by Simon Wood
Sheils knew Travillian had aimed this question at him, but he kept quiet. He wanted to hear what everyone else had to say before he responded.
“I don’t think he’s working with the Piper,” Brannon said. “I don’t see what he has to gain.”
“I don’t even see how,” Dunham said. “The guy hasn’t been out of our sight.”
“He’d have to be pretty dumb to contact the Piper now, but that’s not to say the guy hadn’t preplanned this,” Travillian said.
Sheils wondered if Travillian had said this for his benefit. Everyone knew how he felt about Scott. The hypothesis bore more validity coming from someone with more objectivity.
Guerra stopped doodling in the margins of a legal pad. “My read on the guy is that he’s genuinely frightened by what’s going on. I think he gives off a cagey air, but that’s because of his past association with the Piper. The guy is embarrassed. His family is on the rocks because of his bad instincts, and who comes to his rescue? Rooker, the person he screwed over the most. The guy’s in turmoil.”
“Your thoughts, Tom?” Travillian said.
Sheils had thoughts, but doubts too. About Scott. About himself. He was trying to give Scott the benefit of the doubt, but he was struggling with his feelings. He wanted Scott to pay for the past, and he would love to find a link between him and the Piper, but that line of thinking would get him in to trouble. He’d already blown it once, compounding his unprofessionalism by losing it in front of his team and Scott’s family. He could pretend there wasn’t anything to it, but he was twisting the blade for cheap thrills. Was this the behavior of a senior bureau agent? No. The smart thing to do was to remove himself from the investigation, but he couldn’t. He wanted the Piper. If he dragged Scott down in the process, so be it.
“I don’t like the man, but I don’t think he’s deceiving us,” he said and left it at that.
Travillian smiled, pleased with the response. Then he capped his pen and folded his case file. “I think we’re playing this one by the book. I have no complaints. The Piper is a first-class sadist who’s putting the Fleetwoods through hell. We just have to make sure he doesn’t do the same to us. There’s obviously a new wrinkle in the plan, but what I’m hearing is that we have a lot of theories and no clear lead as to his identity.”
Travillian paused. No one disputed his claim.
“Okay, then. Let’s wake up some people in Portland. It sounds like you’re off to Oregon.”
Sheils’s predawn departure didn’t faze Scott. He’d barely slept and was glad for the excuse to get up. From the looks of Sheils, he hadn’t gotten much sleep, either, but his casual dress of a polo shirt and chinos softened his usually officious FBI persona.
“Ready?” Sheils asked.
Scott hefted his overnight bag to show that he was. He hoped this trip didn’t warrant an overnight stay.
Sheils led him out to a convoy of three unmarked bureau vehicles. Brannon, Dunn, and half a dozen other FBI agents Scott recognized made up the traveling team. Guerra was the notable absentee. She remained at the house to keep watch over Jane and Peter.
Jane came out after him, with Peter in tow. Scott hugged him before embracing her. Usually, public displays of affection embarrassed her, but not this time. She clung to him like they were stranded on a cliff ledge. He kissed her, and she made it linger.
“Bring Sammy home.” It wasn’t a plea but a demand, born from fear and need.
“I will.” He knelt before Peter. “Think about something neat we can do for Sammy when he comes home.”
“Sure, Dad.”
“We need to hit the road,” Sheils said.
Sheils put Scott in his car, the two million the only other passenger. Obviously, Sheils wanted some alone time with him during the drive. Scott braced himself for a long ride, but as they drove, Sheils kept it civil and coached him on the ransom drop. Just when Scott was beginning to relax, Sheils brought out the thumbscrews.
“Why do you think the Piper’s bringing us up here?”
“I don’t know,” Scott replied, his lie sounding convincing.
“It doesn’t make any sense to move the switch to Oregon.”
“I don’t know what he’s thinking.”
“Sure you don’t?”
“How many times do I have to tell you I’m not involved?” The lie tasted bitter on Scott’s tongue.
Sheils didn’t answer and let the point fester for the rest of the journey.
