The Blackbird Papers (4 page)

5

S
terling grabbed his suitcase and caught the elevator down to his garage. Most New York City apartment buildings didn't have garages in the basement, and those that did weren't cheap. Though Sterling made decent money and lived well, he wasn't rich, but he had bought his apartment just after the stock market crash, when the once almighty dot-commers were forced to practically give their apartments away. It also didn't hurt that Pops Bledsoe had lived an excessively frugal life and saved a bundle. That, combined with the life insurance money, allowed the two sons to split a rather generous inheritance with their mother. Wilson saved his money, but Sterling used his to buy the apartment, and what was left over he poured into a life of fast cars and beautiful women.

He jumped into the shiny black Porsche 911 and turned on the ignition. The twin turbo engine roared awake, then settled on a loud hum. He pulled his cell phone from his jacket and dialed.

A woman answered. “Travel.”

“SA 2378,” Sterling said. “Reservation for one this morning.”

“Agent Bledsoe? Is that you?”

“Ten-four,” Sterling answered. “Monica?”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “It's so good to hear your voice again.”

“Yeah, it's been a while,” Sterling said. “I've been on hiatus.”

“I hope you enjoyed it. Where are you going now?”

“Hanover, New Hampshire, just outside of Lebanon.”

“Lebanon, New Hampshire?” she repeated. “I don't think I've ever sent anyone there before.”

“No good reason to,” Sterling added. “It's a small, out-of-the-way kind of place in the mountains. Not much action up there. Most of the work in the area is handled by our field offices in Boston or Albany.”

“When do you want to leave?”

“The next flight out of any New York City airport.”

“Let me see what I have.”

Sterling could hear Monica's rapid-fire typing. She had booked most of his travel since he joined the Bureau, and he liked it that way. Only the higher-ups were allowed to fly first class, but when Sterling playfully whispered to Monica, she always found a way to bend the rules. The irony was that after all these years he had never met her in person. The travel offices were somewhere in North Carolina. Several times he had promised that he'd stop by if a case brought him down there, but the closest he'd ever got was Atlanta for a grisly drug-trafficking case. Twenty-five bodies in all, including five cops. He was there for three weeks straight, but still couldn't string together enough free time to drive up and see her. To this day, he regretted the missed opportunity; a few agents from the Charlotte field office who had seen her happily reported to Sterling that he'd made a big mistake.

“There's a flight at seven o'clock out of La Guardia,” she said. “Are you close to there?”

“Twenty minutes away this time of morning,” Sterling said. “How long is the flight?”

“Only an hour and fifteen minutes. Nonstop. You arrive at eight fifteen. US Airways flight 5991.”

“Good, that gives me a few minutes to grab something before we take off.”

“It's a Beechcraft 1900,” Monica added. She remembered that SA 2378 liked to know detailed information about the plane he'd be flying on. She thought it was odd the first time he asked, but then he explained about a college friend of his who was going home to West Virginia for Christmas break. He didn't like flying the small puddle jumpers into Morgantown, so his parents always picked him up at the Pittsburgh airport and drove the hour and a half home. No one was available to come get him this particular Christmas, so he'd agreed to fly the rest of the way from Pittsburgh. The plane went down on a heavily wooded mountainside, killing all nine passengers and the two-man crew. The pilot's body was the only one recovered whole. The rest had been shredded or burned—barely recognizable body parts hung from trees like snared kites.

“Capacity?” he asked.

“Nineteen max.”

“Accidents?”

“First commercial flight was 1979. Fifteen accidents. The first on November 23, 1987. Many of them were out of the country. Two hundred eighty-two casualties total. Last accident September fourteenth of last year. Two occupants, no one died.”

“Where was it?”

“St. John's, Newfoundland,” she replied. “Agent Bledsoe, this plane has one of the best safety records in its class.”

“Thanks, Monica. Grab a seat for me.”

