Damage Control

by Robert Dugoni

  She stepped quietly from the car, leaving the door open, hearing only the wind. The gate to the tunnel was open. She couldn’t recall whether she had shut it but thought she had. This time there was no comforting light to pull her through the cylindrical tube. She took a deep breath, gathered her courage, and walked into the darkness, brushing her hand against the edge of the concrete tunnel for balance despite her own revulsion. As she neared the end, the darkness shaded a navy blue, and she emerged to a sky pocked with stars. Freud did not emerge from the shadows to greet her. At the bottom of the stairs, the wooden door was open a crack. It made her stomach flutter. Despite the cool temperature, she felt herself perspiring. She pushed open the door, the room sweeping into view. She saw no sign of Leonardo or Freud, and their absence made her heart pound still faster. The stucco walls in the sitting room reflected the flickering light of two candles. The ceiling fan turned slowly. She walked into the kitchen. The wall became a burnt orange from the glow of the stove. She smelled the faint odor of lemon and licorice. The cleaver was embedded in the woodblock, a lemon split in half near a full cup of tea. Dana put her hand on the mug. It was cold to the touch. The sculpture on the counter, the one Welles had been working on earlier, appeared to have collapsed. She heard a dog whimper and stepped around the counter.

  Freud looked up at her from beneath sad eyes and whimpered again. Near him lay Leonardo, neither far from the body. Dana felt pain grip her chest. She brought a hand to her mouth, stifling her sobs as she knelt down and touched William Welles on the cheek. But for the hole in his head, he appeared to be asleep, even the hint of a smile on his lips. She took out her cell phone, then stopped herself. What would she say? Why was she at Welles’s home, all the way from Seattle, flying on a one-way ticket?

  She dropped her phone back in her purse, stood, and removed the meat cleaver from the block, starting back across the room toward the door. Halfway across she stopped and looked back at Freud and Leonardo.

  “I did this,” she said. “I brought this here.” She walked back, picked up Leonardo, and gently grabbed Freud by his collar. “Come on.” He resisted. “Come on, boy,” she said. The dog rose and padded forward at her side. He stopped at the door to look back at his master, then shifted his gaze and looked up at her as if to ask what would become of them.

  “I’m sorry,” Dana said. “I’m sorry I brought this to you.”

  She closed the door behind them and continued to coax Freud forward, her senses now on full alert. At the tunnel, Freud hesitated. It gave Dana pause, but it was the only way back to her Jeep. “Come on, Freud,” she whispered. “We can do this.”

  The dog turned his head to look behind them. Then he started to growl, low and deep in his chest. Dana looked over her shoulder but saw nothing. The dog looked at her as if telling her to run. Then he pulled from her grasp and rushed into the foliage barking and snarling.

  Dana clutched Leonardo to her chest and ran into the tube, struggling in her leather shoes, feeling them sliding on the slick surface. A couple of times she felt herself nudge the wall and corrected her angle. Running blind, she had to fight her instinct to stop, feeling that she was about to hit something impenetrable. Her breathing became more rapid. The sensation that someone was chasing her drove her forward, Leonardo bouncing against her. She burst from the tunnel as if emerging from deep water, gasping as she rushed across the clearing. She dropped Leonardo into the backseat, hoping he would not jump out. Then she opened the driver’s door and pulled herself in using the steering wheel. Her hands shook so violently, she had trouble finding the teeth of the ignition. She forced herself to concentrate, inserted the key, and started the engine. Then she threw the Jeep into drive and made a circle around the sculpture. As she passed the tunnel, a shadow burst from the darkness and leaped for the back of the Jeep, making it in one bounding leap.

  Freud.

  WHEN THE STATE road signs indicated she was off the county road, Dana felt a wave of relief. She had been certain that a car would appear behind her, bumping her on the decline until she lost control. She punched the accelerator, speeding along the highway until she saw a gas station. She pulled off and asked the attendant for a phone book.

  “What you looking for, lady?” the man said with a Hawaiian accent.

  “I need a kennel,” she said. “I have to go out of town unexpectedly, and I need someone to watch my animals until I can make it back.”

