Killing a US senator, even if disguised as a suicide, crossed a line the Soviets weren’t willing to cross. They preferred to keep the Cold War on the chilly side. He was shipped to Cuba and became Victor Stepania, in a sort of Cold War witness protection program. He continued his duties there, most notably helping to build a secret chemical weapon facility in East Havana, the first of its kind. But he missed the front lines, and depression overtook him.
Names of possible suspects sped through his mind. Lee Henson was the first one to come to mind. But this wasn’t his calling card. Henson never played games, and this email was pure gamesmanship—the work of an amateur. An amateur who was about to get themself killed.
Katie was the one who had the will and brains to pull it off. Plus, a job where she could freely travel and make the proper contacts to enhance her search. But he knew that was just wishful thinking. Same went for his underachieving children, who lacked the fortitude to come after him. Natasha was the only one with the courage, but she was too self-absorbed to concern herself with searching for anyone but herself. He thought of someone with connections to his old life with the KGB, but again, this was not the work of professionals.
“Blake, come on baby,” Jineane continued shouting.
He focused on the email, which he doubted could be traced. He knew he must act like nothing was out of the ordinary. Normalcy would be the key— it had been the key to his survival for decades. He was scheduled to leave tonight to represent Sedona at the Youth Baseball Coaches Association convention in St. Louis. He needed to extinguish this threat before he left.
He turned on the charm at the breakfast table. He shared some talk of the previous night’s game with Trent, before the boy left to catch the school bus. This left him alone with Jineane. His appetite had vanished, but he forced himself to down a plate of pancakes.
“Who was that guy you were with last night? The redhead with the New York accent,” he asked her in a calm tone. “The one you introduced me to after the game.”
“Are you jealous, baby?” she asked in a flirtatious tenor, still in a loving haze after the “victory celebration” he gave her last night.
He felt his cool slip away. He slammed his fist into the table with such force that he split the wood. “I’m serious ... who was he!?”
She turned frightened. Probably the same way she looked at Trent’s father right before he knocked her teeth in.
“Peter something-or-other. He’s a sports reporter. He was on his way from the Scottsdale Open to Las Vegas and stopped off in Sedona. George had met him in town, and invited him to the game.”
He was following Natasha—not a coincidence.
“Baby, what’s wrong?” she trembled as she spoke.
The witness weakened. He laughed at those who claim fear doesn’t work when interrogating prisoners. “Did you give him your email address?”
“No, but when he talked about taking a trip up into the canyon, George jokingly gave him your card, and said he’d probably need to call you to tow him out if he got hit with one of those falling rocks up there.”
The card had his email address on it. His calm returned. “I’m sorry I lost my temper, but this Peter guy isn’t a sports reporter. He works for my ex-wife, and he’s trying to get dirt on me.”
They were a united front once again.
“That bitch …”
He took a last forkful of pancakes, swirled it in syrup, and filled his mouth. He rose from his seat and headed out. Jineane met him at the door. “What do you plan to do about it, baby?”
He wrapped her in a strong embrace. “You let me worry about that. But I can guarantee you that nobody will ever come between us.”
Chapter 31
“What a day!” Tim exclaimed as he drew the drapes, allowing bright sunlight to rush in. It was the day he’d been waiting for. It was Hammer Time. Or more specifically, Jack Hammer Time.
In the midst of his excitement last night, he returned emails to Anna. I have a huge surprise for you. I will see you in a few days. I found him! As he typed it, he thought of the beautiful smile that would crease her face when she read it.
Next he sent one to his sister.
Sam, Sorry I haven’t been in touch. But I have a huge surprise for you! See you in a couple days! Say hello to the cutest little girl in the world for me. Love, Tim.
