The doctor shook his head in frustration. Then he spoke, contradicting his gesture.
“Yes, stomach flu. You’ll be fine, Mr. Trent. You had a norovirus, we suspect, and dehydration.”
“And?” Jake paused and reconsidered his tone. “I’m not trying to cause any problems. I just need to go home. I have a friend who needs me.”
“You are free to go. Stay hydrated and take it easy.”
“Is that all?”
“You were hospitalized because your symptoms were so severe that the general practitioner was concerned. You’re in the clear now; the virus has run its course.”
“And my roommate?”
“I’m sorry?” The doctor looked up from his pad.
“The other person in the room with me. Norovirus too?”
“Yes. He’ll be fine. There are many strains of norovirus, and they are always changing. Evolving. This one was formidable. Possibly a new strain. They come from all over and spread like wildfire.”
“Is it a concern?”
“Probably not. You came through it fine.”
Jake nodded, being careful not to wobble on his feet.
* * *
On the cab ride from the hospital to DFW, Jake arranged for a flight to Jackson. He explained his illness to the agent, who with some cajoling made an exception to the fare-change fee. Then he phoned J.P.
“Where the hell have you been?” It was afternoon, but it sounded as if J.P. had just woken up.
“I got sick on the way home. Had to stop for a night. I’m on my way.”
J.P.’s tenor changed to sympathetic. “Oh. Got ya. I get nervous on flights if I don’t hit the airport bar first.”
Jake let it slide. “Right. Anyway, I get in at 5:45. Can you be there?”
“No worries.”
Jake ended the call.
At the airport, Jake checked in and found the gate. He sat down and finally made the call he was dreading.
“Human Rights and Special Prosecutions.” The Office had changed its name, but Jake recognized the voice.
* * *
In the main house of the Fin and Feather, J.P. was brewing coffee. There were no guests, which allowed J.P. free rein, but also made him lonely. And gave him time to obsess about Esma.
He fed Chayote, who’d been waiting by the food cabinet, probably since J.P. went to bed. When the coffee was done, he poured himself an oversize cup and walked over to the brown leather couch in the great room. To his right was the breakfast area, unused since the last guests in late September.
Through the big wood-framed picture window, J.P. could see out across Trout Run to the expansive ranch that bordered the far side. He felt lost. Looking for Esma was like looking for a needle in a haystack.
Worse yet, he had no clue where to start without Jake.
He dragged out the laptop from the office and sat watching TV and reading through old emails from her, more to reminisce than to find a trace of her.
When he clicked on his own user name to sign out, he noticed it.
No way.
There, between his own name and Jake’s, was Esma’s email account. He clicked on her name. The password must have been saved, because a moment later J.P. was looking at her inbox.
* * *
Jake had paused too long.
“Identification number, please? Hello? You must have the wrong number.”
Here we go.
“Nancy, it’s Jake Trent.” He was surprised to hear her voice, what with all the moaning she used to do about the Office. She’d stuck it out anyway. Her happiness was a sacrifice to superior government benefits and job security.
“Jake? How are you? Are you back in? What’s your project ID number?” Enthusiastic, for her, but still a tinge of annoyance in her voice, like it was all so inconvenient. She preferred to talk about her children rather than her work.
“No, not back in. No ID number. I just need some help.” Nancy was a ballbuster, but she liked Jake a lot more than she liked most guys at the Office. Over the intercom, the woman at the gate announced boarding for first class and premier members. Jake glanced at his boarding pass.
Boarding Group five. That’s what $935 gets you.
“You know there’s no way I can direct you without that number, Jake. Surely you remember.”
“I do. And I’m sorry to ask this of you, but I need you to put me through to Schue without an ID. And before I forget, how are the kids?”
“All grown now. Do you believe it? And Ralph’s wife is pregnant.”
“Congrats.” Jake couldn’t honestly say he remembered which one Ralph was.
The phone went silent for a second.
“Now boarding Group One, please.” The well-dressed passengers were all but boarded now, leaving a ragtag group in their seats.
“Well, anyway, no harm in running into his office and see if he’ll take the call. What should I tell him it’s about?”
“Just remind him of California.”
“Okay.”
The phone clicked back on.
“What the fuck, Jake? You can’t just throw around ‘California’! Unlike you, I still wanna work here.” He was half-kidding.
Same old Schue.
“Figured it would get your attention.”
“Whaddya want?” It was getting late in the day on the East Coast, almost after business hours.
“I need to locate a mobile. GPS if you can. Otherwise multilateration.”
“Fuck. Does the phone even have GPS?”
“I don’t know.”
“Gonna take a few hours. Gimme the number.”
“Thanks.” Jake read the number to Schue, made small talk for a short moment, and hung up.
When boarding for Group Five was called, he headed to the gate. He finished his large bottle of water and took another one out of his pack as he headed down the Jetway.
* * *
J.P. searched through Esma’s sent mail and found what he was looking for: an email back home to her mother. He copied the text and ran it through an online translator to English.
It had been sent from her phone four days earlier.
Mamá,
I am on my way out of New Mexico and toward Wyoming. I am sorry for leaving so abruptly. I will call when I get there.
