Sabotaged (18 page)

K
ALTAG
, A
LASKA
M
ARCH
14, 2:30
P
.
M
.

Jake entered the Kaltag checkpoint, Kayden following close behind. The warmth of the cabin compared to the frigid temps outside felt wonderful. It was good to be back with the race, good to now be what he prayed was nearer to Frank and the men who had taken his daughter than when they'd left.

Kaltag was a town of roughly two hundred, with three stores and a community hall that served as the checkpoint hangout.

“What'd you learn?” Gage asked as Darcy hurried to his side.

The front room of the community hall was empty, and Jake was thankful for it. They had a lot to catch up on. “Where is everyone?”

“Eating lunch.” Darcy nodded toward the kitchen, a good ways down the hall.

They'd have some privacy, at least for the moment. Best to get to it. Jake relayed what he and Kayden had learned—that
Frank's latest job had been on the pipeline, and that Meg's environmental group, ROW, had staged a huge protest and possibly vandalized the first pump station.

“So it sounds like we need to have Kirra and Reef revisit Seward,” Darcy said. “Find out what the students say when they call them on the pump station protest and ask about the vandalism.”

“I agree.” Jake dropped his duffel on the floor and placed Kayden's gently beside it.

“Any luck on the police sketch of Rain that Kirra and Reef had sent over?” Gage asked, moving to stand guard at the hall door.

Jake nodded. “Landon ran it. It matches the description of a Joseph Keller. Wanted for vandalism and trespassing.”

Darcy smiled broadly. “Kirra said that they believed Rain's first name was Joseph.”

“Yes.” Jake nodded. “So he may very well be our guy.”

Gage positioned himself sideways in the doorframe so he could see them and still keep an eye on the hall leading from the kitchen. “What do we know about him?”

Jake took a seat on the couch, pulling Kayden down playfully beside him. It probably wasn't the time for playfulness, but he needed to feel her beside him. Needed her close. Waiting for the right opportunity to propose was killing him. But the timing had to be right. She deserved
spectacular
. She molded against his side, eliciting smiles from Gage and Darcy and filling him with joy and contentment. This was where he belonged—right beside her—wherever that may be.

“Jake?” Gage prompted with a smirk.

Jake cleared his throat and tried to focus, finding it nearly impossible with Kayden so close—her lilac scent entrancing,
her long, flowing hair soft against his cheek.
Get it together, man
. “Joseph Keller is twenty-six, older than the typical college student. So I called the Office of the Registrar, and there is no Joseph Keller or Rain anyone registered at University of Alaska, Fairbanks.”

Gage lifted his chin. “So what's he doing hanging around campus?”

“Probably trying to get close to Meg,” Kayden offered.

“You think they found out what her dad did for a living and targeted her?” Darcy asked, settling in the chair next to the sofa.

Kayden sighed. “I have a feeling . . .”

“So . . .” Darcy's brow furrowed—as it did whenever she was thinking hard. “Rain works to get close to Meg, to get her interested and involved in the cause. They win her trust and then snatch her, holding her hostage until her dad performs whatever job they've asked him to.”

“Or”—Jake rubbed his chin—“she went willingly for the cause. But Kirra's convinced she wouldn't do that to her family, to her father. Wouldn't worry him like that.”

Kayden tilted her head to look up at him, her brown eyes mesmerizing. “What do you think?”

“I've never met Meg, so I can't really make an informed call. I think for her safety, though, we need to assume she's being held against her will.”

“I pray for Kirra and Frank's sake that's true,” Darcy said.

Gage's brows shot up.

Color flushed Darcy's cheeks. “That came out wrong. I don't want her to be held hostage, but the thought of her being a part of this, of making her family think she's in danger when she's not . . . that would be awful too.”

“I agree,” Jake said.

“So let's focus on Frank for a minute,” Gage said, shifting to face them better.

“What job could they want Frank to perform?”

“Devon Potler at NorthStar Oil said Frank worked on the pipeline. Maybe Joseph aka Rain and whomever he's working with want Frank to damage the pumps so they won't work.”

“But he said others could be hurt.”

“Maybe they want the pumps rigged to blow, and people could be injured in the explosion.”

“Maybe, but would an environmental group really rig oil pumps to blow?” Gage asked. “Wouldn't that endanger all the animals they are so gung ho about protecting, not to mention the environment surrounding the pumps and water systems flowing through the area?”

“Are the pumps operational? Is oil already flowing?” Darcy asked.

“Potler said yes, as of last week.”

“If they are extreme ecoterrorists, they want to make a statement,” Darcy said. “And they might have decided the best way to show the damage a pipeline can do is to make what they believe will eventually happen, happen now. Maybe they are targeting the pump in Nome so that the damage will be somewhat contained, and at the same time—with all the reporters waiting at the finish line—will gain the most exposure.”

