To Run With the Swift

by Gerald N. Lund

  “Then ...” She could almost feel the wheels turning in his brain. “Either Armando is lying, or he’s gone mental on us.”

  “Or the girl and the old man didn’t tell the FBI so they can keep the gold for themselves,” Gisela suggested.

  “No way,” he said. “You know what we learned about the McAllisters. They’re Mr. and Mrs. Straight Arrow. And besides, they would have to assume that the FBI would eventually learn about it. But there is a third option. The FBI didn’t tell Interpol because they didn’t want to become the joke of the law-enforcement community. Who is going to believe that kind of a story?”

  “You’re stretching, Niklas. Assuming that Armando has fallen off the apple cart may be the most comfortable explanation, but it leaves you with another question that is just as thorny, if not more so.”

  “What question?”

  “How does some kid who’s still wiping her nose with her baby blanket outwit, outfox, and outsmart a whole team of professionals? You answer me that.”

  Niklas said nothing because he had been wrestling with that very same question and had come up with nothing.

  “Niklas, we have to know.”

  “Know what?”

  “The truth. I don’t care how you do it, but find out. Get someone in to see Eileen. Find out what the girl’s saying to her friends on Facebook. See if she kept a journal. Do you need me to tell you how to do your job?”

  He sighed. “I’m going to try to get some rest now, Mama. Our three guys are waiting for directions.”

  “Niklas! I don’t care what else you have going. Find out about that pouch and do it now.”

  “’Bye, Mama. I’ll call you later.”

  She softened. “You’re tired, Nikky. Go to bed. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

  “Bed? I wish. I’m a long way from that. There’s work to do here before anyone sleeps.”

  “When will you be home?”

  “Not for a few more days. Even if we finish by tomorrow, I’ve still got to get out of the country without detection. I took four days making my way here, changing identities four times. I’ll do the same coming back.”

  “You are really quite astonishing, Son. You know that, don’t you?”

  To her surprise, he laughed softly. “Actually, I do. I just may turn my leave of absence from the bank into a permanent resignation.”

  She laughed. “I won’t tell the board of directors that just yet. Go to bed, Niklas. Call me again tomorrow.”

  “I will, Mama. I’m glad you’re pleased.”

  After hanging up the phone, Gisela von Dietz sat there for several minutes staring out the window at her magnificent view, seeing none of it. Finally she leaned forward and pulled the two sheets of paper toward her. She read the last entry again, the one that described Carruthers McAllister in this way: No information available at this time. Under further investigation.

  She reached for a pen from the desk organizer, drew a heavy line through the entry, and with swift, sure strokes penned: Existence of Le Gardien tentatively confirmed. High likelihood that Carruthers Monique McAllister is the next keeper of the pouch.

  After reading what she had written, she took the pen and lined out the word tentatively.

  CHAPTER 5

  McAllister Ranch, Hanksville, Utah

  June 23, 2011

  As I came I out of my bedroom the next morning and turned toward the stairs, I nearly stumbled over Grandpère. He was seated on the floor, his back against the wall. I gave a little yelp and fell back a step.

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Danni.”

  “Good morning, Grandpère. What are you doing out—wait. How long have you been here?”

  Mom’s voice came floating up from below. “He was there when I came out about 5:45.”

  “Really?” And then, since he hadn’t gotten up, I sat down beside him. I poked him softly. “If you had something more to say, you could have just knocked on my door.”

  “It wasn’t what I had to say. It was what Grandmère had to say.”

  I gave him a quizzical look. “Grandmère?” My grandmother had died some time before.

  “No,” he said, chiding me a little. “I’m not saying I actually saw her and talked to her. But for a long time before I went to sleep, I could hear her voice in my head. What she would have been saying if she was here.”

  “Like what?”

  “She would have taken me to the woodshed, that’s for sure.”

  “The woodshed? I don’t understand.”

  “It’s an old saying. In earlier times, when a kid misbehaved, his parents would take him out to the woodshed and give him a good whipping across the bottom.”

  “I see,” I said, smiling a little. “Kind of like you verbally did with me last night.”

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “And what if you were right? What if that was exactly what I needed? Would Grandmère still say you were wrong to do it?”

  He turned and smiled at me, but it was a sad smile. “Grandmère had a little poem she liked to quote to me on occasions like this.”

  “A poem?”

  “Yes. It went like this:

  “Here lies the body of William Jay,

  “Who died maintaining his right-of-way.

  “He was right, pure right, as he sped along.

  “But he’s just as dead as if he were wrong.”

  And then he did something totally unexpected. Tears sprang to his eyes as he turned and swept me up in his arms. “I love you, Danni. More than you can possibly imagine.”

  “I never doubted that, Grandpère. Never!” I was crying now too.

  “It’s just that ...”

  “What? What is it, Grandpère? Something’s worrying you. What is it?”

  He blew out his breath very slowly as he shook his head. “I think it just may be physical, emotional, and spiritual exhaustion. That was definitely part of what happened last night.”