  The man told her he knew of a kennel not far from the airport. They found it together in the phone book. Dana called and asked the woman not to close before she arrived. The woman told her it was not a problem, the kennel was behind her home. Twenty minutes later, Dana pulled up to a piece of property with two cars parked on the lawn beneath swaying palm trees. Lush tropical foliage obscured a mostly cinder-block house. The woman who came to the door assured her Leonardo and Freud would be well taken care of. The kennel behind the woman’s home had a large fenced area where Freud could get exercise. Still, Dana couldn’t shake the feeling she was putting him into a prison.

  “I don’t know for certain when I’ll be back to get them,” she said, handing the woman a credit card.

  The woman smiled to reassure her. “No problem. They’ll be here.”

  Dana hugged Leonardo and heard him purr against her face. She handed him to the woman and knelt down and cradled Freud’s face in her hands. He looked at her with sad eyes, the skin above them furrowed.

  “Don’t worry, boy,” she said. “I’ll be back to get you. I won’t forget you, Freud.” She rubbed his head and pulled it close to hers, feeling the warmth of the dog’s face against her own, and kissed his head. Then she stood and started for the Jeep, fighting the urge to look back.

  Dana drove from the kennel and stopped at a pay phone in the parking lot of a fast-food restaurant. She called the police and told them William Welles was dead. Then she hung up and drove back to the airport. Once inside the terminal, she made her way to the gate. The ticket agent advised her that they had taken no standby passengers on the earlier flights. The last flight from the island to Seattle was a red-eye, leaving at midnight. They would call standby passengers when the plane was about to depart.

  Dana took a seat in the terminal, waiting and watching the people around her. An hour later, the passengers boarded the plane, and she began to mentally prepare herself for a long night in the airport.

  Then the ticket agent looked over and gestured her to the counter. “Must be your lucky day,” he said. “You got the last seat.”

  33

  THE PASSENGERS STUMBLED from the plane, exhausted, trudging up the gate like herded cattle at the end of a roundup. Dana took her time getting off the plane, in order to watch the people around her depart. The woman in front of her, dressed in shorts, tank top, and flip-flops, crossed her arms as she stepped from the plane and encountered the nearly forty-degree drop in temperature. As Dana ascended the ramp two well-built men stood at the top, dressed in official-looking blue slacks and white short-sleeve shirts. Next to them stood a less muscular man in the same outfit but wearing a blue polyester sport coat. He held a walkie-talkie. Dana’s anxiety increased when he looked at her, then spoke into the radio.

  She dropped her purse, spilling its contents, including her in-flight dinner—a wrapped ham sandwich with a mustard pack and a half-eaten Snickers bar. As she bent down, she slipped the earring from her pocket as she retrieved her things. Then she stood and walked forward.

  At the top of the ramp, the man in the sport coat stepped forward. “Dana Hill?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Would you mind coming with us, please?”

  “Coming with you? Who are you?”

  “Airport security,” he said, showing her identification.

  She smiled, trying to sound casual. “What do you want with me?”

  “Is that your only luggage?” The man pointed to the small carry-on bag hanging from her shoulder.

  “Yes.”

  “Wi
ll you come with us, please?”

  “Would you tell me what this is about?” she asked, more forcefully.

  The man in the blue jacket remained polite but decidedly firm. “Please.” He motioned with an arm.

  She looked at the other two agents and got the distinct impression that the choice was not hers. If she started ranting and raving about being a lawyer, it would only draw more attention and suspicion. “Fine,” she said. She followed the two guards through the terminal, the fluorescent lights making it as bright as day. She felt a cold sweat on her forehead. They led her to an unmarked door. The man in the blue blazer opened it for her and she stepped inside a room with white walls, a wooden table, and two chairs. She sat with legs crossed, still trying to appear calm. She felt her pulse beneath her armpits.

  “Could you explain to me what this is about?” she asked again.

  The man rubbed a finger over a mustache a shade darker than his salt-and-pepper hair. “May I look inside your bag?”

