Never Back Down

by William Casey Moreton

  He dropped into his desk chair and booted up his PC. Then he glanced up and saw a woman in the corner aiming a gun at his head. He didn’t recognize her face. He’d never seen her before. He searched through his memory as quickly as humanly possible and he still came up with a big fat goose egg.

  Eva DuPont came out of the corner holding the gun steady. The muzzle was fitted with a long silencer. She touched a finger to her lips, warning him not to speak.

  Folston nodded, knowing full well that she could put a bullet between his eyes before a word could make it out of his mouth.

  78

  The digital photo alone had gotten no results with any government agency, domestic or international. Thorough searches had been done for the names Caspian and Gerard Kleurrman, but nothing turned up. A thumbprint, though, did slightly better.

  The thumbprint came by fax to Mr. Armstrong’s war room. Armstrong had forwarded it to his source at the NSA and waited.

  It took an hour to get a hit.

  Interpol was able to link the thumbprint to the passport for a Norwegian citizen named Mikel Starsgaard. A copy of the passport photo was forwarded through various channels to Mr. Armstrong’s secure email account where he opened it on his home computer.

  The face in the passport photo matched the face in the digital photo Smith had sent from New York a few hours previous. The man in the passport photo had a mustache and glasses, but Armstrong was confident it was the same individual. He was certain that Starsgaard was Caspian. It was a small moment of encouragement. Armstrong quickly responded to the email requesting that Interpol provide him with any information they had available on the Norwegian, Mikel Starsgaard, but before his request to Interpol could even be received, seven new messages appeared in his inbox.

  Armstrong opened them one at a time, and with each one, he felt the bile rising in his throat. Each of the seven messages contained a JPEG of a separate passport ID. The passports had been issued by seven different countries to seven separate individuals, all male, with personal information that varied by only a small degree. The birthdays were off by one year and one day. And most importantly, the passport photos were of the same man, with varying minor alterations in appearance: hair, mustache, glasses, eye color. But clearly, it was the same man in each of the photos. It was Caspian. Or Kleurrman. Or Starsgaard, or any of at least seven other aliases.

  79

  Coburn thanked Elvis and they walked slowly back to the rental car. They both felt like they’d taken a kick to the solar plexus. Coburn held the door and followed Sabrina into the glare of daylight.

  She walked close at his side, her arms folded over her chest. Coburn glanced down at her. Her eyes lingered on the pavement ahead of her.

  Most of the momentum they had built up heading into D.C. felt drained.

  “There has to be a mistake,” Sabrina said, without shifting her gaze from the lines in the sidewalk. “Someone somewhere in the food chain jacked up. We have the jungle photo. That’s physical proof that at least Ripley was a Marine, even if the other two names are wrong.”

  “I’ll admit I never saw that coming. I was prepared for crazy, but nothing close to that.”

  Sabrina stopped suddenly and turned to face him. “What the hell is going on, Coburn? Did we just spend twenty-four hours chasing a rabbit down some long damn rabbit hole? Because I could have lived without the drama. I could have lived without the journey to the freaking Yukon. And I sure as hell could have lived without this little detour getting my hopes up that I could avenge my sister. Standing here looking at some dude who was a total stranger to me forty-eight hours ago, I’m getting the feeling I might have been better off putting my faith in the NYPD to get results. And you have no idea how gross that makes me feel inside. Makes me want to puke my guts out, actually.”

  Coburn said nothing.

  She took a deep breath and glanced away a beat, and then she continued.

  “You know, I didn’t ask for you to knock on my door. All I wanted to do was grieve. I’d lost my sister. My best friend. The only human being I ever really loved in this world. And I’d known about her murder all of like ten bloody minutes. Then you show up while I’m in the middle of melting down and say hey, let’s get medieval on this guy. So right now, right here, as tired and as pissed as I am, a major part of me wishes you would have left me alone to get drunk and deal with it all in my own way!”

  Coburn said, “You’re probably right. I probably deserve that. Maybe I shouldn’t have interfered, but I thought I could help. I still think I can, but I’m prepared to take you home and walk away if that’s what you prefer. Up until five minutes ago I thought we might be getting close. Now I’m more confused than ever, but I don’t believe giving up is the solution.”

  “The cops say Ripley is dead and Elvis’s friends in St. Louis say he was never a Marine or anything else, so why should I believe you when you tell me you saw this guy with my sister? Maybe you really are crazy. Maybe there’s something wrong in your head. You might even be dangerous. The truth is, I don’t know a thing about you. Should I be worried? Seriously.”

  They found the rental and Coburn dropped the transmission into reverse and backed out of the spot, then wheeled the car into traffic.

  “I’ll admit I’m confused by the way things are adding up, but I can assure you I’m not crazy. Forget what the cops said. Ripley is very much alive. I’m still processing what Elvis told us because I’m convinced Ripley was a Marine.”

  “What about Rooney and Valentine?”

  “There has to be a connection.”

  “Do you have a gut feeling about them?”

  Coburn nodded. “My gut says all three of them were Marines. All three were Special Ops. Just like the photo shows.”

