River of No Return : A Jake Trent Novel (9781451698053) (23 page)

44

TRAM VILLAGE, CHINA. OCTOBER 28.

9:45 A.M. BEIJING TIME.

The sun appeared a dull reddish planet through the heavy smog. The smog, Charlotte had begun to realize, was commonplace—the clear sky on the first day she and the chief had spent in China was just the result of some lucky wind. A lull before the tempest.

The village was bustling. Trucks rolled down the dusty road, filled with workers, lumber, and building materials. The carpenters and electricians started early, preceding the smoky crimson sun by an hour or more.

Since she'd regained her mental clarity and memory, Charlotte had bounced from gloom to anger. The only consistent feeling she had was best described as
adrift
. Out at sea with nothing to cling to. Blank horizons in all directions.

If and when she got home, what would she tell her children? How would she find the strength to support them when she could
barely keep herself sane? Her mother was dead, her father in an old-folks' home in Laramie. She shuddered at the thought of burdening her friends.

You
know what doesn't mind being adrift in the ocean? A buoy. An inert entity that rolls with the waves and the storms. No emotion. No tears. A hard shell and a buoyant core.

The giant walked into the Wapiti Suite earlier than normal that morning. It caught Charlotte by surprise. She moved quickly away from the window and lay down on the bed.

The giant just sighed.

“Asshole.” She spit the word in his direction.

“I know what you doing.” He spoke in a quiet, even tone. “He will hurt you for it.”

“Worth a shot.” She flipped on the TV to tell him the conversation was over.

“If you survive the fall, we will be waiting. Nowhere to go.”

“Are you on the list?” She changed the subject, still staring at the television. A reporter in a crowded slum. “Do you get to live if all this crazy talk comes true?” She pointed to the screen.

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

“He told me it was only family.”

“Family?” the giant asked, laughing. “Is that what he said?”

Charlotte muted the TV and turned toward the giant. “Who, then?”

Like the television, the giant was silent. Charlotte closed her eyes and imagined herself at home, walking the trail from their house up to the neighboring pasture, where they used to take the kids to feed the horses carrots and apples.

45

WEST BANK, SNAKE RIVER. OCTOBER 28.

7:15 A.M. MOUNTAIN STANDARD TIME.

Jake hadn't been able to fall asleep the night before. He thought a drink might help. In a cabinet he found a bottle of Chateau Montelena cabernet sauvignon he'd bought the prior winter to share with Noelle. It hurt him to drink it. Another slap in the face—closure—as if her total dismissal of him two days ago weren't enough.

He contemplated calling her. Instead, he bundled up and sat on the back patio, listening to the nighttime secrets of Trout Run, and throwing a glow-in-the-dark Frisbee to Chayote.

In the past, he'd never let himself obsess too much before an assignment. If he did, he knew he would never find sleep. So he'd shut his brain down as much as he could.

When his fingers started to hurt from holding the stemware in the night air and the heeler was panting heavy clouds, he wan
dered back inside and tied up a few more steelhead patterns, until he noticed a decline in their quality from the cab.

Then it was the couch and Chayote, who did his best to snuggle with Jake and comfort him through an anxious and sentimental evening.

Jake awoke at daybreak.

He dressed in worn blue jeans, a black T-shirt, and a light synthetic down hoodie. He took his coffee to the back, as he often did, and watched Trout Run slip by. The cobalt sky matched the inky flow—cold and mysterious. No trout rising. No sign of activity. The stream wasn't giving away any secrets.

Like a sea-run
Oncorhynchus mykiss
, the impossible steelhead, Meirong Xiao was elusive and abstract. A whisper on the wind. Like finding an eight-pound anadromous rainbow trout in a 425-mile current with countless veins of tributaries and innumerable lairs. The River of No Return.

When he finished his coffee, he went inside to print the information from Divya on Senator Rick Canart. Chayote was entranced by the sound of the laser printer, tilting his head back and forth and yelping. Jake folded the pages and slid them into a manila envelope. He ran up the wooden stairs to the loft and got his gear.

But what to do with Chayote? He texted his neighbor once again so as not to burden J.P. Then texted J.P.:

Going out of town to see a friend.

Jake went out to defrost the 4Runner. He loaded his duffel and laptop and put the Mariner back in the driver's-side door pocket. He tossed a glance at his skiff, which had accumulated not only water from precipitation, but also detritus from the
autumn wind. He needed to cover and stow it for the winter.
Not today
.

The sun was rising over Snow King as Jake ascended the Teton Pass, lighting up the bowls and chutes so popular with backcountry skiers. It was early in the season, though, and obstructions protruding from the mountain snowpack kept the skiers at home. The only traffic was early morning commuters.