Love,
Esma
The email meant she was somewhere in the States, and it meant she had indeed come back to see him. At least she hadn’t been kidnapped by a cartel. What was disturbing was that she had never made it north to Jackson. And four days was plenty of time.
J.P. pulled up a map online. He magnified the Rocky Mountain West—in particular, the corridor between New Mexico and Wyoming. He hoped to see something, anything, that might give him a lead. Instead, the map only frustrated him, emphasizing the wide expanse of the region.
He looked at his watch. He was antsy to go pick up Jake. It was 3:30. He would just have to wait.
* * *
Jake had eaten at DFW, and the food digested well. Now, a mere four-hundred-some miles and he’d be back home. It would be a relief to be back, but the Esma issue was weighing heavily on him. He hoped her phone had functioning GPS, which would make Schue’s job a lot easier.
Multilateration worked, but it would reveal only the general area of the phone. The technology relied on the fact that cell phones constantly check in with multiple cellular towers in the given area. By looking at the relative strength of those signals, it was possible to deduce the rough location of the phone. There was a catch, however: the phone would also have to be turned on and have service. If it was too far away to connect with any tower, there was no hope. But if Schue was successful, it would give Jake and J.P. a starting point.
The high plains surrounding Denver and southern Wyoming gave way to
the towering alpine peaks of the Wind River Range. The sun hung on the western horizon. Jake watched the scenery for the last hundred miles or so into Jackson. There was a dusting of new snow at higher elevations.
As the plane banked hard to approach from the north, the town of Jackson came into view above Snow King, the town’s ski hill. The plane bounced hard as it landed because of the short approach and small runway. Its rapid deceleration didn’t affect Jake’s stomach much. He was feeling almost 100 percent. As the plane taxied, he texted J.P. He looked for a message or missed call from Schue, but there was none.
The ski lodge–esque airport was tiny. Two baggage claims, though there were plans for more. More space for ever more visitors. October wasn’t tourist season, so the building would be quiet today. Mostly families waiting to greet kids, brothers, or spouses. The “shoulder seasons” were when the locals traveled.
Jake descended the stairs out of the plane and onto the tarmac. There was a cold breeze, but the arid mountain air felt refreshing. It blew through his clothes, taking the swampiness of travel and overcrowded spaces away from him.
He set his backpack down and fished out his old Costa Del Mar Peninsula sunglasses. The Fin and Feather was a dozen miles to the west, and the setting sun was still bright above the Tetons.
After taking a long look at the Tetons, Jake followed the delineated path toward the terminal. Various animal tracks were painted on the tarmac trail: moose, bear, and wolf—a dash of whimsy for the children.
J.P. was waiting just sixty feet inside the entrance, as close as you could get. Jake smiled at him and gave him a nod. J.P. just stared back. He was nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot.
When Jake approached, he roughly took the backpack from him, eager to get going.
“Did you check a bag?”
“Probably already delivered to the Fin and Feather.” This was one luxury of a small town.
“Perfect.”
J.P. hurried out the front entrance, and Jake followed. J.P. had left his rusty old Ford pickup in the drop-off lane. Airport security was writing him a ticket, and upon seeing J. P., began berating him.
“You can’t leave your vehicle here unattended, J.P. See the signs? What the hell? This isn’t the brew pub; you have to respect me at work. It’s a matter of national security.”
“Fuck off, Mike, it’s an emergency. You’re a secret agent now? You Instagram pictures of your weed stash, you dumbass.”
“Take the damned ticket.” Mike looked around nervously.
“You stoner!” J.P. was shouting to make a scene.
“All right. Calm down.” Jake walked up to the front of the truck and took the ticket. That made two in three days.
“Thanks, Jake,” Mike said. “He can be a real ass.”
Jake disagreed with that on principle, but didn’t want to cause any more trouble.
“Sorry.”
Jake climbed in, and J.P. pulled into the stream of taxi traffic by holding his left hand out of the window and signaling the taxi drivers to stop. They honked.
J.P. frantically recited the details about Esma as soon as they were moving. He explained the email he had read a few hours before.
“I knew she didn’t ditch me, man—what we have is real. It’s love. I’ve got to find her, Jake. I have a bad feeling about this.”
“I’m on it. And it’s probably nothing. Hopefully we will have some answers soon.” Jake explained how he was trying to track the cell phone. J.P. seemed amazed by the technology.
“You never disappoint,” he said.
They passed a sign: THANKS FOR VISITING GRAND TETON NATIONAL PARK. Jake thought of Noelle.
“I wish that were true.”
15
TRAM VILLAGE, CHINA. OCTOBER 21.
8 A.M. BEIJING TIME.
The alarm buzzed and Terrell startled awake. It was 8 a.m. The night before, the chief and his wife had been treated to an elaborate feast. The chefs prepared buffalo rib eye, elk chops, and Colorado lamb, along with a myriad of traditional Chinese dishes: pickled cabbage called Suan Cai, Mongolian Hot Pot, and steamed buns. Terrell didn’t care for the steamed buns, but his wife indulged.
