The Evolution of Evil (The Blackwell Files Book 6)

by Steven F Freeman

  It was too bad that smoking-hot NSA agent hadn’t called. She was perfect: athletic, trim, exotic…une beauté through and through. But one never knew. Perhaps she would change her mind and ring him up. Failing that, there was still his original target, the one he had noticed before the NSA babe.

  In the meantime, he executed today’s plan. He hadn’t scheduled a specific time to meet, but he knew those to whom he traveled expected him. So he passed through the market and onto a sparsely crowded road of cracked asphalt and tired shacks, closing the few remaining kilometers to his destination.

  CHAPTER 59

  Neither Alton nor Mallory spoke. They each occupied a table in the research facility’s lab, their entire focus riveted on Summit’s files. Their job required speed yet had to be meticulous in its approach. Move too slow, and the missing scientist could perish as they perused the records. Move too fast, and vital information could be missed.

  Cragmire and Tuttle sat at different laptops, both studying the scientific portion of the files.

  The minutes dragged on. Thirty minutes turned into an hour, which doubled to two. Alton had yet to extract any clues from the mass of information he had scanned. And judging from Mallory’s silence, neither had his wife.

  At the three-hour mark, Alton stood up, only then noticing a pronounced discomfort in his bad leg and a tongue that felt like it had licked a sheet of cotton. His mind felt the fatigue worst of all, as if he had run a mental marathon.

  “Want a water?” he asked the others.

  “Yes,” said Mallory. “Thanks, Sweetie.”

  “I’ll come, too,” said Tuttle. “I could use the walk. My back is getting stiff.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Alton, limping over to the mini-fridge in Summit’s office. She had had kept the unit next to her desk, stocked for long nights of research.

  Alton pulled out three bottles of chilled water, handed one to Tuttle, and paused a moment to rest his throbbing log. While waiting, he spied the antique, stuffed finch that adorned the corner of Dr. Summit’s sprawling desk.

  Alton picked up the bird and examined it. He wondered how long ago the finch had lived.

  Tuttle broke Alton’s reverie. “Her husband gave that to her, you know. He arranged to have it shipped to her when she first arrived down here.”

  “A stuffed bird? How romantic.”

  “For her it was. She said that being a biologist, she always liked the idea of studying here in the Galapagos, the birthplace of the theory of evolution, where the evidence supporting it was first collected.” Dr. Tuttle’s expression took on a wistful quality. “She loved this finch—told me it belonged to one of the key species that inspired Darwin with the ideas of evolution.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. The finches on each island differ, depending on the adaptations needed to acquire the available food sources.”

  “That’s cool,” said Alton. “I can see how this little guy would be appealing, especially to a scientist.”

  “Yes. This is one of the species that inspired the ‘survival of the fittest’ concept. When each island’s finch species adapted, the old species died away.”

  “Survival of the fittest, huh?” said Alton. He glanced at Summit’s empty chair. “I guess it’s not just for animals anymore.”

  Tuttle sighed. “Harsh, but true.”

  Alton began to limp back to his work table in the lab but stopped mid-stride, frozen.

  “What is it?” asked Tuttle.

  “I think I know where Summit hid her key files—where ‘the tunnel’ might be.”

  CHAPTER 60

  “You know for sure?” pressed Tuttle.

  “Not definitely,” said Alton, “but I have a pretty good guess.”

  Tuttle exited Summit’s office and popped his head into the door leading to the lab. “Agent Blackwell, come quick. Your husband thinks he’s figured out Summit’s hiding spot for her top-secret files.”

  Mallory scurried into Summit’s office, while Cragmire shuffled in a minute later, looking around the room and rummaging through the mini-fridge in an apparent effort to mask his curiosity.

  “So you figured it out?” asked Mallory, edging close.

  “I think so,” replied Alton. “Do you remember what Summit used to store her flash drive in back in Washington?”

  “Yes, the Eiffel Tower piggy bank,” replied Mallory.

  “And why did she pick that,” said Alton, “besides the fact it would hold a flash drive?”

