by Diane Capri
The sketchy data was a challenge, not an impenetrable wall.
Every complicated heir hunting job started with seemingly insurmountable obstacles. What he needed was a single thread that he could use to pull the secrets apart. In this case, Felix Crane was the obvious first thread to jerk because he’d said, “I knew your mother.”
Flint used what he knew about Crane to find a way inside his bio mom’s life.
Crane had been a man of the world. He had traveled extensively and, of course, many women had passed through Texas back then. All of which meant that Flint’s mother could have been anyone and he could have been conceived anywhere and he might have been born anywhere, too.
An average heir hunter would have stopped there, declaring the search too overwhelmingly huge. That’s when they’d call Flint. After the others had failed.
He’d begun by looking for Crane’s whereabouts during the relevant year. That’s when he got lucky. According to his tax returns, Crane had lived that year in the West Texas town where he’d been born, Mount Warren. If Crane actually had known Flint’s mother, and if she’d told Bette Maxwell the truth about living in West Texas, they could have crossed paths there.
The first file his source provided was the result of her deep dive on public records that left no room for error. He scanned the file quickly.
Birth records for local hospitals near Mount Warren reported ten live births, and half were female. The five males were easily traced. She had checked them all. None of those five boys grew up to be Michael Flint.
She had found twenty reported miscarriages and stillbirths as well. Doctors sometimes fudged the records at the mother’s request to cover up the birth of an unwanted child. That didn’t happen here. All the mothers were easily traced and none were likely to be Flint’s mother. Nor was Felix Crane listed as the father or next of kin on any of these records.
She had narrowed the options to three. He might have been born in a hospital outside of Mount Warren. Or, he was not born in a hospital at all, but a legal birth record was created. The third option was that no birth certificate existed.
Flint’s original birth certificate had never been located, and the amended one he carried was contained in the official records. He had used it to acquire his social security number and his passport. It passed muster with Uncle Sam. But it wasn’t good enough for his purposes now.
Final conclusion? Obligatory record search completed. Results negative, she said.
He nodded his approval. He hadn’t expected her to find any answers in the official records. He’d have found those himself, if they existed. The point of the exercise had been to rule out all of the alternatives and move to the next level.
Flint refilled his Scotch before he opened the second file, labeled “Mother’s Name.”
The total list of women of childbearing age in Mount Warren back then was the starting point.
His source had eliminated females under the age of twelve and over the age of fifty-five, which isolated more than a thousand names.
He closed his eyes and steepled his fingers. He conjured an image of Felix Crane in his mind and thought about what kind of woman the dashing young wildcatter might have felt something for back then. When he found his bio mom, would she resemble the image he’d conjured? Only one way to find out.
By all accounts, Crane had been something of a ladies’ man in his youth, his source said. She guessed that he’d have been attracted to women younger than himself. She reduced her search to women over sixteen and under thirty years old.
Flint approved. If the woman who dropped her baby off at the Lazy M had been a schoolteacher, under Texas state law, she had to be a college graduate.
The list was narrowed to women between twenty-one and thirty.
She’d sorted by occupation. The sorted list contained three hundred names, mostly housewives. Fifty-three listed their occupation as teachers.
The number surprised him. It must have puzzled his source, too. The population of Mount Warren didn’t seem large enough to require fifty-three teachers. The place must have been crowded with big families.
To verify her list, she had located one high school, one junior high school, and ten elementary schools in Mount Warren.
After that, she’d pulled up the faculty rosters and matched them to the list of fifty-three teachers. By the time she’d finished, she had produced a list of ten women who could have been his mother or, at least, might have known his mother.
Flint grinned. He’d trained her to use his methods well. She’d almost begun to think exactly like he did. He felt a little proud of her.
Next in the file was a comparison of those ten women who might have been or might have known Flint’s mother, matched to their driver’s license data, including ten drivers’ license photos.
He clicked over to the next screen. He stared at the photo array.