Scott ran the Piper’s demand over and over in his head, trying to make sense of it. He expected him to find, abduct, and deliver Redfern to him, all under the nose of the FBI. How the hell was he going to do that? Sheils wasn’t going to let him out of his sight for a second. Even if he were to give the Feds the slip, he didn’t have a vehicle to go after Redfern. The Piper was leading the FBI to Eugene, but Redfern lived an hour away from there by car. Scott didn’t stand a chance.
The motorcade stopped for gas outside Redding. Scott hadn’t realized how stiff he’d gotten until he had to walk. The air carried a chill, and Mount Shasta dominated the skyline. Sheils and his agents clustered around the gas pumps to talk. Scott caught the “Feds-only” vibe and made for the restrooms. He locked himself into the bathroom and called the Piper.
“Where are you?” the Piper asked.
“Redding. Look, there’s no way I can ditch the Feds.”
“Do they suspect you?”
“No, but I don’t go anywhere unescorted.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of them.”
“How?”
“Always the reporter, Scott,” the Piper lamented. “It’s all what, where, when, why, who, and how. None of that applies here. You’re in the realm of faith now.”
“With you as God?”
The Piper chuckled. “Now you’re learning. For now, play along with everything the FBI tells you.”
“But how am I supposed to lose them?”
“You’ll see.”
Those words preyed on Scott and carried him all the way to Eugene.
The FBI Portland Division was playing host with the support of the Eugene resident agency and had set themselves up in a hotel room. After introductions, there wasn’t a lot to do other than wait. The hours of inactivity wore Scott’s nerves raw. The Feds burst into action when the Piper called at eight p.m. They were a machine. Scott couldn’t see how the Piper was going to lure them away.
“Anytime you’re ready, Scott,” Brannon said.
Scott took his cell phone from the agent. Sheils listened in on a separate phone.
“Scott, I want you to drive out to South Twenty-Eighth Street in Springfield and stop when you reach a bridge,” the Piper said.
“Where’s that?”
“Ask Sheils. I’m sure he’s got a map. You’ve got twenty minutes. If you’re not there, I start hurting Sammy.”
“No, don’t. I’m on my way.” But Scott was talking to a dead line.
Play along, the Piper had told him. Obviously, now was the time.
“All right,” Sheils said. “This is it. Everyone knows their role. Now let’s catch this bastard.”
The agents pounced on phones, hurling calls out to a covert operations team holed up at a separate location. Conversations went on with the phone company, the local and state cops, and the pilots they had in the air. Sheils had this thing covered. There was no way in hell Scott was giving them the slip. The Piper had screwed up this time. He was getting too cute for his own good. Hands pressed into Scott’s back, ushering him out of the hotel room and down a corridor.
Brannon flung open the door to the hotel’s underground parking lot. One of the Portland agents clambered behind the wheel of a brand-new white Toyota Camry. He popped the trunk and hopped from the car, leaving all the doors open.
Sheils put the duffel with the two million on the front passenger seat. “The trackers are activated. You’re good to go.”
Sheils introduced Jim Taggart. “He’ll be with
you every step of the way, Scott.”
Taggart was a Portland-based FBI agent who looked to be in his midthirties and athletically built. He was clad in a blue-black jumpsuit with a heavy Kevlar vest, the letters FBI emblazoned across the front and back in gold letters. A fearsome automatic pistol hung off his belt. He climbed into the Toyota’s trunk and squeezed himself into its tight confines.
Scott had objected to having an agent ride with him, but Sheils overruled him. Now Scott feared for Taggart. The Piper would surely put a bullet in the agent when he found him, and Scott didn’t want another victim on his conscience.
“I’ve got your back, Scott,” Taggart said before an agent slammed the trunk lid down.
“Right, Scott,” Sheils said. “This is where the wild goose chase begins. He’s going to bounce you all over town. Don’t worry about it. Just follow his directions. The car has a tracker on it. Our teams will be close behind. Okay?”
Scott nodded and got behind the wheel. He’d lost the feeling in his fingers and toes, despite wearing gloves and thick gym socks.
