Deadly Echoes

by Philip Donlay

  Wordlessly, Donovan eased off on the throttle and slowed the Cessna to start his descent. He’d spotted the relatively open stretch of road and it matched the NASA image he’d printed. To the east of the road was a field of stumps where a thriving forest had once been. He widened out and began a low approach. With flaps down, he slowed the single-engine Cessna, descended until they were only fifty feet above the road, and gave the surface a good look as they flew over. Donovan saw tire marks and the surface looked firm enough to support the plane. It was certainly flat enough and long enough. Donovan poured the power to the engine, climbed up and away from the road, and swung around for the actual landing.

  “Make sure you’re strapped in tight, this could get a little rough. I need to land and leave enough runway in front of us to take off again.” As Donovan explained his plan, he swung the Cessna on final approach and slowed to sixty knots. Flying at half the approach speed of the Gulfstream, Donovan felt like they were hanging in the sky.

  He made tiny, yet meticulous, corrections using rudder and aileron to keep the 185 lined up straight. He guessed he only had four feet on either side of the main landing gear before the road fell off into a ditch. As they neared the ground, he came off the throttle, and the main gear lightly touched the surface.

  Donovan touched the brakes, and the airplane bounced and swayed as it slowed on the makeshift strip. Donovan used the brakes to bring the airplane to a dead stop. The propeller spun down and it was quiet. He opened the door and breathed in the pine-filled air. It had warmed up, so he peeled off his jacket, found his gun, and slid it under his belt. He jumped out of the cockpit to the ground, tested the soil under his feet, and found a firm mixture of gravel and wet clay. The Cessna had handled it well, tires sitting up nicely, not sunk into ruts.

  “Is there a problem?” Erica asked.

  Donovan looked at how much road remained in front of the 185. “No, I think we’re good. We should be able to fly out of here without any problems.”

  While Erica stretched away her stiffness, Donovan took in the area. Three hundred yards behind them, crows were raucously calling out to each other from the tops of the Douglas firs, shattering the quiet alpine morning. More crows arrived and joined the fray. Donovan wondered what had gotten their attention. Was it their arrival or was it something else?

  “Let’s grab our gear. I want to know what those crows are doing,” Donovan said as he transferred the gun from under his belt into his right hand and slung the backpack over his shoulder. According to the last coordinates from the Cessna’s GPS they were about a quarter of a mile from where they needed to be.

  “I’m ready,” Erica said as she secured her shoulder bag.

  “We’ll stay on the road as long as we can.” Donovan fell in beside her as they started walking.

  “Ugh, do you smell that?” Erica said, as she recoiled from the odor.

  Donovan, too, was hit by the same putrid smell. A sickly sweet rancid odor that was so thick he couldn’t get a full breath. He inwardly cursed Garrick, the stench reminded him of what he’d found on the Kaiyo Maru #7.

  “Oh, my God, that’s awful,” Erica leaned over, resting her hands on her knees. “I’ve observed an autopsy or two, but this is magnitudes worse.”

  Donovan tested the wind and then looked up at the trees for confirmation. “There’s not much wind, but it’s coming from the northwest. If we cut across that cleared area, closer to where the crows are, I think we’ll find what we came for.”

  Erica tied a bandana around her mouth and nose. Donovan did the same, and they set off over the uneven terrain. They encountered moss-covered rocks, standing water, and underbrush with needle-sharp prongs that tore at their flesh. Halfway across the clearing, they came to a faint trail that ran toward a stand of trees. The crows circled in a frenzy. Donovan headed down the path, and they walked underneath the tremendous green canopy of the rain forest. Weaving among the trees, ferns, and fallen limbs, they continued.

  “I remember this from the video,” Erica said, her voice muffled by the bandana. “I think this could be where we saw the man running.”

  Twenty more feet and Donovan came to a muddy stretch and pointed. “Look, boot prints.”

  “And footprints. We’re in the right place.”

  “A bear print,” Donovan said as he knelt, placing his hand inside the massive indention. “a big one.”