None of the photos sent chills through his spine or anything corny like that. He’d looked at similar photo groups for clients dozens of times. They were just faces. Nothing more. So far.
He leaned forward and studied the ten images on the screen for a bit before he checked her list of death records. Two of the ten were deceased.
“And then there were eight. Who’s my mommy?” he murmured as he stared at the faces. “None of you look like me. Perhaps I resemble my unknown father, huh?”
He enlarged and studied the pictures one at a time.
Each of the eight women continued to live in Mount Warren. They had all married at one time or another. Married names appeared on their driver’s licenses and marriage licenses were included in the file.
One was a widow. Two were divorced. None were still teaching after all these years.
He felt nothing for any of them.
He returned his attention to the two teachers who had died.
One passed last year of a massive heart attack, according to her death certificate. She was survived by her husband and three sons who still lived in Mount Warren.
“Possible,” he said, as he flipped to the next screen.
“Hello, Mom,” Flint whispered.
It was this last one that riveted his attention. The one who had died thirty-three years ago. More specifically, she had been murdered.
“Well, well.” His voice sounded dry in his own ears. He looked at the photo on the screen as if he expected her to answer his question. She did not.
He closed the file and swallowed the last of his Scotch.
The third file was labeled “Marilyn Baker.”
He’d been sitting on the bed, leaning against the headboard, legs stretched out. He picked up the glass and realized it was empty. How long had he been sitting here? He hadn’t noticed that darkness had engulfed the room and the world beyond.
His stomach growled with hunger. Where was Drake?
He pushed the laptop aside and stood to stretch. He flipped the lights on. The Scotch glass was still in his hand. For a moment, he considered another drink. But his stomach felt too empty. He wasn’t looking to get drunk tonight or be hungover tomorrow.
He put the glass down and walked down the hallway. He rapped on the heavy wood door of Drake’s room. No response. He rapped again, louder, and waited.
He raised his hand to knock one last time. Drake pulled the door open while his fist was still in the air.
“You don’t need to hit me, Flint,” Drake grinned. “Sorry, man. Lost track of time.”
Flint shrugged. “After a quick shower, I’m going downstairs to eat. Any interest?”
“Give me ten minutes.” He closed the door again.
Flint walked back to his room and turned the shower on. He pulled clean clothes out of his bag and tossed them on the bed. The laptop waited there.
Flint plopped down and opened the third file while he waited for the hot water to come up.
Inside were several local newspaper articles about Marilyn Baker’s death.
The story was sordid. The murder unsolved. If
Marilyn Baker was his birth mother, this certainly explained why she never returned to him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Red Maple Lake, California
Six Years Ago
When they finally reached the front door of the Wilcox lodge, Josh and the others lifted Skip carefully out of the life raft, carried him inside, and placed him on a large dining room table. Josh tried to reassure him, but he was moaning and writhing in pain. He mumbled words, but they made no sense.
Kevin immediately began working on Skip. He sent Mark to find the first aid kit and his medical bag, which he carried everywhere.
“Dan, sit there and elevate that foot until I can get a look at it.” Kevin pointed to a straight chair. Dan, at least, was capable of following directions. “Ruben, can you get some water? These guys are severely dehydrated.”
“Don’t worry. Kevin has patched up our injuries out here before,” Ruben said as he left the room. He returned with two large water bottles, one for Josh and one for Dan.
“Thanks.” Josh downed the water like a man who had spent a decade in the desert. Dan did the same.
Mark brought Kevin’s medical bag and stood on the other side of the table as Kevin dealt with Skip.
“We need to contact the hospital,” Josh said. “Is there a phone or radio or something we can use to call out?”
Ruben stuffed his hands in his back pockets and shook his head. “This place is pretty remote. That’s the reason we like it. We need a break now and then so we come here precisely because no one can reach us.”
