Beware the Jabberwock (Post Cold War Thrillers)

by Chester D. Campbell

  The voice softened with a slight chuckle. "Forgive me, Burke. I just realized that I don't even know where you're calling from."

  "Sorry, sir. I'm at a motel in New Orleans. I'd give you the name, but I don't plan to stay here. I have reason to believe the people behind Jabberwock may be looking for me. I'll find another motel, but I haven't decided where yet."

  "Let's do this. You get the photographs and bring them to the New Orleans airport in the morning. I'll send my private jet down there to pick you up."

  "Will I get to meet you, sir?"

  "Of course. That's the main reason for the jet. I could have the photographs delivered by other means. You see, Burke, I consider myself a patriotic American. That's why I've helped Cameron Quinn over the years, but I am first and foremost a businessman. And when businessmen deal with sizeable sums of money, they prefer to know who they're dealing with. I want to meet you and learn a little more about you. Then you can, so to speak, have the key to the lock box."

  "That's certainly understandable, sir." Burke liked his way of conducting business. "Can you tell me where I'll be going?"

  Another chuckle. "Let's just keep that and my identity a little secret until tomorrow morning. It's like with a sexual encounter, if you'll pardon the analogy. The anticipation may prove more exciting than the actual event."

  Burke laughed. "If you say so, sir."

  As he recalled waking up that morning beside Lori, he wasn't sure he could agree. He found one part of the plan, however, with which he definitely disagreed. Moisant Field didn't strike him as the best place to be meeting an airplane, even if it did involve use of a private hangar rather than the public terminal. Since he would have to go by Aerial Photomap anyway, it would save a lot of time for the private jet to meet him there.

  "Could I make a suggestion, sir?"

  "What's that?"

  "Let the jet meet me at Lakeshore Airport, on the northeastern side of the city. That’s where the photomapping outfit is located. It would be more convenient for both of us."

  As he started out in the battered Buick to look for another motel, his mood was jubilant. During the day he had tracked down an old police contact, who made a call to Texas and quickly supplied him with the name and address of the registered owner of the white truck, Lone Star Network of Dallas. Furthermore, he had little doubt that his anonymous benefactor could provide access to a governor's office, possibly even a state police commander. They could request issuance of a confidential bulletin to troopers from other states, seeking information on the present location of the Lone Star Network truck.

  He found only one glitch in the plan. The timing would not allow him to call Lori at ten. He would have to call earlier and leave her a message. Fortunately, the message would bear good news.

  Chapter 41

  The receptionist answered the phone with the name of a congressman from Massachusetts. It was then that Burke remembered Lori mentioning an old friend of Cam's in Congress who she intended to lobby, some bill dealing with the tax deductibility of business travel. With the time difference, he got the call through as soon as he had finished breakfast. Sitting there in his motel room, aware of the belt cinched tightly around his waist, he acknowledged with a sense of guilt that he had overeaten again. Sometimes he thought breakfast would be his downfall.

  The girl who answered sounded college age, as most congressional staffers seemed to be. Yes, she would be happy to deliver the message when Miss Quinn arrived for her ten-forty-five appointment.

  "Please tell her that Mr. Hill called." He saw no problem with using his correct name here. "I won't be able to call her at eleven as planned. I have to go meet a man her father knew. He may be able to accomplish what she planned with the Judge. Ask her to leave a number where I can reach her early this evening. I'll call you back later to get it."

  "This business about the judge," the girl said. "I hope there's nothing unethical involved. The Congressman gets pretty touchy about dealings with the judiciary."

  He laughed. "No, this judge isn't on the bench any longer. He's a former judge. Would you mind reading that back to me? I'd like to be sure there isn't something she might misunderstand."

  The girl read the message back word for word.

  Burke had decided to go on out to Aerial Photomap rather than wait to reach McKenzie first by phone. That way he was sure he would be at the ramp in plenty of time to meet the jet. He arrived a little before nine and parked in the company lot. He didn't think McKenzie would object to his leaving the car there, since he would be returning that afternoon. Also, since he'd have his hands full with the photographs, he locked his briefcase in the trunk. Among other things, it contained his little black book with phone numbers and notes, which he didn't think he would need. At least his memory was still good enough to handle the major details of his investigation. As he walked toward the building, he noticed a police van labeled identification unit parked nearby, but thought nothing of it.

