“We’re looking into an old case,” Montero said. “One that involved you.”
“I read that you’re not FBI anymore, you’re in charge of some women’s shelters in Florida,” Butterfield said to Montero, then shifted his gaze to Lauren. “What’s your story?”
“This case involves a friend of mine,” Lauren said.
“I’m retired,” Butterfield said. “Go back to DC and leave me alone.”
“I’m not afraid of much, Mr. Butterfield,” Lauren chose her words carefully. “Not even you. But one of the few things that does scare me are the people who killed Meredith Barnes.”
“I’ll be damned,” Butterfield said, this time far quieter than before. “Is someone finally going after that bastard William VanGelder?”
Lauren felt her knees start to buckle. She stood motionless, keeping her composure. Her expression remained steady as he stared at her. She tried to remain passive, not to give away the fact that she felt like he’d just punched her in the stomach.
“Let’s go talk.” Butterfield tossed his putter against his golf bag lying next to the green. “This way.”
Lauren and Montero didn’t say a word as they moved toward a bench situated well away from the other golfers. Lauren was still reeling by what Butterfield had just said.
Butterfield sat directly in the middle of the bench, forcing Lauren and Montero to stand as if he were holding court. “Before I tell you a thing, what’s in it for me?”
Lauren watched Montero, who never flinched. Butterfield was a bully and used to getting his way. He was also highly intelligent. “Romero’s missing interrogation report as a witness in the Barnes case. You got your ass handed to you over that, right? It’s the one cloud on a solid career. Help us connect some dots, and I’ll personally tell the director you were a critical part of our investigation.”
“That works for me,” Butterfield nodded. “It was always my theory that VanGelder had the pages destroyed,” Butterfield said without emotion.
“Romero told you about VanGelder?” Lauren’s stomach felt empty as she said the name of the man who was Donovan’s closest friend, and a man she herself had grown to love.
Butterfield shook his head. “Romero was several steps removed from whoever had orchestrated the plan to assassinate Meredith Barnes. He’d heard some names, and, frankly, he wasn’t afraid of the Americans, but he was terrified of someone in Central America. He died before we could find out who this person was—all we had was a nickname, or a code name: la Serpiente. Hell, I don’t know if there’s any truth to what Romero told us, everything could be a lie, or a misdirection. I do, however, believe Meredith Barnes, as well as others, were assassinated, not kidnapped, by a group that reached far into the boardrooms of corporate America. I heard whispers once that they called themselves the conclave. I think Meredith Barnes was killed to keep her from strengthening an already growing public resolve to keep them from drilling oil wherever and whenever they wanted. This collection of oilmen placed the blame squarely at Robert Huntington’s feet and let him take the fall. To be honest, I wouldn’t be surprised if they killed him to tie up loose ends. VanGelder is the one constant in this entire process. He could have easily killed Huntington.”
“So, you don’t think Robert Huntington killed Meredith Barnes?” Montero asked. “This unidentified group did?”
“Robert Huntington,” Butterfield paused. “No way Huntington pulled the trigger, though he was certainly meant to take the fall, to swing the focus from those who did. You won’t find that in any report, hell, none of my questions were ever formally acknowledged. But the mention of la Serpiente seemed to scare the crap out of the locals. I think it was part of the mythology created by the conspirators. I do know that to engineer a conspiracy as bold and complex as the murder of Meredith Barnes, doesn’t happen without a great deal of money and influence—VanGelder’s type of clout. William VanGelder is one of the most dangerous men I’ve ever come across. Meredith Barnes never stood a chance.”
It was painful for Lauren to hear someone speak ill of William. She needed to move this conversation along.
“What about a man by the name of Hector Vargas?” Montero asked.
“Vargas is another turd in the punch bowl. He’s a Mexican national who has just enough legitimate dealings to mask all of his criminal enterprises behind the smoke screen. Vargas has been in the background for years, but he’s not the mastermind of anything significant. If the two of you want some answers, you need to start digging as far away from Bureau files as you can. In fact, there are two cases you should look into. They won’t show up on any Bureau database because they were outside our purview, but I always thought they had VanGelder written all over them.”
