Knowing (11 page)

What kind of magazine was this? Was it a primer for sleeper cell assassins who recognize the codes and are then triggered by the strange advertisements to follow through with the plans? Jane had to double-check herself once again. But the more she scanned that bizarre page, the more it felt like she had insight into a covert operation. As much as she wanted to dismiss her twisted theory, it was beginning to make strange sense. She’d heard of splinter groups clandestinely communicating with each other through classified advertisements, using phone numbers and code words so that only the criminals would understand the objective. It was the ultimate “hiding in plain sight” plan.

But
The
Q
magazine was taking it to an entirely new, highly complex level. Some group—an underground, radical group perhaps—was using
The Q
magazine to communicate their objectives with their “sleepers.” For that matter, it seemed that the dark deed was even being publicized ahead of time. But one had to understand the symbols, the play on words, the characters, maybe even the colors to comprehend what event would take place. Jane knew it wasn’t just another far fetched, conspiracy theory because she’d seen taped interviews with high functioning suspects over the years who had a military background and were accused of a murder they couldn’t recall committing. Every single one of them mentioned the word “triggers.” One guy claimed a certain song set him off; another guy swore that a specific scent served as his alarm clock. But they all shared the experience of missing periods of time. It could explain why Harlan had no memory after he read the page and left the car. Something inside of him recognized the ad for what it was and that’s why he knew when to turn his head in the exact direction, seconds before the shot was fired. But even though Jane had only encountered him twenty-four hours ago, she knew there was no way in hell he’d have the knowledge and competence to play for whatever nefarious team was involved in this. That left Jane with a preposterous possibility. But even suggesting it felt insane to her at that moment.

“Get me
The Q
magazine you kept in your bag,” she asked Harlan.

He complied, not sure of her actions. “You find somethin’?”

“I’m not sure.”

She checked the date of his issue. It was March of the previous year. Turning to page seventeen, she laid the magazine flat on the hood of her car. The page was filled with puffy clouds and a brilliant sun shining through them. One of the sun’s rays connected to a small, private jet. In the bottom left hand corner was the same Oz character, pointing up to the plane. In red, block lettering, the “advertisement” read:

“It’s Cloud’s Illusions I Recall…” Mitchell.

Jane immediately noted that it was odd to not use the full name of the artist, Joni Mitchell. And while she wasn’t a Joni Mitchell fan, she was almost positive that the correct line in the song was, “It’s
cloud
illusions I recall…” Surely, the proofreader would have found that mistake. Unless, it wasn’t a mistake. Jane stared at the page again. A private plane. “Cloud’s illusions…” Mitchell. “Holy shit,” she whispered under her breath.

“What?” he asked, cracking three more eggs into his mouth.

“You remember that private plane crash about a year ago? The one in Nebraska? Eight people were killed. One of them was Mitchell Cloud.” Jane realized Harlan was clueless. “
Mitchell Cloud
? They called him ‘The eccentric microbiologist who was obsessed with goats?’”

“If you say so—”

She looked back at the magazine. “Good God…Is this even possible?”

“Is what possible?”

“Who is this group? They covertly advertise hits on people…why?” She attempted to explain what she could to Harlan and while he listened intently, she saw he wasn’t grasping the full impact.

“I don’t get it,” he said. “If I’ve never been in the military, how could that magazine trip me up—”

“
He
was in the military.” Jane wasn’t sure where that gem came from. But the statement felt honest and true.

Harlan leaned forward, intrigued. “
Okay
. What else?”

“Maybe he was a…” The minute she said it, she wished she could take it back.

“A
what
?”

“An assassin.”

Harlan regarded Jane with a scowl. “Nah! This heart of mine doesn’t feel dirty. It’s pure and rehabilitated.”

“Rehabilitated? That’s an odd word to use.”

“That’s exactly the way I feel about him. Transformed. Yep, that’s it right there. Baptized into his new life. That’s who this is. There ain’t no way I’m carryin’ the heart of an assassin.”

