A Killing Sky (21 page)

The Ragged Mountain Reservoir sits just off the interstate west of the city, tucked behind a ridgeline at the end of a winding dirt road, beside a summer camp for disadvantaged youth. Only one road provides access in and out of the natural enclave. It is not that long a run back down to Fontaine Avenue leading into the university; the dirt and stone thoroughfare is popular with joggers and athletes in training. At the reservoir itself, a hiking trail encircles the body of water, cutting a groomed path through rocks and fallen trees, and there is a little parking area at the trailhead.

“At least we'll know about the girl,” Ferrier said, breathing heavily as we climbed a steep portion of the trail.

“One way or the other,” I said.

Several teams of FBI agents, with all their high-tech gear, had already descended on the area, some in vehicles, some on foot, to attempt to create a perimeter. A helicopter, no doubt with the latest in super-magnification surveillance, was a Utile dot overhead. They'd all tracked Penn Hersch to this location, first in a black Toyota sedan, then on foot along the trail to the opposite side of the reservoir, where he appeared to be approaching an abandoned boathouse. Toronto and Ferrier and I formed a rear guard. A few thin clouds moved across the sky, but the spring sun was otherwise brilliant. It might've been the perfect day for a hike in the woods had it not been for our potentially gruesome mission. Ferrier's radio crackled softly with static and instructions for those in pursuit.

“What's your gut tell you, Frank?” Ferrier said. “This Hersch kid just gone wacko or what?”

My gut and I had not exactly been on speaking terms since I'd encountered that syringe full of barbiturate. “It's whispering that these kids are a lot smarter than we give them credit for,” I said.

The trail descended a long projection of forest leading around the northern tip of the reservoir. Ferrier stopped and pointed across the water. Several hundred yards down the far shore, apparently tangled in vines and barely visible through the brush, was the vague outline of what might be the boathouse.

Crack-ck. Crack-ck.

The sound of gunfire suddenly echoed down the shoreline. A figure could be seen running between us and the boathouse. It looked like Hersch. There were shouts on the radio. We drew our guns and began running.

We sped over a log bridge and up and down more steep trail. The bleat of a motorcycle engine burst to life. More shouts over the radio. Above us, the helicopter appeared as if from nowhere.

The sound of the engine again. Higher up the ridge, a bright yellow helmet flashed by for an instant as it whizzed through the trees. Men with weapons drawn, some wearing camouflage, were in pursuit.

We made a beeline for the boathouse. Even up close it seemed to blend into the landscape. You could make out its dirt-encrusted walls and partially collapsed roof. The only approach from the trail, other than chopping through the brush with a machete, was to swing on a vine down a steep embankment to what remained of an older, overgrown path along the water's edge. We made like Tarzan. A pair of agents joined us, a man and a woman, followed by two EMTs doing a balancing act with their equipment and a stretcher.

The building was still as death as we approached. A tattered door hung from its frame, but someone had propped a large piece of siding over the opening. Ferrier held up his hand. He motioned for Toronto and me and the two agents to take up positions, in the little space available, on his left and right flanks. He stepped to the opening, pausing twice to listen. When he reached the door, he grabbed the piece of siding and threw it with a crash to the side.

“Police!”

For a moment he stood with his gun pointed, staring into the darkness of the boathouse. Since he hadn't fired, I assumed that meant no more hostiles. We converged on either side of him.

“Need for medical personnel,” he said.

The EMTs rushed ahead of me with their gear. As they passed him in the doorway, Ferrier jerked his head in my direction, beckoning me forward.

Inside the tiny building, next to a burned-out space heater and three almost empty plastic gallon containers of water, Cartwright Drummond lay on her side with her face in the mud. She was gagged. Her hands were bound, her eyes closed, clothing torn, arms and legs badly bruised, and one of her cheeks was caked with a mixture of dried blood and dirt, but there was no doubt who she was. She could have been her sister lying there.

“We've got vitals,” an EMT said, ripping open a package of plastic tubing. “But she's in bad shape.

She needs fluids. We're starting her on a drip. Then let's get her out of here.”

The other EMT was already on the radio, talking with someone in the university hospital ER.

“What about the chopper?” one of the FBI people suggested.

Ferrier shook his head. “Nowhere for it to land.”

The EMTs lifted the patient onto the stretcher. They gathered their gear, the FBI agents hoisted either end of the gurney, and we began the trek out.

I reached for my cell phone and dialed Marcia's.

She answered on the second ring.

“Marsh, it's me. Everything all right over there?”

“Yes.”

“We've got Cartwright.”

“Oh… oh, my gosh. Is she… ?”

