River of No Return : A Jake Trent Novel (9781451698053) (6 page)

“Better shut it, John.” Melissa stopped the confrontation before it started.

“Jesus, man!” J.P. turned back to his drink. “So she went out of town, kinda upset you know, and I wasn't sure when or if she was coming back. Then yesterday I get this text from her saying she's coming back and wants to patch things up.”

“That's great.” Melissa was now pouring a beer for herself and a glass of water for John.

“But she never shows up, and I tried to call her and it's been just
weird.
”

“How?”

“Some guy answered and then hung up.”

“Don't let your imagination run like that. Probably a wrong number. You know what I think?”

J.P. shrugged as he took a swig.

“She probably wants you to come for her. Do something romantic, you know? Sweep her off her feet.”

“I don't even know where she is.”

“You could find her if you wanted to. She's playing hard to get.”

“Wait. Maybe I can.”

Can't you trace a mobile phone?
He knew one person who ought to know. The last and best of J.P.'s resources remained untapped: Jake Trent.

10

SALMON, IDAHO. OCTOBER 18.

5 P.M. MOUNTAIN STANDARD TIME.

Schwack! Schwack!

The rednecks were shooting stumps again. “No cable, can't even watch MMA, nothing,” they said. So they shot stumps.

Why don't you idiots wrestle each other?
Esma thought.
Maybe to
the death?

She had begun to grow accustomed to the noise, but she still jumped, imagining herself as one of the stumps.

Schwack!
Then complete darkness. Or so she assumed. She'd become curious about death in the last few hours. First afraid, then curious.

That's what people do when they kidnap you,
right? Rape and kill you? Or try to use you to
get something from somebody . . .

She didn't believe they were trying for a ransom. She didn't know anybody who wanted her that badly, not to mention that
she didn't know anybody rich enough to make kidnapping her worthwhile.

So they'd kill her, more than likely. Violent crime was outside her expertise, but growing up in Mexico in the era of the drug cartels had taught her enough to know she wanted it to be quick. She hoped they would just kick in that shoddy old door and shoot her in the head. No pain. No fear.

* * *

Outside, the men didn't share the same frame of mind. They knew they couldn't kill her. But rape, torture—as long as it didn't put her life at risk—was okay, they figured. There were just two reasons that neither of the men had taken her already: First, they were both somewhat ashamed of their urge to do so; they weren't barbarians, after all. Second, neither of them wanted word getting out that he had boinked a beaner.

Randy, the more heavyset of the two, figured the only way to seal the secret was for both of them to do her, but he'd yet to propose this to his partner.

Tim, or Tinny, as they called him because of an old speech impediment, was lanky, medium height. His awkwardly long arms were marked with the sure signs of drug use—meth when money was low and heroin when he was down in Salt Lake and had some extra cash.

They only pretended to trust each other. They knew each other a bit, but this was the first time they had ever worked together. Their boss preferred to keep the relationship dubiously sterile—they didn't even know his name, had been given only the rough contours of the woman's fate.

But they had no qualms about being kept in the dark. They had
their “subject,” as the boss called her, and that, along with the tote bag stuffed with fifty-dollar bills, was good enough for them.

They continued to take out their rage on the lodgepole stumps. The ground around them was littered with spent shells and cigarette butts: off-brand menthols for Randy and hand rolled for Tinny.

The old hunting camp was pretty nice for two poor boys from Idaho. They guessed it belonged to some rich family from Boise. Who knew how their boss had found it?

The cabin was up on a bluff overlooking the river in the Salmon-Challis wilderness. The River of No Return, it was called. Randy liked the way that sounded, considering they were career criminals who'd just kidnapped someone. Tinny was oblivious to the kismet.

The structure was out in the open atop the hill, which would have been disconcerting if there were anyone around to see what they were doing. But there was no major road along this stretch of the river, only a few logging trails that provided access to the hunting camps in the hills. The occasional drift boat slipped down the inky current chasing steelhead, but that was two thousand feet down the steep bank. The fishermen were too focused on waiting for a twitch from their floats or the tips of their plugging rods to notice anything else around them.

“Let's get out of here,” Randy said, taking his hands from his ears, where they had been protecting him from the percussion of the AR-15. “I'm sick of smoked salmon and jerky.”

Tinny responded too loudly, his chainsaw-brand ear muffs still on: “Not 'posed to leave, 'member? Boss says so.” He brought the rifle back up to his shoulder to fire again.

Randy yanked the muffs off his partner's head and pushed the barrel of the gun down. “Then you stay. I can't take it. I don't even like fish.” He started toward the shed.