He gathered his backpack, which contained enough evidence to make his new favorite auto mechanic play ball … a different type of ball than he was used to. He then left the Sky Lodge Motel and maneuvered the Ford Focus up into the winding, twisting curves of Oak Creek Canyon. He was no nature lover and usually thought of a landscape as wasted building space. But he found it hard to keep his eyes on the road as he passed the breathtaking rock formations and cliffs. The landscape soon changed to a thick forest, filled with pine, oak, and maple. Or as Tim saw them—trees. The spring had also brought out an assortment of wild flowers that would probably wreak havoc on his allergies. But nothing could get him down today.
Heeding the warnings of the McDonald’s gang, he proceeded slowly. And when he found an area to safely pull off the narrow road, he took advantage. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a six-inch knife with a rubber handle. As he got out of the car, dark clouds had settled over the area. From his research, Tim knew that the spring often brought thunderstorms, which formed without warning over the San Francisco Peaks. They could be quick, harsh and unforgiving. The beautiful morning of spring sun seemed destined to become an afternoon of dark skies and pounding rain.
He moved to the front tire on the passenger side. After making sure the coast was clear, he plunged the knife into the tire and slit it. He did this three times before he was convinced he’d done irreparable damage.
He returned to the car, placed the knife back in the glove compartment, and resumed his journey up the canyon. It didn’t take long for the tire to start making a very noticeable ratatattat sound. The sound of crushing metal signaled that the rim was successfully ruined. Tim pulled the car off to the side of the road and walked the quarter of a mile to the Cottonwood Inn, a woodsy lodge where he could call for a tow. He knew exactly who he would call.
“My car got a flat, just up the road—could I borrow your phone to call for assistance? I can’t get any cell service up here,” he told the older woman behind the counter.
The woman acted like this was a daily occurrence—perhaps it was. She grabbed an outdated rotary phone from behind the desk and set it on the counter. Tim took out the card from Fisher Auto & Recovery and dialed.
Jineane answered on the second ring with her usual bluster—she’d mentioned last night that she “ran” the office, while Blake worked in the garage. Tim disguised the New York in his voice, not wanting to take a chance on her recognizing him, “Hello, I’m up in Oak Creek Canyon, about a quarter mile from the Cottonwood Inn, and I need a tow.”
“Just a minute, let me see if Blake is back in yet. Can you hold on?”
While on hold, Tim listened to the woman behind the counter discussing the mystical powers of Sedona with a couple who were staying at the inn. “The canyons are one of eleven ‘power points’ of the earth. There are vortices below the earth which give off energy and heighten creativity,” she said proudly.
He rolled his eyes.
Moments later, an out-of-breath Jineane returned to the phone. “Sir, I radioed Blake. He has a few things on his plate, but said he could be there in about an hour. Is that okay?”
“Nothing would make me happier,” Tim said.
Chapter 32
Tim watched as the truck backed up to the rear of his car. It had a fifteen-foot flatbed that already held a Toyota Celica with a smashed front-end. The imposing figure of Blake Fisher stepped out, wearing a bright yellow raincoat. The earlier dark skies had turned into a heavy rain.
When he knocked on his window, Tim looked up as if he was surprised.
“I’m here to tow your vehicle,” Fisher said, the rain pelting hi
s plastic raincoat. He didn’t appear to recognize Tim from last night. “I just need you to step out of the vehicle while I load it on.”
Tim got out, and watched as Fisher skillfully lowered the mechanical bay, then hooked the car to a cable that pulled it behind the Toyota.
“You can get in the truck—it’s open. I’ll be there in a minute,” he yelled to Tim over a boom of thunder.
The rain had soaked through Tim’s clothes and he welcomed the warmth of the truck. Once inside, he tried to follow Fisher’s movements using the rearview mirror, but the mangled Celica shielded his view.
The driver’s side door whipped open and Fisher hopped in, startling Tim. He shot him a quizzical look as he started the vehicle. “Do I know you from somewhere? You look familiar.”
“I was thinking the same thing while you were loading the car. Then I remembered—we met last night at the game. I sat next to your girlfriend, Jineane. She introduced us.”
