Last Track, The (30 page)

The helicopter patrols stopped. Mike noticed the exact moment the whirring in the background disappeared. At first he thought it had circled back for refueling, and another would take its place. After an hour of silence, Mike questioned whether one was still circling anywhere.

Mike went to fill the canteens; it was his turn. After he plopped the iodine tablets in the untreated water, he left a message for Lisbeth asking why the helicopter sweeps ended, then called Jessica.

“I’ve found our guy,” Jessica said, excited. He could hear her broad smile echoing down the phone line. “I think you’ll find his story interesting.”

“The Partner?”

“No, on that one I need a little more time. I mean the missing body, David St. John. Or more precisely, the dead chemist. My contacts delivered the information I requested about and then some. A whole dossier. Clippings about David, pictures from high school and college, a credit check, DMV records, and more.”

“Sounds like you’ve got the who nailed,” Mike said. “Now why did someone kill David?”

“If I may be so bold,” Jessica said, “the answer is also in the folder, and it explains the who. Just listen for a second; it’s worth it. David’s story up to a certain point reads like a prodigy. Perfect college admission scores. Undergraduate work at BYU, graduate work at Duke, doctoral work at Harvard. Two-year postdoctoral fellowship in Stockholm, Sweden, working with one of the greatest minds in advanced pharmaceutical research. Everything about his credentials says,
Nobel Prize–bound. He’s going to be somebody.

“Then his life takes a different turn. David applies for a teaching position in the Ivy Leagues. He applies . . . and waits. Six months after throwing his hat in, he’s got nothing but a stack of rejection letters. For twenty-four years of academic life, he’s never tasted failure. Not for a moment. Nine months go by; every school he wanted said no, save one. Harvard, his first choice, holds out.

“David panics. Nine months is a long time waiting around for a gig. Desperate, he canvases the tier-two institutions. Then they reject him, week after week. These schools do it quickly, instead of dragging it out over months. Ninety days later, the only course left is tier three. At last he gets some bites. He interviews for a university smack in the middle of one of the roughest neighborhoods in America: Trinity. They sign an agreement and he relocates. He moves his wife, now pregnant, with him to a small apartment near campus. A very bumpy start but everything is at least moving in a forward direction.

“Weeks after settling in, his pregnant wife is stabbed walking home from the grocery store. Two junkies. Creeps get forty bucks and her keys. He’s barely mourned her when a letter comes. A year after his application, he gets the job at Harvard. The dream research position. If the letter arrived two weeks earlier he’d be miles away with his family, and he’d definitely have a better job. He contacts Harvard to accept the position. They ignore his calls. Another message arrives via post. Because he’s affiliated with another university already, Harvard retracts the offer.”

“His personal life destroyed, his professional life set back decades over a late letter,” Mike said. “Unfortunate.”

“Heaven help a rejected man, right?” Jessica said. “According to people who knew him, David took the whole thing personally. He drops out of the game. Landlord comes knocking for the rent one day, and all David’s belongings are still inside. No one on the straight and narrow sees or hears from him again. He ceases to exist. Except to one person . . .”

“Who?” asked Mike.

“About two years ago his mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer. She’s old, alone, and in danger of losing her house as she struggles to keep up with the hospital bills. Then, as if by magic, her money problems disappear. The mortgage is paid off in full and financial arrangements are made with the hospital ensuring her the very best care for the rest of her days.”

“David came back for his mother,” Mike said. “That’s quite touching.”

“Almost. Officially the arrangements come through a third party. All I could pry loose was the name of the company. Better Days, LLC.”

“The same Better Days, LLC that bought the disposable cell phone the Partner is using?” Mike said.

“I can’t prove that yet,” Jessica said, “and Mom isn’t talking. She’s in a coma. The hospital won’t divulge any more payment details.”

Something bothered Mike. “This is all good journalism, Jess, but why is David St. John dead?”

“Oh, sorry,” Jessica said. “I got totally caught up in my story. Here we go. This guy was trained to design cutting-edge drugs, and I think that’s exactly what he did. He’s a trained chemist through with playing things straight. There are plenty of smart guys on the wrong side of that business.”