“She's alive.”

“Oh, thank God.”

“But she's unconscious, not in very good shape. We're headed to the ER at the university. Pack the Drummonds and Nicole in your car and meet us there.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Can you put Mr. Earl on the phone?”

She was out of breath now, apparently running up a flight of stairs. “All right.”

I handed the cell to Toronto, who explained the drill to his substitute bodyguard, then signed off.

We were all sweating and breathing heavily now. The rush of adrenaline had temporarily overcome the lingering effects of the drug still in my system, but now I felt weak and light-headed. We had to chop our way out, so it was slow going. I tried to assist Toronto, and the two FBI agents who were helping the EMTs bear the stretcher over the steepest and roughest parts of the trail, but I wasn't sure how much good I was doing.

We finally reached the vehicles, where the ambulance driver already had the engine idling. The agents loaded Cartwright in back, the two EMTs jumped in, closing the doors behind them, and the ambulance went screaming off down the dirt road in a spray of rocks and dust.

Ferrier thanked the two agents, who nodded and went running off to join their companions. The chopper was far away now, somewhere out over the interstate. Ferrier put his radio up close to his ear and listened. He pulled it away and turned the sound up for Toronto and me to hear.

It didn't sound good.

“Kid took a couple of shots at the feds, but it sounds like they may have lost him,” Ferrier said. “They've got the dirt bike he ditched over near the bypass, but no Hersch.”

We could hear the cheering and the applause from outside. Ferrier and Upwood leaned against the fender of his midnight-black Mercedes parked in the garage beneath police headquarters. Toronto and I propped ourselves against a neighboring cruiser. The Mercedes was the product of the seizure of a major local drug dealer's estate, one of the few perks in an otherwise thankless job. Ferrier would drive the car for a few months, then move on to another vehicle. In the amphitheater just down the mall, Tor Drummond was beginning his speech to a few hundred of his most loyal supporters.

The roar of the crowd continued, the congressman having announced that his daughter had been found and that he'd just come from the emergency room where she was still unconscious but apparently out of danger. I found out later, of course, that he'd swept in with his entourage and a cameraman in tow and refused to speak with his ex-wife or Cassidy.

“You know we can't do business that way, Frank,” Ferrier said.

“I'm not asking you to. All you guys have to do is roll tape when I give you the signal.”

“This vigilante crap's already almost got you killed. Now you wanna go back for more?”

I nodded.

The applause gradually died down as Drummond began to deliver his prepared remarks.

“Okay. Let's say I agree to wire you two turkeys. Who're we gonna be listening to? The congressman?”

I shook my head and smiled.

“C'mon,” he said. “You want the wires or not?”

“I tell you and you may never make your case. This person isn't going to spill to you, Bill.”

“Oh, no? And why's that?”

“Because”—Jake scratched his chin—”he's absolutely certain you won't kill him.”

Their eyes locked.

Ferrier pursed his lips. “Shit,” he said under his breath.

No one said anything for a few seconds.

“You know,” Ferrier said, “if Abercrombie hears about this my ass is grass.”

I held out my hands and shrugged.

He turned around and leaned forward and put his hands on the hood of the Mercedes. He stared down into the gleaming finish. “All right,” he said. “Carol, let's get ‘em both wired.”

Minutes later, outside in the brilliant noon, Drummond's voice seemed inspired. Cameras and microphones and media people were present in abundance. The crowd numbered several hundred, a heterogeneous assortment of Virginians, young and old, male and female, black and white, families with children, students, and professionals. Many held signs trumpeting the cause of the man they wanted to send back to Washington to represent all their hopes and dreams, as if one person ever could. Their man was passionate about policies and programs that they desperately wished could provide some palliation for the troubles in their lives. He was flawed but unbowed. Not unlike themselves.

Security was light. Toronto and I, with Bill Ferrier as escort, moved easily around to the back of the stage. Mel Dworkin stood there, among a few other staff and local dignitaries, including the mayor and members of the city council.

I leaned into Ferrier's ear to make myself heard over a new round of applause. “Okay, Bill, thanks. We'll take it from here.”

He nodded, looking none too happy about the situation, then turned and made a beeline toward a dark blue police van with its flashers running, the top half of which was visible over on Water Street.

About thirty feet to our right, next to one of the speakers, I spotted my target. The robot stood looking out at the crowd with his arms crossed. I noticed the turnip, too, on the opposite side of the stage, pulling similar duty. I nudged Toronto, and he and I casually strolled over to the robot. As I came up beside him, he saw me out of the corner of his eye. I smiled and gave him a wink. He looked like he was seeing a ghost.

