Fatal Fall

by Diane Capri

An involuntary shudder ran from her damp feet all the way through to her scalp. “Heaven help us.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Nelson led the way back through the trees toward their parked vehicles. She opened her trunk, found a large Ziploc bag in her luggage, and sealed the rock inside.

  Nelson stood watching her. “You know it will be difficult to prove the integrity of the DNA sample in court.”

  She placed the plastic bag in the middle of her luggage. “If it gets that far, I’m sure the test can be repeated. This is just personal. If his DNA matches mine, then I’ll take the next steps.”

  She closed the trunk. “So, this is all his land? Even the woods?”

  “As Meisner pointed out.” Nelson gestured to the fence. “He built that barbed wire fence about fourteen years ago. Cut off the public right of way, which used to run straight across the field the other side of the fieldstone wall.”

  “The right of way ran directly across the lawn in front of his house?”

  “Bingo.”

  “I’ve never heard of a public right of way over private land.” She stopped and studied the setup. “I’m not sure I’d like that, either, if I owned that mansion. People traipsing past my windows day and night.”

  “I’m told it was some kind of covenant thing. Dates from the early 1900s. And it wasn’t past his windows. It was only halfway from the forest to his house. Quarter mile at the closest. But,” Nelson shrugged, “the new fence blocked the entrance and exit to the right of way. Now people have to walk all the way around from the bus stop to get home instead of taking the short cut across the right of way. Stirred up a lot of bad feeling between the pro- and anti-camps.”

  Jess cocked her head. “The what?”

  “Pro and anti. For and against.” He took a deep breath. “Look, he’s a senator. Brings a lot of money into the area. Which is good if you’re feeding off that money. Those people just want to keep the old man happy. But if you’re not benefiting from that money, and you live in the low-income housing way on the other side of the forest, and you just want to get home after a long day, it’s not so great.”

  “Because?”

  Nelson pointed to the right, along the fence. “How would you like to walk through these woods at night?”

  Jess shook her head. “Couldn’t he just move the fence farther away from the trees, so people could walk by more easily?”

  Nelson laughed. “That is exactly what the judge said. He called it a compromise. Meisner has to pay for a new path and lighting. It’s still a long way from where the path used to run, but people will be able to walk along a ten-foot easement that will be out of the woods, at least.”

  “It took ten years to reach that agreement?” Jess said.

  “No. It took eight years until the anti-crowd could convince a fancy Seattle company of lawyers to take the case pro bono. Then it took two years to schedule a session in court. Then it took ten minutes.” He offered the same flat smile she’d seen several times now. “Don’t you love our legal system?”

  Jess looked back the way they had come. “Why was there a gap in the fence? Back there?”

  He shrugged. “Fence posts fall over all the time.”

  “Isn’t that a suspicious coincidence? The fence is down, and the boy is injured on the same day?”

  He shook his head. “We don’t know when it fell over. We just happened to see it because we came here to rescue the boy.”

  She shrugged. “I guess.”

  They reached a point where the woods thinned out and Jess could see the big house again. Outside the front, two figures sat on their horses on the gravel drive. She guessed it was both Meisners. She assumed the pair was watching them. “What’s she like?”

  “Margot Meisner?” Nelson sniffed. “Rich daddy. Very rich. Expects everything her way. Not one to be messed with. They say misery loves company. I think money loves misery, too.”

  Jess stared up the hill. They had turned their horses and were pointing straight down the hill. Straight toward Jess. It was like a challenge. As if they were smug in their superiority and taunting her.

  She knew it was a stupid feeling. They just happened to be on horses on a hill, and she just happened to be on foot, far below. It was an image that had been played out over centuries. It stirred atavistic feelings that probably went back to when that difference really meant something. The difference between warmth and cold. The difference between plenty and starvation, and, she exhaled, the difference between life and death.

  She stopped. “Wait.”

  Nelson stopped a few paces on.

