Mark was wholly unprepared for Jay Baldwin’s response. He slid down onto the pavement like something melting, fell on his ass, and began to cry without making a sound. The tears dripped down his cheeks and he stared past Mark at the empty street and he said, “Please, God, please, don’t do this to me.”
“Mr. Baldwin…what’s going on? Tell me, and I can help.”
He shook his head. His eyes had no point of focus. Whatever he was seeing was out beyond the visible. He said, “What would you do to get your wife back?”
“Anything.”
Jay nodded and drew a breath that shook in his lungs like dust blown down a dry street. “And if you had the chance to go back and save her? If you could have made a deal to keep from losing her? What would you have been willing to do?”
“Same answer. Anything. Whatever was asked.”
Jay blinked the tears out of his eyes and focused on Mark’s face.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Then leave me alone. Because, brother? I’ve still got a chance. If you leave me alone, I’ve got a chance. But you’ve got to leave, and fast.”
Mark knew without question that if he pressed Jay right then, he’d break. But instead, he said, “You really believe this? That whatever you’ve got in front of you right now changes for the better if I walk away?”
Jay nodded.
Mark turned and walked back down the empty street.
34
He went back to the motel, shaken, ready to wake Lynn so he could tell her what had happened. Then he opened the motel door and stepped inside and saw that she was gone.
The sheets were thrown back on the bed, and the imprint of her body remained. He wondered if she’d been annoyed to wake and find that he’d left, if she’d taken that to mean something he hadn’t intended.
You see, Lynn, I heard my dead wife’s voice, and she didn’t love the look of the situation, so I decided to take a walk…
He left the room and went back outside. Her own room was next door, still dark, as if she’d just changed beds and gone back to sleep alone, a silent suggestion for him to do the same, and he felt guilty for leaving now, for being gone so long.
When he was close enough, he saw a faint blue light on in the room—a computer monitor. She was awake, and working. He knocked and waited.
When there was no answer, he knocked again, louder, and said, “Lynn?”
Still nothing. He sidestepped from the door to the window, shielded his eyes, and looked inside. She wasn’t in front of the computer, and the bed seemed undisturbed.
He stepped back and looked at his own room as if he might have missed her in there. The bathroom? No. The room had been empty. That one, and this one. And the Tahoe was still parked in front of his door.
“No,” he said aloud, his voice calm and reasonable. No, she couldn’t be missing. He’d just left her. The small town was silent and safe.
Like Cassadaga?
He tested the door handle. Locked. The motel wasn’t of the key-card-and-dead-bolt variety, though. It was old-school, thumb lock and chain. Mark’s mother could have gone through it in three seconds.
It took him about twenty. On the fourth try he shimmed the lock with a credit card and stepped into the room and saw that the laptop wasn’t all she’d left behind.
Her purse was on the table, her computer bag on the floor below. On the nightstand was the folder with the printouts of photos of Eli Pate and Janell Cole that she’d shown the deputy and the post office clerk.
She went looking for you. That has to be it. She saw you were gone and went looking for you.
That was hard to believe, though. Mark had just walked the length of the town’s main street. If she’d been looking for him, he was hard to miss. And why wouldn’t she have taken the car?
He went to the desk and looked at the open computer. The screen was still lit because the laptop was open and plugged in. As long as there was a constant power feed, the computer didn’t need to conserve battery. There was even music playing, though the headphones were plugged in and so the sound was soft. The music would have helped to keep the computer from entering sleep mode. Between the wall plug and the running application, the computer thought she was still there.
He walked around the desk so he could see the screen clearly, thinking it might tell him something, give some evidence of whether she’d returned here after leaving his room, and then he stopped moving and his breath caught.
There was a photograph on the monitor—she’d been churning through an album of surveillance photos, and while this was one he hadn’t seen, he knew it all the same.
He was looking at his mother’s face for the first time in nearly two decades.
35
She was only in her midfifties now, and she didn’t look even that old. She could have passed for his sister instead of his mother. In his mind, he’d advanced the image and turned her into an old woman. In reality, time had treated her well. She wore long sleeves, so you couldn’t even see the tracks on her arms.
Mark sat down and looked at the computer and shook his head. He wanted to say no, to deny the image’s very existence, as he had when he saw Dixie Witte’s body under those basement steps. His mother could not be involved with this. The family he had left behind all those years ago, they could not have anything to do with the death of his wife, a woman they’d never known, never seen.
There was no way.
But the photo, just like Dixie Witte’s unblinking eyes, stared him down.
After sitting in numb silence for several moments, he scrolled down. Below the photograph was a text summary from an unnamed investigator.
Real name is Violet Robin Novak, but currently uses only first, Violet, and provides no surname. Tells people that surnames have no purpose. It appears that she met Eli Pate in Cody, Wyoming. She does not own a home or vehicle and has no driver’s license. Her only known family in the area is a brother, Lawrence, and when she sees him she does so without Pate. Only other known family is a son, not local, and there does not seem to be contact between them: Markus R. Novak, of St. Petersburg, Florida, age thirty-three, father unknown. There is no indication that Markus Novak has been in Montana or Wyoming in the past decade.