She shook her head and continued, “It's like that guy Chaim Nissim, who fired five rockets at the nuclear power station in France—Superphénix. It was still under construction, and the rockets didn't reach the core, but under different
circumstances . . . who knows the damage that could have been caused.”

“The Nome station is possible, but they could be targeting any of them. We need to have the pumps checked,” Jake said. “I'll call Potler's office and try to convince him of the potential risk. A NorthStar engineer should be able to detect any damage to a station, or if an explosive device has been planted. Where's the closest pump?”

Darcy pulled out her laptop and after a minute said, “The pipeline doesn't fully follow the Iditarod trail, but many of the stations are relatively close. The closest station to us is about a dozen miles east of the Old Woman cabin.”

So about halfway between Kaltag and Unalakleet. At the pace Frank had been going, it was likely he'd passed by there already. “Okay. Frank couldn't have reached Nome yet, so there's no sense looking there. For now let's focus on the stations Frank could have tampered with—starting with the one near Old Woman.”

Kayden sighed.

Jake rubbed her arm. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just praying we're wrong about this. I hate to imagine the devastation that could result from one or more of those pump stations being compromised.”

K
ODIAK
, A
LASKA
M
ARCH
14, 4:00
P
.
M
.

David Bartholomew's home was a massive wood-framed house with a large portico under which they pulled up to the front door. Large two-story windows filled the home's front
to the right side of the door, with smaller windows on both levels on the left. A circular room jutted out over the west side, facing the water, windows caterpillaring the entire room.

Kirra looked back at Reef. “Nice place.”

He slipped his hands in his pockets. “Sure is.”

They'd driven by Phillip Webster's home and learned he no longer lived there, no longer lived anywhere. He'd passed away five years ago from heart disease, and the house had passed through two owners before the most recent family took up residence. As Simon Baker had said, the old Webster residence and the Bartholomews' were only two streets apart, easily drivable in a minute or two.

They rang the doorbell—a deep gonging tone that signaled their arrival. A second ring and the door opened. A man in his upper sixties answered. He was short and stout, closer in height to Kirra than Reef. He reminded Kirra of Mickey Rooney, but she wasn't sure if it was his actual features or simply the hard-nosed expression on his pinched face. “Yeah?”

“Mr. Bartholomew?” Reef asked.

“Yeah.”

“Hi. Reef McKenna.” He reached out his hand. “This is Kirra Jacobs.” He gestured with his head. “May we speak with you a minute?”

His gaze fixed back on Reef. “What's this about?”

“A break-in that occurred here twenty years ago.”

Bartholomew laughed. “You're a little late, aren't you?”

Reef rubbed the back of his neck. “We just need to know what happened that night.”

“Why?”

“Because Henry Watts was just released from prison last month, and Frank Jacobs' daughter has been kidnapped.”

“Jacobs.” He stared at Kirra, looking her up and down. “Are you related?”

“Yes.” She stuffed her hands in her pea coat pockets as snowflakes fluttered around them. “Frank Jacobs is my uncle. My cousin Meg has been kidnapped.”

“I'm sorry to hear that, but what would make you think her abduction has anything to do with a twenty-year-old robbery?”

“That's where you come in.”

He arched a brow.

“We were told that a Fabergé egg was taken from your house that night.”

“You've been listening to rumors. As I told the police that night, and everyone else since then, nothing was stolen from my house.”

Rather than calling the man a liar outright, Kirra decided to take a more subtle approach. “Don't you find it odd that three men break into your home but take nothing?”

“Not really. I think they got spooked. They clearly hadn't anticipated the alarm or simply couldn't reset it in time, so they fled for an easier hit.”

Kirra tried a different tack. “We're not police officers—we're here for my cousin. She's my only concern. I understand why you might not want to confide in the police, but—”

“Let me stop you right there, Miss Jacobs. I'm very sorry for the situation with your cousin, but it has nothing to do with me or that night twenty years ago.”

“But Henry Watts just got out of jail, and suddenly Meg's abducted? That can't be a coincidence.”

“Perhaps Henry Watts has other reasons for taking your cousin.”

“Such as?”

“I can hardly surmise, but it doesn't involve my egg. Now if you'll excuse me . . .” He shut the door.

“My egg?” Kirra said with a smile. “He said
my
egg. He pretty much admitted he at least owned the egg.”

“But he maintains nothing was stolen that night. Maybe he owns the egg in question but it was never stolen. Maybe it really is just a rumor. One that a distraught Karen Madero started the night her husband was murdered.”

“Why? Why make up the rumor?”

“Maybe she believed it to be true. She said they discussed taking the egg. Maybe they went there with that intention but decided it was too hot of an item to fence. Maybe they simply moved on to the Webster house.”

“We need to find Watts. See what story he tells.”

“Are you sure we're at the right place?” Kirra asked, taking in the abandoned-looking trailer at the far end of the park.

Reef double-checked the address the parole officer had provided. “This is it.”