  “Donovan, stop!” Erica hissed. “On the trail, dead ahead, there’s a black bear.”

  Donovan spotted the adult bear in the dappled shadows about fifty yards in front of them. Slowly, he placed his left hand under his right and brought his weapon up to eye level. “Stay behind me and whatever you do, don’t run.”

  “Oh, God, we need to get out of here.” Erica pulled at the back of his shirt as she tried to move away, but Donovan held his ground.

  “No, we’ve come too far.” Donovan took a step forward. “Go away, bear! Get out of here!”

  The bear reacted by rising up on its hind legs, and Donovan felt Erica dig in while still clutching his shirt.

  “Get! Go away, bear!” Donovan powered forward, Erica reluctantly following.

  The bear dropped down on all fours and exhaled, a huff that couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than what it was—a warning.

  “Go on! Get out of here!” Donovan walked faster and squared his shoulders. “I said, go!”

  The bear lowered its head and without any prelude charged them. Erica screamed as the bear stayed low, its broad chest whipping the vegetation as it pounded closer, mounds of dirt thrown upward by huge paws.

  The bear covered half the distance in seconds. Donovan planted his feet and fired three of the heavy rounds that passed only feet over its head. The bear snorted loudly, dug its front paws into the soft ground, and stopped, the fur rippling on its back with the sudden maneuver. Donovan leveled his weapon and aimed it between the gigantic dark eyes staring at him from twenty feet away.

  “Go!” Donovan yelled. “Go on!”

  The bear pawed the ground and then swung its broad head back and forth. Donovan kept the sights trained on the bear and squeezed off one more round that threw up dirt inches in front of the bear’s nose. The bear turned and ambled off a few yards, stopped, eyed them again, and then turned and vanished in the undergrowth.

  “You are a goddamned crazy man!” Erica said, still clutching his shirt as she tried unsuccessfully to yank him around so she could face him. Undeterred, she sidestepped until she could make eye contact. “What were you thinking? That bear could have killed both of us!”

  “He didn’t want to kill us, he wanted us to go away.”

  “We should have done what the bear wanted. How can you be so calm? What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with me—I’m carrying a gun. It wasn’t like the bear was going to win.” Donovan shrugged, knowing from his years of flying that the worse the situation became, the calmer he felt. “Now let’s keep going before that bear comes back spoiling for another fight.”

  “Can you hear that?” Erica said.

  Donovan listened and finally heard a buzzing sound.

  “Insects—lots of them.” Erica looked around the forest. “We’re close.”

  Donovan moved as fast as he dared. He kept his head moving back and forth and occasionally behind, watching for predators. As they drew closer to the sound, the path opened up into a clearing exposing the shallow pit containing the bodies of the four men. Donovan looked away as clouds of flies rose, swarming overhead. The bodies weren’t in the same small pile as on the video. The bears and other scavengers had ravaged them, scattering them about, huge chunks of flesh and appendages were missing. Donovan felt his throat close off, his stomach lurch. His eyes were watering and he needed to flee this grisly place. Silently, he cursed Garrick for killing these men, blaming Eco-Watch, and then making Donovan travel here to see it firsthand. He glanced at Erica, wondering if he could even speak when over her shoulder he spotted a plasti
c bag fixed to a tree.

  He went to the tree, where a closer inspection revealed a simple plastic bag tacked to the bark. Inside, a picture of Meredith. Donovan instantly identified the backdrop as Alaska. Meredith was standing in front of the Trans-Alaska pipeline after a rupture had spilled 280,000 gallons of crude onto the tundra. He snapped the bag and picture off the tree and turned it over to see if anything was written in the back. To his surprise, he found Meredith’s flowing script: The earth always pays for the mistakes of man.

  “I recognize her,” Erica said, standing beside him. “That’s Meredith Barnes.”

  “It’s Garrick’s message.” Donovan handed the plastic envelope to her. “We need to get to the plane.”

