No Return

by Brett Battles

  The third page, as far as he could tell, had nothing to do with Adair at all. It concerned something known as Project Pastiche.

  PROJECT PASTICHE

  Project Pastiche is based at the Pentagon. All inquires concerning the project should be made through Admiral Nolan Barker in Naval Operations. All further information is classified.

  PP-214

  The only other information was an initiation date of two years previous. Why Lars had thought it was important was lost on Wes.

  He started to set the page down, then stopped and looked at it again.

  PP-214.

  He picked up the personnel sheet, then looked at the list of Adair’s previous postings. There it was at the bottom. Adair’s very first posting: PP-214.

  Did that mean Adair had been part of Project Pastiche?

  He looked back at the project sheet, specifically at the initiation date, and frowned. The dates didn’t line up. Adair’s service in PP-214 was listed as occurring prior to when Project Pastiche had been in existence.

  Maybe the designation was used for more than one thing? That didn’t sound very organized, and if the Navy was one thing, it was organized.

  Not sure how the pieces fit together, he put the pages to the side and took a look at the last sheet. On it were two lists.

  PP-214 Personnel

  Barker, Nolan Admiral

  Lorang, Kyle Commander Operations

  Butler, Thomas Lieutenant Computer Technician

  Karner, Kenneth Lieutenant Computer Technician

  West, Thomas Lieutenant Computer Technician

  PP-214 Pool 7B

  Lemon, Theodore Lieutenant Complete

  Faith, Brian assign Available

  Briley, Donnel Lieutenant Complete

  Adair, Lawrence Lieutenant Complete

  Bruce, Cameron assign Available

  So Adair was tied to Project Pastiche. But what did “Pool 7B” mean? And how were those in it different from those listed under “Personnel”?

  As Wes was trying to make sense of everything, his gaze strayed over to the papers he’d already examined. Something on the second sheet caught Wes’s attention. It was near the top. A short, almost invisible crease.

  No, not quite a crease.

  He flipped the page over. On the back was a word written in blue ink. With everything that had happened, Wes had forgotten Lars had taken the sheet back and written something on it. He had said it was “the key.”

  The word was “Jamieson.” It meant nothing to Wes. Sure, it was a name. But was it a first or last? Or even the name of a place? Perhaps it was a project designation.

  Whatever the case, it was just one more piece of the puzzle, and try as Wes might, there wasn’t enough in any of the papers for him to get a grasp of what it all meant.

  He needed a computer, but not just any computer. It had to be one that wouldn’t bring Commander Forman straight to him while he was using it.

  Unless …

  He stared out the window, thinking for a moment, then nodded to himself.

  Casey.

  He started to grab his cellphone, then stopped. After Lars’s paranoia the night before had proven justified, Wes didn’t know if he could trust his phone to make the call. What he needed was a landline no one could tie him to.

  It only took him a couple seconds to come up with a solution for that, too.

  THE MAN IN THE SEDAN WAS ALREADY EXITING the Desert Rose parking lot when he saw Stewart race out ahead of him on his motorcycle. The watcher didn’t let that stop him, though. He had things to do, and Stewart wasn’t his concern for the moment. Still, he kept his pace slow so that he wasn’t accidentally spotted.

  He was surprised when Stewart made the same turn off China Lake Boulevard he needed to make, but decided not to change his plans, so he made the turn, too.

  It was when Stewart increased his speed and took a sudden turn to the left that the man realized that Stewart had indeed seen him. It was an annoyance more than a problem. The distance between them was too great for Stewart to have seen the man’s face.

  Laughing as he passed the street Stewart had disappeared on, the man continued on his way west, beyond the city limits. When he reached the familiar dirt road, he turned left, automatically slowing to a near crawl to keep the washboard surface from rattling his car into a pile of useless scrap.

  The lots in this area were each two and a half acres, though many had been joined together to create five-acre desert kingdoms. The driveway the man turned down led onto one of these larger parcels.

  Near the rear of the property was a light gray one-story house. It hadn’t always been that color. When the man had painted it twenty-five years earlier, it had been light blue, but the desert sun had burned most of the tint out. He could have repainted it, but that would have been too much work for a place he seldom visited anymore.

  He swung the sedan around, then backed it up so that the trailer hitch on the rear was only a few feet from the empty horse trailer parked underneath the attached carport. When the time came, it would only take him a couple minutes to hook them together.

  Once inside, he headed straight for the kitchen, pulled a bottle of Gatorade out of the ancient refrigerator, then made his way to the bedroom that had once been his as a child.

  On the floor was the duffel bag containing his clothes. He changed shirts, then glanced at the uncomfortable blow-up mattress in the corner. He was tired, sure, but not quite that tired yet. God, he couldn’t wait until he was back in his cozy bed at home, his wife beside him. But there was work still to be done, so that little pleasure would have to wait.

  Standing, he stretched, then walked back to the master suite. This had been his parents’ room when they’d still been alive, but they wouldn’t have recognized it now. All their 1950s-era furniture was gone, replaced by stacks of banker boxes full of newspapers and bills and files containing God knew what—all stuff his wife didn’t want to get rid of but also didn’t want at their house.