Today was the day they would finally meet Xiao, at the ornate palace the owner called his ranch. More ceremony and more public speaking. More attention. Things Terrell didn’t like.
He checked around the room for Charlotte, who was nowhere to been seen. Judging by her excitement during the first two days of the trip, he deduced that she was out sightseeing. He looked out across the way toward the white buffalo on wheels. The streets were empty, and smog had blown in from the city overnight.
Looking at the itinerary, Terrell decided the day ahead didn’t look so bad. Meet in the lobby at 9 a.m. Walk down Main Street to breakfast and to meet Xiao. That was it. Seemed easy enough. Bullet had promised Terrell the night before that there wouldn’t be any press this time. Nice and low-key.
After the meeting, Charlotte and Terrell would have some free time for lunch and exploring, and then their final dinner. He couldn’t wait to get home, though he wasn’t looking forward to the long flight or the mystery wolf carcass that was waiting for him.
Terrell grabbed the remote, which sat in a classy elk-tine holder, and clicked on the TV. The room was indeed very nice. Grand, as they had told him. He could get used to this level of luxury.
But would it kill them to add some American channels? The chief was a big fan of Ax Men on the History Channel.
He continued to flip through. Wacky game shows and news in a language he couldn’t understand.
Great.
He phoned the front desk. The attractive woman answered; he recognized her silky tempo.
“Everything okay, Mr. Terrell?”
“Fine. I am just wondering if there is American news on the television.”
“Of course, sir. My apologies, but no, not on the TV. Your best bet is to stream it from the business center.”
“Stream?” He paused. “Oh, right. Thank you.” He hung up.
Stream? The chief felt embarrassed. He knew basically what it meant—he did have teenaged children. But it dumbfounded him that a word he would never feel comfortable enough to use in normal conversation was commonplace for someone who spoke English as a second language.
He cycled through the channels again. Nothing. He looked at the remote to try to figure out how to turn on English closed captioning, but it was far too advanced. Too many buttons.
Fucking technology.
The chief hopped out of bed, brushed his teeth, and put his contacts in. Then he threw on a gray button-down with fake pearl buttons, jeans, and his turquoise and silver bolo tie. He took the stairs instead of the elevator. He felt out of shape from all the enormous meals he’d been served over the last couple of days.
Passing the front desk to get to the business center, he could manage only a sheepish smile at the beautiful front-desk agent.
Terrell had no intentions of streaming anything. Text news would do.
Finding nothing to steal his attention, he signed onto the police department’s email server. There was plenty of spam, and a single email from Layle, his deputy.
Rog,
Wolf carcass is in the big fridge at game and fish. No leads and nothing suspicious, so we’re just waiting for your approval to incinerate.
—Layle
Terrell responded, asking Layle to leave the carcass on ice for a day or two longer, in case any tips came in.
Charlotte was in the room straightening her hair when Terrell got back. She immediately noticed his pale demeanor.
“There you are. Everything okay?”
“Fine. Just tired. Still jet-lagged.”
“We’ve got a few minutes, you know.” She dropped her robe, revealing her slim body, which, Terrell had to admit, was remarkabl
y similar to its twentysomething version. She was a Nordic skier and a professional nutritionist, and it showed.
Terrell pondered her a moment, then bent and picked up her robe. He held it out and looked to the side. She huffed and grabbed it.
“I’m just exhausted, honey. Maybe coming down with something.”
“It’s fine.” Her tone betrayed her.
Doesn’t sound like it.
He lay down on the bed, thinking, while his wife continued to get ready for the day.
They headed down to the lobby a few minutes early. Neither was in a great mood now. Bullet was there to greet them, as enthusiastic as he’d been when he first picked them up. With him were two large and athletic Chinese men, whom Bullet didn’t introduce.
Outside, Bullet filled the silence between the chief and his wife. The smog was starting to blow off with a north wind. “Weather is beautiful. We call this Golden October in China. Earlier in the month we celebrate National Day. By next year, Tram Village will be ready to have its own event.”
As they walked down the main drag, Bullet pointed out the resort’s attractions: a working replica of Jackson’s Million Dollar Cowboy Bar, a “Cowboy Stage” for shoot-outs and country music, a gold-panning area for children, and a corral for small animals.
For the first time since their arrival in China, Charlotte was quiet. Not taking pictures. Terrell tried to hold her hand, but she pulled away. No visitors were in the village; the resort had just opened, and only a few of the lodge’s weekend homes behind the main strip had been sold. The only people present were construction workers, busy putting the final touches on the façades, and a few maintenance men who were sprinkling the imported dust with water so it didn’t blow away in the wind.
As they came to a stop outside an imitation clapboard saloon, Bullet spoke again. “Best breakfast in the West!”
Charlotte giggled politely and Terrell forced a smile.
“Xiao is running late, I am afraid. My colleagues here will take you on tour of the restaurant in the meantime.” Bullet excused himself and walked back toward the hotel, still without introducing the two men.
Charlotte spoke slowly and loudly to their new hosts. “He-LLOOO. NICE TO MEET YOU.”
River of No Return : A Jake Trent Novel (9781451698053) Page 8