  “I want to go back,” Jess said.

  He looked at his watch. “Why?”

  “I’m going to climb that tree.”

  “Why?”

  “Peter climbed it for a reason.”

  Nelson sighed. “Boys climb trees. An accident happened. There’s nothing more to say.”

  “He must have had a reason.” She smiled. “Please. Just a few more minutes.”

  He sighed. “Lead on.”

  They returned to the tree. It was old. The thick trunk split in half about ten feet from the ground. Gnarled knots peppered the lower twenty feet of the trunk. Heavier limbs intertwined higher up.

  Nelson put his hand on the tree. “You sure you want to do this?”

  Jess looked up. “There has to be a reason he was up there.”

  He shrugged. “Something to tell his pals.”

  “Maybe he wanted to see something?”

  “Like what?”

  She put her foot on the lowest of the knots. “That’s what I want to find out.”

  “I can go up instead of you,” he said half-heartedly.

  She shook her head and began the climb. “I’m smaller. Easier to get through the gaps.”

  He very carefully placed his hands on the lower part of her thighs and helped her up the first eight feet.

  She moved one limb at a time. Like the rock wall climbing she did at the gym. She didn’t rush, reaching up one hand, grasping as far as she could, hanging her weight on her straight arm and bringing her feet up, bending her knees, coiling, before pushing upward, arm out straight, to repeat the process.

  The tree was ideal for climbing. The arrangement of lumps and limbs was perfectly spaced for her size. It must have been the same for Peter. He was probably smaller than Jess, but with some twisting and turning, progress was fairly easy.

  At twenty feet, the foliage to her right thinned. She could see up the hill. One horse was still near the house facing the woods. She guessed it was Meisner.

  Jess climbed a few more feet. The view to her right opened up. The house and its land were clearly visible. As was Meisner. Jess’s higher elevation allowed her to see around the curve of the hill.

  Green fields rolled into a broad expanse of trees in the distance. A lot of trees. A larger forest than the thin ribbon of woods below. Old white painted barns dotted the landscape. To the left of the house, and down the hill was a stable. She saw a man clearing the yard outside.

  On the right, halfway between the house and the woods, was a modern looking building. Unlighted windows ran in a continuous line around the walls. Cars were parked on either side. Meisner had some sort of offices on his property.

  Jess sat on a limb, her arm around the tree’s trunk. She was maybe twenty feet below the milky-yellow gash that marked the place from which the boy had fallen. She looked a long way down. Two full stories of an ordinary building from this point. Four stories to the ground from the broken branch. The extent of his injuries became easier to understand. It was a wonder he hadn’t died.

  Above her, the tree thinned out. She could reach the height he had reached, but as she looked across Meisner’s land, she concluded that she wouldn’t see much more from another twenty feet up.

  She took one last look at the house on the hill and Meisner, who was still watching her, then worked her way back down, using her arms for balance and her legs to carry her weight. Nelson lif
ted her the last five feet to the ground.

  “What did you find?” he said.

  She nodded in the direction of the house. “You can see the Meisner place. Stables. A couple of old barns. Forest in the distance.”

  “That’s all his, too.”

  She whistled. “Lot of land. And he has an office building.”

  “He has a small staff. Mostly interns. They need a place to work. Anything else?”

  She shook her head.

  “Nothing significant? Nothing you can’t see from the ground?”

  “No.”

  He frowned. “So he climbed a tree. Like boys have done for years.”

  “Maybe.”

  Nelson laughed. “You think he was interested in spying on a senator?”

  She gnawed the inside of her lower lip. “Don’t know. I won’t know until I talk to his parents. Try to figure out what he was doing here.”

  He frowned. “I know I have no control over what you do, but please leave the parents alone for a while. After we identify them, they’ll have enough to worry about, and they don’t need to feel any more guilty about not supervising the boy. Unless that DNA comes back the way you hope it will, you’ve got no cause to talk to them.”