  On entering the building, he encountered chaos. The receptionist's desk, which had been a model of tidiness, was now a jumble of papers. Walking into the office of McKenzie's secretary, he found furniture overturned, file drawers open, papers littering the floor. The secretary was wandering about, gazing at the clutter as if in shock. She looked up when she saw Burke.

  "Hello, Mr. Hill. I'm sorry my office looks such a wreck. We were burglarized and vandalized over the weekend." She shook her head with a doleful frown.

  "They really left a mess." Burke had seen ransacked offices many times. He had even participated in a few. This had the mark of a methodical professional job, perhaps intended to look like vandalism.

  Kevin McKenzie came through the door to his office bearing the same dazed look. He took note of Burke with a slow head shake that said I can't believe this. "Damnedest thing I ever saw," was what came out audibly.

  "Did they get any of your high tech equipment?" Burke asked.

  "No, didn't bother it. Obviously weren't interested in the business. Took petty cash, some blank checks, a portable stereo, two silver sculptures, probably melt 'em down. What a waste!"

  Burke frowned. "That's all that's missing?"

  "A bit of photography. Mostly inconsequential stuff." He looked Burke straight in the eye. "This is the part you won't believe. They took every single print we'd made from that run over the island. The negatives, too."

  Burke stood in the shade beside the hangar, gazing out at the ramp. The pilot of the jet had radioed ahead for his passenger to be waiting outside. Rather than bother with a shutdown, he would park at the edge of the ramp, kill the left engine, board Burke through the portside door, then restart and taxi back out to the runway. It was like the old days when Burke would fly into a small town on a commuter airline via what was known as a "one-engine stop." Everything very efficient, just like the voice on the phone. He dreaded the prospect of having to confess that there would be no photographs, no hard evidence for Judge Marshall. What would the man's reaction be?

  Almost as precise as the ninety-degree angle the clock's hands formed at nine-thirty, the sleek, white aircraft touched down and taxied smoothly toward the ramp. Burke had started out as soon as he spotted the plane in the pattern. When it rolled to a stop beside him, he noticed a stylized "N" on the vertical stabilizer. There was no other identification besides the registration number.

  Almost immediately, he could see movement beneath the fuselage as the retractable stairs on the opposite side reached for the pavement. Then a youthful figure in a green flying suit appeared around the front of the aircraft, motioning his passenger to follow. He helped Burke up the steps, then followed him inside and pressed a button to retract the stairs.

  "I'm the co-pilot," he said. "Welcome aboard. We'll only be in the air a little over an hour. Have a seat there with the other passengers. Fasten your belt and we'll be under way."

  The interior of the cabin was covered with a gray plush fabric. There was a bench seat along the side opposite the door
. Then a pair of facing seats on either side of the narrow aisle, aft of them another seat on each side. One of the facing seats was vacant. Three men dressed in business suits occupied the others. The flight hadn't been scheduled just for him, Burke realized. It had picked up passengers at other stops as well. So he wasn't as much of a VIP as he'd imagined. That brought a smile to his face, and his fellow-passengers returned it as he sat down to fasten his seat belt. He was hardly finished by the time the jet began to roll.

  Although the runway was the same, the takeoff had a considerably different effect on Burke than the one with Kevin McKenzie nearly a week earlier. The small jet rolled smoothly down the concrete strip, accelerating rapidly. Before he was hardly adjusted to the sound of the engines, he felt pushed back into the seat as the nose came up and the plane climbed out at a sharp angle. Burke's fellow passengers gazed out the windows in silence as objects on the ground quickly diminished in size and the squarish outline of Lake Pontchartrain appeared to dry up as it shrank.

