Thin Blood Thick Water (Clueless Resolutions Book 2) (14 page)

Maggie was fatigued, hungry and scared. Her purposeful, successful and fulfilling recent lifestyle had been turned up-side-down. Not long ago her mind-set had been that, she had attained a financially secure lifestyle, although lacking in any clear future in terms of a personal involvement. However, having a family of her own with a man that she felt for deeply enough that it could be described as love, was a remote idea. She had a sense of emptiness. The void of sharing her thoughts and ideas with another person, without the possibility of having it turned back on her, made her think she was incapable of trust. Having such an open and enjoyable life was for romantic dreamers, she was convinced. The upside was that all of her energies were channeled toward her career. It was paying off in dollars, but the down side was that she was becoming emotionally bankrupt.

These morose thoughts were jarred loose as the vehicle into which she and Max had been shoved hit a sharp hurdle in the roadway. She was jostled toward Max who had also been jolted by the bump. Snapping back to the present predicament she and Max were in, the good and caring feeling for him returned. Her life had changed dramatically since her relationship with Max had begun. It rapidly grew, from their first meeting, to the dream she had almost given up on, and she had never looked back after that. Her feelings now, as opposed to being mostly about her emptiness, were more about Max and her, knowing that the future was alive with the promise of hope and happiness.

Maggie’s cramped arms, throbbing hand and growling stomach, however was the reality. The immediate future for her and the dearest man in her life was unpredictable, to say the least.

Max had a splitting headache, partly from hunger, partly from the rough physical punishment, but mostly from trying to think of some way of getting free from these treacherous, non-English-speaking captors. Not knowing their motives made it hard to out-think them, especially here in their homeland. The connection between the Native-Canadians who abducted them from the laboratory and the New Brunswick local police was not clear. The patrolwoman that arrested them seemed almost obligated to turn them over. It plainly was not correct police procedure. These people were not acting in an official capacity by any stretch of the imagination. They were gang members, seemingly of the same ancestry. Thinking back, Max realized that the policewoman also had the same physical characteristics. He hadn’t given that similarity any thought since things happened so unexpectedly. Their innocence of any possible unlawful acts along with the official trappings, patrol car, the police uniform, and the badge, had triggered his automatic response to authority. He was totally blind-sided by what occurred.

They had been traveling for some time and by the sound and dust seeping into the van, they were on an unpaved road. Max’s thoughts turned to Maggie.

Ever since Maggie un-taped and untied him in the van on the ferry, and he was aware that they were in grave danger, he felt responsible, or more like guilty, for getting her into this situation.

“Mag”, he asked quietly, “how are you doing?”

“Okay, how about you?” she asked in return.

“I feel like shit for getting you into this,” he said in a hushed tone, as Maggie shook her head. “No, it’s my fault,’’ he insisted, for not recognizing that something was wrong with this Nova Scotia purchase-thing after our first trip. What happened then was no accident. It wasn’t a prank. Now that I think back, it was probably the same group that grabbed us this time, and I didn’t pick up on it.”

“Look Max, I laughed it off just like you did,” she whispered. “How could we have predicted this? This is a criminal abduction over something that we have no clue about.”  Max sighed and had no follow-up. He was sensing a shade of hopelessness.

“We don’t know where we are, where we’re going, or what they have in mind for us,” he said, trying to hide his desperation. “I’d cross my fingers if they weren’t so numb,” he quipped, not for humor but out of habit.  Maggie just uttered “Hmmmf,” in response.

The roadway, or path, was becoming lumpier and the van was slowing to a lower rate of speed. There was animated talk back and forth between the captors in the rear, who were tending their captives, and the driver. The van slowed and then stopped. Maggie sat upright to look through the windshield. The younger captor, the one with the damaged face, turned and elbowed Maggie roughly back down onto the floor of the van.

“Keep your hands off her!!” Max yelled as he tried to get at the young lad. The youngster smacked Max in the face with his fist. Max slipped backwards with a grunt as blood came trickling down his cheek from a cut that opened up on his cheekbone. The youngster was wincing and holding his hand which he obviously had sprained. He was apparently unaccustomed with fighting with his fists and not very strong, but the amateurish punch was enough to make the small abrasion.