  He turned on the light. Recently he’d covered the windows with plywood sheeting, creating a dark, cavelike atmosphere. He kind of liked it, and thought he’d probably end up leaving them in place when he was done.

  The woman was exactly where he’d left her, lying on the small air mattress in the center of the room. Her wrists and ankles were still tied, but there was no chance she was going anywhere. The intravenous drip hooked to her right arm, 0.5 percent Beta-Somnol in saline, took care of that. She was in dreamland, and would be until he decided otherwise.

  He’d been surprised at how easy getting her into his car at the motel had been.

  “Miss Mendes?” he had said after she’d answered the knock on the door to Stewart’s room.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Detective Thompson. I understand you’re a friend of Wesley Stewart?”

  “Yes,” she said. The concern on her face was both sudden and predictable. “Is something wrong?”

  The man had hesitated just enough to sell the lie. “There’s been an accident.”

  “An accident? Is Wes all right?”

  “I’m afraid he’s going into surgery. But before they put him under, he asked for you. I was sent here to drive you over.”

  “Yes. Yes, please.” She moved back into the room, slipped on her shoes, then grabbed a purse off the dresser and joined him outside.

  “I should let Dione know,” she said. “Our boss.”

  “Do you just want to call her from the hospital once you know a little more?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. Good idea. I’ll do that.”

  He stuck the needle in her leg before he even started the car, and she was out a few seconds later. No scream, no fuss. The only physical work he’d had to undertake was carrying her into his parents’ place once they got there.

  The man checked her pulse, then turned off the light and closed the door.

  Now he could take that nap.

  WES DROVE ACROSS TOWN, WORKING HIS WAY through ne
ighborhoods he hadn’t visited since he was a teenager, avoiding the main drags completely. Twice he turned down side streets when sedans pulled onto the road behind him. And twice he watched the sedans drive by without a glance in his direction.

  Nerves on edge, he continued toward Downs Avenue. As he got closer his thoughts turned from worrying about being followed to worrying that the pay phone he was heading toward might not be there any longer. They were a dying breed, after all.

  As he turned into the 7-Eleven at the corner of Downs and Inyokern Road, he allowed himself a small grin in relief. It was still there, right where he remembered it, next to a waist-high concrete wall that lined the edge of the parking lot.

  He parked the bike so that it was facing outward, ready to move, then picked up the phone, deposited some change, and dialed his friend’s number.

  “Hello?” Casey said.

  “It’s Wes.”

  “If you’re calling about that picture, I haven’t been able to find any information yet.”

  Wes had forgotten he’d sent his friend the picture he’d found on the Web.

  “Not the picture. Something else I need you to check on.”

  “I’m just about to head out to lunch. Whatever it is, I’ll help you when I—”

  “I’m in trouble,” Wes said quickly.

  There was dead air for a moment. “What kind of trouble?”

  “Bad trouble.”

  “Hold on.”

  There was a click, and a prerecorded promo for the Quest Network’s “Strange History Week” let Wes know he was on hold. Thirty seconds later, another click and Casey was back.

  “Judy just went to lunch,” he said. “More privacy in her office. Now, what do you mean you’re in trouble?”

  Wes quickly told his friend what had been going on.

  “A cover-up?” Casey said.

  “That’s what I think.”

  “And they’ve taken Anna and this Tony guy?” His tone bespoke his disbelief.

  “I know, it sounds nuts. But I don’t see any other explanation. The police are investigating, but I highly doubt they’re going to find them. And even if I tell them all this, they won’t listen to me. I need more proof. Something that will force them to believe me.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “You ready to take some notes?” Wes asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  CASEY TOLD WES TO GIVE HIM THIRTY MINUTES and he’d call back. Wes moved into the shade in front of the store, but still close enough to hear the phone if it rang.

  He knew this was all his fault. Nothing would have happened at all if he’d just stayed in L.A. His dad had told him not to come back. Had insisted, actually. And for seventeen years Wes had stayed away.

  He ran a hand through his hair, the desert breeze blowing around him. Then, like now … if he’d only walked away.

  Sometimes the right thing isn’t the easy thing. His father’s voice, often silent, but always there.

  Gee, thanks, Dad.

  But the voice was right. He could never have walked away. Not now, and certainly not then.

  WES PARKED THE VAN ALONG THE SIDE OF THE dirt road where all the other cars had parked, then he, Lars, and Mandy piled out.

  In the distance, they could hear music. U2, “Even Better Than the Real Thing.”

  They’d gone only a dozen feet when Wes looked back at Lars. “Beer?”

  His friend cringed, then ran back to the van and retrieved the six-pack he’d left on the floor.

  As they reached the head of the trail leading to the Rocks, Michael Dillman stepped out of the shadows and blocked their way. “Evening, children. This is a party for grown-ups tonight. You bring any beer?”

  Dillman was huge for a high school kid, at least six foot four, and had to be over two hundred and fifty pounds. All of which made him the perfect defensive lineman for the high school football team. It also made him the perfect candidate for party enforcer.

