Cape Perdido Page 11

  “So where is he?” Her voice sounded unnaturally loud; behind her, Fitch seemed to have stopped breathing.

  She crossed to the bathroom, flicked on the light. A shaving kit sat on the vanity, and a couple of towels were crumpled on the floor.

  “He must be around someplace,” Fitch said. “Maybe he went out.”

  “Where? Nothing’s open; this town rolled up the sidewalks hours ago. Besides, you drove him here after dinner; he doesn’t have a car.”

  “He could’ve gone to get ice or for a walk—”

  “I don’t think so. We passed the ice machine on the way in. And that bluff doesn’t look like the kind of place you’d want to wander around in the dark.”

  Fitch spread his hands. “Then I can’t imagine what’s happened to him.”

  Jessie went to the bureau, examined the objects arrayed there. Watch. Spare change. Wallet. She slipped it open. Eldon’s, all right. His face smiled up from his New York driver’s license as if he’d just told a clever joke and was terribly pleased with himself.

  “Jess?” Fitch said. “What the hell happened here?”

  She crossed to the table where the laptop sat. It was in sleep mode; when she restarted it, she saw that Whitesides had been using his e-mail. On the computer’s screen was a half-written reply to Tom@LBT.com. She scanned it, said, “Fitch, what’s the name of the investigator you were using?”

  “Tom Little, at LBT Investigations in San Francisco.”

  “Take a look at this. It’s dated yesterday, around the time Eldon was in the meeting with us.”

  Fitch came over and read aloud, “‘Mr. Whitesides—The materials on Gregory Erickson and Neil Woodsman are on their way to you by special messenger. Do you want me to continue gathering information on Joseph Openshaw? TL.’ And at nine that evening Eldon replied, ‘I’m looking forward to receiving the documents. Please proceed on Openshaw. Note that the billing for this job should be sent to my home address. I’d like confirmation of the rumors you reported ASAP and . . .’ I understand why he’s having Erickson and Woodsman investigated, but why Joseph?”

  “Exactly. Why is he investigating somebody who’s supposed to be on our side?”

  JOSEPH OPENSHAW

  Joseph stood in the shelter of the trees, watching the shack in the clearing. It was up a steep, mud-slick trail from the reservation road, next to a little creek that flowed freely now but in months would be nothing more than a trickle. Pines and tanbark oak encroached on the leaning corrugated-iron structure, and light—probably from an oil lamp—seeped around its poorly fitting door. Joseph had been waiting close to an hour—for what, he wasn’t sure.

  The shack had been there as long as he could remember—a relic from the days when the bark of the oaks had been stripped and hauled by wagon to Signal Port, for shipment south to hide-tanning factories. In their youth, he and his friends had used the shack as a refuge from often drunken and abusive parents, smoked their first cigarettes and drunk their first beers there, and later had had their first women within its dark confines. Now there were no more young people on the rez, merely a handful of elders and middle-aged folk like Curtis, and the shack stood abandoned. Or so Joseph had thought until he’d followed Harold Kosovich there tonight.

  He had recognized the odd little man after he fled the scene of the fire and climbed into an old blue Buick parked by the roadside. By the time Joseph retrieved his van and caught up with the car, it had passed through Cape Perdido and was turning into the hills toward the rez. Even though there were no other vehicles on the road, Harold didn’t appear to know he was being followed. He ditched the car at the boarded-up community center and took the trail into the woods. Joseph parked and went after him.

  The night was cold here on the ridge, and the breeze brought with it the stench of the fire. Joseph tucked his hands into his pockets, gazed up through the trees at a star-shot, smoke-streaked sky. Even the night birds were silent, sensing danger.

  After a while Joseph felt a stir of alarm. It was too quiet in the clearing, and the lamplight burned steadily in the shack, showing no motion. What was Kosovich doing in there? And why had he run when he saw Joseph at the mill?

  He moved slowly from the trees’ shelter, the tall grass whispering around his legs, twigs and pinecones snapping under his feet. There was no sound from the shack’s occupant as he put his eye to the crack around the door and peered inside.

  The lamp sat on the rotting board floor, its glow washing over the rusted walls and ceiling. Several cardboard cartons were stacked to one side, and empty liquor bottles lay everywhere. In the far corner was what looked like a pile of rags.

  Not rags—a bed. Harold’s been living here. What happened to his trailer?

  Joseph entered and moved closer to the makeshift bed, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He smelled alcohol and something else that he couldn’t identify before he saw the bottle of cheap whiskey lying on its side, liquid puddling around an empty prescription vial. Kneeling, he pulled away a tattered gray blanket and stared into Harold’s still face.

  Overdosed. While I stood outside, doing nothing.

  He grabbed the little man’s arm, undid the cuff button of his denim shirt, felt for a pulse. Couldn’t find one. He pressed his fingers against Harold’s neck, thought he detected a fluttering.