“You’ve got eighteen minutes to make the rendezvous,” Brannon said.
Scott stamped on the gas and the Toyota’s tires shrieked on the polished concrete floor. The Camry came equipped with a GPS navigator. The navigator’s mechanical voice called out directions, and he followed them.
He eyed his rearview mirror and scanned the road ahead for the legion of FBI vehicles Sheils’s teams had on tap. There was no one in sight. He wondered how far back they had distanced themselves from him.
“Scott,” Taggart said from the trunk, his voice muffled, “got bad news, buddy. The cloud cover is too thick for the plane to see us on the ground.”
That was one factor taken care of. Scott tried to sound disappointed, but Taggart was quick to soothe him. “Don’t worry about it, Scott. It’s a minor setback. We’ve still got the surveillance teams, the electronics, and me. The Piper isn’t going anywhere.”
“Great.”
Scott pressed ahead. The directions took him out of the college town, and trees soon outnumbered properties. Even if the clouds hadn’t been a problem for surveillance aircraft, the tree cover would have been.
He drove east across Eugene, crossing I-5 to get to Springfield. He passed through the town and into a rural area. This made sense. There’d be fewer witnesses, and it forced the FBI to hang back, but their trackers covered that slack. The Piper was still far from shaking Sheils.
The navigator told him he’d arrived at his location, which proved to be a stretch of road crossing over a river with an aged Buick Century parked on the bridge. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the car. Was this it? Was this where he was supposed to act? Was he coming face-to-face with the Piper? His heart rate quickened and his blood pressure spiked.
He pulled up behind the Buick. The Toyota’s headlights lit up its driverless interior.
“What’s happening, Scott?” Taggart asked.
“I’ve reached the destination. There’s a car parked in front. It looks empty.”
Scott checked the dashboard clock. He’d arrived a minute early.
“Agent Sheils says don’t leave the car. Wait for the call.”
Scott peered into the gloom and wondered how close the Piper was to him. If he were close by, he would know that he’d arrived and call, but he didn’t. He was waiting until the prearranged time. That still didn’t mean he wasn’t hiding in the trees. Scott grabbed the cell from the passenger seat and thought about the Piper’s cell hidden in his pocket. He wondered which would ring first.
The moment the twenty-minute time limit expired, his own cell burst into life.
“What do you see before you?” the Piper asked.
Scott decided the Piper wasn’t close if he was asking this question. “An old Buick Century.”
“Well done. You made it. Take the Buick. The keys are in the ignition. But first, go to the river and dunk the bag of ransom money.”
“What?”
“Scott, the money is electronically tagged. Don’t deny it.”
“What about the money?”
“That’s the great thing about the US dollar. Waterproof inks. Now dunk the money. Sammy’s waiting.”
The river crossed under the road. Scott dragged the duffel from the car and clambered down the bank. He slipped on the wet grass and fell on his face. He held on to the cell, but the ransom flew from his grasp. The duffel rolled end over end, crashing into the water. He gathered himself up and snatched the duffel before it disappeared from sight. He let the money remain submerged to ensure every one of Sheils’s tracking devices shorted out. After a minute, he yanked the duffel free, now weighing twice what it did dry. He hefted the bag over to the Buick and dumped the sopping mess on the backseat.
“Now what?” Scott asked.
“Drive your car into the river.”
Scott hesitated because of Taggart. “Is that necessary?”
“Does it matter? It’s not like there’s someone hiding in the car with you, right, Scott?”
Scott didn’t answer.
“I have my eyes, Scott. I’ll see if you let him out. Now drive the car into the water.”
Scott cursed and ran back to the Toyota. This was why he hadn’t wanted anyone riding with him. Sheils couldn’t blame him for this. Taggart was on his own.
“Scott, toss this phone too. You won’t be needing it.”
Scott hurled the phone into the river and got behind the wheel. He jerked the selector into reverse and backed up.
“I’m sorry, Taggart,” he called out.
Taggart said something, but it was lost under the screaming tires when Scott floored the gas. The Toyota leapt forward. Scott kept the door pushed open with his hand, popped the trunk release, and bailed out when the Camry crashed over the curb. He struck the ground hard, sending jolts of pain up his arms and legs.