“Won't be a problem,” she assured him. “Only three others on the flight.”

“And, Monica, see if you can get me a rental car. I have a feeling I'm gonna need to get around up there.”

“Something fast, preferably a convertible.” Monica remembered everything. That's why the agents loved it when she answered the call.

“You're the best,” Sterling said. “We'd be lost without you.”

“Anytime, SA 2378. Don't be a stranger.”

“When I'm down your way, I'll look you up.”

“As always.”

Sterling burned rubber out of his garage. It was almost six o'clock. He needed a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and a warm bagel. He also wanted to get the early editions of the national papers to see if there was any mention of Wilson's disappearance. Unlikely, but worth a check anyway. He had to hurry, however. Security at the airports was ironclad even with his FBI credentials.

An image of Wilson flashed in his mind. They had grown a little closer during the last few years. They had most recently seen each other over New Year's, when Wilson and Kay spent the weekend in the city. They all went to a big party at the Rainbow Room overlooking the skating rink and Christmas tree in Rockefeller Plaza. That night, as he watched them holding hands and giggling, he found himself once again envious of his brother's marriage. Sterling wondered if maybe a wife would bring more calm in his own life. Wilson was so content as they looked out over the city, sixty-five floors in the sky.
It doesn't get much better than this.
His eyes had a gleam that night that Sterling had never seen before. The look of a man at peace with himself and the world around him.

Sadness, mixed with anger and guilt, misted Sterling's eyes as he raced the Porsche across 70th Street and turned onto a deserted Third Avenue. In less than an hour he'd be on his way to the tiny town of Hanover. He promised God that if he found his brother alive, he'd never ask for another blessing as long as he lived.

T
he small airplane weaved between the jagged white mountains of New Hampshire, its narrow body taking a beating from the turbulence. The copilot, who also served as the flight attendant, ducked his way down the tight aisle and informed the passengers that they'd be landing in fifteen minutes. He asked everyone to make sure their seat belts were fastened before disappearing into the cramped cockpit without checking that they had followed his directive. With only four passengers on board and an aircraft small enough to fit into the wing of one of the larger jets, there was no need to be a stickler for formalities.

The plane finally shook its way out of the sky and bumped onto the landing strip. Sterling looked out the window at the little airport. A short walk and they were inside a small building that resembled a town hall more than it did a terminal.

“Your reservation number?” the large woman behind the Hertz counter asked. The baseball cap she wore did little to disguise the fact that she hadn't combed her hair that morning. Sterling took quick notice of the dried coffee stains running down the front of her shirt.

“The name is Bledsoe,” Sterling said. “Sterling Bledsoe.”

The woman looked up slowly from the computer monitor with a pained expression. “Are you any relation to Professor Wilson Bledsoe?” she whispered.

“That's my brother,” he said.

“I see,” was all that she said before returning her attention to the computer. Sterling watched her fat hands pound the tiny keys. He sensed that she was avoiding eye contact.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” he pushed.

“No, sir,” she said, eyes glued to the monitor.

Sterling looked into her meaty face and could tell there was plenty that she wanted to say. He had seen that same look thousands of times on the faces of reluctant witnesses who with gentle and not-so-gentle persuasion eventually came around and spilled everything they knew.

“I have you down here for our Mustang convertible,” she said as the printer start spitting out paper. “The nicest car we have.”

Monica had done it again. Sterling slid his credit card across the counter. She finally met his eyes and forced an awkward smile.

“Thanks for your help,” he said, grabbing the papers, then turning to leave.

“Mr. Bledsoe?” she called before Sterling was too far. “These mountains have secrets. Good luck.”

6

R
oute 10A. The only paved road that stretched from Lebanon to the center of Hanover. Sterling maneuvered the silver Mustang through what the locals considered a commercial district, a small strip of country stores and a used-car lot with big neon orange “sale” signs propped in the windshields. Less than a mile out of the Lebanon juncture, the road opened up in the heavily wooded area. Sterling mashed the pedal to the floor. The engine roared for a couple of seconds before the transmission kicked into a higher gear and the car lurched forward. The wind whipped as the car ate up the road, and Sterling temporarily forgot the dire situation that had prompted the journey.