  Dana shrugged and slipped it from her shoulder, handing it to him. He opened it and searched the contents. Then he asked, “And your purse?”

  She handed it to him. He pulled out her flight itinerary and driver’s license. Then he pulled out the half-eaten Snickers. “Breakfast of champions,” Dana said, smiling.

  The man returned a polite smile then left the room with her driver’s license, itinerary, and the brown bag of tea that William Welles had given her. She looked up at a camera mounted to the ceiling in the corner of the room. She never should have called the police in Maui. She should have waited until she was back on the mainland. Could the news of Welles’s death have spread so quickly that the couple in the jewelry store had called the police and told them of the woman from Seattle who was inquiring about where Welles lived?

  The door on the opposite side of the room reopened, and a younger man wearing a better-quality suit walked in carrying her license, itinerary, the brown bag, and a notebook. He had a more professional demeanor. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Ms. Hill.”

  “That’s all right, but I would like to get home. It was a long flight, and it will be an early morning.”

  “I’ll try not to keep you long. I’m Agent Donald Hollas with the DEA.” He pulled out a chair and sat across from her. “You traveled to Maui and back today?”

  She chuckled, almost relieved. “Is that what this is about? Do you think I’m some sort of drug courier?” When he didn’t respond, she answered his question. “Yes, I traveled to Maui.”

  “For just one day?”

  “Yes, for just one day.”

  He looked up from his notepad. “Why?”

  “I had business there.” She said it nonchalantly.

  Hollas nodded. “What type of business?”

  “I’m a lawyer,” she said, thinking quickly. “My firm has clients with business interests in the islands. I was looking into the potential legal and tax ramifications for a client purchasing one of those interests.”

  Hollas sat back in his chair. “What firm do you work for?”

  “Strong and Thurmond. May I?” She reached into her purse, popped open a card carrier, and handed him a business card.

  “And what was the name of the company with the business interests?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  Hollas looked up from the card. “And why not?”

  “The matter is confidential. The acquisition of the competing company will not be voluntary.”

  “Hostile?”

  Dana smiled. “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me what they do?”

  “No.”

  A thin smile creased his lips. “Also confidential?”

  She shook her head. “I have no idea what it is they do, exactly. They are a subsidiary of a subsidiary, and I think that may just be the first layer. That’s why I was there. The documentation alone to name the proper entity will be a pile high. But I have no idea what the subsidiary does. I’m an associate at the firm, Agent Hollas. I’m afraid that means I get the grunt work.”

  “This business took just one day?”

  “It’s really all I could spare. I anticipate several late nights as it is. There will be long telephone conversations and, if the takeover is successful, more trips to complete the matter.”

  Hollas sat back, tapping the itinerary on the table. “And yet you purchased a one-way ticket. Why would you do that if you were intending to return today?”

  Dana had not thought it through, but she had always been good on her feet. “I had no idea how long the business would take. I was fortunate to get done what I needed to do today. My husband is also a lawyer. He’s in a three-week trial in Chicago. As I said, this trip was unexpected. We have a three-year-old daughter. I don’t like to leave her when my husband is also gone.”

  Hollas slid her itinerary across the table. “My kids are four and five. I know the feeling.” He held up the brown bag, opened it, and brought it to his nose.

  “It’s tea.”

  Hollas shook the bag and removed a pinch of the dried leaves. “So it is.” He stood and handed it to her. “I apologize for delaying you. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  Dana took the brown bag and put it in her purse. “So, I’m free to go?” she asked, trying to make light of the situation.

  Hollas nodded. “Free to go.” He reached for the Snickers bar. “I can throw that out for you.”

  “No.” Dana caught herself. “I mean… I haven’t eaten since lunch, and I doubt there will be much open this time of night.”

  Hollas handed it back to her. “Okay.”