“What cases?” Montero asked.
“There were the Rochas, a Brazilian family. A mother and daughter were kidnapped in Costa Rica a few days before Meredith Barnes was abducted. I always thought it was a diversion to weaken an already shaky Costa Rican police force. The investigation was between the Costa Rican and Brazilian authorities. I don’t remember all that transpired, but I think the mother and daughter were killed in a fire despite the ransom being paid. Afterwards, the father committed suicide and the family’s holdings in Brazil were sold to an oil company.”
“What company?” Lauren asked.
“Knight Oil, they were big back in the day, until they were bought out.”
“Bought by Huntington Oil?” Lauren asked.
“That’s right, and there was one other case, technically it wasn’t a kidnapping, just good old-fashioned extortion,” Butterfield said. “In Belize. A guy by the name of Franklin Lange—the CEO of a financial company that dealt in venture capital, and he dealt almost exclusively with the energy sector. His wife was with him in Belize, and she seemingly vanished, but no kidnapping was ever reported, no foul play suspected. According to Lange, she’d gone back to Texas. I could never prove anything, and when we found her at home in Dallas, it was obvious she’d been beaten, and she wouldn’t talk. A day later, Lange packed up and went home as well, deciding at the last minute to cancel the financing of a huge oil exploration deal in Belize. A few weeks after that, the oil and gas rights were sold to Knight Oil. Their chairman and founder, Elijah Knight, was one of the men I suspected was connected to VanGelder.”
“What happened to him?”
“My guess is there was a falling out, or a reorganization of some kind. VanGelder was brutal, he destroy—”
Lauren heard the bullet whiz past her ear and hit Butterfield square in the chest, the gun’s report followed an instant later. Montero slammed into her from the side and pushed her to the ground. As Montero, her gun drawn, searched in the direction the shot had come from, other golfers were shouting, pointing toward what looked like a maintenance shed. Lauren looked at Butterfield. The bullet had hit him center mass, a red stain expanding on his white shirt, his chin rested on his chest, his eyes open and unblinking.
“We need to get out of here,” Montero said. “We’re going to the left and work our way around to the parking lot.”
Lauren was up on her feet and running, knowing she’d never hear the gunshot if a bullet found her. Montero followed. They reached the rental car and moments later Montero squealed the tires as they raced out of the parking lot.
“How many people knew we were looking for Butterfield?” Lauren kept an eye on the road behind them.
“We’ve got big problems,” Montero said, as she too checked to see if they were followed. “I have no idea, but the only people I told work at the Bureau.”
“Do you think the FBI just assassinated a former agent?”
“Someone did. And yeah, it could have been the FBI, or the CIA, or this shadowy group Butterfield just told us about. Hell, it could have been anyone.”
“Is there anyone we do trust?” Lauren asked.
“Why?”
“We have two names,” Lauren said. “Franklin Lange, the guy in Dallas, and Elijah Knight. If eit
her man is still alive, we need to talk to them before they end up like Butterfield. I especially want to know what William did to this Elijah Knight and why.”
“There’s a guy in Miami, he’s a private investigator, good at what he does and very discreet. He has connections and he owes me. Let me give him a call and put him to work on this. He’s not cheap, but if it’s out there, he’ll find it.”
“If you trust this guy, do it. Make sure he knows we’re in a bind, timewise. Money’s not an issue.” A frown crossed Lauren’s face. “When you talk to this guy and set everything up, make sure that if something happens to you and me, Donovan has access to the information.”
“Donovan doesn’t know what you’re doing, does he?” Montero asked.
“No, and considering the gravity of what we may have uncovered, he’s not going to hear a word from me until we have concrete proof that William VanGelder is either guilty, or innocent. This isn’t the time for guesswork or hearsay. William is a part of this family and as far as I’m concerned, he’s innocent until proven guilty.”