  “Her husband said she used it because it had sentimental value for her. She liked to have it around.”

  “Exactly,” said Alton. “Dr. Tuttle just told me that Senator Jackson gave Summit that stuffed finch on her desk. Dr. Tuttle said it had particular significance to her.”

  Mallory’s eyes swiveled to Summit’s overcrowded desk. “You’re saying…?”

  “The finch. You never know…some of the stuffing could have been removed to make space for a flash drive.”

  “But ‘the tunnel.’ What does that mean?” asked Mallory.

  Alton moved back to Summit’s desk. “Let’s find out.” He picked up the finch, a specimen of brown and olive green, and turned it over. “Look. There’s an incision here, just under the tail feathers.” He pushed in three fingers. After probing the stuffing for a moment, he felt a rush of satisfaction. “Got it.” Alton slipped a plain gray flash drive from the taxidermic specimen’s backside. “Well, now we know what ‘the tunnel’ meant. I wouldn’t have pegged Summit for that kind of humor.”

  “Poor finch,” said Mallory. “That didn’t look comfortable.”

  Alton laughed. “Good thing she didn’t hide it there when he was still alive.”

  Cragmire spoke up for the first time. “I should get a copy of that. I’m the best person to interpret whatever scientific revelations are on there.”

  “Agreed,” said Alton. “I’m also going to store a copy on my hard drive. Now that we’ve finally located these files, we can’t afford to lose them again.”

  They moved back to the lab, where Alton set to work copying the flash disk onto his hard drive.

  “Are the files encrypted?” asked Mallory.

  “Not yet, at least not the ones I’ve copied over so far,” replied Alton. “I guess Summit figured no one would find them stuffed up a dead bird’s butt.”

  Tuttle had carried the finch in from Summit’s office and placed it on the table next to Alton. “All this time, it’s been in this thing,” he said, shaking his head.

  “It makes sense,” said Alton. “She could store her key files in it without ever having to leave her office.”

  “What will you do with it?” asked Tuttle, nodding toward the flash drive.

  “Once I distribute a few copies, I’ll take it to the police station and have Fuentes store it in the evidence locker for safekeeping.” The laptop emitted a quick, high-pitched beep. Alton glanced at it and turned to Cragmire. “The files finished copying to my hard drive. None of them are encrypted. I’m emailing all of them to you now.”

  “And I’ll be reviewing them now,” said Cragmire. “These files might have the information we need to crack this case.”

  CHAPTER 61

  “Pack your things,” Quintana told Gloria, his wife. “We need to get going.”

  “Why? What is happening?”

  Quintana stuffed a couple of tee-shirts into a ragged duffle bag. “Remember my friend Rodrigo down at the harbor? He told me that the police and a bunch of gringos are looking for me.”

  “Why?” asked Gloria. “What did you do?”

  Quintana stopped packing and looked at his wife. “What I had to do. What any man would do rather than watch his wife and child starve.”

  “Jaime,” said Gloria, drawing closer with a worried look.

  He embraced his wife. “Don’t worry, my love. The police will check the homes of our relatives, but they don’t know all my friends. We’ll leave here and find a safe place.” He declined
to answer the question Gloria now asked with only her eyes. What did you do?

  Monica, his sister-in-law, watched the proceedings. “I hope wherever you go, they have more food than I do.”

  Quintana resumed packing but couldn’t help but crack a smile. “That won’t be a problem. I’ll be buying my own food from now on. But I’ll be buying it at a safer location.” He stopped again. “And Monica—thanks for everything you’ve done for us. I won’t forget it.”

  “I wish I could have done more,” said Monica.

  “You did all you could. Who could ask for more than that?” He walked over to her. “And now it is my turn to help you.” He slipped a hundred-dollar bill under a placemat. “Buy your family some proper food.”

  Quintana turned to his wife. “Go get Alicia. We need to leave—now.”