“Designer drugs,” Mike said. “Now that makes sense. Explains the caravan security.”

“Or making existing drugs more potent. Or even converting legal components into illegal ones,” Jessica said. “Walk in the park for a man with his credentials.”

“That still leaves the why. Maybe he brewed up a bad batch for the wrong crowd,” Mike said, thinking out loud.

“Well, I imagine a bigger course for David,” Jessica said. “Science types like him get bored unless they tackle a real challenge. What if he stumbled upon something groundbreaking? His own legacy. A discovery that could have propelled whoever controlled the formula to number one. Maybe it was too risky to take a chance letting that formula leak onto the Internet. They killed him so he couldn’t defect or talk.”

Drugs. The theory was working for Mike. “Here’s something that may be unrelated. Earlier I saw the same truck that wrecked into a tree last night. The only thing inside were boxes of drain cleaner. What do you think?”

“Hmm,” said Jessica. “Drain cleaner can be used in the manufacture of methamphetamine. They still need ephedrine, and some other components, but that’s easy enough to get.”

Mike took a deep breath. “I don’t like where this is heading.”

Jessica said, “I want to get back to the research.”

“Does Lisbeth know all this?” Mike asked.

“Just got done telling her before you called. She was so happy about ID’ing David, she agreed to investigate the Better Days, LLC connection immediately.”

“You told her about the phone threats?” he asked sharply. “What if she’s the Partner? Or working with them?”

“There’s always a possibility, but I think it’s unlikely. She just doesn’t strike me that way. Besides, she needed a reason to poke around. At the very least, the phone threats connect the caller to Shad’s and David’s murders, and maybe a whole lot more.”

“It could be her.”

“Lisbeth is not the Partner, Mike.”

“Maybe not. But she hasn’t been entirely straight with us, either. Remember she didn’t even tell me there was a murder? She left that for me to figure out. Why? And how about the missing gear? And I don’t understand why the helicopter patrols stopped.”

“All that you’ll have to ask Lisbeth.”

“I will,” Mike said. “If she ever returns my calls. I suppose there must be an explanation for what she did. Check your e-mail when you get a chance. There’s a message with some coordinates. When the Humvee caravans were cruising back and forth, I worked out some possible destinations. If anything happens to me, take them to someone in narcotics who you trust and tell him to check out those spots.”

“What do you think is going to happen?” Jessica asked.

“I really don’t know at this point. Just be ready to get out of there with Andy.”

“I will. You be careful, too.”

An idea touched off inside him then. “Erich could be the Partner.”

“Erich as the Partner? Come on, that’s even more ridiculous! He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“Just because he’s helping you with a story,” Mike said, “doesn’t eliminate him as a suspect.”

“You’re talking crazy,” Jessica said.

“I just find it curious that every time something happened to you or Andy, he showed his face at the perfect moment. And he’s got keys to everything, plus knows the schedules, and what time he can pop into a room without running into a guest.”

“That key part makes some sense. He certainly has time and opportunity. But most everyone at the ranch was around me when those other things happened—including Erich. And a lot of staff have keys to guest rooms for maintenance and cleaning. Plus, if it was him, why did he save Andy?”

“The Partner said they would try and stop whatever was going to happen. They had issues with those decisions.”

She stifled a sigh. “I’m just having trouble buying it, Mike. I understand you’re worried. I’m worried about you, too.”

“Maybe I am a little raw,” Mike said. “But I never heard or saw his Cessna do any flybys. I would think he’d do everything possible to get a missing guest back.”

06:35:57 PM

In the dining hall, of all the food Chappy had prepared so far, dinner that night was the best. That was Jessica’s opinion and that of many of those around her. Meaty, choice cuts of sirloin grilled to taste, asparagus spears dipped in real butter, fresh-baked sourdough, and slow-roasted garlic and herb-encrusted potatoes—each item cooked and served with an expert touch.

An elegant presentation accented the fare. Colorful wedges of carrots, oranges, and yellow squash sprinkled with dill covered the plate brim. This balanced out the colors, and as Jessica discovered, tasted mighty fine. And there were other touches.