Thirty minutes later, in Victor, Idaho, Jake turned left toward Pine Creek Pass and Idaho Falls. He drove carefully—the road was windy and sheathed in a light blanket of snow. He descended the pass into Swan Valley around 9:30 a.m., at which point he found cell reception and called a hotel in Idaho Falls. Gave them an old alias, just to be safe.

The drive took Jake just under two hours. Idaho Falls was a sprawling little city, population around sixty thousand. The outskirts claimed a few big-box stores, car dealerships, and taquerias.

Jake's hotel, The Falls Lodge, was located on the corner of Broadway and the river, overlooking Sportsman's Park, in the heart of the old town. The clerk allowed him to check in early. His room had a good view of the waterfall, an angular twenty-foot man-made diversion dam. Looking upriver, a gleaming white church stood in the middle of the river's horizon.

The city's greenbelt, a corridor of parkland and pathways along the Snake, was filled with strolling workers on their lunch breaks. The temperature here, where the elevation was only 4,700 feet, had climbed into the upper forties. Scattered clouds were pushing through on a gusty wind.

His room was basic—one double bed—but clean and smartly decorated. He put the Mariner and its clips in the safe and spent
a few minutes organizing what would be his home base for the foreseeable future. With his gear in place, he sat down at the small table to examine Divya's notes.

The senator's mansion was in the foothills east of the city, an area called Ammon. 117 Sagebrush Court. Jake took out his laptop and looked up the address on Google Earth to get a sense of the surroundings. The enormous houses on Sagebrush Court were separated by ample space. The road extended for only a mile or so, with three houses on either side. Each was set back on what he estimated were two-acre tracts. This meant two things—first, he couldn't possibly get close enough from the street to make any meaningful observations, and second, the residents of such an exclusive neighborhood would immediately notice the presence of an outsider.

Jake scanned the map to the east. Eagle Point Park abutted the back side of the Canart residence.
Perfect.
His military-grade Steiner binoculars would put him within easy sight range from the tree line.

He flipped to the second page of printouts. The Canarts' vehicle information. The senator himself drove a 2011 Lincoln MKZ in sterling gray. His wife apparently preferred German engineering, with a mineral-white 2010 BMW 535i. Such cars would stick out in Idaho Falls, a town of blue-collar workers and ranchers turned small-business owners. Jake entered the license-plate numbers in the notes on his phone.

The next page offered physical descriptions and photos of Canart and Meirong Xiao. Canart stood five-foot-seven and weighed a meaty two hundred pounds. The excess was stashed mainly in his midsection, where a dense belly drooped over his belt line. He was well dressed in the three provided photos. His hair was a black
wreath around an otherwise bald head. His small nose hooked sharply downward; his eyes were beady and dark.

Next was Canart's political bio. Jake read this thoroughly, having somewhat disengaged from politics after his move to Jackson.

This was Canart's first term as a senator. Main office in Idaho Falls on Business Route 20 near Liberty Park. Branch offices in Coeur d'Alene and Boise. His chief of staff, Frances Gilleny, was born in Utah and attended Harvard's Kennedy School. She was a sharp-looking woman, short and proper, who preferred dark pantsuits and no heels. Canart employed only sixteen other staff members, many fewer than the average of thirty-four.
Easier to keep secrets,
Jake figured. Idaho was a good place for a senator who liked his privacy or had something to hide.

The senator split his time between Idaho Falls and Washington, choosing to return home during breaks rather than travel. His political views were heavily influenced by his self-described “struggle to succeed in the changing landscape of my forefathers' land.” He was ardently against free-flowing immigration and believed the world's burgeoning population was leading to a day of reckoning.

How does a nutjob like this get elected?

Jake read on. During his campaign for senator, Canart had played a game of smoke and mirrors, dodging and explaining away questions about his personal beliefs. Instead, he gained Idaho's support by rallying against the “deliberate degradation of American Ideals.”

Meirong's images—CIA photos taken from a distance and outdated by a few years—gave the opposite impression: graceful and light. Waiflike. An avian creature with chestnut eyes that revealed a kind of tortured cleverness. Dark, straight hair to her lower
back. Light skin. She stood five-foot-two and weighed one hundred pounds, at most.
Good.
Her size would stick out, especially if she was being toted around by a two-hundred-pound man in a $2,000 suit with a Lincoln.

The last two pages consisted of a “location profile,” detailing Canart's known stomping grounds. There wasn't much: when he wasn't in DC, the senator liked to go to the Elks Lodge in downtown Idaho Falls on Tuesdays to play poker for charity and glad-hand the locals. Otherwise, his habits were fairly unsystematic. He liked fine dining, but anyone could have predicted that.

Meirong didn't have a location profile, because the CIA had been unable to track her in the United States. She was too shrewd for that. Jake knew she would be considerably more difficult to find than the senator.

