River of No Return : A Jake Trent Novel (9781451698053) (26 page)

50

WASHINGTON, DC. OCTOBER 29.

9:45 P.M. EASTERN STANDARD TIME.

The Office of Human Rights and Special Prosecutions looked like an ordinary workplace. It was located on the fourth floor of an Indiana limestone structure on Pennsylvania Avenue, a couple of blocks from the White House and next to Freedom Plaza.

The staff was small—six attorneys, who, like Jake Trent, were also law-enforcement-trained special agents. Others were located throughout the Eastern Seaboard in various branch locations.

Each special prosecutor had an assistant, a cream-of-the-crop graduate from a top law school.

Barry Schue, early forties, of average height but athletic, was still at his desk, to his wife's chagrin, along with his assistant. It was another late night at work, but his understudy probably cherished the opportunity to impress his superiors. At least that's how Schue rationalized it. He would have felt that way in his younger days.

They were seated inside Schue's office poring over pages of documentation on the rural ransack organized by Xiao and his young daughter. The evidence was sufficient to prosecute both of them. The question was whether, after the judgment, it would be possible to impose a sentence. This was a part of the business for which Schue couldn't sufficiently train the assistant. It was the last hurdle in closing a case. Getting your man into custody.

Wright had hinted all along that Meirong's prosecution might become a casualty of foreign relations—spy business, really—and that irked Schue. The job of the Office was to pursue justice, not make concessions and play political games.

Why
the hell did Wright object to her prosecution anyway?
At the very least, she was an accomplice to crimes against humanity. At worst, she was the mastermind.
What
was in it for Wright and the CIA?

“Justin?”

The young assistant looked up from the pile of paperwork spread on the carpet.

“I'll look through the rest of this. Can you get me a quick bio on the point man for the agency on this?”

“Assistant Director Wright?”

“Yes.”

* * *

Divya had returned to Langley, where she had access to all her contacts and the full resources of the agency. The building was dim and cool. She started up her laptop, put some coffee on in the break room, and called Wright.

“I'll fly out and pick up Meirong,” Wright told her. “As soon as we get her, we'll begin the process to get Charlotte Terrell back.”

“I'd like to stay on. I'd really like to be out there myself. He's a friend.”

Wright became incensed. “You have a serious problem with authority, Divya. Do not question my command.” He hung up before she could say anything more.

Asshole.

Divya went to the break room, poured a cup of coffee, and sat back down at her desk. She was anxious, tapping her fingers on her desk, feeling idle. She called Jake and told him the plan.

“Lie low until Wright contacts you tomorrow.”

Be careful,
she forgot to say.
Don't get yourself killed.

She anxiously plied through the Canart/Xiao file for a few minutes before turning back to her computer. She went to a flight search engine and typed “Idaho Falls” in the destination field. “Dulles to Idaho Falls. Depart 5:18 am EST, arrive 8:48 MST.”
She supplied her credit-card information and clicked purchase.

On her way home her cell phone rang.

“Divya? It's Schue.”

“Yes?”

“You need to stay away from Wright. Tell Jake the same.”

51

HEISE HOT SPRINGS. OCTOBER 29.

10:45 P.M. MOUNTAIN STANDARD TIME.

Jake perched the Charger on a high, sandy shoulder above the dirt road to Ririe Reservoir, where he could see any vehicles coming or going from the highway. Back to the west, he could see the glow of Idaho Falls, and to the east the scattered outposts that sat along the southern fork of the Snake.

The reception was spotty, but he checked his phone often. Nothing since Divya had called half an hour ago.

Heavy snow continued to fall. There were four or more inches on the ground. The night was gray rather than black—the thick clouds reflected light pollution back onto the snow-covered high plains, which returned the favor, lending a dull glow to the atmosphere.

To keep Meirong comfortable he'd left her in the car, out of the snow. Jake sat on the hood. He needed the fresh air.

Around 11 p.m., Jake got back into the Charger and turned the
heat on. Meirong was shivering from the cold, but her emotional state seemed to have calmed.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.” Jake was playing good cop. “I need some information. There is a woman in Jackson. A friend of mine. Did you put a GPSN chip in her?”

“I haven't put a chip in anyone.”

Her face looked as though she was telling the truth. “Did the senator?”

“I don't know.”

“This friend is not unlike you.” Jake let his words sink in. “Very special. Very smart. She had a heart attack that nearly killed her. Is that how your wolf died?” Jake guessed.

“Fibrillation. Ventricular fibrillation. What's her name?”

“Esma. How does it kill?”

