Wisdom Spring (17 page)

Jess and I both burst out laughing at that. But the thought was there: Did I really look relaxed? Despite the stress and the violence, did this life really suit me better than my old one?

“Scott, this is Jess.”

He enveloped her in his arms and greeted her like she was a long-lost sibling. She gave him a big smile in return.

He looked at me. “I already like her better than your ex.” He looked over at Jess. “Victoria. Not Vicky, or Vic, but Victoria.” He dragged out the “or” in her name mockingly so that it came out sounding stuffy and stuck-up.

“I didn’t know you didn’t like her,” I said.

“Couldn’t stand her, but I wasn’t going to tell you that.” He pointed to the Armada. “So where did you get that? And where’s your Beemer? And what’s with the Montana plates?”

I decided to shock him a bit—something I was rarely able to do. “The Beemer is stashed deep in the woods somewhere in Alberta, and we stole this from the two guys we had to kill.”

It worked. For the first time ever, Scott was at a loss for words. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or not, so he just looked at me quizzically.

“Are you familiar with the Jessica Norton saga out of DC?” I asked.

“Yeah, the one who killed her co-workers and hired that Hollywood lawyer? We’re not totally out of touch up here, you know.”

“Well, she didn’t kill her co-workers, but yes, the same Jessica Norton.”

He looked over at Jess, and for the second time in two minutes, he was speechless.

“Oh, this has gotta be good,” he finally said.

“Trust me,” I answered. “You’ll never hear another story like it. You going to invite us in?”

“Yeah.” Suddenly Scott was deep in thought. Then he said, “Have you watched the news or gone online last night or today?”

I looked at Jess, then back at Scott. “No, why?”

“Your Hollywood lawyer—Colson, right?” We nodded. “His plane went down last night. There were no survivors.”

Chapter 17

Corbin Mays stared out of his office window on the 67
^th
floor of the Empire State Building. In the distance he could see the green of Central Park. It was a beautiful sunny day, in direct contrast to his mood. Mays was the CEO of Exchange Systems, a manufacturer of computer motherboards. But more importantly, he was also the head of one of the most powerful—but completely unknown—organizations in the country. And it was in that capacity that had Mays angry beyond belief. The Jessica Norton situation never should have happened. She should have been dead with her coworkers. Now she was gone. With all the money and tools at their disposal, how could she have disappeared? At seventy-two, Corbin Mays was a man with a long history of getting what he wanted—and he wanted this girl caught.

He turned and looked at Mel “Hutch” Hutchinson, his head of security. Hutch was an impressive-looking man in his late-forties. Ex-military, ex-CIA, Hutch still worked out two hours a day in a gym he’d built in his house. Recruited directly out of Special Forces by the CIA when he was only twenty-four, he had become a decorated operative, though one frustrated by the limits of his responsibility and by the limits of the CIA itself. He felt there was so much more he could have accomplished if he had just been given a little more free rein. As such, his spying career was short. He left the CIA at the age of thirty, and immediately enrolled in college under the GI Bill, eventually obtaining a master’s degree from Stanford, graduating summa cum laude. He started his own small, elite security company, but when the opportunity came to work for Mays and his shadowy organization—especially at the salary he was offered—he jumped at the chance, turning the operations of his company over to his second-in-command.

“So where do things stand with the girl?” asked Mays.

“Nowhere,” answered Hutch. “We don’t know where she is. A couple of idiot operatives who stumbled upon her by accident and then supposedly got captured by her and her mystery man said she mentioned something about returning to Washington to collect evidence.”

“Do you believe them?”

“I think there’s something fishy about their story. One of my people contacted their boss to pull them in so we could talk to them, but was told he’d fired them. When we tried to find them, they too had dropped out of sight.”

“So that’s now three operatives, the girl, and her protector, who have all disappeared.”

“Yeah.”

“Seems we have a little epidemic here. You have any theories?” Mays was fuming, but controlled himself with Hutch. The man had done a tremendous job for him over the five years he had worked for Mays. This was just a strange set of events.

“Not yet. I figure they somehow got the first guy, since they were using his plates. But we’re still working on the other two. And as far as Norton and her friend….” He let it trail off.