When Jake was finished, he searched for car-rental agencies on his iPhone, in case Canart's people had somehow come to know his vehicle. There was a Hertz three miles west on Route 26.

On the way out Jake locked the safe—he wouldn't need the Glock for his initial reconnaissance. He pulled the blue nano-puff hoodie from its hanger and put it on.

* * *

Jake got out of the 4Runner and slid the Costas down over his eyes before approaching the rental counter. He had no idea how extensive Canart's or Xiao's intelligence was, and there was no excuse for being sloppy.

The clerk was tall and lanky with a pimply face. No older than eighteen. Jake gave him the name Mike Keller, using the corresponding driver's license and credit card from his safe at home.

“Car trouble?” The kid was looking around Jake at the 4Runner.

“Yeah. Not sure how long I'll need it.”

The kid shrugged. “Pick whatever you want.”

Jake walked the lot and found a new Dodge Charger in black. It was a little showy, but the extra horsepower could come in handy.

“Ninety-nine dollars a day,” the clerk said. “You want insurance?”

Ninety-nine dollars? CIA better reimburse me.
“No. Can I leave mine here?”

“Sure, but we can meet you at the mechanic's.”

“Thanks, but I'll do the work myself when I get home.”

Jake parked the 4Runner so that its license plate wasn't visible from the highway. He drove the Charger back east, past the old town and toward Ammon and Sagebrush Court.

The neighborhood was a typical suburban McMansion hamlet—­out of place in the high plains. Small community parks dotted the landscape, with handsome wooden jungle gyms and paved bike paths. Sagebrush Court was the gemstone. A painted sign marked the entrance, where the road split around an island of small landscaped hillocks.

Jake turned in for a quick look. He figured the residents of Sagebrush Court were used to wide-eyed wannabes cruising the street, wondering where their American Dream went wrong. The ostentatious-but-affordable Charger fit the part perfectly.

Number 117 was the last house on the left, set back from a wide cul-de-sac with its own island of shrubbery. Jake took the circle slowly for observation's sake. The Canart residence was redbrick, with occasional façades of taupe stucco framed by timber beams. Dormers and gables garnished the expansive roof. A three-story windowed turret dominated the right side of the home, and on the left, a large arcade window looked into a library or den.

The driveway wound its way up a gentle grade and back behind the tower on the right. Jake saw no sign of anyone.

He left Sagebrush Court and turned back onto the neighborhood's main street, then made two more quick rights and entered Eagle Point Park. It too was empty. Jake walked past a gazebo and playground and went into the woods on the western edge of the park. It was a thin strip of willows and planted aspens along a tiny creek. After a short stroll, Jake could see the back of the Canarts' home behind two or three hundred yards of lawn. A large stone patio with a dining set and outdoor fireplace abutted the back door. The garage doors faced left, and his position allowed him a clear view of the driveway.

Good enough.
The trees would provide Jake cover to look into the rear windows using the binoculars. If the senator came or went, Jake would know.

* * *

Jake drove back to the hotel and responded to an email from Divya, informing her of his location. He opted for an early meal so that he could be in position at the park when the Canarts would potentially eat dinner themselves.

He walked along the river path a few blocks before turning toward town and its strip of bars and restaurants. The wind was blowing harder now, whisking away the heat from the Indian summer sun. He sat down in the back corner of a tapas joint, where he could watch the entrance. It was a small city, and a chance encounter with his mark was a distinct possibility.

His phone buzzed as the food arrived. Text from Noelle.
Why not a call?
Jake shook it off.

The park biologist had confirmed that the piece of fur came from a wolf. Jake already knew this, and thought for a moment about how to respond. He didn't want to blow her off, but he couldn't tell her where he was and why. He wrote back:

Interesting. What's your next move?

Buzz.

Going back to cabin this evening with county detectives.

He took another bite of chorizo and waited for Noelle to send another message. Nothing came.

Jake paid his bill and walked back to the hotel, taking in faces. The Friday happy hour filled the strip with workers, jackets slung over their shoulders, soaking in the fleeting sunshine.

It was 5 p.m. when Jake arrived back at the hotel. He flipped on the news and changed his clothes, adding layers in anticipation of a cold evening in the park. On the way out, he ordered a coffee from the café in the lobby.

The sun was slipping toward the Sawtooth Mountains to the west as Jake fired up the Charger. His nerves were heightened now. He had the Mariner in the center console and one of the tactical knives clipped to his belt. The binoculars rested in their case on the passenger seat. If Divya was right—that he might encounter interlopers from Canart's side
and
Xiao's side—he had good reason for extra caution.

Eagle Point Park came quicker than he remembered from earlier, but that was because his mind was racing. The swing sets and
slides were empty and the walking paths barren, save for a woman in a fur coat walking a similarly attired poodle.