  He reached into his pocket for his cell phone, realized he’d left it on the seat in the van. Damn thing was never where it should be, but most likely the emergency lines would be jammed because of the fire. He hesitated, then pulled Harold from his ragged nest, and hoisted him over his shoulder. The little man was no more burden than a sack of flour. As Joseph moved toward the door, his eyes rested on the oil lamp; there had been enough destruction tonight; he couldn’t risk it setting a fire here on the ridge.

  Grunting, he bent to extinguish it. Then he straightened, carried Harold outside and down the slippery path toward the home of the one person he knew up here who could help.

  STEPH PACE

  When the phone began ringing at six, Steph answered it, determined to blast her mother’s eardrum for calling so early. But the voice that greeted her, while familiar, was one she’d never expected to hear.

  “Miss Stephanie,” Timothy McNear said, “I wish to meet with you. Today, if at all possible.”

  His commanding tone was as she remembered it: so self-

  assured it didn’t allow for protest or refusal. When she’d worked as nanny to his grandsons, he’d addressed her in the same way, whether the matter at hand was trivial (“Make sure those toys are picked up, please”) or important (“Never forget to fasten the boys’ seat belts when you’re driving them”). He had intimidated her then, and he frightened her now.

  When she didn’t speak, he added, “I know you have no reason to agree to see me, and I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”

  She cleared her throat. “Can you give me some idea of why—?”

  “I’m sure you know.”

  The words put a chill on her, and all she could say was, “When?”

  “Anytime, and I’ll come to you. You name the place, but it should be a private one.”

  A private place could be dangerous.

  “I’ll have to think about this and get back to you.”

  “That’s fine. I understand fully. But you’re not to mention this call to anyone. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “I have a meeting with the fire marshal and the sheriff’s people down at the mill this morning, but you can leave a message here on my machine. The number is the same; I’m sure you remember it.”

  He hung up, but Steph stood with the receiver pressed to her ear until the dial tone began. Finally she replaced it in its cradle and pulled her robe more closely around her—a futile gesture, since the chill that gripped her body came from within.

  What to do? Call Joseph? Or Curtis? No, McNear had said to tell no one, and she was afraid to disobey him.

  Alone—that was ho
w she’d have to face McNear. And maybe that wasn’t so bad. Maybe then, for her at least, the long nightmare would finally be over.

  TIMOTHY MCNEAR

  There. It was done. He had made the call, broken the long silence. Now it was up to her.

  Timothy contemplated the telephone, taking a grim pleasure in his new resolve.

  Stephanie Pace, he knew, had grown into a strong woman, a far cry from the lovely but timid high school girl who had come into his home and lived in his servants’ quarters, to care for Max and Shelby. Over the intervening years he’d watched her from a distance. Surrounded by employees and the members of the charitable organizations she volunteered for, she nevertheless gave the impression of being a loner. Although she was reputed to be an excellent businesswoman and a reliable member of the community, he sensed something unpredictable and wild in her, firmly held in check but capable of bursting forth, given the right provocation. Just what gave him that impression, he couldn’t say, but for some time now he’d been waiting for her to do the unexpected.

  Just so long as it wasn’t today.

  And if she did? If she refused to meet with him and tell him what he needed to know?

  Then he’d go after her, verbally break her down. He’d intimidated her in the past, and he’d intimidated her on the phone just now. There was no way she could resist the kind of pressure he’d bring to bear.

  An eyewitness.

  One of only three people. And Stephanie Pace would know which. Once she gave him a name, the way to proceed would come clear, no question about that. And then he would face the consequences.

  The hell with the consequences, old man. The hell with them.

  JESSIE DOMINGO

  “I think we should call the sheriff,” Fitch said.

  It was nearly nine, and they were seated in a coffee shop on the highway in Calvert’s Landing. They’d waited in Eldon Whitesides’s motel room until seven, hoping he’d return, and then made discreet inquiries to the staff and the town’s one taxi company. No one had seen him since he’d checked in, and no cab had picked him up. They’d then driven around looking for possible places he might be, and even walked the bluff trail near the Tides Inn, Jessie’s overactive imagination conjuring up images of his body lying at the cliff’s bottom or floating in the sea. Eldon, apparently, had vanished without a trace.

  Jessie said, “Even if we reported him missing, they probably have the same waiting period as we do at home and wouldn’t do anything about it yet. And besides, if what we suspect about the fire at the mill is true . . . well, we’ve got the foundation’s reputation to think about.”

  “You’re right.”

  Fitch’s eyelids drooped as he leaned on his elbow and stared out the window at the traffic on the highway. Jessie was sure she looked equally bad, but was sailing on a pure adrenaline rush. Since Fitch seemed disinclined to any further conversation, she turned her thoughts back to the long talk they’d had as they waited at the motel.

  After considerable prodding from her, Fitch had admitted he’d felt all along that something wasn’t right about their assignment to Cape Perdido. “And now, with this fire coming on the heels of Eldon’s so-called joke about manufacturing dirt on McNear, plus this stuff about investigating Joseph, I’m certain. He wasn’t at all interested in the legal issues I discussed with him yesterday afternoon, and he’s downright negative about our chances for turning the situation around unless we take drastic—and, to my way of thinking, unethical—measures.”