He nodded like it had sparked his memory. “Now I remember. It’s Peter, right?”
“Yes it is.”
“So, Peter, what happened?”
“I must have hit a rock. It made a loud sound, and next thing I know I have a flat.”
“Seen a million of them,” Blake said with a knowing smile. The smile scared Tim—something about it. “I think Jineane mentioned you’re from New York.”
“Queens.”
“It’s a small world—I have a daughter who lives in the Bronx.”
“You don’t say,” Tim said. He distinctly remembered Jineane saying something about salmon not swimming up stream.
“Her name is Anna.”
Tim was prepared for most possible scenarios. Direct honesty was not one of them.
“Do you get back to see her?” he recovered.
“I haven’t seen her in over twenty years. I left her mother when she was very young. I lived in Cuba then.”
They continued along the slick road, Fisher driving way too fast for Tim’s liking. “Any other children?”
“A few,” Fisher said nonchalantly and let the silence hang.
The moment felt tense—Tim wasn’t expecting things to engage this quickly. A crackle of the radio caused him to jump, followed by some undecipherable chatter from the dispatch. Fisher picked up the radio receiver. “This is Blake—I’m not far from there. I’ll be right on it.”
He looked at Tim. “I apologize, Peter, I’m an emergency medical technician. There seems to be an accidental shooting in the Cocino Forest … a couple of hikers. I must take it.”
Five minutes later, Fisher pulled the truck into a desolate campground. “I’ll be back in a few. You stay here,” he instructed. This was fine with Tim, who had no urge to find gun-toting hikers. It also gave him time to gather himself.
Like a flash, Blake Fisher disappeared into the thick forest. For a moment, Tim wondered if he just witnessed another escape from the Jack Hammer, never to be seen again. But there was nothing he could do about it now. He decided to use the alone time more constructively, sifting through the glove compartment and under the seats. Clean as a whistle.
Fifteen long minutes later, Fisher returned. He was accompanied by a shaken-looking, middle-aged couple wearing matching running suits. Fisher applied bandages to the woman’s foot. The three of them engaged in an animated conversation that Tim couldn’t make out from his vantage point, but everything seemed to turn out well. They shared a laugh, shook hands, and Fisher returned to the truck.
“Accidentally shot herself in the foot,” he said with a laugh as he started up the vehicle.
Tim felt ill—Fisher was now holding the camper’s gun. A really big wrench being thrust into his plan. He knew things had been going too smoothly.
“Why are campers packing?” Tim asked, trying to act natural.
“A lot of them do, in case of rattlesnakes … or scorpions … or some wild beast. But a gun can only protect you if you know how to use it.”
He then surprised Tim by handing the weapon over to him. “Be careful, it’s loaded,” he warned, followed by another hearty laugh. “They told me I could have it—didn’t want to see another gun as long as they live.”
Tim carefully took the gun and repeated, “Loaded?”
“Yeah, just be careful. But you seem like a careful guy, so you shouldn’t have any problems.”
With the gun in his grasp, Tim felt like the balance of power had returned in his favor. And it was time to get down to business. He reached for the backpack that contained the evidence, but he realized he’d left it in the rental car. But it wasn’t like he hadn’t already admitted being Anna’s father, so he might not even need it.
“I know who you are—the game is over,” Tim said as forceful as possible.
Fisher didn’t respond. Nor did he look either surprised or scared. He just icily stared out at the road.
“All Anna wants is to meet with you. Nobody has to know any of your secrets. I’m willing to leave the past in the past, but you know the FBI, they’re always carrying around a grudge. They might not feel the same way.”
“That’s what Anna wants. But what do you want? Besides getting your grimy hands on my daughter.”
“Me? I’m just doing my job.”
“I thought we were being honest here … Peter.”
Tim glared at him. “What I want is for you to go away.”
“That’s an interesting request, coming from the man so dedicated to finding me.”