For long stretches, Sterling saw nothing but a diamond blue sky and dense clusters of towering evergreens and maples. There were no cars or people, not even the occasional stray dog—just wilderness as far as he could see. This is what Wilson had said he loved most about living here.

Sterling pushed his way to the center of Hanover. Out of the expanse of tangled trees and tall, lazy grass emerged a small strip of low brick buildings straddling the two-lane Main Street. The road was barely long enough for two stoplights, one at the beginning of South Main, the other at the center of town, right before the massive Dartmouth Green.

Then he saw the sign:
WELCOME TO HANOVER
. Instantly his mind slipped back to a few years ago. They had found her body on the living room floor, and a neighbor had carefully explained to Sterling how she had been clutching that photograph so close to her chest. Sterling was hurt, but he wasn't surprised that his mother had taken her last breath holding that picture to her heart. She had always loved the image of that sign against the lush New Hampshire wilderness background and what it represented—another Wilson accomplishment. Wilson had snapped the photograph on his first drive into Hanover and sent it home to their mother. And she had cherished it.

It hurt then and it hurt now, another painful reminder of Wilson's exalted place in the family hierarchy. Sterling had spent so many years angrily trying to break free from his shadow, only to be reminded at the end of his mother's life that he'd always occupy the distant second position. So here it was. Damn sign. Opening up old wounds that Sterling thought time and distance had finally healed.

He moved past the sign and the memories, then slowed the engine and eased into town as quietly as possible. He passed the Food Stop gas station on the southwest corner.
ONLY SERVICE STATION FOR TWO MILES
, it said outside in hand lettering. Sterling rolled up the quaint Main Street as students peddled by on mountain bikes and professors in rumpled tweed blazers engaged each other in the finer points of overly academic debates.

Sterling appreciated the fact that without Dartmouth, there wouldn't be a Hanover. Almost all the nine thousand residents had some connection to the school, whether as students, faculty members, employees, or landlords to the students. In most college towns Sterling knew, the locals developed a love-hate relationship with the school, but here the dynamics were completely different. In this land of granola and organic vegetable stands, Hanover townies took pride in their academic haven.

Sterling stopped at the red light in front of the Dartmouth Green. It was just warm enough for several students to toss a Frisbee to a golden retriever on the freshly cut lawn. He wondered if an open green would help relax his hardworking students back at Hunter, who spent their free time sitting on concrete steps and filling their lungs with the black exhaust from an endless stream of city buses passing through the middle of campus.

He pulled out a map, then took a left onto West Wheelock and rolled down the steep hill toward the slate-gray Connecticut River. As he crossed Ledyard Bridge, he noticed several teams of scullers out on the cool water, the strokes of their oars sweeping in perfect synchrony while the coxswain barked orders through a bullhorn. This is the Ivy League, he thought to himself. Mist was rising off the water as green and orange foliage hung over the water's edge in a perfect arch that stretched down the river. Pic-ture perfect for the cover of a glossy school brochure.

To Sterling, the setting was almost disturbingly calm. How could anything too terrible have happened to Wilson here?

At the end of the bridge, Sterling took an immediate right on River Road. He was in Vermont now, distinguishable from New Hampshire only by its undecorated green license plates and its being home to the country's most sought-after maple syrup. Though the two states were not always political allies, they remained friendly neighbors in these sparsely inhabited mountains.

Sterling maneuvered his Mustang along River Road through a series of sharp bends. He was almost there. He tried mentally preparing himself for what he might find at the house. In a few minutes he'd be sitting with Kay, trying to piece together the mysteries of Wilson's disappearance.

His cell phone rang.

