by Larry LaVoie
Carlene thanked her and returned to the list. She saw her name, the number of the monitoring station at Yellowstone, Greg Bainbridge with a phone number, Peter Frank at park headquarters, Sandy Sanders at USGS, Jason Trask with a note to contact him through USGS, and last, Allen Ackerman, his attorney in Salt Lake City. She hoped she wouldn’t have to call him.
“What are you still doing here?” Bainbridge asked. “Call Jason Trask.” He closed his eyes and grimaced.
She turned to the nurse. “If he wakes again I’ll be on my cell phone.” She handed her a card. “I’m going to see if I can reach his son.”
“He told us you were family,” the nurse said.
“I am,” Carlene lied. “I’ll be back.” She picked up her suitcase and walked swiftly to the elevator. On her way down to the lobby she leaned back against the shiny stainless steel wall of the elevator, her eyes filled with tears. Bainbridge had always been such a strong man. To see him in the weakened condition was troublesome. As she stopped in the lobby to call a cab and make reservations for a motel she thought about the names on the list and wondered if it was the last time she would see Milton Bainbridge alive.
South Eastern Nevada
Joseph Talant got the call from his surveillance team outside the USGS Headquarters in Menlo Park. They had confirmed Bainbridge was dead and his assistant had been sent to Sumatra to find Jason Trask. When he heard the name, Jason Trask, Talant paused in thought. This could be a problem. He had followed the career of Jason Trask and knew the scientist was excellent in his job, but was a free thinker, not always listening to those in authority. Their control of Sanders was good as long as they kept his wife and daughter alive, but controlling Jason Trask could be a different matter.
Sanders had been a pushover. Talant had always been able to keep his feelings about family separated from the greater cause. It may have been his years in the Russian military, or maybe being raised in a home without parents, but he knew where his priorities were. Sanders, on the other hand, was a weak man because he had forgotten that. Talant headed down the corridor to the black room where the hostages were quietly waiting. Time to make another call. Don’t want Sanders to get nervous.
Talant entered the cell where the girl and her mother were locked.
“I’m going to call your father,” Talant said to the ten-year-old girl.
The mother stood up. “Get away from her.”
Talant back-handed the mother in the face sending her across the room.
“Things would be so much easier if you would cooperate.” He held a voice recorder to the little girl. “Say some nice words to your daddy.”
“I want to come home, Daddy. Please come and get us,” the little girl cried.
“Good,” Talant said stopping the recorder. “That should be enough.”
Chapter 9
Sumatra, Indonesia
Jason Trask heard the distinct clicking of heels on the worn hardwood floor of the bar and lifted his eyes from his warm beer.
A young woman smoothed her skirt and nervously straightened the collar on her western-style shirt. She was too pale for a tourist and, in an Annie Oakley outfit, inappropriately dressed for business on a tropical island. She glanced around as if she were looking for someone, smoothing her short hair with slender fingers. She wasn’t wearing a ring, but it was hard to tell in the dim light. A cowgirl reporter or a movie star in a Japanese Western, he concluded.
He’d been hounded by reporters ever since Talang had erupted the second time. He’d had his fill of them, their accusations, pointed questions and inferences. How could he have let that many people die? The problem was, the reporters were right; he had failed to do his job and Sanders was punishing him by leaving him here.
She started toward him and he buried his eyes in the table and waved a hand to ward off the flies on the rim of his glass. He slouched down in his wicker chair doing his best to become invisible.
“Dr. Jason Trask?” the woman asked.
Another damn reporter, no movie star would be looking for him. “Why the hell can’t you people leave me alone?” Jason said not looking up.
She took a quick step back. “I don’t know who you think I am, but if you want to know why I traveled halfway around the world to find you, I’ll be in my room at the Jakarta Sands.” She turned and stormed toward the door of the dingy pub.
So she’s not a reporter, Jason thought. What’s a cowgirl want with me? His curiosity piqued, he called out, “Ma’am!” in his best western drawl.