Dammit!
Tinny ran to catch up with Randy, who was checking on Esma, making sure she couldn't fly the coop.

“I don't know if you not liking fish is an emergency.” Tinny was referring to the boss's exception to the “never leave camp” rule.

“Shut up.” Randy made tracks to the truck and turned the radio on. Raucous country music filled the cabin. Tinny jumped in.

When they got to the town of Salmon, they decided it would be prudent to stop throwing their empty beer cans and cigarette butts out the truck window. They didn't need any trouble from the cops.

Tinny pointed at an oversize bear statue on the east bank of the river, welcoming visitors crossing over from the west. “Look at them fish.”

The bear was fishing for steelhead and salmon, represented in dull bronze at its feet. These fish kept the town alive through the fall and winter, bringing fishermen in from hundreds of miles around.

Randy gave his sidekick a dubious look. “Gimme a beer. I ain't gonna pay $3.50 down here before I get a buzz in the truck.”

Tinny listened and obliged, as was becoming his way with Randy.

“You think maybe we oughta catch us some of those?” he asked, handing the beer over the center console.

“I 'ready told you I don't like fish.”

“Sorry.”

Randy wrenched the old pickup into a spot with a handicapped sign right in front of Bertram's Brewery. “We'll try this place.” He appreciated the neon beer-mug sign.

“Looks fancy.”

“You never had a microbrew?”

“Nope.” Tinny wondered whether this was some small-portions bullshit like expensive restaurants did with their meals.

The two men hustled inside. The sun had set behind the high
bluff along the river in the west, and it was cold. Earlier that afternoon the wind had started to blow consistently from the Pacific, where the spawning salmonids came from, bringing with it an early snowstorm. The drift boats outside the small pub sported canvas covers to keep the precipitation out.

Their ragtag look turned some heads as the men walked through the dining room and back to the bar. Randy mean-mugged the other patrons in return, but Tinny, oblivious to their judgment, gave a goofy smile, revealing his tinged teeth.

“What can I get you boys?” The female bartender's warm smile betrayed no such judgment. She set down two cardboard coasters.

“A microbrew,” Tinny answered eagerly, feeling all high-class.

“No, idiot, it's not like that. They got different kinds.” Randy gave the bartender an apologetic smile.

“I'll give you a minute.”

They buried their heads in the fold-over pamphlet that described the brews.

“Lookey, they got a nut-sac beer!”

Randy looked where his comrade was pointing. There was a blend of the Hazelnut Ale and the Sacajawea Stout for six bucks. He didn't laugh. “Something cheaper. You won't be able to appreciate that anyway.”

The bartender returned. Tinny stuttered ordering his pale ale—he found the waitress rather endearing—and then he giggled when Randy asked for the nut-sac.

“Great. You'll like it.” She smiled and turned to fill two mugs.

“Fuck is that 'posed to mean?” he mumbled when she was out of earshot.

Tinny just shrugged.

A cold blast accompanied the squeaking of the back door and
three armed men walked in wearing uniforms. It wasn't a kit that Tinny recognized, dark green and brown color scheme. Wool. Expensive. Like from a Barbour catalogue. They walked right by the bottling bucket and fermenters. Sat only ten feet away.

“Cops?” Tinny whispered.

“Shut it.”

One of the men adjusted his sidearm as he sat down, nodding hello at the criminals. Randy's face turned red and that held the man's look for a second longer than usual.

“'Scuse me.” Randy got up like a rocket and went to the bathroom.
Shit!
He'd been to jail once and never wanted to go back. He splashed cold water on his face and tried to relax.
It's fine, we'll just have a beer and
get out of here.

He pushed the hollow bathroom door open too hard and it banged against the pictures of other breweries on the wall. The men with guns stared, but their server finally distracted them with tonight's specials.

Randy sat back down and took a big swig of his beer. It was probably good, but he couldn't taste it.

After their first brew, Randy felt more comfortable. The high alcohol content of the microbrew finally gave him the buzz he was looking for. Tinny was watching
SportsCenter
and asking silly questions about sports rules.

“Haven't you never been exposed to
nothing
?”

“What, like nut-sac?”

Tinny was drunk too, and the men roared at the joke. The officers next to them stared, looking displeased.

“Sorry, fellas,” Randy hollered with exaggerated sarcasm. The men nodded and went back to their food.

“Say, what is it you boys do?” Randy was pointing at one of the men's sidearm.

“IFG,” a sturdy dark-haired man replied. He was trying to avoid a conversation.

Tinny and Randy laughed. “What the hell is that? Like CIA?” Randy backhanded Tinny on the shoulder as he spoke:
Get a load of
these guys!