Josh wondered briefly why these three would want to be out of contact with all civilization. It seemed dangerous, if nothing else. What if someone were to come down with appendicitis or something? “Do you have transportation we can use to get Skip to the hospital?”
“We have a helicopter. Mark is our pilot. He can fly your buddy up to Tahoe,” Ruben said.
“But we can’t do it tonight,” Mark said. “Weather’s already bad out there and worse coming in. Can’t risk it.”
Ruben looked over at Kevin. “Can you get him stabilized until this weather passes?”
Kevin shrugged and frowned, preoccupied with whatever he was doing to Skip on the table. “I’ve given him some morphine to help with the pain. Let’s move him into the back, get him into bed. I’ll see what I can do about his leg.”
“He needs surgery, doesn’t he?” Josh asked.
“I can’t do surgery here, even if I was qualified to handle something like this, which I’m not,” Kevin replied. “He’s lost a lot of blood. Lucky you put that tourniquet in place, but I can’t take it off.” He paused, glanced at the ground, and cleared his throat. “He should pull through this, but he may very well lose that leg.”
Kevin’s words hit Josh like a hard punch to his gut. It was his fault. All of it. Skip had wanted to book a commercial flight to Costa Rica. They should’ve done that. Dan had been open for anything when they were doing the planning, but Josh was the one who had pushed for Red Maple Resort after Dan brought it up.
Beyond that, Josh was the one who crashed the plane. Totally his fault. Simple as that. He’d never forgive himself if Skip lost that leg. And Skip’s wife would never forgive Josh, either. He knew it the way he knew the sun would rise tomorrow. Debbie didn’t like Josh anyway. This would give her a perfect excuse to cut Josh from Skip’s world. Permanently. Skip would go along with her. He always did. And Josh couldn’t really blame either of them.
“Josh? We need a hand here,” Mark said. Ruben and Mark were at Skip’s head. Kevin placed both hands under Skip’s mutilated right leg, holding the leg together. The blood-saturated pant leg flopped down from his waist where Kevin had cut the fabric away to treat his injured leg.
Josh put his arms under Skip’s left side and the four men moved slowly, in concert, toward a bedroom in the back of the house. They passed several closed doors along the way, which Josh assumed were more bedrooms.
The morphine must’ve kicked in because Skip had finally stopped the constant moaning.
The setup was a normal guest room. A dresser, a private bath, a couple of chairs. Two twin beds, but both were higher off the floor than normal, as if they were made for an exceptionally tall person. Not quite hospital-bed height, but serviceable enough.
They settled Skip on one of the beds and moved out of Kevin’s way. Josh stood by helplessly while Kevin worked. He put an IV in Skip’s arm and attached the bag to the bedpost to allow gravity to do its work.
Kevin spent a few minutes working on Skip’s leg wound, but the open femur fracture would require surgery. No question. Josh wasn’t a doctor and he’d known that much when he’d first seen the break. Kevin shook his head sorrowfully from time to time, as if he already knew Skip would lose the leg. Josh felt the truth twist in his stomach.
“We need to stay with him around the clock,” Kevin said when he had done everything he could do for the time being. “Mark, can you take the first shift here? I’ll deal with Dan’s foot and ankle. And then I’ll be back to check on Skip. Call me if anything changes.”
Mark replied, “Will do.” He pulled a straight chair closer to the bed and leaned forward, forearms on thighs, watching for something. Josh had no idea what he was looking for, but he was glad to have him there with Skip, acting as if he knew what to do.
Kevin nodded and left the room. Ruben clapped Josh on the shoulder.
Josh hadn’t really looked at Ruben before. His features were unremarkable, but his vibe was controlling and strong somehow. As if he was used to giving orders and expected them to be followed. Briefly, Josh wondered what line of work the guy was in, but he didn’t ask. Josh had other things on his mind.
“Go with Kevin. Let him clean you up, too,” Ruben said. “The last thing you need right now is even a minor infection, right?”