“I hope we stay alive long enough to know which,” Montero said. “I need to call Deputy Director Graham and let him know what’s happened. Can you call the airport and tell the pilots to be ready—I want out of here before local law enforcement figures out we’re witnesses to a murder.”
“Where shall I tell them we’re going?”
“For now, we regroup and go back to DC. Someone is one step ahead of us—and that pisses me off.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“I don’t believe you.” Donovan was still trying to judge if Eva was telling the truth. “Why would they try to kill you last night—but today they want to take you prisoner? It doesn’t add up.”
She swallowed hard. “Yesterday, I was only a witness, someone easy to kill. Last night, after my friend picked me up, we drove around, and I tried to think. I decided to call the hotel, and that’s when we spoke. My friend then took me back to his house, and they were waiting for us. They went through my phone, recognized the number for the hotel, and kept asking me about that particular call, and who I’d spoken with. I refused to talk, and, finally, this morning they took me to the airport.”
“Where’s your friend?” Donovan asked.
Tears flooded Eva’s eyes as she shook her head. “I don’t know. They may have killed him.”
“Where did you see Stephanie? When did you last see her alive?”
“The day before yesterday. When we were evacuating Santiago because of the volcano, I saw them in a boat leaving from a private pier. They saw me, and I have been running ever since.”
“Do you have any idea where they took her? Was there a little girl with them?”
“All I saw was the woman,” Eva replied wide-eyed. “I know nothing about a little girl.”
“How do you know it was Stephanie?” Donovan continued. “How do you know it was the woman who was kidnapped?”
“I know these men. They are very bad, some of them are with the police. They travel, no one really knows where they live, but they rob and steal from the tourists. I hear rumors that women are raped and killed. The people in my town are afraid of them. When I saw them, the blonde woman was tied up, I know everyone in the area and she’s not from around here. My friends spoke of the murders up on the mountain, the woman who was taken.”
Donovan closed his eyes, his mind reeling from the reality that Stephanie was in the hands of murderers and rapists.
“I am sorry,” Eva said. “I apologize for the people in my country that would do these things.”
Donovan heard the muted sound of a ringing cell phone. He leaned over and began feeling underneath the seat in front of her until he found a purse. He opened the leather bag and took out a cell phone. The incoming number was blocked. “In English,” he said, then pushed the answer button and held the phone up to Eva’s ear.
“Hello,” she said.
Donovan was ready to snatch the phone from her hand if he didn’t like what she said. She was mostly listening, her only replies were a series of “yes’s.”
“He wants to talk to you.” Eva leaned away from the phone.
“Hello,” Donovan said.
“If you want to see Ms. VanGelder alive, you will have the money ready by tonight. We will call you on this phone. Keep track of the woman. We want the money and her.”
Donovan bristled at the man’s voice. A hundred things ran through his mind, but he knew he needed to remain calm. “I need proof Stephanie is still alive.”
“Have the money and the woman ready by ten o’clock tonight.”
Donovan looked at Eva, then at the phone. The call had been terminated. “Do you have any idea who he was? What did he say to you?”
“That they are going to kill me.” Eva looked away. “He said they would do very ugly things to me—and then I would die.”
“Turn around.” Donovan looked at her—she was obviously frightened—she’d been shot at, kidnapped, and right this moment, she was probably just as scared as he was.
“No,” she said defiantly. “If you’re going to shoot me, you do it face-to-face.”
“I’m going to free your hands on one condition. Don’t hit me again, or I will shoot you.”
“I promise. I’m sorry about last night.” She turned so he could free her. “I didn’t know who you were, and I was afraid if my friend saw you he would be scared for me and want to kill you. He is very protective.”
“Where did you learn to fight?” Donovan asked, as he used the knife he found in her purse to slice the tie-wrap.
“You don’t survive very long in my world if you can’t defend yourself. I learned how to disable a man when I was a young girl. It was the only way to remain pure.”
Donovan looked at her phone and began to scroll through the numbers Eva had dialed recently. “Is this the number for the hotel?” Donovan asked, and held up the screen for her to see. She nodded.