I pulled a folded-up piece of paper from my pocket and held it out for him. “Howdy, friend,” I said. “Would you mind taking this note to Mr. Dworkin? It's important he sees it.”

He stared at it like he might a can of raw sewage. “Right now?” he said.

I nodded. “Please.”

The crowd laughed at something Drummond said and applauded. The robot took the piece of paper from my hand. He walked over to where Dworkin was standing, whispered something in the chief of staff's ear, and handed him the note.

Dworkin unfolded the paper and looked at it. On one side I'd written two words:
Paitley
and
Murder.
He peered back over his shoulder, and the robot pointed toward Toronto and me. I nodded. Toronto stared at him through dark glasses. Dworkin said something to the robot, who moved off down the stage a ways. Then he said something to the person standing next to him and turned and came over to us.

“What the hell's this all about?” he said. His expression betrayed nothing, not even the fact that just a day or so before he'd attempted to punch my own ticket to the boneyard.

“We need to have a talk, Mel.”

“Yeah? Well, as you can see, I'm kind of tied up at the moment.”

“I can see that. The thing is”—I flexed my shoulders—”my neck's still a little sore, and I was wondering how you happened to titrate the dose.”

He glared at me. “I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, pal.”

“Uh-huh.”

In the background, Drummond's voice grew soft, then louder as he stressed a particular point.

Dworkin was to my left. I put my arm around his shoulder and pulled him in close between myself and Toronto. “Well, I've got a proposal I think you might be interested in,” I said into his ear. On the other side of him, Toronto, with his hands in the pockets of his parka, managed to twist the barrel of a legally registered snub-nosed .38 from beneath his coat into Working's ribs. Anybody watching would've thought he was merely standing listening to the speech.

Dworkin gave a little start. “Is that so?” he said between clenched teeth.

“It is. And if you want to live, you'll come nicely.”

I lifted a decidedly unregistered Saturday night special from my own pocket, cupping it in my palm, and then grabbed Working's fingers as if we were shaking hands. I put the gun squarely into his palm.

“What are you doing?” he said, reflexively grasping the weapon.

“Don't worry,” I said. “It's not loaded. Jake's got the bullets in his pocket.” I pulled the little gun back and slipped it into my pocket again.

Dworkin seemed to examine his options. He looked over in the direction of the turnip, and at the nearest uniformed officer, a city patrolman standing about fifty feet away. Neither was looking in our direction.

“You guys'll never get away with this,” Dworkin said.

“Get away with what? Why don't you go ahead and call one of those cops over? We can explain the whole situation to him. Or even better, go ahead and run. We can blow a two-inch hole in your heart. After all, it's only self-defense.”

His eyes grew large. “You want to make some kind of deal, huh?” Dworkin said.

“Trust me. It's a win-win.”

“You don't seem to be giving me much of an option.”

I smiled and tightened my grasp on his shoulder. “You know there are always options, Mel.”

Drummond droned on.

Dworkin thought about it some more. “Okay,” he said.

“Not here,” I said. “Let's go.”

We turned as a unit. I let go of his shoulder, and Toronto pulled his gun back, but only a couple of inches or so. We walked together down the sidewalk over the rise at the side of the amphitheater.

My pickup was there, also with its flashers going, parked right behind the police van. Toronto opened the passenger side and nudged Dworkin in ahead of him. I went around and jumped in behind the wheel.

We didn't have far to go. The old city warehouse across from my office was only a couple of hundred yards down Water Street, on the other side of the railroad tracks.

“Where the hell you taking me?” Dworkin asked.

“You'll see,” I said.

We turned left and took the tunnel under the tracks. My cell phone rang and I answered it.

“Frank, it's Marcia.”

“Hey.”

“It looks as though Cartwright might be okay.”

“So I hear. That's great news.”

“She's got a lot of bad bruises, though, and maybe a broken wrist. They've got her sedated, and they don't expect her to be conscious for a while. Karen wants to stay with her, but Cassidy insists on going over to see her father at the amphitheater. We're almost there now, in fact. She wants to talk to him.”

“I'll bet she does. Is Mr. Earl with you? There's still a crazed kid on the loose, you know.”

“Yes, he's right here. Where are you? Can you meet us over there?” she said.

“I'm kind of tied up at the moment, but I'm close by. I'll be there just as soon as I can,” I said.

“All right.” She hung up.

We pulled into the weed-choked warehouse parking lot. Lucky for us, some city worker had thoughtfully left the door wide open. No one seemed to be around.

We all climbed out.