“Bledsoe,” he answered.

“Agent Bledsoe, it's Lonnie Brusco from the Boston office. I don't know if you remember me, but we met on the Wharf cases a few years back.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Lonnie. How could I ever forget you? You were the only one to pick up on those rug burns.”

The Wharf murders had been the most gruesome collection of homicides in Boston since the Strangler. A janitor from one of the elementary schools in South Boston had kidnapped, raped, and murdered eleven teenage girls over the span of three months. All of their bodies had been found on the wharf along Boston Harbor, but it was Special Agent Lonnie Brusco who had noticed a similar pattern of rug burns on their legs. Then they got lucky. One of the victims still had her pants on when they found her. Underneath her left hem, they found a carpet fiber that the lab eventually traced to the janitor's apartment.

“We just got a call from the Hanover Police Department,” Brusco said. “They're nervous. They want our help. Washington called and said you'd be leading.”

“That's right. Are you on the team?”

“My flight leaves in an hour.”

“Good, I could use another pair of experienced eyes.”

“It's a horrible reason for us to see each other again, but it's good to be working with you.”

“Likewise.” Sterling closed the phone and negotiated a steep curve. He hit it too fast, sending the back of the car into a tailspin. This sure in hell isn't the Porsche, he thought. He cleared a thicket of trees, then slammed on the brakes. A police cruiser stood fifty feet ahead, painting the woods with its flashing red-and-white lights. Detective Hanlon had decided to take his advice after all. An officer with a wide-brimmed hat stood in front of the cruiser directing him to turn around. Sterling pulled the car up closer, then killed the engine.

“Gotta take it back around West Wheelock and up to I-91,” the officer said. The strap underneath his chin was so tight he had to strain to open his jaw.

“Agent Sterling Bledsoe,” Sterling said, flashing his creds.

“Oh,” the officer said, pumping Sterling's hand. He was a big man, at least six foot five, maybe two fifty. All muscle. “I'm Officer McGran.” A look of confusion etched his youthful face.

Sterling wasn't surprised. A black man in a sports car in this area wasn't exactly an everyday occurrence. “I'm also his brother,” Sterling said. “I just arrived from the city.”

“The city, sir?”

“New York City. I got the call early this morning.” Sterling leaned his head slightly to see around McGran's massive shoulders. There were three other cruisers and an unmarked car. He counted at least five uniformed officers and three in civvies walking along the road and into the woods. They were wearing bright yellow jackets. “Have they found anything yet?” he asked McGran.

“Just getting started,” McGran replied, swinging his arm wide so that Sterling could get a better view. He moved just like he sounded, stiff and mechanical. Everything about him was uneasy.

“Who's in charge?” Sterling asked.

“Captain Stangle,” the officer replied.

“Which one is he?”

“The only one not wearing yellow.”

“And Detective Hanlon?”

“Still at the house with Mrs. Bledsoe. She's taking all this kinda hard.”

“Has she left the house yet?”

“From what I've been told, she drove down here last night herself, but she didn't see anything so she turned around and went back home.”

“What time was that?” Sterling was in his element—a possible crime scene, local police, undiscovered clues, and a bad feeling in his stomach that was getting worse by the minute. He tried his best to forget that it was his brother he was looking for—the less attached the investigator, the better the investigation.
The heart has a strange way of blurring the mind
. One of the first lessons pounded into the trainees at the academy. Then again, who could ever be prepared to investigate a missing brother?

“I don't have all the details, Agent,” McGran admitted. “Maybe you should speak to Cap.” McGran turned on his heels and walked over to the captain, who was wearing a dark green windbreaker. The stub of a cigar hung from the right side of his mouth. Wisps of silver hair peeped out from underneath his black baseball cap, and the deep lines in his leathery forehead put his age near sixty. He looked in Sterling's direction, nodded once, and then headed over, the robocop trailing behind.

