Trouble in Mind: The Collected Stories, Volume 3

by Jeffery Deaver

  Dance thought this curious. The Brothers of Liberty apparently had a religious side, even if they weren’t born-again fanatics. She would have thought the target might be Islamic or Jewish.

  “Have the victims done anything to your organization personally?”

  Thinking police or law enforcement or government.

  “Six. No.”

  “You’re targeting them on ideological grounds?”

  “Seven. Yes.”

  She asked, “Will it be in Monterey County?”

  “Number eight. Yes.”

  “In the city of…” No, if she followed those lines of questioning, she’d use up all the questions just asking about the many towns and unincorporated areas in Monterey County. “Will it be near the water?”

  “Sloppy question. Expect better from you, Ms. Firecracker. Do-over. Near the what?”

  Stupid of her, Dance realized, her heart pounding. There were a number of bodies of water and rivers in the area. And don’t ask about the ocean. Technically, Monterey wasn’t on the Pacific. “Will it be within a half mile of Monterey Bay?”

  “Good!” he said, enjoying himself. “Yes. That was nine. Almost halfway there.”

  And she could see he was telling the truth completely. Every answer was delivered according to his kinesic baseline.

  “Do you and Gabe Paulson have a partner helping you in the event?”

  One eyebrow rose. “Yes. Number ten. You’re halfway to saving all them poor folks, Kathryn.”

  “Is the third person a member of the Brothers of Liberty?”

  “Yes. Eleven.”

  She was thinking hard, unsure how to finesse the partner’s existence into helpful information. She changed tack. “Do the victims need tickets to get into the venue?”

  “Twelve. I want to play fair. I honestly don’t know. But they did have to sign up and pay. That’s more than I should give you, but I’m enjoying this.” And indeed it seemed that Keplar was.

  She was beginning to form some ideas.

  “Is the venue a tourist attraction?”

  “Thirteen. Yes, I’d say so. At least near tourist attractions.”

  Now she felt safe using one of her geographical questions. “Is it in the city of Monterey?”

  “No. Fourteen.”

  “Carmel?”

  “No. Fifteen.”

  Dance kept her own face neutral. What else should she be asking? If she could narrow it down a bit more, and if Michael O’Neil and his Crime Scene team came up with other details, they might cobble together a clear picture of where the attack would take place then evacuate every building in the area.

  “How you doing there, Kathryn? Feeling the excitement of a good game? I sure am.” He looked at the clock. Dance did, too. Hell, time had sped by during this exchange. It was now 2:42.

  She didn’t respond to his question, but tried a different tack. “Do your close friends know what you’re doing?”

  He frowned. “You want to use question sixteen for that? Well, your choice. Yes.”

  “Do they approve?”

  “Yes, all of them. Seventeen. Getting all you need here, Kathryn? Seems you’re getting off track.”

  But she wasn’t. Dance had another strategy. She was comfortable with the information she had—tourist area, near the water, a paid-for event, Christmas related, a few other facts—and with what O’Neil found, she hoped they could narrow down areas to evacuate. Now she was hoping to convince him to confess by playing up the idea raised earlier. That by averting the attack he’d still score some good publicity but wouldn’t have to go to jail forever or die by lethal injection. Even if she lost the Twenty Questions game, which seemed likely, she was getting him to think about the people he was close to, friends and family he could still spend time with—if he stopped the attack.

  “And family—do your siblings approve?”

  “Question eighteen. Don’t have any. I’m an only child. You only got two questions left, Kathryn. Spend ’em wisely.”

  Dance hardly heard the last sentences. She was stunned.

  Oh, no…

  His behavior when he’d made the comment about not having siblings—a bald lie—was identical to that of the baseline.

  During the entire game he’d been lying.

  Their eyes met. “Tripped up there, didn’t I?” He laughed hard. “We’re off the grid so much, didn’t think you knew about my family. Shoulda been more careful.”

  “Everything you just told me was a lie.”