  Moments later, the family trudged down the dirt trail leading away from Monica’s house, Gloria holding the couple’s baby and Quintana lugging two bags and a backpack that contained most of their earthly possessions. They walked to the end of the trail and stopped at the road.

  Quintana dropped the bags and wiped his brow in the tropical humidity. “We’ll wait for the bus.”

  “And then what?” asked Gloria.

  “We head north, all the way to the north shore, to Dragon Hill.”

  “What will we do when we get there? Does anyone even live up at Dragon Hill?”

  Quintana nodded. “One of my friends from the cruise ship said his family has put together some shacks a little inland, far enough from the hill that the tourists don’t bother them.”

  “And where will we get food?” asked Gloria.

  Quintana picked up the bags as a ramshackle bus approached. “That’s the beauty of the location. My friend made arrangements to buy supplies from the cruise ships when they visit. No need to make an appearance in town. At least not until this all blows over.”

  The bus pulled to a creaking stop. Its driver pushed a rusted lever to open folding doors. Quintana stood behind his wife to help her on board, then hauled the bags up behind her. They found a seat at the back of the bus and settled in.

  The bus pulled away and began to bounce over pothole-filled roads. As the kilometers ticked away, Quintana began to relax. He turned to his wife. “And now we disappear.”

  CHAPTER 62

  Cragmire had remained glued to his laptop all afternoon, scanning the files Alton had located earlier. In doing so, he hadn’t glanced at his phone for hours, a rare event. Tuttle had retreated to his bungalow to continue his review of Summit’s latest notes.

  Cragmire had spoken only once. “This is fascinating. She really is doing some groundbreaking work here.”

  “Cragmire,” Alton had replied, “I’m glad you’re excited, but please keep in mind the purpose of your review is not to evaluate the scientific brilliance of Summit’s findings. It’s to find clues to her whereabouts so she’ll be around to make even more fascinating discoveries in the future.”

  Cragmire had looked miffed. “I don’t know what her notes are going to contain until I read them. It’s not my fault I’m the only person on the team who can actually understand them.”

  “Understood. Let us know if you find anything.”

  The sun began its downward arc in the sky, yet still Cragmire studied the information on his screen, bringing up one file after another.

  Alton and Mallory had finished their review of Summit’s non-scientific files but found nothing significant. Alton had needed only a quick review of the key files stored on the flash drive to realize he lacked the scientific knowledge needed to make sense of them.

  He approached Cragmire. “Mallory and I are finished. We’re going to join the Gooch in the manhunt for Quintana. You need anything?”

  “Just peace and quiet,” said Cragmire, not looking up.

  “You’ll get it,” said Alton. “We’ll be riding with Lieutenant Rios, so the Highlander will be here if you need it.”

  The Blackwells and Lieutenant Rios departed for a small pueblo northeast of the location at which Quintana’s trail had disappeared.

  On the way, Fuentes called Alton’s cellphone. “I have an interesting update on our persons of interest.”

  “Yes?”

  “All three of them—Chin, LeFlore, and Shoemaker—have been leaving their hotels periodically for a few hours at a time.”

  “Where to?” asked Alton.

  “Different places, usually no place special.”

  “Strange,” said Alton. “What are they doing when they get there? And who are they meeting with?”

  “My men couldn’t tell,” said Fuentes. “All they can do is follow the suspects. Once they disappear into a building, we can’t enter without a warrant. They went into a few private residences, stayed an hour or two, and left. We think Chin may have left a few times without us seeing her. She seems to have a talent for that.”

  “Are they leaving their resorts at the same time?” asked Alton.

  “No. Rios says it’s at different times.”

  “I see,” said Alton, glancing at a series of half-finished concrete buildings flashing by. “So essentially, we know they went to somewhere, presumably for some type of meeting, but we don’t know with whom or why.”

  “That’s right,” replied Fuentes. “My men will keep trailing them. Hopefully, we’ll learn more.” He ended the call.

  A few minutes later, Rios arrived at their destination. While the policeman traveled from door to door, Alton and Mallory kept a discreet watch for signs of anyone trying to sneak out of the village. So far, no one had seen hide nor hair of the elusive Quintana.