“I mean after you meet with Anna, go away without a trace. Take off and move somewhere—Timbuktu, some Unabomber cabin up in Montana, I don’t care—not like you haven’t done it before. I’ve seen plenty of fathers like you who like to keep bouncing in and out of their kid’s life whenever it’s convenient, and prey on their emotions. Anna deserves better than that.”
“Sounds like Anna means much more to you than just a business relationship.”
“More than I can say for you.”
“If I agree to this, how can I be sure that my secrets will remain between the three of us?”
“Anna and I are the only ones who know, and if you want to keep it that way, you’ll agree to my terms.”
“If that’s the case, then why were you talking to Natasha?”
How did he know that? And if he perceived Tim to be a threat, why did he hand him the gun? Tim held all the cards, but a feeling of uneasiness came over him. He gripped the gun tighter.
“I was just hoping that she might have some information to lead me to you … just like the rest of the children and wives you abandoned. None of them know anything.”
He stared at Tim for a long moment, and said, “I think I believe you.”
“Then do we have a deal?”
Chapter 33
The Jack Hammer sized up his opponent. Even with Foye pointing the gun at him, he knew he had the advantage. Blood rushed through his veins. It felt like the good old days.
Like a flash of lightning, he reached into the pocket of the raincoat, gripped the handle of the knife, and made a surgical slash through Foye’s throat. It was a direct hit, severing the carotid artery. His victim was momentarily stunned, touched the fatal neck wound, and then slumped over.
A nice conclusion to a hectic morning.
His first stop after leaving the house had been to Maxwell’s. He wanted to see if anybody had come in contact with this mysterious New Yorker named Peter Foye. Nobody had. But that didn’t mean his trip wasn’t worthwhile. On a mounted television in the bar, a show was recapping the week in sports, including a showdown between Natasha Kushka and a reporter in a post-match press conference. And Jineane said watching sports was a waste of time.
He thought it might take most of his day to locate him, but then the amateur did him a favor with his concocted flat-tire story. Rule number one: never underestimate your opponent. Rule number two: if your opponent is a highly-trained assassin, run away as fast as you can.
He’d done a quick sweep of Foye’s car while
securing it on the flatbed. That’s when he came across the backpack full of goodies, including a rare photo of Victor Stepania. He found the knife Foye used, to slit his own tire, in the glove compartment. Hell, Jineane could have taken out this novice. He slipped the knife into his raincoat, thinking it might be useful.
The first step was complete, but now came the more delicate part of the operation. He drove the truck to a secluded area in the canyon. He removed the lifeless body and stashed it in the trunk of the rental car, which remained on the flatbed. He secured the backpack and continued going through its contents, including a business card that read: Tim O’Connell—Private Investigator.
Who else knew of his whereabouts? He mentioned Anna, but what about the others? He was suspicious of the connection between this O’Connell guy and Natasha. He did tend to believe his claim that Natasha was unaware of his whereabouts—for the simple fact that if Natasha knew, then the whole world would know by now. Whether Natasha unknowingly provided him a clue that led him here, or someone else did, the fact was that if this rank amateur could find him, then even the FBI had hope. He had a lot of loose ends to tie up, before he was out of the woods.
The rain continued to pound the windshield as he drove to the Sky Lodge Motel. He parked the truck in the observatory parking lot down the road from the motel, and made his way unnoticed to O’Connell’s motel room. He used the room key that he found in the backpack to enter, and quietly shut the door behind him.
He viewed the room—deodorant, contact lens solution, and a couple of newspapers. He then found what he was looking for—a laptop computer. A quick search through O’Connell’s wallet located a list of passwords, written on the back of one of his business cards. For a private investigator he wasn’t very private. Or smart.
He signed on to the computer and went directly to his email accounts—he needed to know who he was sharing information with. The first one was a reply from Anna. She was responding to a previous message from O’Connell in which he announced that he’d “found him.” In retrospect, he probably shouldn’t have been so joyful about his discovery.
The Jack Hammer Page 11
