A Killing Sky (13 page)

Armistead rose upwind, her talons extended, and parachuted onto my fist. I fed her the morsel for which she'd come. Her amber eyes were fixed on a point on the hillside above where Nicole and Toronto were attempting to flush a squirrel we'd sighted almost half an hour earlier as it scrambled to blend in among the bark and branches. After stalking the quarry from various treetop vantage points for several minutes, Armistead seemed to be trying to tell me it was time to move on in search of easier game.

I'd spent more than three hours the night before under detention at the Charlottesville Police Department. An hour for my lawyer to get there, and another two being cross-examined by Agent Packard and a couple of tall characters who looked like they were fresh out of the academy. Once, when I told them about the paper trick Dworkin had pulled on me, I thought I saw a seed of doubt enter Packard's eyes, but it passed. I refused to divulge the whereabouts of Karen and Cassidy Drummond. The lawyer did a good job of blustering on about civil rights. In the end, they had to let me go, if only because they had no other physical evidence to link me to Cartwright Drummond beyond the fake ransom note. I'm sure they also figured that if they kept me under surveillance I'd eventually lead them to Cartwright, her mom, and her sister. When it came to Cartwright, at least, whether she were dead or alive, I was hoping to oblige them.

The day was a carbon copy of the one before— bright blue sky with little wind. Toronto and I had been up since dawn trying to piece together the information we had on Second Millennium. We needed to clear our minds, so we decided to take Armistead out to a patch of woods I knew near Lake Albemarle to hunt squirrels. Nicole showed up as we were about to leave and she wanted to tag along.

There had been a silver Ford Taurus, two men inside, parked just around the corner from my apartment since I'd gotten home last night. Toronto said he caught sight of them again, a couple of hundred yards behind us, as we drove past Foxfields, out Barracks Road toward the lake.

Toronto and Nicole came crashing through the thickets down the hill.

“I'll bet she'd've had him by now,” Toronto said, “if it weren't for the three of us stumbling around down here.”

Maybe, but maybe not. Normally, there was a natural selection aspect to any hawk's hunting. Birds of prey, like all wild hunters, are opportunistic. The young or the old, the weak or the diseased, often become their targets, which, in the balance of things, tends to strengthen particular species populations overall. But this bushytail was obviously at the height of his evasive prowess. A team of dogs might have been more successful in flushing the intended quarry from his den, but they might've had difficulty with such a survivor.

Secretly, I even felt relieved. Hunting fox squirrels wasn't even legal here in Albemarle County, the only exception being if the hawk happened to stalk one while after gray squirrels, as was the case now. Fox squirrels, much larger and stronger than the grays, represented the outside limits of the hawk's abilities. Armistead had taken one other fox during our time together, and it had been a fierce battle to the death.

Still, if the redtail could down this kind of prey, she could easily handle almost any other potential game when I returned her to the wild in what we hoped would become her future habitat. A mature, healthy female, Armistead was ready to find a wild mate and begin sitting her own nest.

From the spot where we stood we could see across to the lake, where a few early-season anglers were casting their lines.

“Why don't we head on down through that pasture up ahead? Looks like prime rabbit ground to me.” I cast off the redtail. She flew on ahead to perch on the speckled limb of a dead oak that had been stripped of almost all its bark. Nicole jogged along to stay close to Armistead while Toronto and I hung back along the side of a well-worn trail.

A man emerged from the woods along the trail, carrying a fishing pole.

“Well, well,” he said. “Fancy meeting you way out here, Pavlicek.”

His name was Beauford Sloan and he could've been a stunt double for Wilford Brimley, so close was the resemblance.

“How you doing, Beauford?”

“Fair to middlin’.”

“Jake,” I said, “this is Beauford Sloan. He's a retired cop from Charlottesville and also a private investigator.”

Toronto nodded.

“Jake's my old homicide partner. Lives over in Leonardston now. Helps me out from time to time.”

“You don't say,” Beauford said. The two men shook hands. “You fellas out here hunting?”

I pointed downwind to the distant tree where Armistead perched. “Got the hawk up after squirrels.”

He nodded. “Word's all around town that you've got yourself in some kind of brouhaha over this Drummond thing everybody's talking about.”

“That would be correct,” I said.

“Well,” he chuckled, “you know how it goes. Keep casting ‘em, partner.” He nodded at the two of us and disappeared on down the trail.

Toronto and I headed off after Armistead and Nicole.

“One thing's been bothering me,” I said after Beauford was gone.

“What's that?”

“The blood on that rental car, especially the fingerprints. Wouldn't you have thought the kidnapper or killer would've thought to wipe those away? They were in plain view, as clear as day.”

He shrugged. “Perp might've been in a panic. Had to leave in a hurry.”

“Maybe. But the doors were all locked.”

“You're thinking the scene was staged?”

“I don't know. It's a possibility.”