  I stood up and pulled him up. “But today’s a new day.” I reached up and touched his cheek. “I needed that last night, Grandpère. And I love you for caring enough about me to say it, even though it hurt. A lot.”

  “And that’s the problem. I regret how I said it. And when I said it. In that, I was dead wrong. And I’m sorry.” Then, blinking back the tears, he took my elbow. “Now, we’d better get downstairs before your father starts those omelets without me. He has a tendency to think, just because he has watched the master chef—namely me—make omelets, that he knows how to make omelets too. Which is another example of being dead wrong.”

  Laughing, we went arm in arm down the stairs. Life was good. I felt like humming. I didn’t, of course. Not when anyone was around. But I was tempted. And why not? I had slept for nearly eleven hours straight and felt great. I had on a set of fresh clothes that had not been worn anytime in the past nine days. The smell of bacon filled the house. And I had decided that right after breakfast I was going to go over to Lisa Cole’s house and ask her and her joined-at-the-hip friends if they had been successful in getting Chris Hemsworth’s autograph.

  “Go ahead and sit down,” Grandpère said. “This is about ready.”

  “Carruthers,” Mom said, “will you get the ketchup for Dad?”

  “Ugh,” I said, but headed for the refrigerator. I had always found it both mysterious and disgusting that Dad smothered his eggs—fried, scrambled, over easy, it didn’t matter—with ketchup. Maybe it was a Montana thing.

  “Where’s Code?” I asked as I set it before him.

  “I’m not exactly sure. I checked his bed earlier and found only a petrified log there.”

  “We decided to let him sleep,” Mom added. “He was so tired.”

  Grandpère brought the first of the omelets and gave it to Mom, then sat down.

  “Danni,” Dad said, “would you give our
blessing on the food this morning?”

  I did, and to my surprise, about halfway through it, I suddenly choked up. I should have known better than to try to put my feelings into words. The more I thought about all that had happened this last week, the deeper was my sense of gratitude. We had skirted disaster so many times. And Rick had almost been killed. I hadn’t planned to say any of that last part, of course. That would have left me blubbering like a baby. But even when I started to say how grateful we were to be home again and to be safe, I had to stop.

  I heard Mom sniffing, and then I felt Grandpère’s hand laid on mine. We sat there quietly for what seemed like a full minute. Then I decided that even though none of us spoke, this was probably prayer enough. So I asked that Rick’s leg would heal quickly and said amen.

  As Grandpère got up and started two more omelets, Mom turned to Dad. “What did Clay have to say this morning?”

  “He actually called for Danni, but since she was still in the land of the dead, he talked to me instead.” He turned to me. “Mostly he wanted to know how it went for you yesterday. And if he was still on your hit list.”

  “No, but don’t tell him that.”

  Dad smiled. “Then he gave me an update on things. The FBI and the Utah Highway Patrol put out a joint statement about the ‘Lake Powell incident’ yesterday. They said since they are continuing to investigate the case there will be few details released. They did confirm that one family had been involved briefly but had extracted themselves without harm. But no names were given and no further details were shared.”

  I had another question. “Did they find those three guys in Big Water?”

  He frowned. “No. There was no trace of them. And what is even more strange is that now they’re wondering if the tip was a hoax.”

  “A hoax?”

  “Yes. When Clay’s agents got there, they couldn’t find the man who supposedly called in the tip. No such person by that name in Big Water. Nor was there a service station with the name he gave to them.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mom said.

  “They got another tip last night, this time from a woman, reporting that three suspicious-looking men had checked into a cheap motel down in Flagstaff, Arizona. This time there was a motel by that name, but no one there had called the FBI, and no one had seen three men.”

  “How strange,” Grandpère said.

  “Strange, but not unusual,” Dad answered. “Clay says they get these crank calls from time to time. Some people hate law enforcement and like to send them chasing after shadows.”

  “So they’re still at large?” Mom murmured.

  “Yes, but Clay’s convinced they’ve left the country by now. And with that, let me change the subject.” He turned to Mom. “So, how about a painting trip up in the mountains today?”

  She had been about to put a bite of omelet in her mouth. It stopped in midair. “I thought you were going up to seal the mine.”

  “We are. But you’ve been talking about painting some mountain scenes up in the Henrys for months now. We could drop you off wherever you choose, then come back for you later.”

  “And this has to happen today?” Her eyes were troubled. She took the bite, then started moving the food on her plate around with her fork. “I had another idea.”

  “Oh?”

  “I called Jan last night to see what was going on with the houseboat.”

  That caught my attention. We owned a houseboat with another family. We kept it docked down at the marina at Bullfrog. We laid out a schedule each year, blocking out the times when each family got first grabs on the boat, but it was all pretty flexible and we often traded times. It had worked out really well, actually.

  She put her fork down. “They’re not using the boat either this week or next.”

  Dad was watching her closely. “So what are you thinking?” he finally asked.

  “I was thinking we need to get out of here. You know what’s waiting for us the minute we go into town. We have so many friends and neighbors here, and they are going to want to talk to us, hear the whole story. They mean well. And, of course, they don’t understand what’s really behind the shooting. But I’m not sure I want to keep on talking about it.”