The Toyota smacked into the water. The impact stopped the car’s forward motion. Water engulfed the car’s cabin, dragging it down. The fast-moving current grabbed the sinking car and dragged it along.
Scott didn’t wait to see if Taggart had escaped from inside the trunk. He needed to delude himself. Taggart was okay. He was already swimming to the surface, safe and well. Scott got behind the wheel of the Buick and powered away.
The cell phone in his pocket rang.
“Where to now?” he asked the Piper.
“Drive to Oakridge. You’ve got thirty minutes. Follow the directions I left,” the Piper said, then hung up.
A map lay on the passenger seat next to him. He flicked on the dome light to check his directions, never once taking his foot off the gas. Oakridge took him into the Willamette National Forest. His destination seemed simple enough, as long as the FBI didn’t intercept him.
Could they, though? Taggart was gone. The trackers were disabled. The plane couldn’t fly. No one had a make on this Buick or the cell. What tricks did Sheils have left? He’d have to fall back on the old-fashioned methods, roadblocks and cops on every street corner. Sheils couldn’t mobilize in time. Scott would slip through his net. He relaxed his grip on the steering wheel and settled into his drive.
As he racked up the miles, his thoughts drifted from his driving to Jane. She had to be worried sick. He wished she were here. He considered calling her and eyed the cell phone.
He didn’t see the moving van until it was too late. It ran the stop sign and broadsided the Buick. The impact sounded like a bomb going off inside the car. The Buick’s passenger side deflated, and glass showered the car’s cabin. Scott’s head slammed into the door pillar, and his vision clouded over, leaving him dazed. Reflexively, he held on to the steering wheel as if he had some control over the car. Both vehicles slithered to an untidy halt on the roadway.
Panic ripped through Scott’s haze. The Buick was toast. He couldn’t deliver the ransom. The Piper would kill Sammy. The idiot truck driver had killed his son. He scrambled among the broken glass for the cell phone. H
e had to call the Piper and explain.
The truck driver jumped down from the cab and shouted at Scott to get out. His tone suggested the accident was Scott’s fault.
Scott’s fingers fell on the cell and he grabbed it. He shouldered the door open and clambered out. Blood from a head wound ran into his eyes. He palmed it away.
“I need a ride.”
“No, you don’t,” the trucker said.
The trucker was wearing a ski mask. Everything clicked. This was no accident.
“Scott, get the money,” the Piper said.
Scott staggered over to the rear door, wrenched it open, and rescued the still-sodden duffel.
The Piper carried a plastic gas can with a rag trailing from the end. He lit the rag and tossed the can on the Buick’s backseat. Fire spread through the car.
“Where’s Sammy?”
“Wrong question.”
The Piper drove a fist into Scott’s gut. The air in his lungs evaporated, and his legs buckled. He leaned against the Piper for support.
A sharp pain flared in his neck for an instant. He looked up to see the Piper jerk a hypodermic free. The drug took immediate effect, darkness engulfing him before he struck the ground.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sheils walked up to the burning wreck of a Buick sedan sitting in the middle of the road, halfway between Jasper and Pleasant Hill. The stink of melting radials ensured he didn’t get too close to the conflagration. Smoke curled from the tips of the flames into the night. The symbolism wasn’t lost on him. The ransom drop was going up in smoke. Yet again, the Piper had grabbed an operation and turned it on its head, and Sheils was forced to pick up the pieces. State and local cops were setting up roadblocks without any idea of who or what they were looking for. The word shambles sprang to mind.
Brannon had arrived before him and was in a heated discussion with the fire chief. The fire chief wanted to put out the fire. Brannon wanted the fire to burn itself out so as not to disturb any physical evidence. Sheils inserted himself into the argument, and the fire chief backed down. Not that the argument was necessary. The fire was almost out, having eaten through the car’s interior. Most of the paintwork was scorched off, but what was left was dark blue. It looked as if they’d found Scott Fleetwood’s second car.