Violet Novak was living in a motor home owned by Scott Shields, fifty-two, of Cody, Wyoming, when she met Eli Pate. Witnesses suggest that Violet Novak ended a romantic relationship with Shields after meeting Pate. What income she has is derived from providing what she calls “spiritual counseling” and giving palm readings. There are some in the area who are loyal customers, and they were distressed when she left Cody.
Friends paint a picture of Novak’s beliefs as being very ripe for Eli Pate’s exploitation. Although she is apparently of Germanic descent, she insists that she is of Nez Perce ancestry, though when pressed she will back down the claim to “spiritual ancestry.” She is an intense supporter of virtually any environmental cause, though she does not appear to put much effort into the study of these issues. A blanket supporter, easily swayed. Similarly, she is vocally opposed to many industrial efforts in the West but does not exhibit a great deal of understanding of the efforts she opposes. In these ways, she seems a perfect target for Pate, and with her existing beliefs and practices as well as her local contacts, she may be beneficial to his recruiting efforts. Her previous existence was already essentially “off the grid” through circumstance if not choice, so converting her on this front will not be difficult for him.
She was last sighted with Pate in Lovell, though their current location remains unknown. Her brother claimed no knowledge of Wardenclyffe and said he had not seen Violet in over a year, but she visited him just last week at his current residence (see supplemental), when the attached photographs were taken. She was alone for the visit, which lasted slightly over an hour, and drove there in a truck registered to Scott Shields. Visual contact with her was lost on Highway 301 near Belfry, when it appeared likely that she became aware of surveillance.
Both crimina
l records and acquaintance interviews suggest that while she has demonstrated little respect for the law or concern over legal consequences, she has always been a nonviolent offender and displays a general dislike of violence.
Further intelligence efforts on Markus Novak have shown no indication that he’s lying to you re contact with his mother. He’s a tough trace, very consistent in recent years but an absolute mess before that. In the past eight years he’s had two addresses; in the eight prior, he had twenty-three at a minimum. Most of those were in the West or Pacific Northwest. His criminal history is undistinguished, mostly misdemeanor charges stemming from fights or alcohol incidents. After he left the West, the only story of note, besides his wife’s murder, is his recent activity in Garrison, Indiana, with which you’re already acquainted. He appears to have reached a point of stability once in Florida, and there’s no evidence of efforts, successful or unsuccessful, to contact Violet. There is also no evidence of association or overlap with Pate, Cole, or Oriel until his arrival in Cassadaga. His ignorance of the phrase rise the dark appears genuine based on his interviews with police investigators in his wife’s homicide. With all that said, you should still consider him high risk.
He tried to open Lynn’s e-mail, but it was password-protected. He searched for other files, tried them, found the same problem. The only thing he could access was the file she’d left open before she came to see him. The last thing she’d read before she made a decision about him.
Consider him high risk.
He couldn’t locate the supplemental report referenced with the picture, but he didn’t need to. The surveillance photo was enough. It had been shot with a long-range lens, and his mother occupied most of the frame, either because the photographer had cared about nothing else or because he’d been trying to conceal her location, but if it was the latter, he would have needed a much tighter focus. When you were shooting pictures of a woman in a town with a population of fewer than two hundred, you had to be damn sure to hide all landmarks. In the picture, over her shoulder was a single sign that told Mark all he needed to know. It was a white square with the letters M and S painted on it, the S falling away from the M. There were no words, but he didn’t need them, not with that sign. It was Miner’s Saloon in Cooke City. Sixty miles away from where Mark sat, just over the Beartooths. Cooke City and Silver Gate had been frequent retreats for his family, both because his uncles loved the area and because the only police presence was second-day sheriff’s service from Gardiner. When things heated up, Mark’s family ended up in Cooke City more often than not.
He could not bring himself to believe that this was connected to anything. Not to Janell Cole, not to Garland Webb, not to Lauren. It couldn’t be.
Further intelligence efforts on Markus Novak have shown no indication that he’s lying to you re contact with his mother.
Mark drew a breath in through his teeth and looked at the window. The sidewalks were empty, the town dark and silent. Somewhere not far from this place, maybe just over the pass and in Cooke City, his mother waited. He’d kept his wife from any contact with her. Always.
This is a lie. All of it. Some sort of trick, Garland Webb’s work. Because the man in that report is not the man who lost his wife in Cassadaga. Not anymore.
Get out, his dead wife’s voice had whispered, and he had left, and now Lynn was gone and his mother remained.
His hand trembled a little as he withdrew his cell phone and called Jeff London.
Jeff’s groggy first words were “Please tell me you’re not in another jail.”
Not jail. Worse. Mark said, “Jeff, I need a big favor, and I need it fast.”
“That always seems to be the way.”
“I’m going to have to relay this information to Montana police in a hurry.”
Jeff’s tone changed instantly. “What happened?”
“I came here with another investigator whose case involved people associated with Garland Webb. She’s gone. I think she was taken. I need to speak to somebody who knows what she was working on. I think she lied to me, or at least withheld details. She’s with the Pinkerton office in Boca Raton. You have a contact with them?”
