by Jack Bowie
Light engulfed the vehicle.
The Jeep shook violently as a deafening roar filled the cabin.
Then the truck passed, its Doppler-shifted air horn still echoing in night air.
No, dammit! I won’t let them get away with this.
Shaking his head to fight off the pain-induced lethargy, he tossed a mental coin and headed into the darkness to the right.
Chapter 46
White Mountains, New Hampshire
Thursday, 2:00 a.m.
SHORTLY AFTER THE Civil War, the citizens of New Hampshire’s White Mountains realized that they could make more money attracting other people to look at their breathtaking forests and majestic peaks than by trying to chop and carve the beauty away. Thus began a period of growth and prosperity for the region.
At first it had been the affluent who had driven their motor cars up from Boston, or taken the railroad sleepers from New York, to populate new resorts: Glen House, Crawford House, Kearsarge House, and the Mount Washington Hotel. The retreats offered elegant accommodations, European cuisine, and thoughtful service, all nestled in the natural splendor of the Granite State. Guided tours provided informative, and safe, access to the Notches, the Flume, the Old Man of the Mountain, and Mt. Washington itself.
Over time, less wealthy travelers began to brave the journey north to walk the pristine trails and experience the magnificence of the terrain. Doctors, lawyers, teachers, and businessmen, came to set aside increasingly sedentary lives and be refreshed in the crisp air and physical challenges of the mountains. At first they stayed in private homes and public inns, but many later chose to make the region their second residence. By the early 1900s, small summer cottages and weather-beaten shacks rimmed ponds and lakes and lined ancient logging runs.
In the mid-twentieth century a new phenomenon shocked northern New Hampshire: alpine skiing. What had once been an exhausting necessity of life in the mountains was now a multi-million dollar recreation business. Investors rushed to the mountains with dreams of turning the barren hillsides into crowded ski slopes. Their money built roads and lodges, mundane rope tows and soaring gondolas. Towns appeared seemingly overnight, stressing rural facilities, and local planning boards, to their limit. Many of the old-timers rued the appearance of traffic jams and condominiums, but others reveled in the economic windfall.
Merritt was a small town five miles west of North Woodstock. Once a prosperous logging and trading center, it palled as the resort areas grew, and had gracefully aged to a hamlet of convenience stores and real estate agencies. In the winter it catered to the hordes of skiers coming “up north” from Boston and New York; its central location was convenient to both Loon and Cannon mountains. Now, in early spring, the 328 permanent inhabitants made repairs and tried to spruce up the town for summer vacationers. Summer would never be as busy, or profitable, as the winter season, but the clear air and flowered meadows still drew tired executives and their families to the area for rest and rejuvenation.
They started appearing in late April to reopen their cabins or to stake out the best territory in the managed campgrounds. The flow of tourists and vacationers continued through October, peaking along with the incomparable New England fall colors, and then subsided until the stone gray skies emptied their contents, covering the mountains and slopes with the white gold of New Hampshire.
Many of the visitors came to hike the tangled trails of the mountains. The very serious, or very foolish, went to Mt. Washington where the summer winds still averaged over 60 miles per hour, but for the recreational rock climber, magnificent views could be found just a few hours off Interstate 93.
Sitting at the foot of numerous scenic trails, Merritt was perfectly situated as a base for climbers. The town had cultivated its new role with a stock of boutiques specializing not in dresses or shoes but pitons, ropes, and maps. It was this concentration of fellow enthusiasts that had first drawn Paul Terrel to the area and had eventually resulted in the purchase of a small cabin three miles outside the town.
Braxton arrived in Merritt around 2:00 a.m., completely spent from the terror of the escape. He was soaked in sweat, but the pain in his shoulder seemed less intense. He didn’t know whether that was a good sign or not.
The trip north had seemed so easy seven hours before.
The road behind Chamberlain’s property had led to an intersection. A sign had said “Route 4 North, Chelmsford/Nashua”, and he had known where he had to go. Going south back to Boston and Cambridge was insane, they would have been expecting him and the density of police would have made it impossible to hide. North was his best plan.
