Serpentine

by Peter Parken

  Shelby lowered her eyes. “Yes. That’s what I’ll say.”

  Dwayne stood up and walked to the door. He opened it and ushered Shelby out into the hall. “We’re all good, then. My coaching of you will just concentrate on how you will testify, what words you choose to use. It’ll all go smoothly and you’ll be a rich woman after this is all over.”

  Shelby nodded, turned on her heel and headed for the elevator.

  The lawyer called after her. “Goodbye, Shelly.”

  *****

  Nate picked up his phone and punched in her number.

  “Hi, Nate. It’s done.”

  “Good. Did he buy your sincerity?”

  “Well, I can’t be nice to that man no matter how hard I try. He can’t even get my name right. So I didn’t play it too eagerly—that would have been phony and he might have seen through me, suspected that something was up. I just said that I could live with testifying the way they want me to—that my memory was probably wrong. But I needed him to see that I still disdain him. I think he would expect that.”

  “Yeah, makes sense, especially considering how unpleasant your first meeting was. Shelby, at least this buys you time. Today was the deadline from that guy who visited you in the café. So, now you won’t have to worry about bumping into him in some dark alley.”

  “Yes, I feel relieved. And it does just buy time. This case won’t go to court for quite a while yet, so I can still drop off the Action in plenty of time. Maybe we can figure out some of this puzzle before then.”

  “That’s the plan. Oh and, as we discussed, I’ve arranged for my graphic designer to pay you a visit tonight after you get home from work. His name is Paul Fortier. A brilliant artist, especially with sketching images of people. He used to be a police sketch artist until we lured him away to the fun side. He does all our advertising images.”

  “Okay, I’ll wrack my brain to get the best recollection of that guy. I hope I do a good job for Paul.”

  “You’ll be fine. I’m getting him to do a sketch for me this afternoon, based on the guy I remember seeing at Adventureland. I haven’t told him your guy and my guy may be the same person—I don’t want him influenced. Then, after those sketches are done, we’ll compare them.”

  There was silence at the other end.

  “Shelby? Are you still there?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m here. Sorry, I was just thinking about something. Listen, Nate, could I interest you in dinner Sunday night? My place? I’m a great cook!”

  It was Nate’s turn to be silent. But just for a second or two. He blurted out, “You bet! I’ll bring the wine. Email me your address.”

  “I sure will. See you around seven o’clock Sunday night, then. And bring a Chianti, because we’re having pasta!”

  Nate clicked off and smiled. Dinner with Shelby would be nice—he was glad she’d asked. He caught himself the last couple of nights wondering what it would be like to spend some alone time with her. Well, now he’d find out.

  He picked up his phone again and punched in an extension. “Hi Ron, grab Tom and come down to my office.”

  Nate put the phone back in the cradle, walked over to his side stand and poured a cup of black coffee. Taking a sip, he pondered how much they had to do and whether or not their efforts would result in anything tangible.

  His door opened and in walked his two friends. “Pour yourself some coffee, guys, and take a seat.” They both passed on the coffee.

  Nate sat down on the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table. “We have a lot to do, guys, and we’re running out of time.”

  Tom crossed his legs and raised his hand in the air. “I, for one, think we should march into the NTSB office and demand that the investigation be reopened. Tell them what we found down in Key West and how someone gave us a tip-off.”

  Nate shook his head. “Not yet, Tom. We have a few things to do first—but I don’t disagree with your idea. We just need more before we do that.

  “In fact, I’ll start with you. I want you to get the passenger list for everyone who died on that rollercoaster. Photos, bios, the full Monty. Use whatever resources we have, but if you have to go out and hire some specialists, you have my green light to do that. Do whatever it takes—we want to know all there is to know about those poor souls, what they did, what they didn’t do, what messes they were involved in, scandals. Everything.”

  “Okay, hopefully there will be some answers in what we can dig up. As Ron said the other day, this whole thing does smell of what he calls a ‘diversion murder.’ If one particular person was meant to die on that coaster, something is going to stand out.”