Josh looked at his hands as if for the first time. He saw cuts and scrapes he hadn’t noticed before. He glanced in the mirror above the dresser and barely recognized his face. Grime and dried blood marred his features. At least one deep cut on his jaw had dripped blood onto his shirt. He didn’t remember receiving any of his wounds at all.
He nodded toward Ruben and followed Kevin to the main living area of the house, where Dan was still sitting with his foot elevated.
“He’s had some kind of concussion or something, too,” Josh said, while they were out of Dan’s hearing range. “He was kind of dazed right after we crashed, and he hasn’t been acting right since then.”
“Got it.” Kevin knelt down to deal with Dan’s sprained ankle. He managed to get Dan’s boot off the swollen foot and removed his wet, filthy sock. He cut the pant leg up from the ankle to the knee and used both hands to feel Dan’s injury, probably looking for fractures or something. Then he moved on to the rest of his exam.
When he’d finished, Kevin said, “Dan, you’ve probably sustained a mild concussion. You should be okay. But concussions are unpredictable. We’ll need to watch for symptoms.”
Josh nodded, feeling worse by the minute. He’d really screwed up here and his friends were the ones paying for it. “What kind of symptoms?”
“Headache, dizziness, fatigue. Some patients display irritability, concentration, and memory problems. Insomnia.” Kevin listed the symptoms automatically, like a pediatrician who had treated his share of schoolyard injuries. “The bigger problem at the moment is this sprained ankle because he shouldn’t be walking around on it. It could be fractured, too. I can’t rule it out. He needs an x-ray.”
Dan said, “We’ll be able to do that tomorrow, right? The x-ray?”
“Yeah. Over in Tahoe, they’ve had a lot of experience with sports injuries because of all the resorts and tourism they get.” Kevin nodded. “In the meantime, both of you need a shower and some dry clothes and something to eat, followed by sleep. You’ve got another long day tomorrow.”
“How far are we from Red Maple Lake Resort?” Josh asked. “Maybe they have a doctor there who could do more fo
r Skip tonight.”
Before Kevin responded, a fourth man Josh had not seen before entered from somewhere in the back of the house and overheard the question. He was tall and well groomed. His clothes were expensive and fit him like they’d been made specifically for his body, which they probably had. He was older than the others, maybe about fifty. The family resemblance to Mark was unmistakable.
“I’m afraid you landed quite a distance from the resort. You are maybe ten miles west, and the terrain between here and there is pretty rough. If the weather improves, you might be able to drive the off-road vehicle over there. But it would take at least a couple of hours, even in good weather. It’s slow going. And it’s a bumpy ride. Your friend’s leg wouldn’t be the better for the trip.”
Josh stood and extended his hand. “I’m Josh Hallman.”
“Boyd Wilcox. Mark’s brother. I’m sorry for your troubles.” He shook hands with Josh. “Kevin here will do what he can for now. Mark will fly you out to Tahoe in the morning, weather permitting. In the meantime, we’ll get you set up with bunks for the night.”
“Thank you.” Josh’s stomach growled and Boyd Wilcox smiled.
“Maybe we should feed you, too. Wash up and meet us back here for dinner. Kevin will show you to your room.” When Josh nodded, Boyd Wilcox turned and left.
Josh cocked his head. “He looks familiar to me. Should I know him?”
“Depends.” Kevin helped Dan up and put an arm around his body to keep the weight off his sprained ankle. The hallway was wide, but not wide enough for three men to walk abreast. Josh followed behind them. “Boyd is not a celebrity. CEO of StellarSoft. The tech company. You’ve probably seen his photo in the financial press.”
Josh whistled. Of course he knew StellarSoft. Everyone did. One of the most successful privately held companies in the tech world. Hell, in any world. StellarSoft operating system powered half the gadgets on the planet. Including those used by governments and industry.
Boyd Wilcox. The tech genius who named his company after his great passion, stargazing. The guy was at least as passionate about astronomy as he was about tech. Maybe more so.