  “Well, apparently there’s no way to prove that.”

  Coburn said, “Get out your cell.”

  “Why?”

  “We need to call Clover.”

  • • •

  Coburn told Clover they needed a favor and described the details.

  Clover said, “No problem. Give me half an hour.”

  Clover took the elevator up and spent the half hour on Chaz’s Mac Book. When she finished, she leaned against the Subzero and dialed them back.

  Coburn was winding the rental back through the city toward the airport. He hoped Clover would give them something useful before they got the Cessna back into the air, but he wasn’t counting on it.

  “I hope you have low expectations,” Clover said, right out of the gate.

  “Find anything at all?” Coburn asked.

  “Next to nothing.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  “I Googled those names, Valentine and Rooney. I plugged in some of the variables you gave me, specifically Military, Marine, Marine Corps, and obituary. Let me just say, that’s thirty minutes of my life I’d like to have back.”

  “There had to be something.”

  “I also did a search on the name Brian Ripley. I looked for anything military related and came up empty. I found no evidence whatsoever that he was in the service. The same with Kyle Rooney and Dustin Valentine. Which, by the way, Rooney and Valentine aren’t uncommon names. Good luck sifting through that trail of digital crap.”

  “Were there any records at all?”

  “No, especially not on Rooney. I couldn’t find a single Kyle Rooney. I even spelled his name a dozen different ways. As far as the World Wide Web is concerned, that guy never existed, and really, Valentine was every bit as bad. I clicked on a few dozen links at random, but I wouldn’t hang my hat on any info from any of them.”

  “Give me an example.”

  “Sure. How about George D. Valentine? He served in Vietnam, then later worked as an accountant in Tupelo until cigarettes killed him at sixty-three. Nice life. I read his obit and wanted to hang myself. I followed a link to some dude named Marshall Dwight Valentine. It was just a random public record. A land dispute or something. I followed up and did a specific sea
rch on him and did not find a single other link. Then, there was the guy with the train.”

  “What about the train?”

  Clover said, “I love these stories. Dude’s car stalled out on the tracks. Apparently he couldn’t get it started and couldn’t get out. The train waxed him. There was not enough left of his Chevette but enough metal to fit in a shoebox. The few remains of the body they found were nice and crispy.” She cackled again. “Baby, you just can’t make that stuff up.”

  “Did it give a name?”

  “The train story? Yeah, give me a sec. Have to scroll back through my history. Here it is. They found the plate. It was a twisted mess. The car was owned by an Andrew Dustin Valentine.”

  “What year?”

  “Article is dated September of ’93.”

  Sabrina met his eyes.

  “That’s seventeen years ago,” Sabrina said.

  Coburn nodded.

  He asked, “Does it give his age?”

  A half-minute passed.

  “No,” Clover answered.

  “Where did the accident happen?”

  “Florida, just outside of Tampa.”

  “Was there an obit?” he asked.

  “Yeah. It was sparse. It said Valentine was survived by his maternal grandparents. Kind of sparse on details.”

  “No parents, no wife, no siblings?”

  “No, and no children either. At least none mentioned.”

  “What’s it say about the grandparents?”

  “Bare minimum. Norman and Blair Vanderhook of Maryland,” Clover said.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Thanks for doing that for me, Clover.”

  “You owe me.”

  “Yes I do. I’m going to buy you dinner.”

  “I could use a good steak. Medium-rare.”

  “It’s a date.”

  80

  They stood in the glow cast by the Tahoe’s headlights and listened to the patter of water on the concrete as Smith washed his hands. Miller held a gallon jug and poured the water a little at a time. There was no plumbing for running water so the gallon jug had to do. The puddle of blood-tinted water was beginning to snake off into several random tributaries across the slab floor.

  Caspian still wasn’t talking. The green garbage bag had been placed back over his head. Now it was time to leave Caspian alone to think about it awhile. Smith understood the importance of patience. Caspian was in immense pain and it was vital to give him time to live with the pain and to want the pain to end.

  Smith was a patient man. He knew how to get results. His training had been thorough. Torture came naturally to him. However, it was becoming increasingly clear that Mr. Armstrong was not.

  • • •

  Mr. Armstrong’s patience had all but come to an end.

  The group had expected quicker results. They were growing less and less satisfied with the momentum of forward progress. Armstrong wanted to see Caspian for himself. He dialed Folston, but got no answer. Then he dialed Smith and said, “I’ve waited long enough. I’m coming to Manhattan.”

  81

  A short argument followed. Smith didn’t want Armstrong in New York. It was a bad idea, he insisted. He said they’d been clear from the start that Armstrong needed to stay away and let them take care of their brutal business, but Armstrong was firm. Smith told him to call Folston.

  “He didn’t answer his phone,” Armstrong replied.

  “Let me try him,” Smith said.

  Smith dialed Folston’s cell and ended the call when voicemail answered. Then he dialed Folston’s office. The line rang forever with no answer. No machine. No voicemail.

  Smith had gone outside. A gray shelf of cloud had settled over the city. He could see rain, still in the distance. The shower was moving but hadn’t made it to their side of the island yet. It would be there soon enough.