  Jess took a deep breath. She hated to admit that he was right, but he was. She’d interviewed plenty of grieving parents wracked with guilt and regret over the years, and she knew the feeling intimately, herself. Unless this boy was her son, it would serve no purpose to interview the parents right away. “Okay. You’ve got my word. You tell me who they are as soon as you find out, and I won’t try to talk to them unless something changes.”

  “And then, you’ll let me know before you approach them?”

  Why not? It was courtesy she could easily extend. “Of course.”

  He nodded and walked back toward his car. She kept apace. They passed the section where the trees thinned and the house became visible. The Meisners and their horses were gone.

  Nelson held out a hand to help Jess down the slope back to the cars they’d left parked on the side of the road.

  “He seems to know you,” she said.

  “Meisner?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s a small town, everyone knows me.”

  “He used your first name. I thought you didn’t like that.”

  Nelson shrugged. “He’s a senator. He’s not used to being told no.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The antique pedestal table acted like a drum as it amplified the phone’s loud ringtone. Blackstake had set up the shrill buzzer to distinguish this particular caller from someone using the mansion’s internal telephone system. He grabbed the phone.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a woman. Jessica Kimball.” Meisner paused for breath. A horse whinnied. Given the hour, Meisner was out on his daily ride. “She only gave me her name, but I know who she is. A reporter from Taboo Magazine.”

  “Uh-huh.” He stayed noncommittal. When any new topic arose, he let the senator lead. No point in trying to second guess. But in this case, he had the feeling he knew what he might be called upon to do. The magazine’s name was familiar. The reporter, too. She’d made headlines in the past as a one-woman crusade for justice. Crusaders were never good news for him or for Meisner. “Where is she?” he said.

  “Right now, she’s just climbed the tree that boy fell from.”

  “The cottonwood.” Blackstake exhaled. Carefully. Slowly. Releasing the impact that he might not have been as stealthy as he thought without letting the senator hear his concern. “Do you have any connection to this magazine?”

  “Not at the moment, but they have featured me a couple of times, and will hopefully do it again when I need them. When it matters.”

  Blackstake mentally added the words, “When I announce my run for President.”

  Meisner grunted his contempt. “I want to know what she’s doing and why.”

  “Surveillance then?”

  “By you and only you.”

  A sliver of a smile of professional pride flashed over Blackstake’s face. He was loosely associated with Meisner’s security detail, but Blackstake was no gate goon. He took no part in the daily business of securing the house and grounds. He handled special assignments. Surveillance. Situations of a delicate, clandestine nature. The only records were kept in his head where they would never be discovered. No physical evidence, no witnesses, and no paper trail.

  “Is she here because of the boy?” Blackstake said.

  “Maybe. She was with the police captain. Might be a human interest thing. A coincidence, perhaps. If that’s all she’s interested in, then we’re good.” Meisner paused. “But it’s unlikely. Human interest stories are not the kind of thing she does.”

  If she was a good reporter, Blackstake knew, there was only one direction her meddling could go. “And if I find her motives are contrary to your position?”

  Meisner was silent for a long time. “I cannot afford any kind of prying going on right now.”

  Blackstake listened to Meisner’s measured tone. He heard a new level of caution. Meisner needed significantly more and bigger backers for a Presidential run than he’d acquired for the Senate races. Wider audiences. Larger stakes. No margin for error or suspicion.

  Blackstake said, “I understand.”

  “Good. Keep me informed.”

  Meisner hung up. The man was abrupt. Some people saw it as disrespect, but Blackstake appreciated it. He had no time for idle chatter.

  He tapped his knuckles on the tabletop. What had started as a simple, clandestine operation was gaining too much traffic. The police and now a reporter. Even if they weren’t there specifically to investigate the grave, they presented too much risk.

  There was a natural explanation for the police presence, but a reporter? Especially one with a reputation for championing justice? She could be looking for filler for a slow news day, but it wasn’t likely.