He took Route 4 up to Tyngsboro, then headed west on Rt. 113. He avoided the main roads such as Route 3 and Interstate 93; police alerts would have undoubtedly gone out and his Jeep was too damaged to be missed by even light scrutiny.
Braxton and Terrel had discovered numerous back routes while trying to detour around traffic jams to and from their climbing expeditions. He briefly considered going to MapQuest on his phone, then realized the cell was a homing beacon for the authorities. With surprising clarity he pulled to the side of the road and ripped the battery from the device, tossing it on the passenger seat.
Now having to rely solely on his hazy memory, he headed north on 122 at Pepperell, and cruised through a series of dark New Hampshire towns until he joined Route 3 just north of Franklin. The narrow two lane highway had been the only road to northern New Hampshire in the forties and fifties. In the sixties, however, Interstate 93 had been built, providing a faster, more comfortable route into the mountains. Tonight, Braxton knew he could cruise the smaller road and meet few obstacles.
Despite the lack of traffic, it had been difficult to progress very rapidly on the dark, winding roads with only one headlight. It had taken over twice as long as it should have, nearly seven hours including two stops for rest and relief, but he was nearly there.
He drove past Jamison’s General Store and took the first turn to the left. The dirt road snaked rapidly into the mountains, switching back and forth as it negotiated the rocky terrain. After three miles he watched for the nearly invisible path that bore off to the right. He saw it just in time and continued slowly, even deeper into the dense woods. The path ran for about a mile ending in a small clearing cut from the virgin forest. In the middle of the open space stood his destination: Paul Terrel’s small vacation cabin.
The Cherokee rolled up to the structure, stalling out when it struck the front porch. Braxton collapsed onto the steering wheel, ready to give himself to the pain and exhaustion.
No. He couldn’t stop now. He had to get inside.
Braxton climbed out into a freezing New Hampshire night. The shock of the frigid air released what little adrenaline he had left, just enough to keep him going for a few more minutes.
The cabin was a reproduction log house, about forty feet long and twenty feet deep, with a covered porch that ran the length of the front. A rotting cloth hammock swung silently at the end to his left and a pair of rough wooden benches rested against the wall at his right. Two painted metal milk canisters sat on each side of the front door. Emerging from the canisters were stalks that would explode into colorful wildflowers in the coming weeks.
Aided by a still-burning headlight, Braxton staggered up to the door and kicked the left canister as hard as he could. Stems and dirt spilled over the porch surface. Shivering from the pain and cold, he stuck his hand in the soil, fished around in the mess for a few seconds, and retrieved the emergency key they left for forgetful climbers. He struggled in the shadows to put the rusty key into the lock. It finally clicked and he entered the cabin.
Slamming the door behind him, he went immediately to the first aid kit in the bathroom. At one of his rest stops he had wrapped his blood-soaked shirt around the hole in his shoulder; it seemed to have stopped the flow for the moment. He found a bottle of Tylenol, at least he still had the sense to know aspirin would probably restart the bleeding, and swallowed a handful of
the white pills. Too tired to cope any longer, he stumbled into the bedroom, collapsed on one of the bottom bunks, and immediately lost consciousness.
Chapter 47
Capitol Hill, Washington, D.C.
Thursday, 11:45 a.m.
GREYSTONE WALKED INTO The Monocle on Capitol Hill at 11:45. He gave the maître d’ his name and was quickly shown to a quiet corner table.
Nicholson had made a good selection. Just a few blocks away from the Capitol on D St., The Monocle had been a Washington favorite for over thirty-five years; a gathering place for legislators, military, lobbyists, and reporters. You could tell a lot about the latest deals on the Hill by watching who was hosting who at lunch. It was a notoriously difficult place to get a reservation, but somehow his colleague never had any problem.
The waiter brought him a glass of a popular New Zealand Chardonnay. He drew in the aroma and took a sip. The wine was cool with a tart fruity flavor, quite good, but he still missed the bite of a dry martini. Times change, however, and there was no use in calling undue attention.