She turned. “What?”
“Y’all don’t want a room at the Jakarta Sands.”
“Why not?”
“Cockroaches as big as prairie dogs.”
“I’m leaving in the morning.”
Carlene Carlson inspected Jason as he got up and sauntered over. She knew all about him. She had researched his file at USGS wondering what was so important about this person she’d never heard of until Bainbridge told her to find him. Even Sanders had thought it important enough to have her go to Jakarta to fetch him. All this for a drunk?
She had found a friend at USGS who had worked with Jason and was able to give her the lowdown. His years as a linebacker for the Washington Huskies still showed in his broad shoulders and narrow hips. He limped slightly as he came toward her, a stiff knee that had ended his football career. His face was that of a mischievous college kid, but was hidden under a week’s growth of beard. His eyes were blue and bloodshot, not filled with intelligence like she had been told. In fact they looked pathetically sad. The tail of his flowered silk shirt hung out of his jeans. He smelled of stale beer and sweat. From the report, she remembered he’d had a birthday a few weeks ago and was thirty-six, but from his looks, he’d never grown up. Her friend hadn’t spared any punches when she’d asked about his character. “Honest to a fault,” she’d said, “but hard to work with.” What Bainbridge saw in him she couldn’t imagine.
He stopped in front of her. She looked up. He towered ten inches over her.
“Maybe we should start this conversation over,” he offered.
“Conversation? Were we having a conversation?”
Jason reached out for her arm. “Come on, I’ll buy you a beer.”
She jerked away. “I don’t drink beer. Besides, you look like you’ve had too many already.” She burst out of the pub into the dark night.
She saw Jason come through the door as she put her fingers to her lips and, in a high-pitched whistle, hailed a passing cab.
“Damn,” Jason said, “I never met a girl who could whistle like that.”
She walked down the dark narrow street toward the cab, aware Jason was coming up behind her. It was an old part of town. Neon lights from small shop windows gave some color to the dismal surroundings. The humid air hung heavy with the smell of rotting fish from a nearby garbage container.
“At least let me escort you back to your place,” Jason called after her. She climbed in the cab and slammed the door.
“Jakarta Sands,” she said to the driver. Carlene tightened her lips and cursed under her breath. She had been sent there to do a job and she’d blown it. What was it that had upset her so? She’d heard that Jason Trask had a reputation of being difficult, otherwise why would she be there in person? Any reasonable person would have come home with a phone call, but they hadn’t been able to reach him at his hotel and he wouldn’t return the messages on his cell. It had taken hours of detective work to find him. If she hadn’t promised Dr. Bainbridge, she’d leave the pompous bastard right now.
“Stop the car,” she said looking at Jason through the rear window of the cab. He was still standing on the sidewalk looking like a pathetic puppy. She opened the door and Jason sauntered up to the cab, a stupid grin on his face.
“Hotel Sari Pan Pacific,” Jason said to the driver as he climbed in.
“Where are we going?” Carlene asked.
“My place,” Jason said. “We can talk there. What’s your name?”
“Carlene Carlson.”
“A junior, huh?”
“Pardon?” She shot him a disgusted look.
“Your father wanted a boy, Carl, Carlson, it’s obvious. You compromised by becoming a cowboy.”
“It was my grandmother’s name.”
Jason nodded. “Sure.” He rolled his eyes, tucked in his shirt and buttoned up the front. The night air was eighty degrees and the humidity was at least equivalent. “Well, I figure you’re not a reporter, who are you?”
“I’m Milton Bainbridge’s assistant. He requested that I find you.”
“Bainbridge wanted me? What’s the old bastard up to?” He grinned.
“He died last week.”
“Really,” Jason said. “I never liked the old codger, but I didn’t want him to die. Why are you here again?”
“Before he died he asked me to speak to you.”
“You ever heard of telephones?”