“Max, Oh God… Max!” Maggie cried out. Max calmed her down and indicated that he wasn’t really hurt, although the front of his clothing was splattered with blood. The door slid open and the two captors climbed out into what appeared to be a clearing in a wooded area.

The abductors walked their captives along a path through underbrush and boulders to a wide ledge along the side of a mountain. Looking down, a wide, smooth-surfaced river eased its way toward an ocean bay. Maggie and Max were pushed backwards to sit on a flat slab of rock facing the river which was approximately 60 ft. below the ledge. Behind them, brush piles were being moved to reveal a black cave opening, or deep, natural grotto. Looking over her shoulder, Maggie could barely make out what appeared to be an iron gate inside, set back from the opening.

As she turned to tell Max about the ironwork, she could see that he was staring intently across to the opposite bank of the river.

“What the hell is going on over there?” he asked rhetorically. Coming plainly into view at around 200 yards distance, groups of 4 to 5 men and women were climbing into canoe-like boats and paddling across the river toward their location. In all there were six boats. The passengers appeared to be dressed in Native Indian costumes and blankets with straps of seashells around their necks. The paddlers were stroking to the beat of a cadence of voices, which were coming into hearing range.

“My God, it looks like a war party. Look at the painted faces!” Maggie said. One-by-one the canoes neared the river bank below the ledge and disappeared behind the shoreline shrubbery.

“We’re facing east,” Max said, “judging by the angle of the shadows. We must have come along that road from the bay area to the left, and that would be south. Can you see that land on the horizon across the bay?” he asked Maggie. Maggie nodded in the affirmative.

“That has to be Halifax,” Max stated assuredly.
“At least we have our bearings, for what good that will do us,”
he thought, sitting manacled and helpless on a stone bench on the side of a mountain.

From somewhere higher up on the mountain, a whooshing, moaning sound could be heard. Max looked up to the source of the sound and saw what appeared to be an old shed, or barn-type structure. Almost simultaneously a heavy metallic clanking came from the cave opening. The noises had a mourning tone that made the back of Max’s neck tingle. As he glanced around to the cave opening he realized that it must have been part of a mining entrance constructed many years before. The whooshing and clanking was repeating at 10 to 15 second intervals, sometimes louder than other times. It seemed almost to be sounds from an ocean side port, or harbor, with recurring wave activity of an incoming tide.
“But how could that be coming out of a mountain?”
he thought, pointlessly.

“Do you hear that moaning sound, Mag?” Max asked, idly.

“Yeah, it’s kind of creepy....but what in hell isn’t, lately?” Maggie responded, in a despondent-sounding monotone.  Max realized, now, that Maggie was reaching the limit of her usual positive thinking and resourcefulness.
“Who could fault her for that, after what they had been through during the last two days of pure hell,”
he thought silently.
“Why was this happening? What did he, or Maggie, or both of them do to provoke this brutal abduction? What was this all leading to? Where were the others in their entourage?” 
Under normal circumstances Max had always been aware of his existence in time and place and was not easily surprised at occurrences within his immediate environment. At this point, however, his mind was becoming clouded and inundated with anguish. Maggie seemed to be resigned to some terrifying fate, and his thoughts were bordering on hopeless resignation as well.  It seemed as though the two of them had been transported into a sort of suspended, isolated, drawn-out nightmare.  Was this the effect of some type of drug? If so, it certainly was convincing.

Former Field inspector Don Chace, now the EAD, or Executive Assistant Director of the NSB (National Security Branch) of the F.B.I, and a friend of Max Hargrove and Maggie Marshall, had gotten word from Gene Van Dyke, Mayor of East Wayford, Connecticut, that the couple who assisted him in bringing a serial killer to justice in East Wayford, two years earlier, were missing in Canada under mysterious, international circumstances. Chace had met and spoken with the Quebec Commissioner of the RCMP (Royal Canadian Mounted Police) several times since being promoted to his present office and they enjoyed a mutually-beneficial camaraderie. The Quebec Commissioner had been promoted to his position in gratitude for his service in a situation similar to Don Chace’s. Don had recommended Max for the Partnership position in USAP, a civilian organization which Chace admired for their integrity and professionalism as international private security providers.