  “Thin air. Whole cloth. Pick your cliché, Ms. Firecracker. Had to run the clock. There’s nothing on God’s green earth going to save those people.”

  She understood now what a waste of time this had been. Wayne Keplar was probably incapable of being kinesically analyzed. The Ten Commandments Principle didn’t apply in his case. Keplar felt no more stress lying than he did telling the truth. Like serial killers and schizophrenics, political extremists often feel they are doing what’s right, even if those acts are criminal or reprehensible to others. They’re convinced of their own moral rectitude.

  “Look at it from my perspective. Sure, we would’ve gotten some press if I’d confessed. But you know reporters—they’d get tired of the story after a couple days. Two hundred dead folk? Hell, we’ll be on CNN for weeks. You can’t buy publicity like that.”

  Dance pushed back from the table and, without a word, stepped outside.

  * * *

  MICHAEL O’NEIL SPRINTED past ghosts.

  The Monterey area is a place where apparitions from the past are ever present.

  The Ohlone Native Americans, the Spanish, the railroad barons, the commercial fishermen…all gone.

  And the soldiers, too, who’d inhabited Fort Ord and the other military facilities that once dotted the Monterey Peninsula and defined the economy and the culture.

  Gasping and sweating despite the chill and mist, O’Neil jogged past the remnants of barracks and classrooms and training facilities, some intact, some sagging, some collapsed.

  Past vehicle pool parking lots, supply huts, rifle ranges, parade grounds.

  Past signs that featured faded skulls and crossed bones and pink explosions.

  UXO…

  The suspect wove through the area desperately and the chase was exhausting. The land had been bulldozed flat in the 1930s and ’40s for the construction of the base but the dunes had reclaimed much of the landscape, rippled mounds of blond sand, some of them four stories high.

  The perp made his way through these valleys in a panicked run, falling often, as did O’Neil because of the dicey traction—and the fast turns and stop-and-go sprinting when what looked like a potential explosives stash loomed.

  O’Neil debated about parking a slug in the man’s leg, though that’s technically a no-no. Besides, O’Neil couldn’t afford to miss and kill him.

  The suspect chugged along, gasping, red-faced, the deadly backpack over his shoulder bouncing.

  Finally, O’Neil heard the thud thud thud of rotors moving in.

  He reflected that a chopper was the only smart way to pursue somebody through an area like this, even if it wasn’t technically a minefield. The birds wouldn’t trip the explosives, as long as they hovered.

  And what were the odds that he himself would detonate some ordnance, mangling his legs?

  What about the kids then?

  What about his possible life with Kathryn Dance?

  He decided that those questions were pointless. This was military ordnance. He’d end up not an amputee but a mass of red jelly.

  The chopper moved closer. God, they were loud. He’d forgotten that.

  The suspect stopped, glanced back and then turned right, disappearing fast behind a dune.

  Was it a trap? O’Neil started forward slowly. But he couldn’t see clearly. The chopper was raising a turbulent cloud of dust and sand. O’Neil waved it back. He pointed his weapon ahead of him and began to approach the valley down which the perp had disappeared.


  The helicopter hovered closer yet. The pilot apparently hadn’t seen O’Neil’s hand gestures. The sandstorm grew fiercer. Some completely indiscernible words rattled from a loudspeaker.

  “Back, back!” O’Neil called, uselessly.

  Then, in front of him, he noticed what seemed to be a person’s form, indistinct in the miasma of dust and sand. The figure was moving in.

  Blinking, trying to clear his eyes, he aimed his pistol. “Freeze!”

  Putting some pressure on the trigger. The gun was double-action now and it would take a bit of poundage to fire the first round.

  Shoot, he told himself.

  But there was too much dust to be sure this was in fact the perp. What if it was a hostage or a lost hiker?

  He crouched and staggered forward.

  Damn chopper! Grit clotted his mouth.

  Which was when a second silhouette, smaller, detached from the first and seemed to fly through the gauzy air toward him.