  “I’m sure,” I said. “And I don’t want to. I don’t need any more Danni Oakley cracks.”

  “So,” Mom said, really quite earnest now, “what if we got out of here for a week, or even ten days? We talked about doing it in July. Why not now instead?”

  Dad’s expression was thoughtful; then he started to nod. “Why not?”

  “What about Rick?” I asked. “Could we ask him and his family to come?”

  It took me back a little when Mom shook her head.

  “But—”

  “I don’t think we could ask them. I think we should ask them. The attention is going to be even worse for Rick, and besides, a week on a houseboat would be a great way to let his leg heal. And we owe that family a lot. Maybe we could rent a couple of extra Jet Skis.”

  This was great. “Charlie doesn’t work Saturdays and Sundays,” I said, “and I’ll bet Kaylynn and Raye would be ecstatic. I’m not sure they’ve even been on a houseboat before.”

  Mom was looking at Dad. “Think about it. No phones. No visitors. No FBI or Danni Oakley. Could we do that, Lucas?” Her eyes were pleading now. “Please.”

  Dad was nodding his head. “It’s a great idea, Angelique, but—”

  “No, Lucas,” she exclaimed. “No buts. Let’s just do it.”

  “I wasn’t going to object to going. But Clay said he wants to leave an agent down here with us for the next few days.”

  “He does?”

  “Yeah, he’s not really worried about us, but with those three guys still loose, he just wants to be super cautious.” Seeing Mom’s expression, he went on quickly. “But I’ll call him. Going to Lake Powell might be a good alternative. With more than two thousand miles of shoreline, we’d be pretty hard to find.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m not objecting to that. In fact, I like the idea. I like him being cautious. We can even take someone along if Clay wants. But let’s go, Lucas. Let’s just get out of here.”

  That made up Dad’s mind. He glanced at his watch. “I’ll call Charlie. He’s probably to the mine by now, but maybe they haven’t gone down the shaft yet.”

  I jumped in. “Rick told me that his dad has accumulated a lot of overtime. He can either take it as time off or be paid for it.”

  “I’ll ask him about that,” Dad said. “But if the Ramirezes go—and I hope they will—they’re going to need some time to get ready. As are we. If Charlie can get the whole day off tomorrow, we could be on our way by ten or eleven.”

  Mom’s face fell. “Is there no way we could go today?”

  Dad sighed. “Not really, Hon. They need some time. And Jean-Henri and I need to secure the mine, especially if we’re going to be gone for the next ten days.”

  “What about Green River?” I asked.

  “If we go to Lake Powell, that will have to wait,” Dad said. “But your journal’s locked in the safe. We can do that when we get back.”

  Grandpère came over and put a hand on Mom’s shoulder. “Angelique, you and Cody could get your painting things together and maybe pack us a lunch while Mack and Danni and I load up the four-wheelers. If we work at it, we could be out of here in an hour or two.”

  “Okay,” she said. “But I don’t need to go. I’ll stay here and start getting things ready for tomorrow.”

  Grandpère reacted quickly to that. “You are not staying here and having everyone dropping by to say hello. And doing some painting would be good for you about now.”

  “It does sound wonderful.” Her head bobbed. “All right. Lucas, you call Charlie. Danni, go drag Cody out of bed. I’ll call Jan and tell her we’re trading times with her.” />
  “And call Bullfrog and reserve the Jet Skis,” I reminded her.

  “Of course.”

  After we had the four-wheelers loaded, I started back for the house. I was thinking about Mom being glad that Clay was going to send us someone. I guess I’d just figured this whole thing was over and was ready to put it out of my mind. Then I remembered Grandpère’s nervousness, and I started getting a little uncomfortable myself. Why did those three guys have to get away? That was what was causing it.

  In keeping with Grandpère’s advice, I had Le Gardien with me now, even though we weren’t leaving for another half an hour or more. But what about the journal? Would it be okay in Dad’s safe? Of course it would. His safe was only about three feet square, but you’d need dynamite to get it open or a crane to carry it off.

  Then another thought came to me. I broke into a trot and went inside. I went straight to Mom’s craft room and found her box of thread.

  “Whatcha doing?” Cody asked from right behind me. I jumped, almost knocking over the box. “Geez, Code, stop sneaking up on me.”

  He grinned. “A little jumpy, are we?”

  Which gave me another idea. “Hey, Code. Come help me.”

  “Whatcha doing?” he asked again.

  “You know how sometimes in spy movies, you’ll see the hero take a piece of thread and put it across the door to his room? So he can tell if anyone comes in while’s he’s gone.”

  “Yep. I think Jason Bourne did that once.”

  “Who is Jason—oh, yeah. In the Bourne trilogy. Yeah, that’s it. Well, uh ... I don’t want Mom or Dad to know about this, or they’ll freak out, but I thought maybe we could do that before we leave. You know, just to be sure. See if anyone’s been around while we’re gone.”

  “Cool. What do you want me to do?”

  “Get the ladder and meet me at the back door. Then we’ll take turns making sure no one sees us doing it.”