Jane knew if she was going to get to the bottom of any of this, she and Harlan couldn’t be continually retreating to the wilderness. If she was going to help this lost soul, she had to start mixing it up with whomever might have some answers. Right now, she had one solid name and Jane was determined to check it out. They drove down the mountain road, stopping occasionally to check for wireless access. She found a pocket and stopped the car. Logging onto her computer, Jane went to a website that had never failed her when she was interested in profiling and getting background information about a witness or possible suspect. Typing in the individual’s name, she easily found her, confirmed her photo ID with Harlan and discovered that the woman would most likely be at a specific Starbucks around 2:30 that day. Checking the time, Jane factored it would take about an hour to drive to the coffee house.

With Harlan ensconced in his usual spot on the backseat and hidden away, Jane gunned the Mustang down the gravel and dirt road. Curving around a bend, she came up on a large, colorful billboard that sported a smiling sun with the words, “Sunny & Son Farms—Spud-Tastic Potatoes Since 1937.” Odd, she thought. This was such a remote stretch of road, why bother advertising with such a large billboard. Turning on the radio, she quickly found a news station and more information about the shooting of Dora Weller. The Congresswoman was shot in the attack and the shooter was still at large.

“How’d you know he missed his target?” Jane asked Harlan.

“What do you mean?” Harlan asked, peeking out from the blanket.

Jane realized he had no memory of that eerie comment. “Never mind.” She knew that since the rogue shooter was still at large, roadblocks could be set up anywhere at any time. Add one more complication to their jagged journey.

“In other news,” the radio announcer said, “authorities are still going through the rubble at the site of yesterday’s horrific bus explosion one hour south of Denver. Nobody is believed to have survived the fiery accident which is thought to have been caused by a leaking fuel line…”

Jane turned off the radio. There’s no way in hell anyone could already know what caused that explosion.
A leaking fuel line
? That was a tidy explanation, Jane pondered. But as inaccurate as it was, Jane knew that people would hear that, feel badly for the passengers, maybe say a little prayer for their souls and move forward. Nobody would question it or consider any other options. Critical thinking, Jane believed, was a skill that was quickly becoming superseded by random acceptance of other people’s inaccurate perceptions.

They rolled into the small strip mall and parked on the opposite side from the Starbucks. Jane rummaged through her glove compartment and brought out a pair of handcuffs. “Give me your wrist.”

Harlan held out his right arm to Jane. She clamped the cuffs on his wrist and tightly secured the other end to the gearshift.

“Hey! What the hell—?”

“Like my grandfather used to say, “Run off on me once, fuck you. Run off on me twice, I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”

“Damn, Jane. Your grandfather was a gangster?”

“No. He sold life insurance. But he knew where all the bodies were buried,” she said with a droll tenor.

“What happens if I gotta pee?”

She felt underneath the driver’s seat and handed him a stainless steel travel mug. “Just like those old instamatic cameras. Point and shoot.” She pulled out her fake ID from the leather satchel, cracked the window and opened the door.

“An instamatic?”

Jane leaned back into the car. “Just point and shoot, Harlan. And
stay down
.”

“Hey! You pickin’ up food? I’ll eat Italian. I
love
Italian food now.”

Donning her jacket, ball cap and sunglasses, Jane made her way across the parking lot. Walking into the crowded Starbucks, she took a stealthy look around. The problem with rooting out a person based on their photo is that they usually look vastly different face-to-face. After studying everybody in the joint, she concluded that the woman wasn’t there. It was a leap of faith, she silently agreed, but it was worth a shot. Jane was just about to leave when the fifty-four-year-old woman matching the photo walked up to the front door. She watched her carefully, knowing she had the right person because of her drab green scrubs. It didn’t hurt that she also had a nametag that verified the I.D. Jane waited until the woman got her coffee and sat down at a small table tucked in the rear of the place.

“Stella Riche?”

Stella looked up from her Frappuccino and Kindle. Her short and no-nonsense hairstyle suited her profession. “Yes,” she replied warily.

Jane pulled out the empty chair and sat down. “You and I need to talk.”

Stella leaned back, clearly uncomfortable with the intrusion. “Who are you?”

“Who am I? Well, how about I say my name is…Julie Scott?”

Stella stared at Jane. “What’s going on here? How do you know that name?”