We went through the open door and meandered between the spreaders and mowers and a rusted-out snowplow toward the back of the building, down some short steps to the plywood opening. Toronto yanked on the wood. I flipped on the bright beam from the four-cell I'd taken from the truck. We shoved Dworkin ahead of us into the opening. He stumbled forward and scraped against a wall.

“Christ!” he said. “What is this place?”

“Old coal tunnel,” I said.

“Lovely,” he said. “All right. What do you guys want?”

“I want to know why you had George and Norma Paitley murdered.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “You guys are nuts, man. I had nothing to do with that.”

“Oh, no? The game's over, Mel. We know and the cops know what Diane Lemminger's story was supposed to be about. Your boss has used Second Millennium Foundation as a cover for years to funnel money to children he's fathered illegitimately.”

Dworkin drew in a quick breath. Then he shrugged. “So?” he said. “It'll be a big scandal. We've survived big scandals before. Hey, at least the guy's been paying for his mistakes. He's made sure those kids are well taken care of.”

“Man's practically a saint,” I said. “Where things start to unravel for me, though, is when one of his daughters goes missing and we find this old newspaper article in her bag about the Paitleys’ hit-and-run all those years ago. Turns out Cartwright was told her old man's secret by another student, who just so happens to be her half brother.”

Dworkin snorted and shook his head.

“So I figure this brother's pretty smart. I figure he was probably raised by foster parents or something, but he wanted to know who his real parents were.

Pretty simple, actually—he followed the money. Found out about the foundation and who was behind it. He even befriended another half sister of his, whose mom had been paid off for years to run the operation. Gave him access to all the records.”

Dworkin spat on the tunnel floor. “You're a real ignoramus, Pavlicek—you know that? You can't prove anything. Don't you know me and the congressman had things under control?
We
were getting the real ransom notes. We were ready to pay that kid a hundred and fifty grand to turn over the girl.”

“Yeah? Well, I've got a bigger news flash for you. There were no
real
ransom notes. And that's where it really begins to get interesting. For you especially, Mel.

“You see, I figure this brother really wanted to know who his real mom was, too. He got smart. He traced the bank records all the way back and figured out when the checks for his support started. Then he must've started cross-referencing birth records from around the same date. It probably took a while, but he found out who his mother was. Who was she? Somebody who worked for the Paitleys? Maybe one of those indigent people they used to take in. Was that why you had them murdered?”

Dworkin shook his head again. “Man, Pavlicek, you've really flipped, pal.”

I looked at Toronto. He'd brought a little canvas bag with him from the truck, and he opened it now. He pulled out a roll of duct tape and a .22 long with a silencer attached.

“What the fuck's all that stuff for?” Dworkin said.

“I'm figuring one in each leg, a couple in the arms,” I said to Toronto. “We bind him and gag him. There'll be a fair amount of blood. But there's rats in here. They'll take care of the rest.”

“Copperheads, too,” Toronto added. “Figure no one'll find him for at least a few days.”

“Until the smell gets bad,” I said.

“Right.” Toronto ripped off a length of tape. Dworkin started shaking. With one hand, Toronto jerked the little twerp off his feet, bent down, and began binding his feet together.

“You fuckin’ assholes are insane!” Dworkin screamed. “What do you want? What do you want?”

I bent down to look into his terror-filled eyes. “I'll bet, you and your boss have some pretty good lawyers representing you, don't you, Mel?”

He nodded.

“Probably hard to make any of these accusations stick.”

He said nothing.

“You tried to kill me, Mel. I don't take too kindly to that kind of treatment.”

“We're just taking care of business,” Toronto said.

Dworkin shook his head. “I'll do whatever you guys want. What do you want?”

I coughed loudly and cleared my throat, signaling Ferrier to roll the tape. “All right,” I said. “Say the cops'll never be able to put you guys away for any of this. I just need to know, for my own satisfaction, why you had the Paitleys pulverized.”

He swallowed hard. He looked at Toronto, who was now working another length of tape around his hands.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. It started out as an accident, I swear. Tor had been banging this girl who lived with the Paitleys. She was from South America or something. No family here, lonely—you know the drill.”

I didn't, but I let him continue.

“The girl gets pregnant and doesn't tell anybody until it's too late. So she has the kid. That's when we set up the foundation.”

“I'm with you so far. What went wrong?” I said.

“It was an accident, I'm telling you. A couple weeks after this girl has the kid, she shows up one night at Drummond's office with the baby. Says she wants more money. They get into an argument or something—I don't know. She tries to push him, he pushes back. She falls and hits her head. I'm telling you, he didn't mean to kill her.”