“Idaho Fish and Game.” The dark-haired man turned his broad shoulders to Randy. He pointed to the state IFG crest. Below it, a name tag: Agent Carlisle.

“Agent?” Randy asked. “Really?”

Carlisle stood and fully revealed his mountainous frame. He was clean shaven. Short hair. “Are you men driving anywhere tonight?”

“Hell no!” Randy finished his remaining half a beer. “Staying just down the street.”

“Where at?”

“Hell if I know. Some shithole.”

“Riverside.” Tinny spoke up. “Called Riverside.” He remembered the sign's artwork—a trout jumping over a rainbow—on the drive in.

“Don't get into any trouble on your way back,” Carlisle said. Then he sat back down, apparently satisfied.

Randy kept on at him. “What do you do here?”

Carlisle sighed loudly. The other men at his table were chuckling. Pitying him for having to suffer such a fool.

“We're tagging steelhead. We monitor their numbers. See where they migrate. How they behave.”

A pause.

Then Tinny spoke. “Oh?” He laughed and winked at Randy. “You hear that? Tagging
steelhead
. . .”

Randy glared at him.

The wardens were at attention now.

Randy laughed exaggeratedly. “You drunk fuck,” he yelled loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear. Just two old pals yanking each other's chains.

He then turned to the wardens. “You gentlemen have a great evening,” Randy said. He nodded at Tinny, threw down cash for the beers, and left.

Inside the shed next to the cabin, Esma had again tried to free herself. It was no use. It only bloodied her wrists and ankles. The restraints allowed her some movement, but the ten-foot shackles were a tease—all she could do was pace and walk in circles. Like a dog on a chain.

Gravel crunched. An engine sighed its final grumble and then died. The uneven cadence of their steps told Esma they were drunk. Their voices were muffled by the cedar planks and insulation of the shed, but she got most of it.
Girl. Shed. No one . .
. find out. Ever.

“
¡
Gilipollas
!” she blurted out. They heard her. Went silent. Then snickered.

Esma whispered it this time. “
¡
Gilipollas
!”
Not that these idiots would
understand.
Now she yelled as loud as she could, her anger burning hotter than the desert sand.

“Assholes! Fools! Bastardos! I'll kill you!” Esma started to weep.

Her tone disarmed Tinny. “Maybe not tonight; she sounds like she might bite your dick off.”

“Shut up and get the condoms; I don't wanna get the clap.”

This Esma heard clearly. She looked toward the heavens, obstructed by her wooden prison, and crossed herself. Her chains clanged to the rhythm of the gesture.

11

WASHINGTON, DC. OCTOBER 18. 7:30 P.M. EASTERN STANDARD TIME.

A day-old
Washington Post
was tucked between the backseats of the car. Divya was busy on her phone, so Jake skimmed the paper, looking for something interesting. They were headed to another chichi restaurant after another day's work.

“Overpopulation Viruses” in Slums

Alarm African Officials

Nairobi, Kenya—Local health authorities are reporting a dramatic uptick in mortality rates from transmittable diseases among the poor. The outbreaks are attributed to crowded living conditions and lack of clean water.

Oyhed Ausim, chief physician at the nonprofit Kenyan Children's Clinic, called these new health statistics disturbing. “As the population continues to grow, we
will reach a critical mass, if we haven't already. From that point on, viruses will spread and mutate at an alarming rate, a rate that no nation in the world is prepared to cope with, especially Kenya. It's horrifying, really.”

In Asia, where several nations are battling population-fueled disease outbreaks, government officials have convened to consider various proposals to stem the problem.

On Maryland Avenue, the driver stopped and opened the door for Jake, who walked around to the other side and opened Divya's. She was still sitting, waiting for him to do so. The driver was savvy, allowing Jake the opportunity to be gentlemanly.

You're not helping!
Jake wanted to say.

“Thank you.” Divya got out of the backseat.

“So what's this place all about?” Jake asked, referring to the restaurant.

“You'll have to wait and see.” She winked. Flirty again.

Jake handed the driver a tip, likely not a very good one in this town.

Inside, cool-blue neon backlit the serpentine bar. Ice was packed in stainless-steel trays beneath the booze, chilling raw oysters from various regions, all marked with small slate boards and chalk. The room was bustling, and Jake could hardly absorb the frantic scene.

Their water glasses were filled. Crystal goblets. Within a minute, a server came by to ask for their drink order.

“Veuve, please,” Divya requested.

The young man nodded. “And you, sir?”

“Old-fashioned.” Jake felt as though he might need it to get through the evening.