  Scanning for bears, they hurried back to the plane, climbed in, and Donovan quickly went through the start procedures as before. He adjusted the trim, set the flaps, and made one last visual sweep of the panel. Once he was ready, he stood on the brakes and pushed the throttle all the way to the stops. The airframe shuddered and bucked against the forces as Donovan held the controls all the way back to keep the propeller from digging into the ground. When he released the brakes, the Cessna lurched forward. Donovan jockeyed the controls to keep them straight, the main tires plowing through some sand, losing a fraction of their momentum. Donovan’s eyes jumped back and forth between their airspeed and the trees dead ahead. He not only needed to get the Cessna into the air, he needed to clear the one-hundred-foot firs—it was going to be closer than he thought. Donovan eased back a touch on the controls and felt the wings strain to lift the airframe off the ground.

  He was running out of space as he coaxed the Cessna into the air. Their speed surged as they broke free from the dirt, and Donovan pulled back as much as he dared, his eyes glued to the airspeed indicator. If he flew too slow, they’d stall and the two of them would die a quick death as the Cessna lost lift and slammed nose first into the ground below. Dancing on the aerodynamic precipice, they roared toward the tops of trees, and in an instant they flashed past. Donovan expected the sound of branches hitting aluminum, but the 185 clawed skyward. He banked the plane southeast, reduced the power on the roaring engine, and raised the remaining flaps. He took a quick glance at Erica who sat wide-eyed, still gripping the armrests.

  “That was close,” she said as she turned to meet his gaze. “I mean, that was really close. We about crashed, didn’t we?”

  “Not even close.” Donovan slipped on his sunglasses, pulled his hat low, and shot her a mischievous grin. “We probably could have plowed through the top five feet of those trees and kept flying. The branches are pretty small at the top.”

  Erica leaned over, kissed him on the cheek, and then hesitated as her attention snapped into focus over his shoulder. “Oh, shit.”

  Donovan jerked his head around and found the helicopter, above and slightly behind them. He recognized it as a Eurocopter, overall white with red-and-yellow stripes that merged into a solid blue tail. Up near the rotor mast he spotted an emblem, a bison head ringed by oak leaves topped with a crown.

  “Who are they?” Erica sunk down in her seat.

  “Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Stay down, find your hat and glasses and put them on, tuck your hair up underneath like before,” Donovan said as he cinched up his seat belt.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We need to lose this guy.” Donovan’s eyes swept the terrain below, then the distant horizon. “Make sure your seat belt is good and tight.”

  Erica had just finished pulling on her beret, making her blond hair invisible. She pulled hard on her seat belt and turned toward Donovan. “How are we possibly going to shake this guy?”

  Without warning, Donovan threw the Cessna into a ninety-degree bank to the left and forced the nose almost straight down. The airplane built up speed quickly and Donovan nudged the airspeed up to the red line. He flattened out the descent and leveled the wings. He kept descending until they roared below the tops of the hills. At the entry into the first valley, they were at treetop level, going flat-out as Donovan hugged the contour of the terrain. Another valley opened up ahead and Donovan waited until the last second before making a hard turn to the east. He dropped the Cessna down low, flying just above a logging road, and allowed the speed to inch above the red line.

  “I don’t see them,” Erica yelled above the noise of the engine and the slipstream. Donovan looked for himself and found nothing but empty sky, but he understood it was only a temporary reprieve. The RCMP radio frequencies would be already buzzing as assets out ahead of them swung into action.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Lauren woke to a silent house and she struggled for a moment to collect her bearings. She was in Laguna Beach, the house Buck had arranged. She glanced at the clock and discovered it was late morning. She threw on a pair of sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt from William’s stock of clothes, grabbed the folded sheets of paper she’d been working on the night before, and in stocking feet went to check on her daughter. Abigail might sleep for another couple hours. She’d been excited last night to see Grandpa William, and, thankfully, the combination of travel and playing with William had worn her out. The door to Stephanie’s room was closed, so she was probably still asleep.

  Lauren went to the great room and through the expansive picture windows took in the Pacific Ocean.

  “Good morning,” William called from the kitchen. “Coffee?”