“Hutch, I’ve been working forty years—more than half my life—helping to put this plan into place. The organization behind it—the sheer power behind it—is so massive it would make your head spin. But as in all organizations, mistakes are made. Stupid mistakes. Hillstrom and your predecessor obviously made one because there is something out there that ties him to this. We just don’t know what it is. As far as we know, his past is secure. But here’s the thing: could it be that all this work, all this time, all this money, and all this commitment, could be brought to a screeching halt by this insignificant woman? Is this what we have to look forward to?”

There was no answer to that, so Hutch kept his mouth shut.

“What about Joe Gray?”

“Gone.”

“Gone as in disappeared, like seemingly everyone else around here? Or gone as in dead?”

“Gone to ground. Running for his life.”

“You’re shitting me, right? So I can now add him to the ever-expanding tally of people gone missing?” Good employee or not, this was too much for Mays. “I’m beginning to think maybe you don’t have as good a handle on all this as I thought you did.”

Hutch just stared at his boss for about ten seconds, until Mays took a slight step back. “
And let’s not forget who can snap whose neck in a millisecond
,” thought Hutch, then said, “Our guys had him cornered, but he’s smart. He managed to slip away. But he doesn’t have much more than the shirt on his back. No car, no gun, we’ll catch him.”

“Did he at least provide you with any information before he got away?”

“We have his notes, but it doesn’t look like he’d made any progress.”

“Is the mystery man at least mentioned?”

“Yeah, but in code. We’ll never get his name from that.”

“Why couldn’t you have hired some people as smart as him?”

“Being smart is one thing. Being smart and also willing to do some of the … shall we say less savory things we ask … is another.”

“And Colson?” asked Mays. “He was positively identified?”

“Well.…” Hutch hesitated.

“Well what? I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“The bodies were burned beyond recognition. Even dental records would be no help here. I have to assume he was in it. If he wasn’t on the plane, don’t you think he would make it known, seeing as who he is?”

“Not necessarily. The man loves publicity. A grand entrance down the line would be like him. Find out. Assure me that I don’t have to worry about this, at least.”

“I will. I’ve got people working on it already.” He didn’t, but he would as soon as he left Mays’s office. He also had no doubt that Mays knew that too.

“Hutch,” said Mays, bringing the meeting to a close, “not killing that girl with the others was a gargantuan mistake. We can’t let it come back to haunt us. Find her and find the guy she’s with. The Republican and Democratic conventions are right around the corner. It all gets serious after that. We can’t have these loose ends. Find the girl. Now!”

Chapter 18

I didn’t know what to say. “He was on the flight?” I asked my brother, groping for words.

“Yeah. I was just online a few minutes ago and he was listed, along with seven other people.”

“Oh my God, it’s all my fault,” said Jess, tears welling up. I reached out to her and she fell into me, shaking, her face buried in my chest.

“It’s not your fault. None of it is your fault. Those people are dead because of Hillstrom, not because of you. Stop blaming yourself.” The shaking subsided, but she continued to hold on to me.

“So you don’t think it was an accident?” asked Scott.

“Not for a second,” I answered. “We’ll explain it all to you inside. It’ll take a while.”

Jess released her grip on me and looked up. “I’m sorry,” she said simply, wiping the remaining tears away. “You’re right. It’s not my fault. I feel awful for those people, but I didn’t cause it. Let’s hope we can find whatever clue is here. Maybe then we’ll know what to do next.”

“There’s a clue here?” asked Scott.

“Yeah, there might be. It’s all part of that long story.”

Jess had recovered from her shock and seemed marginally better, so Scott took us on a tour of his house and grounds, Max constantly at Scott’s side. He owned ten acres, most of it untouched wooded land. Next to the house was a fairly new barn, and behind the barn was perhaps a half an acre of garden, surrounded by a high wire fence to keep out the deer and moose.

Being high up on the mountain, his views were spectacular, and we spent almost a half an hour gazing out as he pointed out the landmarks. He took his time, knowing we were still coming down from the news about Mill.