  What was—?

  The blue backpack struck him in the face. He fell backward, tumbling to the ground, the bag resting beside his legs. Choking on the sand, Michael O’Neil thought how ironic it was that he’d survived a UXO field only to be blown to pieces by a bomb the perp had brought with him.

  * * *

  THE BANKERS’ ASSOCIATION holiday party was under way. It had started, as they always did, a little early. Who wanted to deny loans or take care of the massive paperwork of approved ones when the joy of the season beckoned?

  Carol and Hal were greeting the CCCBA members at the door, showing them where to hang coats, giving them gift bags and making sure the bar and snacks were in good supply.

  The place did look magical. She’d opted to close the curtains—on a nice summer day the water view might be fine but the fog had descended and the scenery was gray and gloomy. Inside, though, with the holiday lights and dimmed overheads, the banquet room took on a warm, comfy tone.

  Hal was walking around in his conservative suit, white shirt and oversized Santa hat. People sipped wine and punch, snapped digital pictures and clustered, talking about politics and sports and shopping and impending vacations.

  Also, a lot of comments about interest rates, the Fed, and the euro.

  With bankers you couldn’t get away from shop talk. Ever.

  “We heard there’s a surprise, Carol,” one of the members called.

  “What?” came another voice.

  “Be patient,” she said, laughing. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, now would it?”

  When the party seemed to be spinning along on its own, she walked to the stage and tested the PA system once again. Yes, it was working fine.

  Thank goodness.

  The “surprise” depended on it. She’d arranged for the chorus from one of her grandsons’ high schools to go up onstage and present a holiday concert, traditional and modern Christmas and Hanukkah songs. She glanced at her watch. The kids would arrive at about 3:45. She’d heard the youngsters before and they were very good.

  Carol laughed to herself, recalling the entertainment at last year’s party. Herb Ross, a VP at First People’s Trust, who’d injested close to a quart of the “special” punch, had climbed on the table to sing—and even worse (or better, for later water cooler stories) to act out—the entire “Twelve Days of Christmas” himself, the leaping lords being the high point.

  * * *

  KATHRYN DANCE SPENT A PRECIOUS ten minutes texting and talking to a number of people in the field and here at headquarters.

  It seemed that outside the surreality of the interrogation room, the investigation hadn’t moved well at all. Monterey’s Forensic Services Unit was still analyzing trace connected with the Taurus and the suspects’ pocket litter and Abbott Calderman said they might not have any answers for another ten or fifteen minutes.

  Lord, she thought.

  Michael O’Neil, when last heard from, had been pursuing the third conspirator in the abandoned army base. A police chopper had lost him in a cloud of dust and sand. She’d had a brief conversation with FBI agent Steve Nichols in a nearby mobile command post, who’d said, “This Paulson isn’t saying anything. Not a word. Just stares at me. I’d like to waterboard him.”

  “We don’t do that,” Dance had reminded.

  “I’m just daydreaming,” Nichols had muttered and hung up.

  Now, returning to the interrogation room with Wayne Keplar, Dance looked at the clock on the wall.

  3:10.

  “Hey,” said Wayne Keplar, eyeing it briefly, then turning his gaze to Dance. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

  Dance sat across the table from him. It was clear she wasn’t going to power a confession out of him, so she didn’t bother with the tradecraft of kinesic interviewing. She said, “I’m sure it’s no surprise that, before, I tried to analyze your body language and was hoping to come up with a way to pressure you into telling me what you and Gabe and your other associate had planned.”

  “Didn’t know that about the body language. But makes sense.”

  “Now I want to do something else, and I’m going to tell you exactly what that is. No tricks.”

  “Shoot. I’m game.”

  Dance had decided that traditional analysis and interrogation wouldn’t work with someone like Wayne Keplar. His lack of affect, his fanatic’s belief in the righteousness of his cause made kinesics useless. Content-based analysis wouldn’t do much good either; this is body language’s poor cousin, seeking to learn whether a suspect is telling the truth by considering if what he says makes sense. But Keplar was too much in control to let slip anything that she might parse for clues about deception and truth.