  He needed to get hold of Folston to have him talk sense into Armstrong. Armstrong was too impatient. Patience was absolutely necessary in the torture game. The best results came from long hours of careful manipulation and applied pain.

  Smith dialed both numbers again.

  Still no answer.

  He called Armstrong back.

  “Don’t move a muscle until you hear from Folston,” he said.

  Armstrong was steamed.

  “No one tells me what to do,” he said. “I’ll call you in an hour.”

  • • •

  The next argument was during a call from Armstrong to Kyle Taubman and Lucas Krauss. Armstrong spoke to them on his cell as the elevator took him to the third level of his sprawling home. Taubman was walking along a row at his vineyard in California. Lucas’s caregiver had answered the phone and passed it to the old man. Lucas was as abrasive as ever.

  “I’m losing faith,” Armstrong told them.

  “Settle down,” Taubman said. “We knew this might take time.”

  “No, I have a bad feeling. We’ve made a major investment to find this man, and I want to oversee the proceedings. One of us should be there. It should be me. I’m going to New York.”

  “Not wise,” Taubman said. “You cannot risk the exposure. If the Feds catch wind of any of this, they will shut us down. They will seize everything we’ve found, destroy our progress, and Al-Islam will be gone. Crimes have now been committed on U.S. soil. We will lose any sympathy. The Feds might even leak this to the media. But most importantly, they will take Caspian and we will never get close to Al-Islam ever again.”

  Lucas Krauss mumbled something mostly incoherent on the line, a slurred string of expletives. His caregiver had given him his first round of meds for the day and was preparing him for a nap. It was very likely he was simply beginning to dissolve mentally.

  “I’m not going to sit and wait and waste valuable time,” Armstrong told them. “I intend to put my hands on Caspian and put my arm down his throat and extract the answers with my fist.”

  “Put your ego aside,” Taubman advised him. “You’re going to get in your own way.”

  “I’ll be in the city in a few hours.”

  “Don’t do it,” Taubman said.

  “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  “Don’t be a prick, Armstrong.”

  “I’m taking the helicopter.”

  “The feds will figure it out, then we’re screwed.”

  “I’m going.”

  “At least have Folston bring Caspian to you. It’s safer than doing it in New York.”

  • • •

  Armstrong liked the idea. He called Folston, but there was no answer, so he dialed Smith.

  “Bring Caspian to me,” he ordered. “Bring him to my island.”

  Smith wasn’t pleased. He dropped off the line and dialed Folston at both numbers, but there was still no answer.

  82

  Smith had his men start the process of packing up the equipment. A great debate was raging inside his head. He had underestimated Armstrong’s ego and need to control. Now Armstrong was threatening to put a delicate situation in jeopardy.

  Armstrong had called to say he wanted Smith to bring Caspian out to his mansion. It was a bad idea, because, for the moment Smith had the situation controlled and stabilized. But Armstrong was refusing to listen to reason. Smith still couldn’t get hold of Folston, which sent up a thousand red flags. Folston was the go-between, the liaison between Armstrong and Smith’s team. He needed Folston to talk some sense into Armstrong because the old man was trying to step into territory where he had no experience.

  Smith stood with one shoulder against a brick wall in the shadows between two buildings and listened to the call ring through. He was getting a bad feeling in his gut. Folston had never been this difficult to reach. It was a bad sign. Smith forced down the dark thoughts that had begun to rise in the back of his mind and focused instead on moving forward.

  If they had to transport Caspian out of the city, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.

  8
3

  They had an address for a Norman and Blair Vanderhook in Silver Spring, Maryland. It was only a guess that the address was current and that those people were in any way related to the names mentioned in the Valentine obituary.

  Coburn saw the name Vanderhook on a mailbox and turned the rental into the drive and killed the motor.

  A white Toyota Tacoma pickup was parked in the other half of the driveway. Coburn glanced at it through the glass on Sabrina’s side. They got out of the car and walked around the back of the Toyota toward the front of the house.

  The house was a single story with gray asphalt shingles. The vinyl siding looked slightly mismatched, as though the original house had started out small and slowly expanded. Coburn glanced between the slots in the wooden fence at the side of the house and saw a smaller building standing at the farthest edge of the backyard. It looked like a workshop.

  He turned his attention back to the front drapes which were closed.

  Coburn pressed the button on the side of the door. He saw someone peek through the drapes. He and Sabrina heard the bolt turn, and then the door opened against the chain.

  “May I help you?” It was a woman’s voice, rattling with tar from a lifetime of cigarettes.

  “Mrs. Vanderhook?”

  There was a small hesitation, and then, “Um, yes.”

  Coburn smiled and raised a hand in greeting. Both he and Sabrina were standing on the only step between the porch and the sidewalk.

  “My name is John Coburn,” he said. “I’d like to ask you some questions about your grandson, Dustin.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I’m busy.”

  “Dustin Valentine,” Coburn said. “We found his obituary on the Internet and it said he was survived by his grandparents. If we have the wrong address, I apologize.”

  The door eased shut and Coburn heard the bolt turn.