Greystone noticed a number of city and state police uniforms at the next table. The House was debating a local law enforcement subsidy bill and it looked like the cops had come out in full dress. He’d have to ask Nicholson about the attractive civilian who was sitting with them. It never hurt to know an important staffer.
Publicly, they were here to discuss Theater’s support of the Potterfield Bill. The real agenda was more critical than even the Bill, but there was no reason not to hold the conversation in a comfortable locale.
Nicholson arrived at 12:10, sat down, and immediately ordered a double Jack Daniels. “I’m sorry, Bob. I’ve been stuck in a damn subcommittee meeting all morning.”
He was more agitated than Greystone had ever seen him. He had heavy bags under his eyes and a deep furrow down the middle of his forehead. The pressure from Potterfield must be tremendous. Greystone’s news wasn’t going to help.
“Then you haven’t heard?” Greystone asked.
“Heard what?”
Greystone attempted a look of sadness. “Warren was killed last night.”
“Killed!” Nicholson exclaimed a little too loudly. He glanced to each side hoping that he hadn’t attracted too much attention, then continued in a lower tone. “What happened?”
“Apparently Braxton went off the deep end. He went to Warren’s house last night and shot him. The police found him at the scene but he got away.”
“Jesus. Warren’s dead and we’ve got a lunatic consultant running all over the countryside. None of this would have happened if your people had done their job last week.”
Leave it to Nicholson to immediately place blame. It was typical of these goddamn bureaucrats. “Let’s not get into that now, Nick. We’ve got to find Braxton before the police do.”
“Are we in any danger? Would this guy come after us?”
Greystone shook his head. “There’s no way he could have connected us to Ramal. He’s holed up somewhere. We just have to figure out where.”
“What about Warren’s papers? The cops must be all over his stuff. Would he have kept anything around that would point to us?”
Nicolson could hardly get the words out fast enough. His chest was heaving and he was flailing his hands over the table. Greystone had to get him calm before someone noticed. “Settle down, Nick. Don’t go paranoid on me. Warren was too smart to leave any incriminating evidence around. He’s always covered his tracks before.”
“Yeah, I know.” Nicholson dropped his arms and looked straight at his colleague. “Warren was a good friend, Bob. I want you to punish this guy. If you can’t figure out how to do it, I will.”
Jesus. Why did he always have to be the rational one? The one to fix their problems? It was bad enough that Nicholson was running all over Virginia trying to track down his phantom blackmailer. He couldn’t let him start messing in the Braxton problem.
“Take it easy, Nick. I’m checking out all of his contacts. He doesn’t have many friends left.”
The waitress brought Nicholson his drink and he downed half of it in a single gulp.
“How is your search going?” Greystone asked, hoping to get Nicholson’s mind off the consultant.
“I checked every goddamn newspaper story and computer file on Lynch I could find. Then I had Potterfield’s interns run a check on every name. It’s the first useful work they’ve done for us all year.” Nicholson had learned to clean up his language in public, but when he was stressed, deep set behaviors reappeared. It was another bad sign. “Everybody turns out negative. I located Lynch’s attorney yesterday and he told me the mother was dead. Said he hadn’t seen the daughter for years, but his receptionist let slip she had just been there.”
“Can we check his files?”
“Yeah, I did that. He had cleaned them out. I’ve been searching data banks and phone books ever since for the kid. It looks like she disappeared off the face of the earth.”
Greystone dropped his head and tried to think of another approach. With Chamberlain gone, they didn’t have the time to be working on two critical cases. They had to eliminate Nicholson’s blackmailer and they had to find Braxton.
Nicholson finished his drink and waved for another. He finally noticed his colleague’s silence. “I’m sorry, Bob. This thing’s really got me on edge. Anything I can do about the damn consultant?”
Greystone slowly looked up. Maybe Nick could give him some ideas. “He could be anywhere, but the police report from Boston said he was wounded. That means he’s got to find someone to help him.”
“What about CERT? Would they give him any help?”