When the Canadian Commissioner returned Don Chace’s phone call, Chace detailed his association and friendship with Max and Maggie. The Commissioner told Chace that he would get back to him with any information that he may be able to garner from the Halifax police department. By Wednesday afternoon, Chace had received a confidential e-mailed portfolio of data concerning the death of an Ernest Bickford, owner of the Bickford Marine Laboratory in Halifax. The portfolio initiation date was three years earlier.  Recent addendums to the initial inquiry noted that USAP had recently been inquiring as to, and investigating the status of, the Bickford Labs property and operations. At the time of his death, the deceased owner of record for Bickford Laboratory was Ernest Bickford, who was also a ‘Partner’ of USAP. The real property and intangible property ownership had since been transferred to Ernest Bickford’s widow, Mahlah. Ernest Bickford’s death, which had occurred in Halifax, had been listed by the provincial coroner as accidental, but subject to further investigation. The cause of death was listed as decapitation and dismemberment of the upper right torso, from contact with a revolving airplane propeller. The site of the death was at the Bickford Laboratory-owned guest house in Halifax.  A request that the airplane, owned, and registered to Bickford Laboratory Ltd at the time, be confiscated and shipped to the RCMP Central Forensics Facility for testing, had been buried in a diplomatic international query, at which place it remained for a period of time. Additionally, Bickford Laboratory was under monitoring for possible illicit drug trafficking in connection with a South American Drug Cartel.

  Assistant Director Chace was surprised at the cloud of suspicion surrounding Bickford’s death and the Bickford Laboratory site. That the matter was being looked at by the top Canadian law enforcement department of illicit international drug trafficking was hard to grasp. More important, in Chace’s puzzlement, was how an astute association such as USAP, known as being above reproach in matters of legalities and law enforcement, could be involved inadvertently.

His curiosity was increasing more and more. Beyond that, he felt compelled to find out what involvement Max Hargrove and Maggie Marshall had in this scenario, and what trouble they might be in as a result. Chace had considered them suspect once before, in a totally different matter, and had come to realize that the couple had been innocently connected and more than competent in proving themselves free of any guilt. On the other hand, his professionally-trained inspector’s mind automatically wondered, could the innocent involvement be an instance of habitual repetition on their part?

Executive Assistant Director Don Chace directed his secretary to book him onto the next flight to Halifax, off the record.

On this critical Wednesday Chip, Danyel, and Brad were processing the scant discoveries of information and facts which they had gathered since they arrived on the scene in Nova Scotia the previous day. None of the trio were satisfied that they had obtained sufficient accurate data on which to base a strategy for further actions.

Brad was now dealing with a critical distraction. He had committed to making the Lear Jet available to another Partner back in Ithaca by Thursday. Obviously Chip and Danyel were compelled to pursue every lead they could uncover relating to the Bickford Lab investigation, since several Partners might be in dire circumstances. Brad knew that CEO Chip Chaplain had pushed the Bickford Lab acquisition from the start, right after Ernie’s death, probably as a favor to Ernie Bickford’s widow. Chip had also applied some of his executive privilege by rushing into the investigation without consulting the general partnership.

“I’ve got to get the Lear 45 back to Ithaca today for a prior scheduling,” Brad stated to his two fellow Partners.

“We can’t leave here now, there’s too much in question with our guys missing and not enough answers,” Chip answered. “I need every body and brain we have available to get to the bottom of what’s happening here.” Brad hesitated. “
Chip’s need to stay in Nova Scotia at this point is partly due to guilt, and partly to cover his ass,
” he calculated silently.

“I hear ya, Chip, but we can’t stop the wheels from turning in the rest of USAP. There’s a whole lot at stake besides this,” Brad argued, sounding more like a CEO than Chip was at this point. “I’ll set up transportation for bringing back the crew once you round them up,” he offered.

“I’ve got the Cessna amphibian which is ‘loaded for bear’, but it can’t carry six of us,” Danyel indicated to Chip, making finger quotes to represent the secret armament.

“Yeah, yeah,” Chip said with resignation. He realized that he had no choice under the current circumstances, but he also made a mental note to pay close attention to Brad’s challenge of his authority, for future reference.  Brad shepherded them to the Cesena floatplane moored in the boathouse. He gave them a briefing, ‘just in case’, on how to load the stored missiles and how to activate and fire the covertly-installed hidden grenade launchers.