As we were about to go in the house, a dog came bounding out of the woods and galloped toward us. It was a mixed breed, large and imposing. I could make out some lab, and maybe a hint of Saint Bernard. Max glared at him but didn’t move from Scott’s side. The new dog  jumped up with his paws on my chest, tail wagging, tongue hanging out, and drooling all over me.

“Down Slob,” said Scott firmly. The dog immediately stopped and sat at my feet.

“Slob?” I asked, wiping my hands on my leg.

“Officially Slobber O. Harper is his name.”

“What does the ‘O’ stand for?” asked Jess.

“On.”

“At least he’s friendly,” I said.

“He’s a goof,” Scott answered, “but don’t get on his bad side. I’ve seen him chase moose and even bears out of the yard. He spends most of his time exploring, so he’s not always around.”

The inside of his house looked nothing like the outside. It was comfortable and homey. The large living room had an enormous fireplace at one end, and a woodstove at the other. The woodstove was for heat and the fireplace mostly for ambience, Scott explained. A 60-inch flat screen TV sat on one wall, surrounded by a bookcase full of DVDs. He had a large, spacious kitchen that also doubled as a dining room. He showed us to our bedroom, newly made up for our visit, with a queen-sized bed sporting a goose down comforter.

“We’ll bring in our stuff later,” I said.

“Hungry?” Scott asked.

“Starving,” answered Jess.

“Looks like you’re doing okay,” I said patting Scott’s stomach.

“Hey, I get fresh venison, moose, bear, salmon, and halibut constantly. Usually in payment, or as a tip, for jobs I perform for people. A little later in the summer my garden will be thriving. What can I tell you, I eat well.”

Scott made us a dish of cold salmon and potato salad, got us drinks, and as we sat down at a beautiful old table he said, “So tell me your story.”

And we did. I started with the funeral and turned it over to Jess when I got to the point of picking her up in Texas. She told the story of Hillstrom and how her coworkers were killed. When she reached the same pick up point, we just took turns the rest of the way. It consumed the afternoon and then some, and Scott said very little, asking questions where appropriate, but otherwise letting us tell it the way we needed to.

Jess was hesitant about mentioning The Voice, so I did. I knew my brother. Nothing about The Voice would surprise him and he accepted it as fact without question.

We finally finished at about seven o’clock.

“So, what are your thoughts?” I asked.

“I’m proud of you,” he said. “My big brother. Mister corporate America. You actually blew three people away?”

“Two,” I interrupted. “Jess took care of the other.”

“Well, I don’t care what the news people say about you,” said Scott, looking at Jess, “You’ve been a great influence on this guy.”

Jess seemed pleased by the remark. I was always amazed at Scott’s ability to connect with people. Others put great weight on Scott’s opinions, because they felt he considered their thoughts equally important. Yet at the same time, if he didn’t like someone—except in the case of Victoria, because he knew it would hurt me—he wasn’t afraid to make his feelings known. He had a quick mind and a razor-sharp sarcastic wit. He was also full of surprises.

“And,” he said (in retrospect, there should have been a drumroll), “I can put you in the right direction for your first clue.”

We just stared at him.

“Your Voice was definitely leading you to the right place. There’s an antiques store right on the main drag of Homer. Well, they call it an antiques store, it’s really more like a junk shop. It’s been around for seventy-five or eighty years. I think you should check it out tomorrow.”

“And the reason being?” I asked. Oh, how he loved this shit. He knew he had us sitting on the edge of our seats.

“The name. It’s called Wolf Run.”

We almost fell out of our chairs. Jess and I looked at each other in shock, then we both looked at Scott.

“You’re kidding,” was all I could manage.

“Nope. Owned by a crusty old guy in his seventies. We get along though. He inherited it from his father, another crusty old guy, or so I’m told. But if there’s a clue to all this, that’s where you want to check. It might be under mounds of dust, but it’s probably there.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “It had to be over three hours ago that we told you about getting the ‘Wolf Run’ message. I know you didn’t just now think of it. You’ve been holding the information all this time?”

“Well, you know me. I like the spotlight.” And he burst into an infectious belly laugh that had us all going. “Well, I’m hungry. Who wants a bear steak?”