“I don’t think so. The cops will be on their back after Chamberlain’s death. And their head guy will throw a fit over the publicity. Anyway, I’ve put alarms on all of Braxton’s computer accounts. If he tries to contact anyone we can track him.”
“He could just be lying dead somewhere. Maybe we should just wait until they find the body.”
“It’s possible, but that bastard’s luckier than any three people I know. I’ve got a feeling we’ll hear from him again.”
The waiter brought Nicholson’s refill and they decided to go ahead and order. Greystone selected a light seafood casserole; Nicholson ordered a Monocle burger. The waiter returned and brought them both salads.
“Could Braxton have developed any contacts down here?” Nicholson asked. “You said he had spent a lot of time at GW.”
“Braxton’s primary contact was the detective-in-charge, Sam Fowler. Fowler gave him access to Ramal’s files.”
“The cop certainly wouldn’t help him now. Isn’t the Ramal case closed?”
“It looks that way. I hacked the District’s record system and reviewed the case files. The FBI bought the terrorist story. It keeps up their funding. Fowler wasn’t convinced but he was overruled. I checked his case log and he hadn’t put much together.
“According to the log, Braxton talked to Robert Cabot, an assistant dean at Georgetown, and Eric Mendoza, Ramal’s advisor.” Greystone prided himself in his memory. He loved to recall minute details from reports or files he had reviewed. “Oh, and Ramal’s girlfriend, a coed at Georgetown. Susan Goddard.”
Nicholson dropped his fork into the Caesar salad. “Did you say Goddard? Susan Goddard?”
“Yes, Susan Goddard,” Greystone shot back. What the hell was with Nicholson now? “I’m sure. Why?”
“Goddard was the wife’s maiden name. How old was this girl?”
“Jesus Christ, Nick, I don’t know. Mid to late twenties I guess. About the same as Ramal.”
Nicholson slammed back his chair and stood up. “That’s her, Bob. She‘s here in town! Georgetown, right? I’ll get back to you this afternoon.” Heads turned as the elegant black rushed through the crowded restaurant.
“Dammit!” Greystone exclaimed under his breath. Could we have put Lynch’s daughter together with Braxton?
He called to the waiter. There was l
ittle point in trying to finish his lunch now; his stomach couldn’t take it.
* * *
Braxton opened his eyes and his head immediately started to pound. Pain pulsed through his shoulder and chills racked his body. As his mind slowly cleared, he remembered the events of the night before: the discovery of Chamberlain’s body, the arrival of the police, the desperate race through the woods, and the exhausting escape to New Hampshire. It was hard for him to believe that it could have all happened.
His watch said it was 12:15. It was light outside so it must be noon. He wanted to get up but he felt so tired. His shoulder throbbed insistently, demanding attention. He rolled to the side of the bed and sat up, preparing for a trip to the bathroom. Instantly his vision blurred and he grabbed blindly for the bunk post. He fell back and closed his eyes.
At 3:00 he awoke again, sweat dripping from his head and chest. He carefully pulled himself up on the side of the bed and waited for his head to clear. Still shivering, he started the slow journey to the bathroom. Three steps from the bed he rested on the old cherry dresser Terrel had bought from an antique dealer in Lincoln. Two steps along the wall brought him to the bedroom door. He swung himself around the door frame into the main room. Inching along the dilapidated sofa they had picked up in a Concord flea market, he reached out for the large meeting table. It was too far and without support, he fell to the floor.
He rested on the tattered area rug then climbed up the end of the table and continued the trek. Using one of the chairs as a walker he hobbled to the bathroom doorway, then stepped over to the basin. Had he looked in the mirror, he would not have recognized the pale and drawn face staring back at him. The Tylenol was still open on the scratched Formica counter top. He swallowed another mouthful of pills and sat down on the commode, dizzy and out of breath.
His mind was adrift. He couldn’t focus on anything. Thoughts seemed almost within reach, and then they dissolved into nothingness. He finally pulled himself up and walked the eight steps to the small kitchen in the front corner of the cabin. Sitting on the counter was a telephone.