“Something I don't get,” Toronto said. “If the feds think you and Haynes look good as kidnappers, why don't you just let them know where Cassidy Drummond and her mom are and get yourself off the hook?”

“Because Drummond's trying to hide something, and now he's trying to frame me. He must be getting pretty desperate. By keeping him from knowing where the rest of his family is, I can keep him off-balance and there's a better chance he'll make a mistake.”

“What about Haynes? You said the video and the physical evidence were pretty incriminating.”

“I know. The fibbies are obsessed with what they think is a slam-dunk case. But a lot of the pieces just don't fit.”

“Where are you going now with this E-mail thing?”

“I'm not sure. It really does look like whoever sent those messages knows what happened to Cartwright Drummond and is probably responsible. And then there's the poem.”

I had taken the paper out and looked at the words again before falling into bed the night before.
The Secret Amphibian.
Was Averil Joseph, autistic and seemingly retarded, capable of writing those words? If so, what did she mean? Even if she did turn out to be the writer, so what? Cartwright Drummond may have been as mystified as anyone by her strange message.

“Hey, guys!” Nicole was almost a hundred yards ahead of us by now, following Armistead as she stooped low over the edge of the pasture. “Are we hunting here or what?”

We jogged to catch up. The sun had risen above the trees, and the chilled air was warming. By the time we got to Nicole, Armistead had already taken her rabbit.

“You guys missed it,” she said.

I let the hawk feed for a bit, then called her off the rabbit using a lure. This might be one of the last times I ever do that with you, girl, I thought, and here I am, too preoccupied with a case.

The idea of letting my first bird go was bittersweet. I didn't have to, of course. I could keep this redtail and hunt with her for many more seasons. But Armistead, like most raptors flown by falconers, lived more on the edge of being wild. I'd decided the biggest thrill in the experience was to train her and see her prepare for the day when she would fly free and alone in her environment—I hoped for many years to come. A part of me also harbored the hope that she would remember me after she'd gone.

“All right, girl.” After feeding Armistead another piece of her kill, I slipped her hood over her head and pulled the braces snug using my teeth. Jake bagged the prey and we began the walk out with Armistead riding on my fist.

“You two were talking more about the Drummond case, weren't you?” Nicole said.

“Girl must have bionic hearing,” Toronto said.

“How come those guys were following us in their car?”

“That's a long story, honey. We're playing hardball now,” I said. I scanned the woods and the nearby hills, wondering from where they might be watching.

“I hate it when you do that, Dad. I'm not a child. I deserve to know what's happening.”

I said nothing.

We walked in silence for a couple of minutes. A few cottony clouds had appeared, but overall the sky remained an electric blue. We crossed from the warmth of the sunlit pasture into a forest of box elder, witch hazel, and black gum. Up ahead you could see the forest clearing, and beyond that a highway, and down the shoulder a ways, my truck. No sign of the G-men or their car.

“They said on the news this morning they had questioned a couple of suspects in the disappearance,” Nicole ventured as we broke out of the trees.

“Let's just drop it, Nicky,” I said.

“Arggghh!”

Her frustration was loud enough for every federal agent, not to mention angler and otherwise, within a mile or so to hear.

I spent the rest of the day on the phone in my office, trying to run down any lead I could think of regarding George and Norma Paitley and Second Millennium. Nicole had two classes and a lab. Toronto passed the time at the workbench in my office cruising on-line with his own laptop. Then he sat typing some code into the computer for a while. He also set up shop on the couch and finished fashioning a new set of anklets I'd begun making for my next bird.

We ate a late lunch from a vending machine off the lobby. “Things going to be okay over at your place?” I asked him as we chewed our prefab chicken sandwiches. “It's a long time to be away.”

“Got it covered,” was all he said.

Later, the guys in the Taurus parked across Water Street must have been getting bored. Around four o'clock they were replaced by a fresh crew: a guy and a gal in a minivan. Attempting to blend in.

Around six-thirty I finished making my calls and looked at Toronto.

“Nothing,” I said. “I talked to three different people with D.C. Metro, fifteen current and former neighbors of the Paitleys, a human resources manager with George Paitley's old employer. No one seems to want to speculate whether or not the couple might've been the victim of worse than a hit-and-run. ‘Tragic’ seemed to be the most common adjective. One guy said they still haven't even changed the lane markings where it happened after all this time—says the intersection is a death trap.”

“What about the woman from South America the Paitleys’ son talked about?”

“Nada.”

“Too bad,” Toronto said.

“You want to hear how I got nowhere on Second Millennium, too?”

“Not if you got nowhere.”

“Right,” I said. “Well, it'll be dark in a little while. About time to lose these newbies across the street, don't you think?”

“I was beginning to think you'd never ask.”

“I thought we'd head over to Marcia's first and pick up your Jeep.”

“Good deal. I've got an extra set of plates I keep in the back. They won't be able to trace those to me.”

“Wonderful.”