  Lars held up the six-pack of Budweiser he’d liberated from his father’s refrigerator.

  “Cool,” Dillman said, his whole body nodding with his head. “Have fun.”

  Wes, Lars, and Mandy walked past the human roadblock and started up the path.

  Growing up in the desert had some very distinct advantages. The first, and maybe the most important, was that with all that space, a teenager could get into and out of trouble without anyone in authority ever knowing about it: off-roading, hiking, and, of course, partying.

  There were a lot of places in the hills outside of Ridgecrest where the high school kids could party. Wagon Wheel, the Ravine, the Wash, and the Drama Rocks—the last the location of the party that night. The Drama Rocks got its name because it’d first been “discovered” by members of the high school drama club back in the 1970s. In the years after, its use had grown to encompass a larger cross section of the school, but the name had stuck.

  The Rocks were located high in the hills southeast of town. To one side you could see the faint glow of lights from Ridgecrest and China Lake, and to the other the Trona Pinnacles on Searles Lake.

  The main feature of the Rocks was a massive, teardrop-shaped boulder that had been sheered away on one side, creating the perfect windbreak for a bonfire. Even better, it was positioned so that it was impossible for anyone—law enforcement, parents—on the distant highway to see the flames.

  Around this there were other rocks, thousands of them. Some piled on top of one another, creating little alcoves where those looking for a little one-on-one time could find some privacy. Others jutted outward, creating unseen drop-offs of ten or twenty or even thirty feet. More than one drunken teenager had taken a wrong step and found themselves with a broken leg or dislocated shoulder. But no matter what happened up there, no one ever gave away its location. It was a sanctuary that remained known only to those who needed the freedom it represented.

  While Wes and Lars were more experienced with the Rocks than Mandy, it wasn’t by much. On their first visit they’d left after only an hour when they got bored waiting for anyone they knew to show up. Their second trip up had actually been during the day, when no one else was around. They’d wanted to see what it looked like in the sunlight, but had been disappointed by all the garbage and graffiti created by decades of drunken teenagers. They’d ended up enjoying the hike they’d taken in the area around the Rocks more, finding a couple of abandoned mines cut into the side of the hills and a few rusted soup cans that must have been over fifty years old. They had kept the cans, but had avoided going into the mines because often not very far inside there were deep holes dug straight down through the floor that were hard to see before you were already stepping into them.

  This party was their third trip.

  But since Mandy was a Rocks virgin, everything was new and exciting to her. She found out about the party from her older sister, who offered to act as guide, but had gotten sick the day before and couldn’t go. Mandy had then begged Wes and Lars to come with her instead.

  Music wafted down the path—R.E.M., Springsteen, Nirvana—growing louder and louder the closer they got. They passed a group of stoners who were laughing at some unknown joke and sharing a joint, and three guys Wes recognized from history class, drinking beer and throwing rocks at the stars.

  “Slow down a little,” Lars said. He’d fallen behind, already winded.

  “Come on, Pudge,” Wes said, channeling his father. “Pick it up.”

  “Don’t call me that!”

  A few moments later a voice off to the side said, “What are you looking at?”

  Wes turned and saw two people tucked into a nook. It was too dark there to see their faces, but he could tell one was a girl, her shirt opened to her waist.

  “Nothing,” Lars said quickly.

  “Pervert,” she sneered, then turned back to her friend.

  Lars double-timed it up to Wes and Anna. “Well, this should be fun.”

  The path narrowed, forcing them to shuffle through si
ngle file. Then the miniature canyon opened onto the clearing. At the far end, flames shot upward against the backdrop of the tear-shaped boulder. Surrounding the bonfire on the remaining three sides had to be over a hundred teenagers—drinking and laughing and talking, and some even dancing to the blaring music.

  “There’s more people here than I thought there’d be,” Mandy said.

  “Definitely bigger than the last party we were at,” Lars said.

  They stood where they were for a moment, suddenly intimidated.

  “Come on,” Wes finally said, taking a step forward.

  As they neared the fire a voice called out, “Wes Stewart?”

  A tall, thin teenager pulled himself out of the crowd at the flames. In his hand was a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

  “Hey, Dodson,” Wes said.

  Slightly unstable, Gary Dodson negotiated his way over to them. “Never thought I’d see you at one of these.”

  “It’s not my first time,” Wes said defensively.

  Gary thrust the bottle of Jack forward. “Drink?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Gary offered it to Lars and Mandy; both declined.

  “Ain’t no fun if you’re going to stand around sober all night,” he said.

  Lars held up the six-pack of beer. “Not planning on it.”

  Gary laughed. “Splitting that between the three of you, you won’t even get buzzed.” He stumbled off, chuckling to himself.

  They soon found themselves standing near the fire, each holding a beer. Occasionally a partygoer would fall down, but since it was relatively early, most were still sober enough to get back up again.

  Two beers and a few boring hours later, Wes walked out into the desert to relieve himself. As he was heading back to the fire, Carly Jones, a girl from his journalism class, cornered him. “Have a joint?”