“Mr. VanGelder’s room, please,” Donovan said. He waited as the operator put his call through. It was picked up after the first ring. “Buck, it’s me.”
“Michael just called. I’m on my way out the door. Where are you? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Donovan replied. “We’re about three hundred yards south of the USGS hangar.”
“We?” Buck questioned.
“I have the woman,” Donovan replied. “We’re in a parked Mercedes next to a bright blue hangar.”
“Stay put, I’m on my way.”
Donovan ended the call. He studied the phone in his hand, then looked at Eva. “You won’t mind if I keep this for now? They’re going to call back.”
Eva shrugged as if it made no difference to her. “Your friend is named Stephanie, no? When you asked them if she was still alive—did they answer?”
“No.” Donovan didn’t want to talk about Stephanie. “What about your family?”
“I’m alone,” Eva said. “My mother died a long time ago, my father was killed by the military during the civil war.”
“What do you do?” Donovan continued. “You said you live in the highlands, near the volcano?”
“Yes, for years my family has owned a small hotel in Santiago. I run it, but now that we have been forced to evacuate, I fear I have lost everything. The Mayan elders have warned that the volcano would finally come to life—they were right. And if the volcano doesn’t destroy the village, the looters will.”
Donovan was sorry he’d asked. This woman’s hardships seemed all-encompassing. She’d lost her home, her parents, her business, and had very nearly lost her life. Human suffering was what Donovan hated most in the world. Despite his immense fortune, there wasn’t nearly enough money to help her or the millions like her in the world. He’d seen firsthand that for every dollar given to third-world countries, it was a miracle if ten cents reached the people it was intended to help. Donovan thought of Meredith, her passion to save the world from itself, and he felt the familiar heaviness grow in
side—a weight that was always just below the surface.
“Do not be sad,” Eva said, her hand reaching out to take Donovan’s. “You will find her.”
“I hope you’re right,” Donovan replied, feeling uncomfortable that he’d drifted off. He couldn’t afford to be careless. The growing clouds cast a shadow on the car, and in the subdued light, for just the briefest of moments, Eva reminded him of Meredith. The large eyes and untamed hair, the full lips and unlined face, the resemblance was unsettling. Even after the shadow passed, Donovan couldn’t take his eyes from her and he was assaulted with a barrage of images. He thought of Costa Rica, the ransom demands, the unyielding government officials who refused to deal with the kidnappers. He remembered the cloudless morning they came and got him from the hotel, the Costa Rican chief of police, as well as FBI agents and officials from the State Department. None of them had made eye contact with him as they silently drove to the outskirts of San José.
Donovan knew where he was being taken, but nothing could have prepared him for what he’d found when he arrived. Hundreds of people had gathered, restrained by the police called to the scene. As they spotted him, the mood changed from curious to angry. The onlookers grew vocal, yelling obscenities at him, some throwing rocks and bottles. Donovan had trudged through the muddy field, a path already worn in the soil. He remembered thinking that at least they’d had the decency to cover her with a sheet of plastic. No one asked him if he was ready, or gave him a chance to collect himself first. Someone had simply yanked the plastic free and exposed her. Meredith lay in the mud, her flawless skin covered with bruises and cuts. She was on her side, her face turned slightly upwards. Donovan could see the bullet hole in her forehead. Her sightless eyes seemed to look right through him. Donovan’s knees gave way as if every single one of his muscles had failed in unison. His world was spinning—threatening to either topple him or cause him to be sick. Strong arms supported him as he tried to walk; they were forced to half-carry him back to the road. The entire crowd of onlookers seemed to be yelling at him, blaming him, their cries of anger and retribution seemed as if hurtled at him through a long tunnel. The rage of Meredith’s death had penetrated to his very core, where it had remained, Donovan realized, since that day, and fed on him like the unwilling host he was.
Aftershock: A Donovan Nash Novel (A Donovan Nash Thriller) Page 13