“You got something in mind for the folks in the van? ‘Cause if not, I could always just go down there and shoot them for you.”

“I don't think that'll be necessary,” I said.

There is an old coal tunnel that runs from the basement of the warehouse where my office co-op is. It's dark and dingy, and at night, it's frequently home to squatting wildlife. Not many people know about it. The entrance is covered with a big sheet of wallboard, but if you know where to remove a few screws, you can slide the board and make an opening big enough to squeeze through.

The tunnel runs under the railroad tracks behind the building and connects to another old warehouse on the other side. The second warehouse is used by the city to store mowing equipment and trucks that are rarely used. Even better, there's a bus stop on the opposite corner, shielded from the view of anyone watching my building. There's another stop off Grady Avenue just half a block down from Marcia's house.

I stepped into the hall. The building had emptied out for the day. No one ever went to the basement anyway, except the janitor, and he finished making his rounds and went home promptly at six. We left all the lights on and the computer screen burning brightly in my office. I'd already gotten everything I needed from my truck in the parking lot. Toronto had a small suitcase loaded with an assortment of flashlights, tools for breaking into things, and a couple of weapons.

For once, the plan went like clockwork. We made our escape, caught the bus, and were being let into the back door at Marcia's place by a nodding Mr. Earl about half an hour later.

“Everything all right here?” I asked.

Nod.

Mr. Earl and Toronto clasped hands.

“Frank!” Marcia called out. She hurried into the kitchen from the living room. The sunporch was off limits now, and all the drapes were drawn in the rest of the house. “We were beginning to get worried.”

I kissed her lightly on the lips. She was wearing a plush terry bathrobe and slippers.

Karen Drummond came thumping down the back stairs, followed by her daughter.

“What's happening?”

Toronto headed out to the garage with Mr. Earl to check on the Jeep. Marcia and the rest of us stood around the kitchen island. I gave them a capsule summary of my interviews with the Josephs and Diane Lemminger and the developments with the FBI.

“We've been trying to cling to hope about Cartwright,” Karen Drummond said.

“I understand.”

“It's worse than knowing for certain that she's dead. It's like living inside a tornado—a tornado that never stops.”

Marcia put her arm around her friend's shoulder.

“No one knows where we are still, right?”

“Let's hope not.”

“Frank, maybe we should just go to the FBI,” Marcia said. “If they think you're involved—”

“I've thought this through,” I said. “The congressman's definitely trying to hide something. He knows we're on his trail if he and his people are plugged in to the investigation, which I'm sure they are. By now, they've seen the articles about the Paitleys and the copy of the photo. I'm sure they know I've been asking a lot of questions about Second Millennium too. Whatever he's trying to cover up, it's something big enough to take a wild stab at framing me for Cartwright's disappearance.”

“Big enough to kill for?” Karen Drummond said. Her face was set like stone.

“Possibly.”

“You think that's what Diane Lemminger's exposé is going to be about?” Marcia said.

“Yes. Either that or something related.”

“You think Tor knows about the upcoming show?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Diane said she had talked to Cartwright, but we don't know how much Cartwright may have told the congressman.”

“If Tor Drummond wanted to stop a reporter from airing something, especially Diane Lemminger, you'd think he'd figure out how to go after her, not his own daughter.”

“What can you tell us about Second Millennium?” I asked Karen Drummond.

“Nothing really,” she said. “I've seen the name before, of course. It's been around a long time. Tor's family has always supported numerous charitable causes. Millennium wasn't one of the bigger charities. They help children, but I think they like to keep a low profile.”

“Ever wondered why?”

“No, come to think of it, I haven't. I guess I always just assumed it was because of the nature of the families and the situations they became involved with. A lot of broken families. Children with only one parent, or no parents.”

“Children with only one parent, like Roberta Joseph,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“Just thinking out loud.”

It was quiet for a moment.

“All right,” I said, “I'm still operating under the assumption that Cartwright is alive and we need to find her as soon as possible. Anything solid we find, we'll pass on to the FBI, but we aren't going to wait for them. Your husband's been in Congress a long time. He may have friends there, strings he can pull. While he's trying to cover up something else, he may be hampering the investigation.”

Toronto and Mr. Earl came back in from the garage.

“Everything ready with the Jeep?” I said.

“Ready and waiting,” Toronto said.

“Karen, do you know anything about your exhusband's schedule this week?”

“A little.”

“Now that all this has happened and his trip is off, do you think he will be up in Washington, or staying at the house out in Ivy?”

“I don't know. He only rented the Ivy house after he moved out of our home in Richmond. He's back and forth between Charlottesville and Washington all the time, I think, and he's always stayed in an apartment up in D.C. when the House is in session. But with Cartwright missing and all, I would have no idea where he'd be right now.”

“All right.” I stretched, stifling a yawn. “We'll just have to take our chances, then.”

“What are you going to do?” Marcia asked.

“Jake and I are going to do a little late-night hunting,” I said.