  “Yes. We might get lucky.” Nate then pointed at Ron. “Ron, with your systems engineering expertise, I’m hoping you’ll be able to hack into NFL records and get the complete team roster, including backup players and ‘taxi squad’ sitters. Hell, even trainers, coaches—everyone associated with the San Francisco 49ers in their Super Bowl win back in 1994. Anyone who was an active member of the team in any capacity was probably entitled to a ring. So—we’re talking possibly dozens of men here.”

  “That should be easy. I’ll get right on it.”

  “Photos, too—but also do a database search on all those names to track down where they are today, along with current photos of them if there are any out there on the Internet. The guy I saw at Adventureland wore that Super Bowl ring, and it sounds like the man who accosted Shelby at the café was wearing one, too. I’m ninety-nine percent certain it’s the same man.”

  Nate stood up. The meeting was over and his friends took the hint.

  As they were leaving, Nate said, “Tom, tell Paul Fortier that I’m ready for him. He can sketch me a killer now.”

  *****

  Shelby walked into the hospital cafeteria. She planned to have a quick lunch before her shift started. She looked at her watch—plenty of time actually; two hours to kill before her first surgery.

  She thought about going to the Sunshine Café for lunch, but after the encounter she’d had with that strange man she was still a bit reluctant to go back there. Even though everything should be okay now. She’d signed on to the Class Action, so his threat had achieved what he’d wanted it to achieve. She was looking forward to seeing what Nate’s sketch artist would come up with for each of them. And…she was definitely looking forward to dinner with Nate on Sunday night. She hadn’t cooked dinner for a man in at least a decade, so she figured her heart must be telling her that Nate was pretty special.

  Shelby grabbed a tray, helped herself to a ham sandwich and a tomato juice, and then walked over to an empty table. She was just about to sit down when she noticed one of her nursing friends, Carol, sitting all by herself. She moved over to her table. “Carol, penny for your thoughts?”

  Carol looked up. “Oh, Shelby, sorry, I’m a bit distracted and I’ve worked a double shift, too. Time for a nap, I think!”

  Shelby sat down. “How are things down there in Emergency?”

  “Oh, hectic as usual. Sometimes I wonder how long I can keep up the pace. The hours are far too long and these double-shifts every two weeks are killers. How about you up there in Surgery?”

  “Lots going on—quite a few heart operations. And we lost a little boy a few days ago. It was horrible. I haven’t been sleeping well at all since that happened.”

  Carol winced. “That’s tough when it’s a child. They have their whole lives ahead of them. I had a real tough one to deal with last night, too. Not a child, but a sweet man who lost his wife in a house fire. Did you hear on the news about that gas explosion?”

  “No, I didn’t hear about that. What happened?”

  “It was across the river in Washington—Georgetown, to be exact. They say that it was a gas leak. The poor man—he’s in his sixties—tried to save his wife. They’d been together forty years. He climbed a tree, jumped through the window, and then dropped his wife out the window down to some neighbors. But…it was too late. We treated him for smoke inhalation—i
t was pretty bad, but thank God he’s coming along better today.”

  Shelby shook her head. “That’s so sad—together forty years.”

  “Yeah, breaks your heart, doesn’t it? And he’s such a sweet guy—he was talking to me about his wife. He absolutely adored her, I could tell. And…you know, he’s a dead ringer for Cary Grant. Can’t believe how close the resemblance is. Even sounds like him!”

  Shelby perked up at that. “Cary Grant? Carol, what’s his name?”

  “Uh…Fletcher. John Fletcher.”

  Shelby jumped up from her seat. “What room is he in?!”

  Chapter 26

  John turned his head to the side and watched the nurse change the bandage on his left shoulder. It had taken twenty stitches to get it sewn up tight. John remembered now how he did it. That very last branch he’d smashed into on his way down the tree. It had a sharp knot that tore into him as he dropped to the ground.