“It’s your daughter’s name. The daughter who loves softball and plays in a pick up league? She hates polyester so her uniform has to be all cotton.”

Stella swept up her Kindle, grabbed her Frappuccino and started to stand up. “I don’t know who you—”

“Sit down, Stella,” Jane said succinctly.

She looked around the Starbucks, seemingly for assistance, but everybody was too entrenched with their phones and computers.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Jane quietly said. “
Please
? Would you sit down?”

She lowered herself back into the chair, regarding Jane with distance. “How’d you find me?”

“I used my favorite magic website. It’s called Facebook. The name ‘Stella Riche’ is spelled just oddly enough that you stand out from the pack. You’re an ICU nurse for the small hospital right across the street.” Jane pointed to the building. “Your eighteen month anniversary working there is coming up and you hope they celebrate the occasion with chocolate cupcakes from your favorite French bakery. You don’t drive your car anymore but that’s okay, because your husband, Marty, had to take early retirement so he drives you to work and picks you up. You love standard poodles, free downloads on Kindle, computer Blackjack and, of course, attending Julie’s softball games.” Jane smiled. “Go Tigers!”

“Oh, my God…”

“And your guilty pleasure is coming to this Starbucks at 2:30 every day for a Frappuccino…with extra caramel on the whipped cream. You even had the GPS coordinates embedded in the link to this place. A deaf monkey with one leg and a brain tumor could have tracked you down.”

Stella looked at Jane in shock. “Shit…I’ve got to get off Facebook.”

“So, here’s the deal, Stella,” Jane stated, shoving her chair closer to the table. “I need you to go back in time nineteen months ago and remember a certain patient in the ICU that you helped after his heart transplant surgery.”

Jane watched as Stella’s mind drifted back in time and then, something shifted. She licked her lips nervously and regarded Jane with a grave expression. “Who in the hell are you?”

“I’m part of an investigative team looking into a specific patient’s history—”

“Give me a name.”

She asked for a name so Jane tossed one out. “Anne.”

“Anne?” she asked, full of doubt.

“Yeah. Anne.” Jane pulled out her fake ID from her jacket pocket and laid it on the café table. “Last name is LeRóy. Accent on the ‘o.’ Gives it a little flair.” She slid the ID off the table and back into her pocket. “So, now you have a name. As I said, I’m not going to hurt you. And I think I know why you’re scared.”

“Do you?” She was trying to be strong and brave but she was falling short.

“Well, you left that hospital about a month after his transplant surgery.”

“I got a better job.”

“Right. That little clinic masquerading as a hospital is probably paying you a third less than where you worked before and you’re so busy there that you can pen in a daily 2:30 meet and greet with a Frappuccino. So, I’ll ask you again, do you remember the patient’s name?”

She let out a sigh. “Harlan Kipple. But I only knew him for three days before he was transferred out of the ICU and taken to the cardiac rehab unit.”

“Have you been watching the news lately?”

Stella eyed her cautiously. “Yes.”

“So, you’re aware of the charges levied against Mr. Kipple?”

“Yeah,” she said with a self-conscious shrug.

“That’s it?” Jane said, mirroring the shrug. “Somebody you took care of—somebody who received a precious gift of life—is accused of such a heinous crime?”

She leaned forward, speaking quietly. “Nothing good will come of this.”

Jane also leaned forward, parroting Stella’s tenor. “This? You mean, you and I right here? Oh, I disagree. I think you’re going to tell me everything you know. And that is a very
good
thing.”

“Do you have a gun on me right now?”

“No, but I can arrange it if that compels you to talk.”

Stella sat back, quietly contemplating her next move. “Dr. Keener’s brakes went out on his Mercedes.”

“Dr. Keener? He was the surgeon who stepped in when Harlan’s primary surgeon was unavailable?”

She nodded. “I was the night nurse.” Her mind traveled back to that day. “There was a lot of confusion.”

“What kind of confusion?”

Dr. Keener was quite upset by the way the whole process unfolded. He was a very ‘take charge’ type of man. I heard about a conversation between Dr. Keener and other parties who were demanding he agree to do something he did not feel was right.”