  Alton’s cellphone vibrated with a text message. He pulled it from his pocket and looked at Mallory in surprise. “It’s from Cragmire.”

  “What’s he say?” she asked.

  Alton read off the message. “‘You won’t believe what I’ve discovered. This case is about to be blown wide open. Meet me at the police station in an hour.’”

  CHAPTER 63

  Cragmire could hardly contain his excitement. No one on the mission team had expected him to solve this case. He was a biologist, after all, not a detective. He couldn’t wait to see their faces when he presented the culprit to his astonished colleagues.

  But first he had to collect the criminal. And he was pretty sure he knew where to look. Cragmire traveled to the location and stood outside a door. He pulled out the Glock Fuentes had provided a few days ago and grasped the handle, only to realize his hands had started to sweat.

  Wiping his hands on his pants one at a time, Cragmire tightened his grip on the handgun and stormed through the door.

  The figure in the room looked up with a startled expression. “What do you want?”

  Walking toward the figure, Cragmire pointed the Glock and tried to steady his trembling hands. “I know it was you. And I know why—at least partly. Is Dr. Summit alive?”

  Hands clasped nervously, the figure sagged into a chair without speaking.

  “Not talking, huh?” said Cragmire. “Well, let’s get you on down to the police station. I wonder what type of interrogation techniques Ecuadorian cops will use on a person like you.” He waved the gun towards the door. “Let’s go.”

  The suspect shuffled out the door.

  “Into the car,” said Cragmire. “You drive. And don’t forget, I’ll have this pointed in your direction.” He liked this—the exhilaration of the capture. He could see himself taking on a more active role pursuing criminals in future NSA missions.

  “Go to the police station in Puerto Ayora,” commanded Cragmire, strapping on his seatbelt. “Leave your seatbelt off. If you decide that running into a tree would be your best chance of escaping, you’ll be the one flying through the windshield, not me.”

  The figure drove in morose silence for ten minutes before speaking. “How? How did you know?”

  The biologist leaned back and laughed. “Just wait. You’ll find out when everyone else does at the station.”
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  They neared the police station, and Cragmire scanned the area for an open parking spot. “There. Park over there near the harbor,” he said, pointing with his Glock.

  The driver did as instructed, pulling the SUV into the space. The harbor, so active during the day, now lay deserted, the crowds back in their homes or fishing boats or cruise ships.

  “Throw me the keys,” said Cragmire. The key ring hit the seat in front of him. He pocketed it without moving his gaze from the suspect.

  “Now sit here until I’m out,” said Cragmire. He slid out of the SUV, keeping his Glock trained on the figure. “Climb out.”

  As the suspect did so, the phone in Cragmire’s pocket chimed. He looked at his screen and chuckled. “It didn’t take long for my text to get their attention.”

  He looked up just in time to witness a flash of light as a deadly bouquet of flame bloomed from the barrel of a handgun. He fell into a crumpled heap on the cracked asphalt.

  The handgun flared again. The biologist felt the dull impact of a round impacting his stomach.

  Icy fingers seemed to flow across his body as all sensation faded. Where the hell had the asshole hidden a weapon? With blood pouring from wounds in his neck and torso, Cragmire slipped into unconsciousness before he could solve this last puzzle.

  CHAPTER 64

  LeFlore left with a smile. Everything had proceeded according to plan.

  Now to pick up the trail of his first target, a person of greater importance than the one he had just left. Unfortunately, picking up this trail meant returning to the front gate of The Finicky Finch and waiting for the target to return.

  The Canadian stationed himself in the usual spot, a pay-by-the-hour parking lot located across the street from the resort’s entrance. He couldn’t have asked for a better place to hide in plain sight.

  He had resigned himself to hours of interminable waiting when the Forsberg rep appeared after only fifteen minutes, walking down the street in a light jacket, broad-brimmed hat, and large sunglasses. LeFlore couldn’t follow a pedestrian in a car, so he exited his rental to trail her on foot.