“Morning to ya,” the captain said, extending a meaty hand. “I'm Captain Stangle from the Norwich Police Department here in Vermont.”

“Agent Sterling Bledsoe,” Sterling said. “Professor Bledsoe's brother.” Sterling took Stangle's fleshy hand and immediately realized that it was too large for a firm grip. Wilson had told him that they grew them big here. Something to do with the water, he had joked.

“Sorry to have you up here on such an occasion,” Stangle said, volleying the crumbling cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. Not once did it look in danger of falling. He'd obviously had lots of practice. “It's the damnedest thing.”

“What do you know so far?”

Stangle looked dismissively at McGran, who was hovering over his right shoulder. “Come with me,” he said to Sterling. “Try to follow in my footsteps. We're still collecting evidence.”

Sterling followed him to a small area just off the road. Stangle took out a notepad and flipped the tattered pages. “It just doesn't make much sense,” he said, rubbing the creases in his forehead. The cigar was now on a continuous rotation. “Professor Bledsoe was being honored at President Mortimer's house last night for winning some big award.”

“The Devonshire,” Sterling interjected. “The richest science award there is.”

“Two million big ones,” Stangle added. He sang the amount like the jingle for a lottery commercial. “He leaves the party at approximately seven o'clock and calls his wife to tell her that he's coming home.”

“Any sign of the car?”

“Nothing yet. But we're working with the phone company to get a log of his calls.” Stangle flipped the page. “He calls Mrs. Bledsoe again about five to ten minutes later and says that he's gonna be late. There were a couple of guys having trouble with a truck down here on River Road, so he stopped to help.”

“How far is President Mortimer's house from here?”

“Can't be more than ten minutes. It's over on Webster Avenue down the street from the fraternities.” Stangle walked a couple of steps off the road and motioned for Sterling to follow. The river was just five feet from where they stood. Stangle pointed across the water. “When the leaves fall off in autumn, you can actually see the president's mansion through these trees. It's really not that far at all.”

“But there's no way to get from there to here without crossing the bridge?”

“Not unless you got wings or you're strong enough to swim across the river. Gotta take the long way over Ledyard Bridge in order to access this road.”

“Where did Wilson say he was helping these men?”

“Not exactly sure, but according to Mrs. Bledsoe, he was only a few minutes from their property. So we figure he was within a couple of hundred yards from this spot.”

They had done some thinking on their own, which Sterling found surprising and encouraging. Often when he arrived on the scene only a small amount of real work had been done, and the authorities were more interested in quarreling over who was actually in charge of the case than in gathering evidence. A time line was always the centerpiece of any investigation, and they had started to construct a good one.

Sterling looked at the men. Some were crouched on the ground with magnifying glasses, others combed through the woods. They were working as a team, which was also important.

“How far did you block the road off?” Sterling asked.

“All the way to your brother's street—Deer Run Lane.”

“How far is that from here?”

“About two miles or so.”

Sterling looked down the narrow dirt road, which was smothered by large trees and heavy branches that blocked out most of the sunlight. There were no streetlights or road markings; it was as if someone had carved a road through the forest and forgot to finish it. He wondered how eerie it must've been going down this dark road with its unlit curves and narrow passages. What went through Wilson's mind as he traveled home last night?

“You say the president was throwing a party at his house in Wilson's honor?” Sterling asked.

“Yup, started at six.” Stangle looked at his pad. “About two hundred and fifty people. The president and his wife like to throw big parties. They pack 'em in at least once a week.”

“What about that truck? Did Wilson tell Kay what he thought was wrong with it?”

Stangle turned the page and skimmed the notes. The harder he thought, the faster his mouth rotated the cigar. “There we go. He told her that he wasn't sure if it was a dead battery or flat tire.”

“What was the weather like last night?”

“Clear till about six or so, then a little drizzle. At about seven it started raining like the dickens. Damn winds were almost strong enough to blow my fat ass to the ground.”