  A few minutes later, the co-pilot was in the aisle advising them they could move about the cabin, though he suggested they leave their seat belts fastened while seated. Just like the airlines, Burke thought. I wonder if they serve coffee and tea? He saw the man across the aisle from him reach down to pull a small bag from beneath his seat and unzip it. He had an oval face with a ruddy complexion, his brown hair tumbling forward on one side. A half-smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he put both hands inside the bag. Probably after a book, or something to eat, Burke thought. His attention was distracted as the other two men unfastened their seat belts and started to get up.

  In an instant, two pairs of hands had seized each arm, immobilizing him. Fortunately, they didn't grab the injured arm near the shoulder. He gave a sudden jerk and almost freed his right arm while shouting, "What the hell are you doing?"

  When he looked to his left, he saw. The brown-haired man across the aisle held a syringe with a menacing needle. It was about to be inserted into his arm. He shoved hard with his feet, attempting to free himself, but the seat belt held him tightly. He felt the needle prick his arm and knew it was too late. The faces hovering over him soon began to lose their shapes. The whole cabin gradually turned fuzzy. The lights went out.

  Burke's mouth felt like he'd gone to sleep on the beach with his mouth open. But he felt no sun. What he did feel was groggy, like the beginnings of a bad hangover. He hadn't been that drunk since the night he got word that Ginger Lawrence's plane had crashed. He struggled to open his eyes. Had he overslept? Then he saw the unusually high ceiling overhead. He didn't remember that. Where was he?

  For one thing, he realized as the fog began to clear, he was lying in bed fully dressed. He reached back to check his pocket. The billfold was still there. The ballpoint pen remained clipped to his shirt pocket, the familiar watch on his arm. The conscious act of taking inventory quickly returned a sense of reality. As he pushed himself up, it all began to come back. The sleek, white corporate jet, the two goons holding his arms, the needle.

  It was a hospital, he thought. He was lying on a hospital bed with the side rails up. But it didn't look like a hospital room, except for the bed. It was an expensive model with lots of fancy attachments. A wheelchair sat nearby. Actually, it appeared larger than the bedrooms in most houses. There was a massive old chest, a dresser with a mirror, two upholstered chairs covered in a flowery pattern and a wooden bookcase with glass doors.

  He gently lowered one of the siderails and swung his legs over the side. The pull on his stomach muscles let him know he had not altogether recovered from the beating. Looking around the room, he saw a large wooden door at one end and a window at the other. There were two additional doors along a side wall. One was open, apparently leading to a bathroom. Thick beige carpet covered the floor.

  He started walking toward the window and was briefly overcome by a dizziness that caused him to stumble against the chest. Whatever they had given him was pretty powerful stuff. He took a few deep breaths and moved on across to the lacy sheers that covered the window. Looking out, the distance to the ground seemed to indicate this was an upper floor, either second or third. Turning his gaze to the right, he saw a section of the structure jutting out at least ten feet farther than where he stood. It was white frame, with a peaked roof angling above the ceiling level. Judging by the two windows he could see, and the distance between them, it would have to be two stories with high ceilings. Glancing down, he saw patio furniture on a flagstone terrace that apparently adjoined the building. A broad, well-kept green lawn sloped down to a large lake. Several spacious homes could be seen across the lake in the far distance.

  A walkway flanked by carefully manicured hedges ran back from the terrace, circled outward on either side of colorful flower plantings, then rejoined to continue on down to a wooden deck area that became a dock at lakeside. Two boats, one large, the other small, sat beside the dock. It might be a sanitarium, he thought. But sanitariums didn't have boat docks.

  He walked unsteadily across to the bathroom. It contained a modern treatment of old style bathroom fixtures, massive tub with raised feet set into a tiled enclosure, large old sink with a vanity built around it. But something else had been added. Grab bars for a handicapped person. There was little else visible in the room but a wash cloth, towel, bar of soap and a plastic cup.

  Back in the bedroom, Burke opened the door adjacent to the bath and found a large walk-in closet. A few long dresses hung on a rack. Everything else had been packed away, a few smaller gift-type boxes and several large corrugated containers bearing labels such as shoes, coats and dresses.