“You ever answer yours?” Carlene shot back. “Bainbridge said he thought you’d lost it,” she lied. “Went off the deep end.”
“Nice of him to worry.”
It was past midnight, but the city was still alive along the boulevard. They passed the Hard Rock Cafe and a huge McDonald’s before pulling into the hotel, an imposing structure of concrete and dark glass with a semi-circle of flags lining the drive. Jason paid the driver and said, “Come up to my room and you can tell me what this is about.”
Carlene hesitated, wondering what Bainbridge had gotten her into.
Jason reached out, leaning into the cab. “Come on, I’m not as dangerous as I look.”
“Maybe for a minute.” She got out and they entered the brightly lit lobby. The gleaming marble floors reflected the overhead lights and their figures as they walked.
“Definitely upper class,” she said. “Are you sure you know how to conduct yourself in a fancy place like this?”
“Notice, no cockroaches.”
They took the elevator to the seventh floor. At room 702 Jason swiped his key-card and held the door open for her. The room was spacious with a king-size bed, a table with two wicker chairs and a lamp. It was immaculate. She glanced around the room, then at Jason.
“What’s the matter?” Jason asked.
“I expected to see piles of trash scattered around, you know, a place that goes with your personality.”
“I haven’t spent the night here yet.”
“You’ve been here a week and haven’t slept here?”
Jason shrugged. “Sleep is highly overrated. Woke up one morning behind the bar you found me in. Had a hell of a headache.”
Carlene smiled. “Figures. I caught your act on TV.” She drew open the drapes. The lights of the city stretched out as far as she could see. “It’s beautiful.”
“From this distance,” Jason said putting two tiny bottles of Jim Beam on the table. He cracked the caps on both of them and retrieved two glasses from the mini-bar, filled them with ice and handed her one. “Gets kind of ugly in some parts.”
“I know why you were late getting here,” Carlene said.
“You don’t know Jack.”
“May 18th was the day your dad died, and it’s also your birthday.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Fine. You want to wallow in self pity that’s up to you.”
Jason watched Carlene twirling the ice in the glass with her finger.
“I’m not wallowing. You don’t understand.”
“You want me to believe that. Where I found you wasn’t my idea of—”
“Have a seat,” Jason interrupted. “What was so important that you had to come and rescue me?”
She poured the whisky from the tiny bottle letting it trickle down through the ice. “Bainbridge died last week of a heart attack.”
Jason pulled out a chair and plopped down. “You already told me that.”
“Look, I promised Bainbridge I’d talk to you. You’re a grown man you can do what you want. Sanders paid for my ticket and asked me to get you to come home.” She pushed her chair back and stood up.
“Just a minute,” Jason said grabbing her arm. “I didn’t like Bainbridge. Okay. I don’t like Sanders either.”
“The way I hear it you don’t care much for anybody.”
“What good does it do?”
“Well, Bainbridge obviously thought a lot more of you.”
“I doubt it.”
“He left something to you in his will. The reading’s on Monday. I promised him I’d do my best to get you. He said it was important.”
“If my memory serves me, Bainbridge has a son.”
“Greg Bainbridge. He was easier to find and a lot more cooperative.”
“Why me?” Jason asked. “The last time I talked to him I was doing your job.”
“Are you coming back or not?”
“I hate funerals.”
“He was cremated.”
“As long as you don’t ask me to spread the ashes?”
USGS Regional Headquarters, Menlo Park California
Peter Frank closed the door to Sanders office. “You better be right or all of us will have our asses boiled in oil.”
“Bainbridge was an old man. His sense of the real world left when he went back to teaching and then you hired him in Yellowstone,” Sanders said. He was looking out the window of his office at the rush hour traffic creeping by. He noticed the same white van parked on the side street. It had been there for a week.
“I never got to know him well,” Frank said. “He talked in a different language. We need a replacement, that Carlson girl he had helping him doesn’t have any experience.” He chuckled, “Though she called this morning and said she found Trask. You were right to suggest she go after him. Anything I should know about geologic activity at the park?”