  OUTSIDE THE ROOM, Dana wanted to break into a gallop but resisted the urge. Despite her best efforts, she could not fight her spreading sense of paranoia, certain now that she was being watched. The janitor pushing a wheeled garbage can through the terminal diverted his eyes when she looked at him. The skycap in the rolling cart smiled and nodded as he passed. The man on the telephone watched, then turned to speak into the receiver. Halfway down the corridor, she saw the universal sign for a women’s bathroom. Feeling light-headed and short of breath, she turned in to the blue-tiled room and rushed into a stall, locking the door. She leaned against the wall, struggling to catch her breath, waiting for her heart to stop racing. An overhead vent in the ceiling tiles blew cold air at her.

  Thump-ack.

  Dana started.

  Thump-ack.

  The sound came from her right—someone shoving open the stall doors, making his or her way down the row.

  Thump-ack.

  She sat on the toilet and braced her feet against the inside of the door.

  Thump-ack.

  The stall door next to her shoved open. She felt pressure against her feet. The lock of her door rattled. Dana caught her breath. “It’s in use.”

  She heard a squeaking sound. A yellow bucket rolled beneath the stall door.

  It’s just the janitor. She waited a beat, then slid the lock on the door and exited quickly. The janitor’s apology trailed her out of the room.

  She hurried through the terminal to a down escalator, looking back up as she went.? At the bottom, the airport train that would take her to baggage claim and the parking garage had already arrived, its doors open. She hurried off the escalator and stepped inside as the sliding glass doors closed. To her right, she saw a man do the same, entering one door down, a suitcase in hand. He stood holding the handrail. At the first stop, no additional passengers stepped onto the train. The man did not get off. As the train started again, Dana moved toward the doors. A moment later, when the train stopped, she stepped off quickly, following the signs to baggage claim. She looked behind her. The man in the suit followed, luggage rolling behind him. She ascended another escalator, then a flight of stairs to the enclosed catwalk, and walked across the road to the parking structure. Behind her, the man ascended the escalator, his head coming into view first, then his body. In the garage, she paid her parking fee at one of the machines. The man walked across
the catwalk. She took her ticket and walked to the elevator, one eye watching the lights above the six elevators in the bank, the other watching as the man stopped to pay his parking fee. She heard a car door close, an engine start, and the squeal of tires on the slick pavement. The elevator bell on the left rang. The man at the ticket machine bent to retrieve his ticket. The elevator doors slid open. No one got off. Dana stepped inside and hit the button for the third floor. When the door didn’t immediately close, she pressed the close button repeatedly, then stepped back, relieved, as the doors slid together.

  A hand knifed between them, slapping the rubberized edge.

  34

  THE ELEVATOR SHUDDERED, the doors stubborn and at first unwilling to concede to the hand. Then they split and pulled apart. The man from the train smiled a sheepish grin and stepped on.

  “Sorry. I’ve been a step late all day,” he said. The doors closed. He pulled down the knot of his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.

  Dana looked at the panel of illuminated lights. He had not pushed a button for an exit floor.

  “Cold,” he said, turning toward her. “I’d hoped that we’d left winter behind, but I guess we have a few more months to go.”

  She nodded, wishing she’d kept the canister of mace in her handbag, but that was not possible after September 11 and all the security precautions at airports. The elevator descended to the third floor. When the doors opened, the man looked up at the illuminated three. Then he stepped back and motioned for Dana to go ahead of him. She stepped out, forgot for a moment where she had parked, then remembered writing the row letter on her flight itinerary. She pulled it from her purse and walked down an aisle of columns marked “E.” Behind her, she heard the wheels of the man’s suitcase rolling on the pavement. It sounded like the low hum of a small engine. She continued down the row, the sound of the rolling suitcase fading, and with it, her immediate anxiety. As she approached the Explorer, she fumbled through her purse for her keys and hit the button for the automatic lock. When she reached the driver’s side, she pulled the door handle. It remained locked. She hit the button again. The car did not chirp. She pressed the button again. Nothing happened. Puzzled, she used the key to manually unlock the door and pulled it open. The alarm did not sound. She took a quick look over her shoulder, saw no one, and climbed behind the wheel, throwing her bag on the passenger seat. She shut the door and locked it, then sat back against the leather seat and closed her eyes, telling herself to relax. She would drive to her mother’s house and call Logan. She exhaled, sat forward, put the key in the ignition, and turned the key.