by G. M. Ford
“She’s a very private woman.” He sat there shaking his head.
“You promised.”
“I didn’t promise to go anywhere other than L.A.”
“You promised to do everything you could to help me wind up this story.” Corso opened his mouth to protest but changed his mind and shut it again. Cars zipped by on the highway. An eighteen-wheeler ripped the air.
“I’m gonna need a map,” he said.
“Where are we going?”
He told her.
“Where’s that.”
“Up in the mountains.”
“How far?”
He checked his watch. “We should get there before dark.”
35
Special Agent Westerman closed her cell phone with a snap. “I’ll be damned,” she said with a wry grin. “You were right.”
Rosen smiled. “Tell me.”
“As soon as the first unit dropped off their tail, lo and behold if Mr. Corso didn’t suddenly appear in the passenger seat. They drove another fifty miles down the road, then pulled over. They bought gas and a map of California. One-twelve fifty-nine, on her American Manhunt credit card. Harris called her producer in L.A.” She sensed his next question. “She wasn’t on long enough for us to pick up on the call.”
“Pity.”
“Then an hour or so and about eighty miles later they get off they freeway at exit one-fifteen, the Mountainview Highway exit, heading up into the Sierras. I don’t know where they’re headed. but it’s sure as heck not L.A.”
“Good.”
“We’ve got an electronic transponder on the RV and two units doing ground surveillance. We’ve also got a pair of units on her producer, who, as of an hour ago, was on his way to LAX.”
“Too bad we don’t have an ear inside the RV.”
“She showed up before they could get it in place.”
Rosen nodded his understanding. “Tell them to keep their dis tance. Make sure they don’t get made. With the electronics in place on the RV there’s no sense crowding them.”
She assured Rosen that she’d relay his message to the agents in the field.
“How’d you know?” she asked. “Is this one of those esoteric things an agent only learns to sense after thirty years in the Bureau?”
He laughed and waved the idea away. “I didn’t know,” he said.
“It was a shot in the dark. Sometimes they pan out, sometimes they don’t.” He showed his palms. “Better to be lucky than good.”
“What now?”
“We wait.”
“Be still my heart.”
She began to walk around the carpet in tight circles.
“You had lunch?” he asked.
She said she hadn’t and kept on walking.
Next time she walked by, he caught her elbow in his hand.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ll spend a little of the Bureau’s money.”
She stopped her pacing and fixed him with her gaze. She opened her mouth, closed it, and then seemed to have a short discussion with herself before speaking again.
“Agent Rosen,” she began.
“Ron,” he corrected.
“This may not be politic or even polite, but it’s going to be in the way until I get it said.”
“In the way of what?” he wanted to know.
“For the past week or so . . . ever since we’ve been out of town on this Meza Azul business . . . I’ve had the feeling.” She hesitated. Made eye contact. “I’ve had the feeling that you’ve been hitting on me.” She started to pace but stopped herself. “Maybe I’m making it up. Maybe I’m misinterpreting. If that’s the case, then I apologize.” She threw her hands in the air. “But I’m not going to feel comfortable until you and I talk about this.”
He thrust his hands deep into his pants pockets. She watched as he knit his eyebrows and considered his response. After a while, he said, “I’d like to tell you the whole thing was a figment of your girlish imagination, Agent Westerman,” he began. “I’d like to tell you that . . .” He paused for effect. “. . . but it wouldn’t be true.” He captured her eyes. “I guess I have been hitting on you, in some small childish way,” he added. “I want you to understand it wasn’t like I expected anything to come of the matter. We both know that’s impossible.”
She nodded her understanding.
He pulled his hands from his pockets. “I know it sounds foolish,” he said. “I think maybe I just wanted to know whether I was still attractive. Whether I could capture the attention of a young woman such as yourself. I hope you’ll forgive me for . . .” He searched for a word. “. . . for any indiscretions. . . .”
“There were no indiscretions,” she assured him.
“I like to tell myself I survived my recent divorce unscathed.”
He made a wry face. “I may have to reexamine that particular supposition.”
She started to speak, but he cut her off. “I wouldn’t blame you one bit for reporting me to my superior. My actions were—”
This time, she interrupted him. “For what? You’ve never been anything but professional and a gentleman. There’s nothing to report. I just didn’t want this feeling I had to come between us, either personally or professionally.”
Again, he paused to consider.
“Thanks,” he said, studying the floor “That offer of lunch still hold?”
He looked up. Smiled. “You bet.”
• • • “Turn on the interior lights will you?”
Melanie Harris fumbled around on the dash, then the steering column without finding the proper switch. The road ahead was dark, two narrow lanes in each direction, lined with fir and pine trees whose stout alpine limbs had been picked clean by the fierce mountain winds. The road shoulders were marked by long poles, painted orange at the tops, designed to define the edges of the driving surface when everything for miles around was covered with six feet of snow.
“I better watch where I’m going,” Melanie said. “Lest we end up in the ditch.” She was paying attention, driving with two hands. Giving it all she had.