Golden tablecloths and fabric napkins instead of paper. Vases filled with fresh-cut Gerber daises. China replaced the usual ceramic dinnerware, sterling silver instead of stainless steel flatware.

Jessica made certain the chef heard her praises, and cornered him in the kitchen. His response was expectedly humble: “Good folks, good times, good meal, uh-huh.” Again he declined an invitation to join the guests. Bad karma or something like that, he claimed.

Erich rose for the announcement like a more humble man might make a toast. Rectangular tables lined the edges of the room, leaving an opening in the center. He spoke from that point, his stage. “Everyone get enough to eat?” he asked. Voices chorused from the crowd:

“. . . absolutely . . .”

“. . . best meal yet . . .”

“. . . fantastic!. . .”

“Excellent, excellent,” said Erich. “I want to put a few rumors to rest. Something very unfortunate happened today on the afternoon ride. There was an accident with one of our most-seasoned and loved horses.”

He paused, giving the impression that what he must say next was a heavy weight upon his back. “No one was hurt, and I’m incredibly indebted to the quick thinking and expert riding skills of one guest.” Here Erich stared squarely at Jessica. “I want to stress that as much fun as we want everyone to have, we also want guests to be safe. Right now, two vets from different animal hospitals are carefully examining every horse in the stable. Any horse that receives less than a one hundred percent clean bill of health will no longer be made available for riding. If anyone has any doubts about their animal tomorrow, please let a staff member know. We’ll find you a replacement. Any questions?”

“Would it be okay if I sat out tomorrow morning?” Cara asked.

“Certainly,” said Erich. “Though I do hope you change your mind.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about the horses,” Cara said. “But I’m having a bit of . . . monthly pain. So I might do a little work and kick back some chocolate. Will those cramps away.”

Mostly, people got the joke and laughed with Cara; it was hard not to. Jessica liked that Cara had a way of being naughty, yet funny at the same time.

Erich concluded by saying, “If you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do. Have a good night, everyone!” He crossed the room in big, confident strides, and stopped before Jessica’s table.

Cara leaned in real close, grinning, hoping to catch the details. Erich glanced at Cara, who kept staring at him. Her lips pursed, opened slightly.

“Could we speak outside?” Erich asked Jessica. “Just for two minutes.”

“I’ll watch Andy,” Cara said, smiling.

Outside, sunlight caught a wispy trail of clouds rising off the horizon. Cumulus clouds. Rain clouds. Jessica recognized them. Sunset was approaching.

Erich said to Jessica, “I’m so sorry about today. Can I do anything else for you or Andy?”

“You’ve done everything possible,” Jessica said genuinely.

“Thank you. I’ve tried my best.”

In the distance, the dissonant tones of a siren rang.

“Can I ask you a question?” Jessica said.

Erich nodded.

“Did those parts come in for your plane?”

“Yes, they did. Unfortunately, there’s a storm coming, and I can’t join the search until it clears. Forecasted to be pretty nasty. Shame. It would have been a great night for you and I on
Destiny
.” His eyes dropped for a second. Then he added, almost as if becoming uncomfortable with his oversight, “And Andy.”

“Maybe another time,” Jessica said, a bit hurried. “I think I’ll get back to dinner and help clean up.”

“Jessica, wait,” Erich said, setting his hand on her shoulder. “What did you think about your dinner? It was all for you, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

The siren drew closer.

Erich looked into her eyes. “I wanted to invite you to dine with me at a restaurant in town, but I thought you might find being singled out from the other guests awkward. Plus, I have to make appearances during the day, so I couldn’t break off for that long. So I brought the restaurant to you.” A beat passed. “To us.”

“It was a great meal, thanks. You didn’t have to . . .”

Erich stopped, turned, and leaned toward Jessica. His face was smooth, fresh-shaven. Erich raised his palms to her face. His thumbs grazed her cheekbones gently. He leaned closer. Closer again.

Regardless of what his body said, she could not. It was a difficult decision. Part of Jessica wanted to welcome his warm lips. She drew back with a small step. “I can’t,” she said with regret. “I’m sorry.”

“But why are you sorry?” Erich said, visibly uncertain, almost confused. “Did I misread you?”