  It didn’t hurt. Except when they stitched him up. The intern in Emergency had offered to freeze the shoulder, but John refused. He just gritted his teeth and sucked it up. He wanted to feel the pain and actually wished it had hurt more than it did. He wanted it to hurt; right now he wanted everything to hurt.

  There had been a stream of visitors to his room all day. Some reporters, too; after the fifth one, he asked the nurses to chase them away if any more came up to his floor. There was nothing he could tell them anyway. He didn’t know anything. The nurses were great, especially Carol, the primary nurse who had supervised his care ever since he’d been checked in.

  John closed his eyes. He pictured Linda with her head poking out of the upper window, calling out to him—panicked about the smell of gas. Then the explosion. And when he got to his feet, one side of the house and the garage were gone, and the portion of the main floor that was left was in flames.

  He opened his eyes and eased himself up into a sitting position. The nursing assistant saw him struggling and rushed over to help him. She propped up two pillows behind his neck and upper back. “Better now?”

  John forced a smile. “Yes, thanks.”

  “Be careful, Mr. Fletcher. Your lungs have improved, but we need to still be careful.”

  “When will I be out of here?”

  “Looks like tomorrow—but I’ll check with Carol when she gets back from lunch. We’ll let you know for sure later on. You’re probably anxious to get home.”

  John looked down at his lap. “I don’t have a home anymore.”

  The nursing assistant put her hand up to her mouth and gasped. “Oh, I’m so sorry. It was just an expression. I didn’t intend to sound so insensitive.”

  John forced another smile. “It’s okay, dear. Don’t worry about it. I know you didn’t mean to say it like that.”

  He pulled another pillow off the side chair and stuffed it behind his head.

  What happened?

  A fire department official told him this morning that they suspected there had been some kind of gas leak in the kitchen, from the gas stove. But the destruction was so complete that there would be no way of determining that for sure, or how the leak was caused. There was nothing left to look at.

  They’d given him some calming drugs last night and again this morning. He was apparently quite agitated when they brought him in, not speaking or thinking clearly. He knew Linda was dead, but that’s pretty much all he’d been aware of last night.

  It was only this morning that he remembered what she was calling out to him from the upper window. He knew she’d been concerned about something, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember what it was until this morning. She had smelled gas. That’s what she yelled out to him.

  John closed his eyes again. Thoughts were coming into his head faster now—the medication had worn off and things weren’t such a blur.

  What was I doing outside?

  Then he lurched up as the memory came to him. The car alarm! Someone had vandalized his Lexus! He had been on his way upstairs to join Linda in bed, when the alarm sounded. That’s why he was outside.

  He shook his head and concentrated harder. He retraced his steps in his mind—seeing the damaged car, looking around in all directions…there was another car!

  A black one…a Ford…Explorer. It was making a U-turn down the street and drove away in the opposite direction. John concentrated on the image of the car…a license plate. It was: W23865.

  John reached over and pressed the call button for the nurses’ station. In less than a minute, she was standing beside him, concern in her eyes.

  “Don’t worry. I’m okay. I just wanted to know if that police officer who was here before is still out there in the hall. I’m more alert now—I’d like to talk to him again.”

  “Yes, he’s down in the coffee lounge. I’ll go and get him for you.” She rushed out of the room.

  Within minutes, the detective was sitting in the chair beside the bed, with his iPad on his lap, waiting patiently for John to tell him what he recalled.

  John took a deep breath, and then exhaled slowly. “My car was vandalized. That’s why I was outside. With the destruction of the house, no one has probably noticed yet that my sunroof and front windshield were smashed. The car alarm went off and I went outside. Discovered the damage and saw a car driving off. It was a black Ford Explorer. And I remember the license plate number.”

  The officer worked his fingers over the iPad. “Give me a second while I pull up the vehicle registration site.” He fiddled with it a bit, sighed, and fiddled again. “God, this site is always so slow.” He waited for a second, then said, “Okay, I have it. Give me the plate number.”