Corso dropped the map in his lap and began to scan the area above his head. Took him half a minute to find the little sliding rheostat switch that controlled the overhead lights in the cockpit. He pushed it to high and brought the map up close to his face.
“What was the last town we went through?” he asked.
“Winthrop . . . if you call that bump in the road a town.”
“Yeah . . . well hang onto your hat because Elk Creek is even smaller. Last time I was here, it was a one-building town. Store, gas station and post office all in the same building.”
“When were you here?”
“Right before the book came out. I was writing the foreword for it and thought maybe his mother might have something she wanted to add.”
“Did she?”
“All she wanted was for me to get the hell off her front porch.” He pointed out into the darkness. “There,” he said. “See the sign?”
Blue-and-white road sign. Arrow to the left. Elk Creek three miles.
Melanie wheeled the RV around the corner. Two lanes now, one east, one west. Trees folding over the roadway like a cathedral. Through narrow gaps in the greenery, wild snow-covered peaks could be seen in the distance.
Melanie was leaning forward trying to get a better view of the road. She snapped on the high beams, which merely made the trees seem thicker, then snapped them off.
They rode in silence until a dim halo of light appeared in the distance. A minute later they could make out a pair of gas pumps and a red-and-white sign that read CASCADE CAFÉ. Tree limbs brushed the top of the vehicle, as Melanie eased the RV to a stop between the store and the gas pumps. Neon COORS LITE sign in the store window. The simple wood sign above the door read ELK CREEK STORE.
“Seems like they’ve added a building since I was here,” Corso said.
“The march of progress,” Melanie offered.
The RV’s headlights
illuminated a red Chevy Blazer backed into the bushes next to a silver propane tank. Parked along the back edge of the lot was a black Ford pickup truck with tires so big you’d have to be airlifted into the driver’s seat. Before Melanie could shut down, a short guy with a thick mane of white hair was out the car door and hustling their way.
“There’s Marty,” Melanie said, turning to Corso. “We might as well fill up while we’re here.”
Corso jumped out and set the pump to working. He stepped over the hose and walked around the front of the RV to the driver’s side, where Marty had just arrived. “Where’s the crew?”
Melanie asked.
“You’re looking at him,” Marty answered. “No way I could call the regulars back. We were already way past their weekly limits. Between the overtime and what it cost me to fly up here, we’re big-time in the hole. I brought the handheld. We’ll give it that Blair Witch Project look.” He held up a restraining hand. “That’s the bad news. You want the good news?”
“I’ll bite . . . what’s the good news?”
“It’s going to make the network news. The network’s interrupting the national news for a special report.”
She noticed Frank leaning against the front of the vehicle.
“Marty,” she said. “I’m sure you remember Frank Corso.”
Marty turned and stuck out his hand. “Certainly,” he said. Melanie watched as Marty and Corso traded pleasantries. She heard the clank of the gas nozzle shutting itself off. She sighed and leaned against the door.
Two minutes later Marty was headed for the rental car and Corso was headed inside to pay. Behind the counter, a seriously tall lanky kid wearing a purple Lakers baseball cap sat on a metal stool. On a small TV mounted up near the ceiling Oprah Winfrey was nestled up close to Tom Cruise. Tom seemed mildly amused.
“That your truck outside?” Corso asked.
“Sure is,” the kid said.
“I thought only short guys owned those big tall trucks.”
The kid laughed. “I bought it from a guy named Tom Payton. He claims to be five-eight but ain’t nowhere near.”
“See.” They laughed together.
“It’s got a lot of headroom and runs great in the snow.”
“How tall are you?”
“Six-eight. You?”
“Six-six,” Corso answered.
“World ain’t made for guys as tall as us,” the kid complained.
“No it’s not,” Corso agreed. “You got a map of the local area?”
The kid rummaged under the counter and came out with a map. “One of our local arteests drew this up for the tourists. It mostly shows the hiking trails and picnic spots.”
Corso took it from his hand. “With the gas, that’s fifty-seven fifty-six,” the kid said. “The RV yours?” the kid asked.
“Belongs to a friend.”
“Pass anything on the road but a gas station,” the kid said. Corso passed him a credit card. The kid swiped it, waited a second and handed it back. “Thanks for the map,” Corso said. The kid told him not to mention it.
The sky above was somewhere between blue and black, its uniform density threatened here and there by the suggestion of stars.
The woods were, like the guy said, “dark and deep.”
She dreamed of elevators. The kind with an operator. Those oldfashioned, brass-festooned carriages of a bygone century. She watched as the bronze dial over the door aimed its arrow upward, then felt the weight of stopping in the seconds before she heard that lovely bong, announcing their arrival at some new world of wonder. Bong. Bong. Bong.
She sat up in bed and, for the briefest time, had an inkling as to why she’d chosen that particular sound as the ring for her cell phone. The epiphany, however, was short-lived. She checked the bedside clock. Six-forty-three. She’d lain down after lunch, hoping for a short nap before being called to action. The dim light filtering in through the curtains told her she’d slept all afternoon. She sat up and grabbed the phone.
“Westerman,” she said.
“We lost ’em,” the voice said.