  Lauren turned to see William, he in his suit, standing with another man she didn’t recognize. The stranger was probably late-twenties, longish blond hair, unshaven. Definitely not FBI, maybe CIA. Curious, she joined them.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m security, Dr. McKenna, my name is Marcus.”

  “Are you a friend of Buck’s?”

  “No, ma’am, I never had the privilege of serving with Lt. Buckley, but it would have been an honor. I hear from my former commanding officer that he’s done some amazing things.”

  “Buck set all this up,” William said. “There’s a small team of people watching out for our safety.”

  “Have you been briefed on Nikolett Kovarik and what she managed to do in Paris?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Marcus’s eyes shot from Lauren to William and then back to Lauren. “I promise, Dr. McKenna. She won’t get past us.”

  “How many are in your detail?” Lauren asked.

  “There are five of us, ma’am. We’re running twenty-four-hour surveillance from multiple vantage points. The cliff out back goes straight down eighty feet all the way to the beach, there’re motion detectors and infrared cameras. There’s no way anyone gets in that way. We’re on a cul-de-sac on a quiet street. Only one way in or out. You’re safe, ma’am.”

  Lauren could hear Henri telling her the same thing not three days ago. Then she pictured him collapsing in the department store, Philippe shot multiple times before he succumbed, and Giselle coming to their rescue in the car only to take a bullet to the neck. “I hope so, Marcus, for all our sakes.” Lauren found some orange juice, poured a glass, then headed to the deck for the fresh morning air.

  “I’m sorry,” Marcus said. “I need to ask you to stay inside the house and try not to loiter in front of any open windows.”

  Instead of the inviting table and chairs in the sun, Lauren settled for the kitchen table. She switched on her phone. As soon as it powered up, she heard the beeping that meant she had multiple messages.

  First, she glanced at her e-mails, finding nothing of significance, and then she listened to her voice mail. The first was from Aaron calling from Paris, imploring her to make contact. The second was also Aaron, more or less demanding her to call. The third was her boss, Calvin Reynolds, at the Defense Intelligence Agency asking her to please check in with him, informing her that the CIA was anxious to speak with her. Once she was caught up, she shut her phone down again. All the calls were ones she’d expected. She’d hoped there would be at least one from Donovan, but that wasn’t the case. He was still
off the grid.

  “Mind if I join you?” William asked, holding a plateful of bagels.

  “Please,” Lauren jumped up, pulled out a chair for William, and then helped him set out plates and pour coffee. Once they were seated, she studied his familiar face and decided that in the preceding eight months since she’d seen him, he’d seemed to grow older. He still had his piercing intelligent eyes and wonderful smile, but the lines on his face seemed etched deeper, his skin tired and drawn. She wondered if he was thinking the same about her, because she knew it was a fact.

  “How do you feel?” William asked. “Did you get any sleep?”

  “A little, my body is still out of whack and probably will be for a couple of days. Is there anything new going on? Has anyone heard from Donovan?”

  “No, Donovan is still underground.” William took a sip of coffee. “A couple of things were reported this morning. I’m still in the loop with the FBI, and they called with news out of Vancouver. The authorities believe they found the British Columbia connection to the poachers.”

  “Any survivors?” Lauren had begun to assume that any people Garrick touched were murdered.

  “No.” William shook his head. “The FBI didn’t have any details, but they suspect the group was involved in the procurement and smuggling of the gallbladders once they arrived in Vancouver.”

  “So we can assume that Donovan is someplace in British Columbia? He went to find where the video was made.” Lauren shot a questioning look at William. “Garrick is leaving pictures of Meredith. They’re clues, aren’t they? Donovan figured out what they mean and now he thinks he has to get there before the authorities.”

  “Something like that. The plan has its merits.”

  “Let’s move on, you said there were a couple of things reported this morning. What happened besides Vancouver?”

  “The Orange County sheriff’s office found two bodies in an apartment not far from here in Laguna Hills. A young couple found in a ransacked apartment, killed by carefully placed shots to the back of the head.”