  “W23865.”

  The officer looked up at him, a curious expression on his face. “Are you sure there’s a ‘W’ as a prefix?”

  “Yes. Absolutely sure.”

  The officer turned off his iPad and stood up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Fletcher. There’s nothing I can do to help with that. I’m sure the vehicle was just in the neighborhood anyway. You didn’t actually see anyone hitting your car.”

  John’s mouth hung open in shock. As the officer began walking to the door, John found his tongue.

  “What? I just gave you a license number from the plate of the car that was there seconds before the explosion! Why wouldn’t that be relevant? And why didn’t you complete the check on it? It was at your fingertips!”

  The detective turned and faced him. “Mr. Fletcher, that wouldn’t have helped. We can’t access those types of license plate numbers. We’re blocked. The ‘W’ indicates that it’s a military car—army, to be precise, probably out of the closest army base at Fort Meade. That’s out of our jurisdiction.”

  With that, the officer left. John was simply astonished. Army! And Fort Meade rang a bell in his head. It was in Maryland and only about a half hour drive north of Washington.

  Things were swirling around in his head. He’d just lost his wife and now he was alone. He had a possible witness to what happened, or maybe even a possible perpetrator, and the police’s hands were tied.

  And John knew firsthand about ‘jurisdiction.’ The officer said the police had no jurisdiction with the military. John didn’t have jurisdiction either in that rollercoaster accident; but that didn’t matter—he was forced to investigate by the NSA for whatever goddamn reason.

  John suddenly felt the blood rush to his head. In a flash, it hit him.

  The NSA! They’re based in Fort Meade, too, side by side with the Army installation!

  Chapter 27

  Shelby rushed down the hall to the room number Carol had given to her. She knocked on the door and then peeked her head around the corner.

  She recognized him right away—even with his head in his hands. He was sobbing, his shoulders shaking. For a second, she thought of turning around and leaving, but instead she walked slowly over to the bed and sat on the edge. Even though she worked in a different department, she was still a nurse and may be able to be of some comfort to this poor man.

&n
bsp; Softly, she said, “John?” He pulled his hands away from his face and for an instant looked embarrassed to be caught crying. “It’s okay, John. Do you remember me? Shelby Sutcliffe?”

  He nodded and rubbed a sleeve of his hospital gown across his eyes.

  “Hello, Shelby.” He looked her up and down. “You’re a nurse here. I didn’t know that.”

  “Yes, I work in surgery. Can I get you anything while I’m here?”

  “No, I’m fine—just a bit sentimental right now.”

  Shelby reached over to him and squeezed his shoulder. “I’m so sorry to hear about your loss. Your nurse, Carol, told me you were here. I wanted to just pop by and tell you how sorry I was to hear. You and your wife were together a long time—it must be so hard for you.”

  She saw a fresh tear run down his right cheek. “It is—to lose her that way is the hardest part, though. Knowing she was scared and basically suffocating to death. I…didn’t get there…in time. I tried…but I wasn’t fast enough.”

  Shelby squeezed his shoulder again. “She knows that, John.”

  “I was the one who was supposed to go first.”

  “There are no rules for these things, John. Sometimes fate intervenes.”

  He grimaced. “No, there was a rule for this one, Shelby. I have a brain tumor—about a year left to live. Maybe a wee bit more, but that’s about it. I was worried about leaving her behind, and now I’m the one left behind. Why wasn’t it me? Linda still had a long life ahead of her.”

  Shelby was at a loss for words. What could she possibly say? It was just so incredibly sad. He lost his wife in a horrible explosion and fire, when all the while they had both been preparing for his death.

  She spoke in almost a whisper. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything before I go?”

  He looked up at her and Shelby was surprised by what she saw in his Cary Grant eyes. They were still glistening a bit from the tears, but they now had a fixation to them—a steely determination.

  John returned the whisper. “Tell me, honestly. Have you signed on to that Class Action lawsuit yet?”