Sanders picked up a silver cigarette case from his desk and offered one to Frank, who declined. Sanders lit up and exhaled a smoke ring. “Damned law says you can’t smoke in your own friggin’ office. So far I’ve eluded the smoking police.” He looked up at the smoke detector hanging down from the ceiling and let out a rolling chuckle. “Have you thought about my suggestion?”
Frank put his hands on Sanders’ desk and leaned forward. He was much taller than Sanders, but about the same weight. “I’m a little worried about offering the job to Trask.”
“Fine, I’ll loan him to you until you find a suitable replacement. It’ll take him some time to get up to speed. By then the excitement will all be over. Otherwise I’m going to fire him.”
“I hope you’re right about the activity. We’ve got a record-breaking year for attendance coming up. All the hotels and cabins are booked solid through Labor Day.”
“You won’t have anything to worry about with Trask. When he sees the system is just doing a little extra venting he’ll support your decision to keep the doors open.”
“If he’s so damned good, why are you getting rid of him?” Frank asked suspiciously.
“The insubordinate bastard told me to shove the job up my ass.” He smiled. “I’ll get rid of him on my terms. He won’t know what hit him.”
Frank held out his hand. “It’s settled then. You loan me Trask for the tourist season on your budget and you can do whatever you want after that.”
They shook hands and Peter Frank walked out of Sanders’ office feeling he got the better of the deal. Without Bainbridge or a replacement on the budget he’d show a surplus this year. That might get him a raise next year.
Jakarta International Airport
The Airbus 330-300 was packed. Jason scanned the cabin as they entered and squeezed into a center seat in economy class. Carlene nestled in beside him on his left; a man and woman were seated on his right. There was something about packed airplanes he didn’t like. In all the years he’d flown he’d never felt comfortable in a crowded plane. When he’d purchased his ticket all except one of the 292 seats in economy class were sold and no business class seats were availab
le. He had tried to use his frequent flier miles and upgrade, but it was no use. He was stuck in economy class. He scooted around trying to find room for his knees that were pressing up against the back of the seat in front of him. “That’s what I get for flying on such short notice,” he complained.
“I suppose a man of your importance usually travels first class,” Carlene said sarcastically.
“Less crowded and free drinks,” Jason said. He slipped his hand under her bottom.
“What are you doing?” She glared at him slapping his hand away.
“Fishing for the other half of my seatbelt. You didn’t think ...” He grinned. “You wish.”
Carlene pulled the seatbelt out from under her and flipped it across his leg. “Keep your hands to yourself, thank you.”
“Looks like a full flight,” Jason said wanting to change the subject.
“Just be thankful they let you on the plane with only three hours notice.”
Jason stretched out as far as he could in the upright seat, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. “I’m going to cop a few zees.” He listened to the distinctive whine of the Rolls Royce Trent 700 turbofan engines wind up for takeoff. In an instant he was softly snoring.
Carlene had not slept well the night before. She was thankful that Jason was wrong about the cockroaches. Growing up on a ranch you were exposed to a lot of dirty animals, but cockroaches ranked up there with scorpions and rattlesnakes as far as she was concerned. Besides the Jakarta Sands may not have been as fancy as Jason’s hotel, but it was better than anything they had in her home town. She heard Jason snort and wondered how he could fall asleep so fast. He was a complex man with a lot of baggage. She was surprised she’d never heard of him. Bainbridge had never mentioned him before, but he knew where he was. Why would the volcanologist at Yellowstone know precisely where a USGS volcanologist was? She had a lot of questions, like why it was so important to bring Jason back? Peter Frank had agreed she could go. She felt like there were things nobody was telling her. Jason stirred and jostled her arm. She looked at him. He had cleaned up nice and had a peaceful, almost childlike, innocent look on his face. Cool it, she cautioned herself. This guy is trouble with a capital T.