  Kimball’s presence meant Meisner’s concern was valid, and Blackstake’s approach was perfect. Investigate, then operate. Locate loose ends, then tie them up. Tight. Fast. Before anyone noticed.

  Blackstake cracked his knuckles. Kimball was a risk he knew how to deal with.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Randolph, Washington

  Tuesday, September 27

  6:30 a.m. Pacific Time

  Jess woke with the dawn. She was curled in a ball, her left arm trapped under her stomach. She rolled on her back, and massaged her arm as it awakened from numbness, to pins and needles, and finally to life.

  The light had been fading fast when Jess left the woods yesterday. Nelson had suggested the Montpelier Hotel for the night. It was impossible to miss. Perfectly manicured hedgerows lined the edge of a property that looked like an English country estate. A bowling green lawn ran from the roadway all the way to a black and white mock Tudor building. The driveway had the same gravel surface that she’d seen around Meisner’s mansion.

  Inside was a combination of oak, brass, and years of polish. A large man with an equally large white beard had somewhat condescendingly given her an old-fashioned key on a wooden key ring to the Cavanaugh room, which turned out to be spacious and well lit. Its blocky wood furniture was pleasantly arranged into a bedroom and a sitting area, complete with a writing desk and comfortable chair.

  The granite and brass bathroom had been recently modernized, a fact she was grateful for this morning.

  She peeled off her clothes and stood in the shower. Steam curled around the bathroom, fogging the mirrors, and settling on the surfaces. She breathed in the vapor, letting the moisture soothe her inside and out.

  The hotel towel was thick. She dried off before wrapping a brilliant white terry robe around her. A room service menu stood on the dressing table. She phoned down for coffee, fruit, and toast.

  A moment later, her cell phone rang. She frowned. FBI Special Agent Henry Morris. She hadn’t spoken to him since she’d returned from that case in Italy a few wee
ks ago. No reason to. Odd that he’d be calling now.

  She picked up the call. “This is Jess Kimball.”

  “Henry Morris here.”

  She remembered his voice. Mid-range. Strong. All business all the time. “What’s up, Agent Morris?”

  “You could call me Henry, for starters.”

  She heard the grin in his tone and cocked her head. What was going on? “Okay. What’s up, Henry?”

  “Not much. I’ve been transferred to the Denver Field Office and I’ve got a break in my schedule. Can I buy you dinner tonight?”

  Dinner? She remembered everything about Henry Morris well enough. He was not too handsome, but not too bad. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a scar that slashed his lip on the left side. That, and a nose that had been broken more than once, made his face more interesting than it might otherwise have been.

  “I’m out of town right now, but I’ll be back in a couple of days, so sure.” But she remembered the plain gold band on his left ring finger, too. “Will your wife be joining us? I’d love to meet her.”

  He paused. “I’m afraid you can’t meet her, and I’d rather explain why in person.” She could hear his measured breathing. “I’ve got to run. Let me know when you’re back. We’ll set something up, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. Sounds good. I’ll call you.” Jess stood holding the phone after he’d disconnected the call. What was that all about?

  She was dressed when breakfast arrived fifteen minutes later. The simple order had been translated into a work of art with toast done in four types of bread, fruit arranged in geometric patterns, and coffee in what appeared to be a genuine silver pot. The bone china was Royal Albert, no less. The waiter placed the tray on a small table by the window.

  Breakfast came with a local newspaper. She unfolded the inky pages and found a thin column headed Boy Falls. There was a quick rundown of the location, and his first name. The article ended saying Authorities are still searching for the boy’s parents.

  That wasn’t a good thing. Not for Peter, or for her, but it left open a possibility. She checked her watch. It was probably too early to approach the hospital again. But the longer Peter’s parents remained absent, the more likely he could be her boy. Things could still go either way, but she needed to know, and she wasn’t leaving town until she was sure.