  It suddenly hit him. This room had been occupied by an invalid. Apparently a woman, who must have died. The building was undoubtedly a large old frame house. Judging by the view toward the lake, it was a country estate, with all the seclusion and privacy that the term implied.

  He closed the door and checked his watch. It was nearly one-thirty. The plane had picked him up at nine-thirty. That meant he had been out for nearly four hours. No doubt somebody would be in to check on him shortly. And this time the needle would be used to elicit answers to questions that would put Lori and Walt Brackin in jeopardy.

  Somehow, he had to delay the questioning long enough to find a way out. Still a bit shaky from the dizziness, he sat back against the edge of the bed. As he did, he felt a twinge of nausea. The knock-out drug, he guessed. Then an idea began to take shape. He would play on the nausea angle. If he could induce vomiting, he would contrive a way to convince them that he needed a doctor's attention. That would give him a chance to see who he was dealing with and work to formulate an escape plan.

  But what could he use to make him vomit? He might try poking a finger down his throat, but he had doubts about the feasibility of that route. Then he thought of the soap and the cup in the bathroom. He remembered once a fellow FBI agent had used soapy water to attempt recovery of evidence a suspect had swallowed. He hurried into the bathroom, ran hot water into the cup, then stirred the soap briskly until he had achieved an odious sudsy concoction. He gulped it down, nearly gagging, and tossed the cup into a wastebasket.

  The reaction hit him sooner than expected. He got no farther than the middle of the bedroom before what remained of his sumptuous breakfast came spraying out onto the carpet like an erupting volcano. He stumbled back onto the bed just as the door leading out of the room banged open. Obviously someone outside had heard his retching.

  Burke held his stomach and moaned as the man approached.

  "Oh, shit, man! What have you done?"

  Burke peeked through narrowed lids and saw a man with a wildly contorted face looking at the disagreeable mess. It was one of his fellow passengers from the jet, a stocky man with a nose that seemed a bit too much for the rest of his face. Burke moaned again and muttered, "My stomach. Something must've busted loose." He began to writhe and tremble. "On the island...beat me in the stomach." He continued to moan.

  "Damn," the man
said, and hurried back out the door, yelling, "Richard! Get the hell up here!"

  A minute or so later, he returned with another man, the one who had wielded the needle on the plane. Burke kept up the moaning and shaking.

  "What the shit?" Richard spoke in a rough, scratchy voice. "Somebody'll have to clean that up. The 'old man' said not to mess up the place." He shook his head in disgust.

  "It's his stomach," said the other man. "Says they beat him in his stomach on the island. He thinks something's busted loose."

  "I don't see any blood." Richard sounded skeptical.

  "Ooohhh! Feels like my insides coming apart." Burke mumbled and groaned.

  "Think we ought to get a doctor?"

  "Hell no, I don't want to get a damned doctor," said Richard. "But the truth drug probably won’t work on him in this condition."

  "What if something's ruptured? What if he's bleeding inside?"

  "You and your damned 'what ifs.' You know what happened on the island. I'm not taking responsibility for any more screwups. Let's go call the 'old man.'"

  Burke watched as they hurried out and closed the door. The sound of a lock clicking shut was followed by the fading away of voices. Besides an awful taste in his mouth, the soap and vomit routine hadn’t caused him any problems. Reaching the door with a few quick strides, he saw an old keyhole lock beneath the knob. The key had been left in the lock. Burke had grown up with this kind of lock at his home back in Missouri. He hesitated a moment, then raced back to the closet and dumped out the contents from one of the thin cardboard gift boxes. Tearing the sides apart, he folded them out to make a flat surface. Returning to the door, he slid the cardboard beneath it in the space cut away to clear the carpet.

  With the ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket, he began poking at the keyhole, seeking to dislodge the key. He found it turned slightly in the lock. It wouldn't slide out. If only he had a paperclip. Then he had another thought, returned to the closet and found a metal clothes hanger. He twisted it apart and began digging and twisting at the key with the straight end. Finally it dropped back, hanging only by a small projection at the bottom of the key. One more gouge beneath it, and the heavy iron key plopped to the floor. Carefully, Burke pulled the cardboard with the key back under the door.