“Like a pacemaker resets the heart. Electrical pulses,” the prodigy said. “They can remove it. It was just a prototype. A trial.” She touched her left shoulder with her right hand. “It won't activate during the procedure.”

“You're sure?”

She nodded but appeared disappointed. “The technology isn't there yet.” A frown.

“Thank you.”

Jake took the keys out of the ignition, grabbed an extra shirt from his pack in the backseat, and draped it over Meirong.

“I'll be right back.”

Jake walked through the ankle-deep snow, uphill from the Charger. To the west, a rock promontory jutted out into the night. Jake carefully climbed its slippery face, found stronger reception, and called the hospital.

Dr. Antol was on the night shift.

“It's Jake Trent.”

The woman took a moment to place the name. “The cardiology expert?”

“How is Esma?”

“Fine. Doing better.”

“Good. I need you to listen to me carefully.”

Jake explained, and the doctor seemed to listen, intrigued by the bizarre story.

“We'll take a look,” she promised.

After he got off the phone with the hospital, he called J.P. and filled him in. “If Dr. Antol doesn't find anything, you need to get a second opinion.” Jake was still concerned about whether Dr. Antol would take him seriously. J.P. sounded confused, but compliant.

It was a few minutes before midnight. The moon was rising to the east. It glowed through the foggy shroud of clouds.

Jake arrived back at the car to find Meirong asleep. He started the car again and ran the heat for a few minutes before returning to his watch outside. His view from within the Charger was limited, and he didn't want anyone sneaking up on them. He went into the car only to thaw his hands and run the heat for Meirong.

Around 1 a.m., the snow intensified to whiteout conditions—a squall within a storm. The driving flakes weaseled into Jake's collar and cuffs, wetting his under layers and chilling him to the bone. The watch was useless in the blizzard; visibility was less than a car's length. He retreated to the driver's side.

Meirong was still asleep. The heavy sheets of blowing snow tested the windshield. They arrived in short runs of rhythmic gusts, occasionally strong enough to shift the body of the car on its
struts. He fought off fatigue, but the cadence of the storm eventually made Jake's eyes close.

He woke up at 3:45 a.m. The wind had decided to take a break—the storm was again dropping large swollen flakes into a still night sky.

He got out to have a look around. The squall had drifted nearly a foot of snow against the passenger side. Jake kicked at it to test its consistency. It was wind-buffed into a dense slab. Getting back out on the road in the rear-wheel-drive car would be difficult, but he would deal with that when the time came.

He walked back up to the promontory and his phone hummed. Voice mail. It was from Divya. Jake pressed play.

Voice mail unavailable.

Jake trudged farther uphill, beyond the rocks. Still no reception. The weather had only made it worse.

Damm
it.
Why was Divya contacting him? As far as he knew, Wright was making the morning pickup.

The moon was setting now, and if Jake looked hard enough, he thought he could see the glow of the arriving sun over the southern Snake River Range to the east. He checked his phone. Only a few minutes had passed. 4:01.

On the way back to the car, Jake stopped, urinated, and checked his phone again on the unlikely chance he had reception between the rocky perch and the car. Still nothing.

He would have to move the car. Find a place to hide with a good vantage of the road and some reception. He didn't want to miss his chance to get rid of Meirong, get Charlotte back, and end this
whole mess. The sudden plunge back into his old life had been cold and unwelcoming.

The snow was uniformly six inches deep, except for the deeper drifts on the lee side of rocks and brush. The squall had scoured all the precipitation that wasn't anchored down by the prairie short-grass. Once Jake could dig around the drift against the Charger's passenger side, the car should be able to get back on the road easily.

He continued down the slope to assess the situation and start digging.

Something was wrong. The light in the cabin of the Charger was on. He jogged the last thirty feet to the vehicle.

“You'll freeze to death!” he shouted into the storm. He whipped around, scanning the tiny area where he could see through the darkness.

Meirong was gone. Somehow she had wiggled free from her restraints, scooted across the center console, and exited through the driver's door. A nylon strip of sleeping bag rested on the passenger's seat.

Jake got down on all fours and started clearing the drifted snow by sweeping his arm under the car. The snow was dense, its particles jammed together by the force of the wind. Jake was working up a sweat, but his hands were cold and wet. He pulled them into his coat sleeves and sat on his ass, using his legs to sweep the remaining snow.

How could I let his happen?
A grim mood washed over him. He might have just blown the whole thing. Cost Charlotte her life because he was out of practice.
Get it
together.
There wasn't time to brood over his mistakes.

When the passenger side was adequately cleared, Jake tore
dead branches from the surrounding sagebrush and stamped them down behind the rear wheels for traction.