“Yes. A guy named William Oliver. High on the food chain.”
“Get him for me. The higher up, the better. His investigator’s name is Lynn Deschaine. D-e-s-c-h-a-i-n-e. He needs to know she’s missing, and he needs to help me with the police.”
“I’ll call back in five minutes.”
It took him fifteen and they passed like an hour. Mark tried to determine how long he’d been out of sight of the motel. Thirty minutes? Forty-five? The walk to Jay’s, the conversation, then back. That was all.
In that time, she’d vanished.
The phone finally rang. “Will he help?” Mark asked without preamble.
“He can’t.”
“Bullshit, Jeff, this isn’t about confidential client information. I think his investigator has been kidnapped!”
“She’s not his investigator. Nobody by the name of Lynn Deschaine works for the agency or ever has,” Jeff said. “Nobody named Deschaine, period.”
Mark didn’t say anything. He sat there in front of Lynn’s computer with the phone to his ear and couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. She was a Pinkerton. He’d called her from the card, they’d joked about her agency, she’d gotten information from their Amsterdam office.
Jeff said, “Did you see an ID for her? Any proof of her name?”
“Just a business card,” Mark said, but then he shook his head. “No, wait. We boarded a plane together. I didn’t look at her ID, but I saw the boarding pass. That’s her name, Jeff. I know who she is.”
“Well, they don’t.”
Mark rose from the chair and picked up her purse. Jeff was speaking on the other end of the line, asking a question, but it didn’t register. Mark rifled through the bag, found the wallet, saw her driver’s license. Lynn Deschaine, of Florida.
“I’ve got the right person,” he began, but then he flipped past the license and fell silent.
There was another identification card in the mix, and it had been issued by the Department of Homeland Security.
36
They brought the new hostage in during the middle of the night. When the door opened, Sabrina awoke with a jerk and gasp. Then she heard rattling chains that were not her own. In the darkness the source wasn’t visible, just those rattling chains, like one of Charles Dickens’s ghosts.
A battery lantern clicked on and she saw them in the doorway: Eli Pate and Garland Webb and, between them, a handcuffed, dark-haired woman who looked like she was drunk, eyes open but unable to support herself.
Not drunk, though. Drugged. The woman was seeing exactly as much of the cabin as Sabrina had when they’d brought her in here—nothing.
Sabrina sat up on the air mattress and pulled herself back against the wall. Eli Pate set the lantern down by the door and it spread Garland Webb’s massive shadow against the wall, a towering shape. He held the woman with ease when Eli released her, supporting her entire body weight with one hand.
Eli said, “Sorry to disturb your rest, but we have unanticipated company!”
His genteel tone was as steady as ever but Sabrina had the sense that it was taking more effort than usual for him to achieve it, that his actual mood was many shades darker and that the new woman was a problem, not part of the plan.
Garland dropped the woman without interest, like a bag of garbage, and then he unfastened one of the handcuffs and clipped it to a free bolt in the wall and snapped it shut. The dark-haired woman followed the motion with her eyes, but too slowly. She was looking at the bolt in the wall several seconds after she’d been chained to it.
Eli knelt and put two fingers under Sabrina’s chin and turned her face to his.
“We’re in the midst of an acceleration. Unanticipated and undesired, but, as they say, man plans and God laughs. Do you believe that?”
It was clear that he wanted an answer,
so she said, “Yes.”
“I do not. I believe all that man needs to do is listen. We’ve lost that ability. Most of us. Fortunately for you, Sabrina, you’re in one of the few places on the planet where there is a man who both listens and hears.” He paused. “It will move fast now, Sabrina. How reliable is your husband? How skilled?”
“What are you doing to Jay?”
“The only question that matters, Sabrina—how much does he love you?”
She didn’t answer. Eli looked into her face for a long time and then nodded.
“I hope you’ve pleased him, Sabrina. I hope you’ve been the wife of his dreams. He needs that inspiration now.”
The cabin door opened again. Violet, with a bottle of water in each hand. She looked questioningly at Eli and he nodded and stepped aside. Garland Webb had moved away, the obedient guard dog in the shadows, and Sabrina couldn’t bring herself to look in his direction.
Violet crossed the room in the slanted lantern light and set two water bottles on the floor, pushed one to Sabrina, kept the other in her right hand. She used her left to force the new woman’s head up. Violet tilted the bottle and splashed some water on her face, and the woman blinked and spluttered.
“Drink, dear. Drink.”
But she didn’t drink. Instead, she blinked, and recognition came into her eyes for the first time. Not just of the circumstances, but real recognition, and Sabrina, watching in astonishment, thought, She knows Violet.
Violet didn’t seem to know her, though. She exhorted the woman once more to drink and had the bottle pressed gently to her lips when the woman spoke.
“Your son lied.”
Violet lowered the water bottle, her face stone still and pale. “What did you say?”
“You talk to him,” the new woman slurred, her words thick. “You talk to him. And he lies. He left me for them. For you. He knew you were coming. And he left.”
Rise the Dark Page 18