“Yeah, you are.” Divya brushed his slacks with her bare foot.

Ugh.
“Champagne? What are you celebrating?”

“A reunion.” A stunning, devilish smile.

They toasted with their water.

The drinks arrived just in time. Divya was asking Jake about his ex-flame Elspet. What happened? Not exactly Jake's favorite topic of conversation. Somehow his fumbling answer led to the recent drama surrounding Noelle, which wasn't any better. Jake ended that topic too when Divya said Noelle didn't deserve him anyway.

This made Jake miss Noelle immensely. He had no idea what type of woman Divya thought he deserved, but he knew the comment was a slight against Noelle. Something Noelle herself would never have said about anyone.

Jake's first old-fashioned went down easy, so he ordered a second. The tranquil azure lighting and clean steel decor—plus the bourbon—soothed his mood.

Still, all he could think about was going home.

After the two bourbon drinks and a glass of water, Jake excused himself to go to the bathroom. The door was heavy stainless, like an entrance to a walk-in freezer, and the attendant rushed from inside and pulled to help him.

“Thanks, got it,” Jake said. He meant
Unnecessary
.

The stall doors and walls went floor to ceiling. Obviously, hearing another man's bowel movement wasn't in line with the “chic, upscale environs” the restaurant intended to create. Or whatever Divya had called it. Some silly phrase meaning
overpriced
.

Jake sidled up to the urinal.

“Not from here?” the attendant asked. Jake turned around, hoping the man wasn't talking to him. There were no other customers in the room.

Jake went to the sink, washed his hands, and avoided further conversation. “My oysters are getting cold.” He accommodated the man with a smile.

* * *

They didn't get back to Divya's until 11 p.m. Jake was upstairs in the guest bedroom changing. He had a French 75 in his hand, a drink he wasn't familiar with but that Divya had forced on him. Not bad, really. Fancy gin and champagne. Better than a Pabst. Walking over to the bedside table, he took his cell phone from his pocket. He had forgotten to turn it back on after dinner.

It buzzed for a minute straight after he turned it on. Six voice mails, all from J.P. And two text messages. He read the texts first:

Dude—need you! Esma is missing. Something's wrong.

And,

Please call back! ASAP!

The messages had their intended effect. Without listening to the voice mails, Jake dialed J.P. It rang twice before he answered.

“Hello?” J.P. sounded foggy. Probably drunk.

“What's going on?” Divya peered in the room mischievously. Jake waved her away.

“Man, she's gone. Without a trace.”

“Esma? You said she went home to Mexico.”

“She did, yeah. Then she told me she was coming home. She missed me. Now she's missing. Kidnapped.”

“How do you know?”

“She told me. Texted saying she was on her way. When I tried to call her, there was some dude's voice.”

Jake immediately recalled Liz Hingley.

“That doesn't mean she's missing.” Jake thought about how to word this. “Maybe she was just with a friend.”

“No, Jake. I know you're smart, man. But I get this feeling. I've got some instincts too.”

Jake knew this was true. Still, he couldn't help but think,
Yeah, instincts and about fifteen beers.

“Did you call the police?”

“No help. They think I'm off my rocker. What's the next step?”

Jake thought on it. He hated to doubt his friend. If J.P. said Esma was kidnapped, Jake would believe him. “I'll look into it. Text me her cell number and I'll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, man. I mean, God, thank you!”

“No problem.”

“Jake, one more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“When can you come home?”

In the doorway again, Divya stood. All five feet ten of her. Legs alone seemingly longer than that. Bronze-dark skin, fully nude, breasts befitting a woman half her age, her smooth skin glistening from her head down. Handcuffs dangled from her fingers.

“Let's play criminal investigator,” she interrupted. Not asking.

“Soon, buddy.” Jake hung up the phone.

Jake tried to stand up and stop her. Before he could, she was at the bed, gently pushing his shoulders, forcing him to lie down, whispering: “Relax, you're
only
under arrest.”

He'd had enough. Enough of this town. Enough of Divya's constant advances that stemmed from God-knows-what psychological issues.

Still, something in his mind said
Go with it.
Give in.
What man rejects a model-caliber woman with no clothes
on?
And she was familiar. It was all too easy.

Divya pulled his wrists between the hand-turned wooden ­dowels on the headboard and locked them with the cuffs.

“Do you remember the library bathroom during criminal procedure class?”

Jake could only nod, like a sex-crazed teenager. She started kissing his neck, her nipples bearing the mass of her breasts onto his own chest.

I'm outta here tomorrow,
Jake thought. And pulled against the cuffs, straining to try to kiss her back.