Later, after dropping Brad at the airport and watching him take off in the Lear 45 for his trip back to New York, Chip and Danyel drove north to the ferry depot to dig for information on the previous night’s activity.  They were acting on the suggestion by Danyel that, if the investigation somehow drew the crew over to the mainland, the direct route would have been by airplane or boat. Since the weather during the last two days was poor, flying was unlikely.

After arriving at the Nova Scotia New Brunswick docking facility Chip and Danyel located the port manager’s office. The office secretary indicated that the manager was at lunch. She suggested that they might do the same while waiting for his return for a scheduled launching in forty-five minutes. Lacking any other option, the couple sought out a safe-looking café along the waterfront.

Over wine and crab cakes, the conversation centered on the crowd forming at the nearby ferry departing gate. The majority of travelers appeared to be native Canadian Indian family groups.

“I’ve had to look twice at some of the bigger guys,” Danyel mentioned. “Some of them could pass for Lamar.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Chip responded. “It’s possible that Lamar could have taken a hop over to the Mainland looking for family. I remember him saying something about a sizable government-sponsored Indian reservation on the ‘other side’. The others might have gone with Lamar as escorts,” he theorized.  Danyel acknowledged the possibility. She seldom questioned Chip’s insight in matters relating to investigation, he was usually spot-on.

Relaxing here on a scenic waterfront, on a nice fall afternoon with a beautiful, fair-haired young woman, Chip’s mind began to wander. Peering into her icy, penetrating blue eyes, he was jolted back to reality as he was reminded that Danyel had been totally business-like since her arrival at the Bickford house during the storm. His conjured-up notions, which may have been caused by the romantic setting, withered and quickly died.

Chip glanced at his watch and noticed that forty-five minutes had sped by. He left a fifty-dollar bill on the café table as Danyel got up from her chair, and he accompanied her back to the port office.

The Port Manager was a rotund, red-faced man named Westcott. He had a shiny, bald scalp that reflected the early afternoon sun streaming through a transom window above his desk. He listened alternately to Chip and then to Danyel, as they described their quest for clues to the whereabouts of their cohorts. Chip sensed that Westcott understood every word that Danyel spoke but, when talking to him, he asked him to repeat quite often. It seemed like while Chip was speaking, Westcott was still thinking about Danyel. He also referred to Danyel by name but didn’t seem to remember Chip’s name.

Westcott did, however, know his business quite well. He indicated that the Halifax-New Brunswick schedule listings were tailored to coincide with the tide changes. Danyel questioned if the schedule could be predicted accurately. It was explained that the tides were astronomically pre-determined by the Canadian Meteorological Bureau. In eastern Canada the differential in depths between high and low tides along the shores was substantial. The forecasted high and low tides shown on the ferry schedule between Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, as an example, were computed not only for the times of each day, but also took into account the tidal depths which were influenced by phases of the moon on various calendar dates.

Although shallow-draft by design, Westcott explained, even some ferry boats were prevented from docking during extreme low tides in certain locations. Ferry runs were also reduced and sometimes canceled during winter months.

Chip thanked Westcott for the detailed information as the port manager was beaming a broad smile at Danyel.

“Oh, by the way,” Chip asked as though it was an afterthought. “We noticed quite a large group of Native Indian folks lining up for tickets. Is that typical here?”

“Actually it’s quite common,” Westcott replied. “From time-to-time they go in groups over to the ‘Forty Five River’. That’s where the Fundy National Park is located and there’s a reservation there.” Nodding a thank you, Chip and Danyel made their exit.

As they walked to the borrowed service car Danyel wondered aloud whether they, or at least one of them, should hang out by the ferry port to watch for any of the missing crew that might be returning. Chip considered it but suggested that under the circumstances they had better stick together.  Danyel pointed out that she was capable of handling herself. Chip could not deny that realism, but his contention was, “First, the crew might never have gone to New Brunswick, and second, if they had gone, and returned a day behind schedule, they would certainly be expected to make contact.” Danyel acceded to that premise, but with reservations.

Danyel was thinking back to the vision of those men among the Native Canadians they had witnessed as they waited for the ferry. She was consumed with the image of the close resemblance they bore to Lamar. She couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a connection between the Native Canadian Indians and the loss of contact with Max and his companions.