Her body stiffened. She ran a hand through her tangled hair.
“How could you lose them? You’ve got a transponder on the—”
“The mountains are huge. They’re getting in the way.”
“Where are you now?”
“Place called Sierra Summit.”
“Retrace your route.”
“Huh?”
“What’s the next town back?”
She could hear the crackle of the map as he looked at it.
“Winthrop,” he said.
“How far?”
“Twenty miles.”
“Go back that far. If you don’t pick them up, stay there. If you do pick them up, call me on this number.”
She didn’t wait for his reply. She broke the cellular connection and reached for the landline. The hotel operator came on the line.
“Please connect me to Ronald Rosen,” Westerman said.
36
“There,” Corso said, folding the map. “That’s the driveway right there.” He pointed to an unmarked track running at a westerly diagonal from the road.
Melanie nosed the RV into the first fifty feet of gravel and stopped. She killed the lights and swiveled her seat in a half circle.
“We ready?” she asked.
“Not quite,” Marty said. He sat at the table putting together the plastic harness that attached the camera to the operator.
“These kinda ambush interviews . . . we gotta be a hundred percent ready when we hit the bricks. Got no room for do-overs here. It’s strictly wham-bam-thank-you ma’am.” He pointed up at Melanie. “You want to powder your nose or anything . . . now’s the time.”
Melanie took her cue, pulling a red-and-white-striped makeup kit from the glove compartment and opening it in her lap.
“Here’s how we do this,” Marty said. “We’ve got to get her to come outside of the house. We do this on her front porch and she’s just gonna slam the door in our faces and disappear.”
Melanie said she understood.
“The secret is to be patient,” Marty went on. “Just stay put No Man’s Land until she gets curious. Somebody pulls into your driveway, you look out the window first. Maybe poke your head out the door after that. Takes a while before you slip out on a jacket and go outside to see what’s going on.”
“What if she refuses to talk to us?” Melanie asked.
“Then we’ve got her on tape refusing to talk to us.”
“And if she goes ballistic?”
“Same deal. Except it’s us does the leaving.”
Marty set the camera on the table and got to his feet, moving quickly forward to a control panel built into the wall just behind the driver’s seat. As he opened the cover and began to push buttons, a collection of red and green lights appeared. He kept at it until everything turned green. “Satellite system loves it up here at the top of the world,” he announced. “We could broadcast all the way to New York from here.” He threw a quick look Melanie’s way. “Nice to see we’re finally getting some use out of this thing,” he said, in a tone implying he was only half-kidding.
Melanie laughed as she returned the makeup kit to the glove compartment. She looked over at Corso. “How do I look?” she asked.
“Beautiful,” he said. “You’ll be the belle of the airwaves.”
“Do tell, Mr. Corso. Do tell,” she drawled.
The genuine playfulness of her tone caught Marty’s attention. “Cut it out, you two,” he admonished. “This is no time to be fooling around. Network’s got a whole studio crew waiting for us at the other end. We’re spending money like drunken sailors here.”
He slipped his shoulders into the camera harness. The lens rested at the level of his solar plexus. He switched on the camera and looked down onto a small screen just beneath his chin. Next he pulled several metal pieces from one of the camera cases and efficiently assembled the hodgepodge into a tripod,
which he collapsed before attaching it to the bottom of the camera. Satisfied, he walked to the control panel again. He pointed to an insistent orange light now blinking in the center of the control panel.
“They’re ready for us,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Melanie took a deep breath and snapped on the RV’s lights. Tree branches scraped the roof as they moved forward up the driveway. One gentle right-hand curve and the house came into view. One of those woodsy cedar homes they sell beside the highways out West, set in a two-acre clearing atop a south-facing rise. Nice spot.
Melanie turned the engine off and set the parking brake. Up at the house, the porch light went on. Marty handed Melanie a microphone. She clicked the switch and said, “American Manhunt here.” Marty checked the dials on the top of the camera and bent his fingers into the okay sign.
A minute passed, then the front door swung open. A woman stepped out onto the porch, hugging herself against the night air. Wasn’t until she was all the way down the stairs and caught by the headlights that Corso could make her out.
It was Doris Green all right. A little leaner perhaps, and he’d never seen her with her hair down before, but there was no doubt. It was her.
“That’s her,” Corso said.
“Wait,” Marty whispered.
Unable to see through the RV’s tinted windows, Doris Green passed through the cone of lights and made her way toward the driver’s door.
“Now,” Marty whispered.
Melanie hopped out one side; Marty hopped out the other. Melanie kept the microphone close to her chest, so as not to frighten her quarry. “Mrs. Green,” she began. “I’m Melanie Harris. We’ve been following your son’s story. We were hoping . . .”
Doris Green’s attention was diverted by Marty and the bright lights of the camera. She brought an arm up to protect her eyes from the glare.
“You think he’s here? You think my son would be stupid enough to come here?”
“No, ma’am,” Melanie assured her. “We just wanted . . .”
Doris pointed a long thin finger at Melanie. “I’ve seen you,”
she said. “I’ve seen you on the television.”
