of his eye. He turned back and saw it again. It was coming from the floor just under a credenza on the side wall. A reflection off something shiny. Still on his hands and knees, he climbed over Chamberlain’s body and crept to the wall. Under the cabinet was what looked like a polished piece of pipe.
He crawled closer and saw it was the barrel of a gun. He reached out, then stopped. Don’t disturb the evidence. But he was curious, so he grabbed a pencil from the desk, stuck it into the exposed barrel, and pulled the weapon across the floor to get a better look.
It was a small, shiny revolver. He recognized the model, a compact Ruger LCR 357. It was the same model he had purchased for Megan.
He had bought the gun over three years ago. There had been a spurt of news stories about crime in Cambridge and he had wanted Megan to have some protection when he was away. When he had brought it home, she defiantly announced she would have nothing to do with it. “Guns only bring tragedy,” she had declared. They put it in a box and it had stayed untouched in their closet ever since.
He had forgotten all about it when Terrel had been killed. There was no doubt in his mind that the gun he was looking at was the murder weapon. And that it was his gun. Whoever had murdered Terrel had taken it. And now they had framed him with it.
Braxton felt an immediate, chilling fear. He tried to stand and almost fell over. His legs were shaking.
He could still call the police but how would he explain the gun? He knew exactly what they would think.
He backed away from the cabinet and tripped over Chamberlain’s body, letting out a loud cry. He turned to get up, carefully avoiding any more contact with the body than necessary, and noticed something clutched in the executive’s hand. He hesitated, then pried open Chamberlain’s hand and found a small black USB stick. Chamberlain had been working on the computer when his assailants appeared. The last thing he had done was to grab the stick. Why? What if it contained something about the investigation? Braxton had to get that data.
There were no markings on the stick; nothing to suggest its contents. He was about to put it into the PC when he saw bursts of light in the hallway. Were the murderers still there?
He crept to the doorway and peeked around the corner. The flashes were coming through glass sidelights surrounding the front door. Continuing to the door, he squinted through the cut glass. Distorted shapes danced through the trees in front of the house silhouetted by pulsating red and blue lights. It was the police. They must have stopped at the foot of the driveway, and were spreading out around the house.
There was no way he was going to be able to explain this now. Things were happening too fast. He had to get away and think.
The shapes became larger. They were approaching the house.
What could he do?
He ran back to the study, grabbed the gun on the floor, and tucked it into his belt. No use in making it any easier for the cops. If he could only get to his car before they saw him.
He opened the outside door and peeked around the jamb. There was no movement on the lawn. He searched in his pocket for the keys, found them, then dashed for his car. His Jeep was at the back edge of the driveway, close to the house and nearly hidden from the front approach. He crawled inside as silently as he could, pulled his seat belt tight, and slid the key in the ignition.
This is it, he thought, as he turned the key and the engine came to life. Hoping it would give him a few extra seconds, he left his lights off and decided to rely on the moonlight from the cold, black sky.
He put the Cherokee into reverse and smashed his foot on the accelerator. It lurched up, then raced backward away from the house. He shifted again, jamming the lever into low and trusting the transmission could handle his abuse.
The Jeep jumped forward and he spun the wheel to the left, sliding the Cherokee off the asphalt and onto the back lawn. He thought he heard shouts, but they disappeared under the roar of his engine and the pounding of blood in his head.
His M+S tires slipped on the wet turf then dug in and the Jeep fish-tailed down the slight incline. It was all he could do to keep the vehicle under control. Mud and grass flew from under the wheels.
He headed for the left edge of the woods. The moon cast long shadows all along the tree line. Where was the damn path?
Braxton thought Chamberlain’s parties had been incredibly boring, so he and Megan would frequently go for walks in the peaceful backyard. They had found the old cart trail on one of their escapes and had followed it through the woods. The trails were common in New England; they were originally used as primary transportation routes but more recently as recreation paths for off-road bikes or 4 by 4s. He didn’t know where the trail led but it was better than staying around waiting to be arrested.
The car shook as he directed the Jeep over the rolling terrain. He heard popping noises and prayed the old engine wouldn’t give out now. He swerved to avoid a lawn chair and his rear window exploded. They were shooting at him!
Suddenly he saw a dark hole in the tree line. The trail! He jammed the wheel to the left and the Jeep went into a power slide. The tires finally bit into the soil and the Cherokee dove into the blackness.
A searing pain cut through his left shoulder. He thought his arm must have been ripped off, but his left hand was still on the steering wheel. He managed a glance to his left and saw a bright red circle growing on his jacket sleeve.
As he looked left, the Jeep had veered in the same direction and struck a huge oak. The car bounced from the impact and was thrown back onto the path. He couldn’t see a thing in the dense forest and finally yanked the light switch. Cones of light sliced into the darkness and illuminated a narrow path that wandered deeper into the woods.
The path was lined with an unyielding wall of trees. His right hand held the steering wheel so hard it was white but he couldn’t feel his left. His body ached from the tension. The throbbing in his shoulder sapped whatever strength he had left. He couldn’t keep up this pace much longer.
There were no sounds from the house far behind him; only random flash
es of light reflecting from his rear view mirror. He didn’t know whether they would try to follow him into the woods but he couldn’t stop to find out. He pressed harder on the accelerator and concentrated on the winding trail.
The Jeep hit a fallen tree and he was thrown forward. His seat belt cut into his shoulder sending another spear of agony through his body. The vehicle climbed the obstacle and bounced back down, shocks bottoming out and sounding as if they would break through the frame. Braxton’s head crashed into the roof and the world went momentarily black. He was on automatic now, relying on instinct and reflexes to pilot the Cherokee.
The trail turned to the right then immediately split. With no time to choose a direction he swung the wheel to the left. His right fender caught the tall pine at the split. The headlight blew out as the Cherokee bounced onto the new path and continued careening through the forest. If he lost the other light he wouldn’t have a chance.
He negotiated two more forks in the next three minutes. He had no idea where he was or how far he had gone. There was still a lot of virgin land in Massachusetts and he felt as if he was driving through every mile of it.
The screams from the suspension were ungodly. The Jeep couldn’t take much more abuse. He shot up another ridge and braced for the landing. The impact was more bone crushing than before. The frame shook unmercifully and the tires gave an unexpected screech. Braxton shoved the brake to the floor and prayed the car would stop.
He was sitting in the middle of a narrow, paved road. His left arm was numb and the pain in his shoulder screamed for attention. A chill cut through his body; taking away the feeling, and taking away some of the pain. Maybe he should stop and rest.
Ahead in the distance he saw points of light. They grew brighter. Someone was coming for him. Is this the way it would end?
The lights came closer. Why now? After all he had been through.