  “So why’d he even bother to volunteer our services? Or come out here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What made you feel there was something funny going on in the first place?”

  “Well, for one thing, he could’ve sent Abe Reasoner.” Fitch named the other water lawyer on ECC’s panel of consultants. “Abe is much more experienced than I, and really wanted to come. But instead Eldon picked me. And he didn’t want to send you, but had to because everybody else was assigned to long-term projects. He cautioned me against sharing anything more with you than you absolutely needed to know—including his plans to come out here.”

  So Eldon probably was the one who had removed the memo about his travel plans from her packet. “Did he tell you why he didn’t want me?”

  Fitch looked uneasy. “More or less.”

  “He either did, or he didn’t.”

  “All right. He told me that you have a reputation for overzealousness, and he was afraid you’d do something extreme that would discredit the foundation.”

  “Overzealousness?”

  “That’s the word he used.”

  “Did he back this up with any examples?”

  “Jess, do we have to go into this now?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “Okay, if you have to know, Eldon said you’d gotten in trouble while you were with the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation. Told me you’d gone off on a vendetta against somebody, and the head of your department talked him into hiring you to get you out of their hair.”

  “That’s ridiculous! It wasn’t a vendetta.”

  “What was it?”

  “I don’t have to explain anything to you.”

  “Come on, Jess, I’m leveling with you. We’ve got a bad situation on our hands, and whether you like it or not, we’re in it together.”

  “But it’s got nothing to do with . . . All right.” She took a deep breath. “What happened in Albany, I was working on wastewater enforcement, and I began to suspect that one of the paint manufacturing firms near Poughkeepsie was illegally disposing of dangerous chemicals. I investigated them very carefully, documented everything, and then I presented my findings to my supervisor. Initially he was excited about going after the firm, but when he brought my report to his boss, he was told not to pursue it. Turned out a state senator’s son was an exec with the company and held a large block of stock.”

  Fitch shrugged. “Doesn’t sound like a vendetta to me.”

  She got up, went over to the balcony door, pulled back the curtain, and peered out at the dark sea. After a moment she said, “There’s more.”

  “Oh?”

  “I . . . didn’t take their decision very well. So I went to the press. My supervisor found out in time to get the story buried, and that was when I was told to look for another job.” As she spoke, she thought of how the notice of the position with ECC had mysteriously appeared in her in-box at work, remembered the ease of her interview with Whitesides, the speed of his offer.

  So she hadn’t landed the job with ECC on her own; it had been arranged in order to get rid of her. Just as she’d landed the job with the state because of her father’s connections, and the job she’d earlier held with a consulting firm in Denver because of a college professor’s influence.

  Way to go, Jessie. Spend your life riding around on other people’s coattails.

  But that wasn’t a fair assessment. Didn’t everybody use connections to get ahead in a world where it was increasingly difficult to make it on your own? Besides, she’d been a hard worker, a conscientious employee—

  Another realization struck her, worse than the first: Whitesides probably intended to keep her on only until he found cause to fire her.

  Fitch came up behind her. “You okay?”

  She let go of the curtain and turned. “Just kind of blindsided by all this.”

  “It’s a lot to take in, I know.”

  “Yeah.” She crossed to the sofa, sat down heavily. “I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t pack up and go home.”

  “What about Eldon being missing? You can’t just—”

  “You know what, Fitch? I don’t give a shit about Eldon. He can stay missing, for all I care.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “How the hell do you know what I mean?” Her disillusionment boiled over into rage at him. “What do you know about me? You’ve got it easy, with your law degree and your Benz, and your plans to strike it rich with SoftTech�
��s IPO, and a million friends who seem to want to talk with you on the phone all the time—although God knows why. You have no idea of what it’s like to be me!”

  Surprisingly, Fitch laughed at her tirade.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You. Me. Everything.” He sank onto the other end of the sofa, shaking his head. “My law degree is from a second-rate school, and it’s only by working my butt off and specializing in an area that’s currently in big demand that I’ve gotten anywhere. If water rights weren’t a hot issue these days, I’d probably be sharpening pencils at my uncle’s estate-planning firm. The Benz is a twenty-year-old piece of shit that I bought from my older brother, who made it big on Wall Street. I’m probably going to miss the IPO because I won’t be able to come up with enough cash. And those friends you heard me talking to? Mainly it was their machines, and you didn’t hear them calling back, did you?”

  Jessie stared at him.

  Fitch smiled crookedly. “Just so long as we’re being frank with one another.”

  “You talk to people’s machines?”

  “Not usually. But when I met you at the airport, I could tell you didn’t think much of me, so I tried to impress you. I should’ve known you weren’t the type who cares about those kinds of things.”

  “You admitting this is pretty impressive.”

  “Can we start from scratch, then?”

  “I’m willing. If we’re gonna salvage this situation, we’ve got to get along.”

  “Sounds like you’ve decided to stay.”

  She weighed her words before she spoke. “We’ve got the foundation to think of. Whatever Eldon’s done—whatever’s happened to him—the foundation does good work. Besides, there’re a lot of people here who are depending on us.”