  So she was doing something radical.

  Dance now said, “I want to prove to you that your beliefs—what’s motivating you and your group to perform this attack—they’re wrong.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. Intrigued.

  This was a ludicrous idea for an interrogator. One should never argue substance with a suspect. If a man is accused of killing his wife, your job is to determine the facts and, if it appears that he did indeed commit murder, get a confession or at least gather enough information to help investigators secure his conviction.

  There’s no point in discussing the right or wrong of what he did, much less the broader philosophical questions of taking lives in general or violence against women, say.

  But that was exactly what she was going to do now.

  Poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue once more, thoughtful, Keplar said, “Do you even know what our beliefs are?”

  “I read the Brothers of Liberty website. I—”

  “You like the graphics? Cost a pretty penny.”

  A glance at the wall. 3:14.

  Dance continued. “You advocate smaller government, virtually no taxes, decentralized banking, no large corporations, reduced military, religion in public schools. And that you have the right to violent civil disobedience. Along with some racial and ethnic theories that went out of fashion in the 1860s.”

  “Well, ’bout that last one—truth is, we just throw that in to get checks from rednecks and border control nuts. Lot of us don’t really feel that way. But, Ms. Firecracker, you done your homework, sounds like. We’ve got more positions than you can shake a stick at but those’ll do for a start…So, argue away. This’s gonna be as much fun as Twenty Questions. But just remember, maybe I’ll talk you into my way of thinking, hanging up that tin star of yours and coming over to the good guys. What do you think about that?”

  “I’ll stay open-minded, if you will.”

  “Deal.”

  She thought back to what she’d read on the group’s website. “You talk about the righteousness of the individual. Agree up to a point, but we can’t survive as individuals alone. We need government. And the more people we have, with more economic and social activity, the more we need a strong central government to make sure we’re safe to go about our lives.”

  “That’s sad,
Kathryn.”

  “Sad?”

  “Sure. I have more faith in humankind than you do, sounds like. We’re pretty capable of taking care of ourselves. Let me ask you: You go to the doctor from time to time, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “But not very often, right? Pretty rare, hmm? More often with the kids, I’ll bet. Sure, you have kids. I can tell.”

  She let this go with no reaction.

  3:17.

  “But what does the doctor do? Short of broken bone to set, the doctor tells you pretty much to do what your instinct told you. Take some aspirin, go to bed, drink plenty of fluids, eat fiber, go to sleep. Let the body take care of itself. And ninety percent of the time, those ideas work.” His eyes lit up. “That’s what government should do: Leave us alone ninety percent of the time.”

  “And what about the other ten percent?” Dance asked.

  “I’ll give you that we need, let’s see, highways, airports, national defense…Ah, but what’s that last word? ‘Defense.’ You know, they used to call it the ‘War Department.’ Well, then some public relations fellas got involved and ‘War’ wouldn’t do anymore, so they changed it. But that’s a lie. See, it’s not just defense. We go poking our noses into places that we have no business being.”

  “The government regulates corporations that would exploit people.”

  He scoffed. “The government helps ’em do it. How many congressmen go to Washington poor and come back rich? Most of them.”

  “But you’re okay with some taxes?”

  He shrugged. “To pay for roads, air traffic control and defense.”

  3:20.

  “The SEC for regulating stocks?”

  “We don’t need stocks. Ask your average Joe what the stock market is and they’ll tell ya it’s a way to make money or put something away for your retirement fund. They don’t realize that that’s not what it’s for. The stock market’s there to let people buy a company, like you’d go to a used car lot to buy a car. And why do you want to buy a company? Beats me. Maybe a few people’d buy stock because they like what the company does or they want to support a certain kind of business. That’s not what people want them for. Do away with stocks altogether. Learn to live off the land.”