He got in. Pressing the gas pedal softly, so as not to allow the Charger's V8 to rip the tires free from their moorings, he eased back onto the 4x4 track. Then he carefully idled down the steep hill back to Ririe Reservoir Road.

Back toward the reservoir, there was nothing but expanses of sage flats and potato farms. Fleeing in that direction was a death wish if you were unprepared for the cold. A right turn had him pointed back toward the highway. Chances were Meirong was headed in that direction. Two miles lay between Jake and the intersection, where, if she were lucky enough to encounter a late-night driver, she would have no problem hitching a ride in such a storm.

Jake pushed the Charger as much as he could without risking fishtailing into a roadside ditch. The high beams cast a wide swath of yellow light into the bordering fields.

He got to the intersection with the highway, stopped the car, turned off the headlights, and searched the snowy ground for tracks. He found nothing but the footprints of a curious raven, pecking around for roadkill.

Jake turned the car around in the empty intersection. As he did so, a beep emanated from somewhere in the dash. Jake scrolled through the menu on the Charger's computer.
Twenty-five miles until empty.

Dammit. Shouldn't have got
ten the V8.
It wasn't enough if the search lasted a few hours. He threw the car into reverse, made a three-point turn, and accelerated back toward Idaho Falls to find a gas station.

On the way, he was finally able to retrieve his voice mail.

Jake. Divya. Not sure Wright can be trusted. I'm on my way.

52

TRAM VILLAGE, CHINA. OCTOBER 30.

12:45 P.M. BEIJING TIME.

Charlotte Terrell gazed out onto empty streets. She went to the bed and flipped on the TV, but didn't pay much attention. On the nightstand beside her, there was an uneaten hunk of meatloaf with a side of potatoes.

The giant was in the corner leafing through a magazine. A knock on the door startled him from his post. He swiped his hand over his face to wash the exhaustion off and went to answer it.

It was Xiao. Charlotte made no effort to acknowledge him. He walked between her and the television she was pretending to watch.

He was unusually chipper. “Get your things.”

Even the giant showed surprise.

“Pack your things. You are going home.” With that, he started toward the door.

She called after him. “What's going on?”

He stopped, but didn't turn around. “Daughter is coming home. Now, I am free.”

“What does that mean?”

Xiao was out the door.

The giant resumed his post at the desk in the corner and flipped through the same old magazine. Charlotte detected a slight smile on his lips.

“That's it?”

He put the magazine down. “Nightmare is almost over.”

“My nightmare will never end.”

“Sorry for your husband.”

Charlotte let her thoughts spiral down that dangerous path—­telling the children that their father was gone, making a living on her own to support them, keeping herself sane enough to be a good mother.

The giant got up. “What is it? You look ill.”

“You took my husband away. My children's father.”

“A cruel world.”

“Not for you.”

“You know nothing.” Charlotte wasn't interested in hearing her captor's sob story. “What did he mean,
free
?”

“Xiao?”

“Yes. He said he is free now.”

The giant sighed, apparently figuring there was no use in secrets anymore. “It was always about his daughter. When he used Meirong for his own gain—to help the Americans, no less—it angered our government. Shortly after he sent her to the States, he became aware of the colony here at Tram Village. He promised to get Meirong back if they would hold a place.”

“Couldn't he buy his way in?”

The giant laughed. “A place at Tram Village can't be purchased. People are chosen.”

“How?”

“Genes. Intelligence. Physical strength. Any exceptional trait.”

“
Breeders?
And Meirong?”

“She is exceptionally intelligent.”

“Why Jackson Hole, why Tram Village?”

“Some Chinese officials attended an economic summit in your town, and found its sense of liberty and sovereignty appealing.”

“The last of the Wild West.”

“New face for a new world.”

“What if it doesn't happen? What if Xiao's daughter is wrong?”

“It's as certain and unstoppable as the Yellow River.”

* * *

Packing proved to be an especially emotional task for Charlotte. From the three drawers on the right side of the bureau below the TV, she gathered her clothes. She tried not to glance at the left drawers, where Roger's clothes still lay, folded and organized as if nothing had ever happened. Her heart told her to indulge—grab a T-shirt and smell and smell until he came back to life—but her better sense resisted.

The chief's leather duffel bag, with the Jackson Hole Police Department tag, lay at the bottom of the closet. She didn't dare move it. Its deep wrinkles drew in her gaze though, reminding her of the sun-browned furrows beneath her husband's loving eyes.

The giant, noticing her state, got up out of the chair.

“I will pack his things. You would regret not having them.”

She nodded and fought back the urge to cry. In silence, the giant carefully placed the chief's clothes and personal items into the duffel. Charlotte couldn't bear to look at them.