Kirra lifted her hand to knock. “Here goes nothing.” She rapped on the door, the thin metal creaking on its lopsided frame.

Reef scoped out the dingy windows after receiving no response.

A dog barked in the distance—high-pitched and incessant.

Kirra knocked again, a little harder.
Come on, Henry.
With her increased pressure, the door pushed open. She glanced at Reef, the question in her eyes, and he nodded.

She tipped the door open an inch and peered inside the dark trailer. “Mr. Watts?”

She looked back at Reef and shook her head.

“Looks like he's not here.”

She took in the trailer's stale air. “Doesn't look like he's been here in a long while.
Great
 . . .” She exhaled in frustration. They'd already checked his supposed place of employment,
but nobody had seen him in several weeks. According to one of the mechanics, who seemed none too thrilled at their presence, he worked on a “consulting” basis.

Reef shrugged. “Door's open. We may as well check things out.”

She smiled. “I was thinking the same thing.” Perhaps inside they'd find some indication of when he'd last been there or where he'd headed.

She stepped through the rickety doorframe, Reef on her heels. Her right ankle caught on something, nearly splaying her forward.

Reef's strong arm wrapped around her waist, yanking her back out of the trailer as an explosion rent the air. Smoke and debris flew as she slammed into the ground—Reef landing on top of her with a
thud
.

The air expelled from her lungs, none reentering, her face flush with the ground, dirt clogging her nostrils.

Reef rolled off her, flipping her over. His lips were moving, but she heard nothing over a shrieking ring. She blinked, moving her jaw, trying to get her ears to pop. Reef helped her to her feet, cupping her face.

“Kirra”—his voice finally broke through the vibration churning in her ears—“are you okay?”

She nodded, unsure if she really was. What had just happened? “Was that . . . ?”

“A trip wire. Guess Watts
really
didn't want any visitors.”

A smile curled on her lips.

He arched a brow. “Are you smiling?”

She nodded.

“Why?”

“Because it means we're on the right track.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Watts clearly doesn't want to be found, which means . . .”

“He's hiding something,” Reef finished for her.

Reef and Kirra waited at what was left of the trailer until the local authorities arrived and took their statements.

“Where now?” she asked once they were finished.

Officer Bohart, a friend of Landon's, handed her a slip of paper with an address scrawled across it.

She looked up at him.

“Watts's ex.” Bohart shrugged. “It's been a couple decades since he went in the slammer and she divorced him, so who knows if she'll have any clue of his whereabouts, but she might have an idea.”

Kirra smiled, clutching the paper. “It's worth a shot.” Anything was at this point. Desperation was setting in, and Kirra hated the well-known feeling.

Camille Watts lived in a two-story-bungalow-style home in the downtown section of Kodiak, one street over from Main Street. Similar-looking houses now remodeled into businesses surrounded the home. Apparently she'd been unwilling to sell when the neighborhood turned commercial.

According to Officer Bohart, the two had divorced a year into Watts's sentence and there was nothing on the surface to indicate they'd had any contact since—no recorded visits to the prison or mail between the two. The only thing that connected them still was their now twenty-three-year-old daughter, Mallory. And that gave Reef hope that maybe Ca
mille had some idea of where Watts was residing. If not, perhaps Mallory had a clue.

Reef let Kirra take the lead and stood back as Camille opened the front door. She looked them both up and down. “Yes?”

“Mrs. Watts?”

“Ms.,” she said, her jaw tightening.

“I'm Kirra Jacobs, and this is—”

“What are you two selling?”

“We're not selling anything. We're here about your ex-husband.”

“
Ex
as in he don't live here anymore.”

“I understand, but perhaps—”

Her eyes narrowed. “Did you say Jacobs?”

“Yes, ma'am. My uncle is Frank Jacobs.”

She shook her head. “Two decades and Henry's still trying to drag me down. What'd he do now?”

“We think he may be responsible for my cousin's kidnapping.”

“Kidnapping?” She shook her head. “That don't sound like Henry.”

Kirra explained the situation as Camille ushered them inside and settled them in at her kitchen table—round, with an orange-and-lime-print plastic cloth covering it. “And you really think Henry's involved in a kidnapping?”

“The timing would suggest so.”

“Not to mention our close call at his trailer,” Reef added.

Camille plopped two glasses on the table and reached for a pitcher of tea. “I wouldn't put it past Henry to hold a grudge, but . . .”

“But?” Reef nudged.

“Kidnapping a girl seems a bit extreme, even for him.”

And murder didn't? The man had killed his own partner.

“Do you have any idea where we might find him?” Kirra asked, the hope in her voice nearly bringing Reef to his knees. If only he could fix this for her.

Camille sighed. “I don't know if my telling you is the right thing. Not for Henry's sake, mind you, but for yours. You have no idea the kind of man you're dealing with. When he feels cornered . . . it ain't good.”