The Last Day

by John Ramsey Miller

  “Ward, this had to have been planned well before you told Trey to his face the deal was dead.” Mark asked, “Way I figure it, what can it hurt to keep the options open?”

  “Sure,” Ward said. “Talk to Gene. I'm curious.”

  “By the way,” Mark said, “we're open again. The servers are clean, and Gene said the feds have what they need. We gotta start doing some damage control. I'm seeing Lee Blackwelder in Charlotte at two. He's expensive, but public relations disasters are what he does best. I'd be right there with you and Natasha, but I think it's best you stay home for a day or two. You need anything, and I mean anything, you call me first. I'll be checking in with you, and I'll call if anything comes up. In the meanwhile, I'm going to be talking to any client who'll take my call.”

  “I'll call Gene about the Dibble thing. I have to talk to him anyway.”

  “Your call,” Mark said. “I'll follow your lead, boss … nephew.”

  Ward hung up.

  He wouldn't sell the company to Dibble for himself, but he had other people to think about. Flash might agree to institute some form of profit- sharing and to not fire employees for a certain period of time. There was also a chance this would somehow work out and Ward would be cleared. All it would take was proving who had come after him. Maybe Todd Hartman could work that miracle. He dialed Gene.

  “No news is good news” was how his friend and attorney answered the call. “Wiggins is going to meet with us this morning at ten- thirty He's informed the assistant federal attorney that if he wants to see you, he will bring you in. Any interviews from here out will only be conducted in his presence. Even so, the FBI may pick you up. You can't trust the bastards. If they show up and want to take you in, call me, or have Natasha do it and I'll call Wiggins. It's likely they'll take it slow and easy and make sure they have their ducks lined up before they move. I get the feeling the prosecutor doesn't have much confidence in the case so far, but that could change at any moment. There's a big commotion to get somebody charged for this …”

  “What's Wiggins costing me?” Ward asked.

  “Twenty thousand retainer for starters. That a problem?”

  Ward paused, then forged ahead. “Nope.”

  “Then bring your checkbook. That pays up through arraignment and plea. The rest depends on what he has to do. This goes to trial, a hundred thousand easy.”

  “A hundred thousand dollars? Listen—Unk told me that Flash Dibble still wants the company. Flash called him. If you want to, you can see if the offer stands, but if he tries to drop it, it will make me wonder if he's involved in bringing down the value. Keep me posted.”

  “You change your mind?”

  “No, I haven't. I don't know. Let's just say I want to do what's best. And maybe there are other potential buyers.”

  “Who'd offer less and sell to Flash,” Gene said. “By the way, Todd Hartman making any progress on this?”

  “I haven't talked to him today. So far, his people have kept the press away.”

  “See you at ten- thirty Ward.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Ward called Todd's cell phone. It rang four times and went to his voice mail.

  When Natasha came in, he filled her in on his conversation with Gene.

  When his cell phone rang a minute later, Ward looked at the caller ID. It was Todd Hartman.

  “Todd,” he said. “We need to talk to you. Something's come up that might be important.”

  “I was coming to see you with good news. I'll be there in ten minutes.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  When Ward opened the front door, Todd was parking his Denali. Leslie Wilde drove in behind him. He waited for her to join him and kissed her on the cheek, and they came to the door together.

  “I tried to call,” Leslie said, holding up her cell phone. “My battery is dead and I don't have my car charger. I thought I could run errands or whatever you need done. I'm going to take a personal day.”

  “You don't have to do that, Leslie,” Ward said.

  “I know, but I really want to help. Cheryl is covering your phone for the day. If it's okay?”

  “We both appreciate what you've already done, more than you know. Come on in,” Ward said, holding the door open.

  “The media vultures are still up there,” Leslie said. “It's the same thing over and over on the news. I guess they don't have anything better to put on. It dominated the Today show this morning. It's international news. The virus is still spreading, but they've been warning people about not opening the e-mail with the subject ‘You have to see this.’ ”

  Ward led them into the den, where Natasha greeted them with a bright smile.

  “Todd, what's your good news?” Ward asked.

  Todd looked at Leslie. “Maybe we should talk in private,” he said.

  “No problem. I'll give you guys a few minutes,” Leslie said.

  Todd said, “It's about the prototype.”

  “Leslie can hear it,” Ward said. “She knows all about it.”

  “You're the client,” Todd told him, smiling at Leslie.

  Todd took a tape player from his briefcase and placed it on the table. “I wired myself before I spoke to her.”

  He pressed down on the play button and the quartet listened to the meeting on the campus of UNCC.

  After the conversation played Todd clicked off the machine.

  “Ward told me she looks young,” Natasha said.

  “Yes, she does,” Todd replied. “She could pass for twelve.”

  “And by now she's seen the news, and even before that she was insinuating that she thought Ward made overtures toward her. What if she thinks she can shake him down?” Leslie asked.

  “I think we're past that,” Todd said.

  “Christ,” Ward said.

  “She's a disturbed young lady with a need for attention,” Natasha said. “This could get her some.”

  Ward asked Todd, “How do we handle it?”

  “She was in the middle seat, so I got the name of the man seated beside her on the aisle. His name is Albert Gaines, and he lives down in Rock Hill. I'll talk to him—I'd bet he saw the car when you showed it to her and that he was away from the seat only while you were. And he'll know whether or not you seemed to be coming on to Alice. Sitting that close he'd have to have seen or heard everything that went on.”

  “Okay,” Ward said. “I'm sure you're right. He was right there.”

  “I spoke to Alice Palmer late last night. She and her boyfriend tried extortion—asking for ten thousand. I told her I'd talked to witness Gaines, and said you'd go two and I wouldn't have them put in jail. Everybody gets what they want. We're going to pay to get the car back. Eight tonight at Concord Mills food court.”

  “Let's just hope she doesn't decide to call the police anyway,” Natasha said. “Maybe she doesn't need the money as much as she needs attention.”

  “That's possible,” Todd said, “but I'm sure her boyfriend just wants a payday.”

  “By the way, I have someone looking into Trey Dibble, and I'm trying to find out if Lander Electric has an investigator they use locally or one their lawyers use. You know which law firm they've retained?”

  “I forget the name. Gene's been dealing with them. They're a big firm with offices around the country and two- hundred- plus lawyers. Their North Carolina office is in Durham.”

  “If you don't mind, I'll call him for that information.”

  Ward wrote down Gene's phone numbers for Todd.

  “This could get expensive,” Todd said.

  Natasha said, “Whatever it takes, Todd. We'll handle it. Let's just get it fixed as quickly as possible.”

  Todd nodded, but he didn't seem to be listening. He was looking out through the window at something near the trees. He turned to look at Ward. “I want everybody to just keep talking like you are now. And don't look outside.” He reached into his pocket for a walkie- talkie and, holding it in his lap, keyed it.

  “Number two,”
Todd said, as though he was talking to Ward, “circle the house. Slow and quiet. I saw a light flare in the trees, up on the back ridge, ninety degrees out from the living room. Might be a camera.”

  “Everyone just keep talking, and don't look out the window.” Todd looked back toward the kitchen, stood and walked toward the door, turned, and sprinted for the front.

  Ward, Natasha, and Leslie sat frozen, as Todd had instructed, until Ward heard him yell out, and he turned to see the investigator running gazelle- like among the trees along the ridge, gun in his hand. Ward also saw the man Todd had called, working his way among the trees on the ridge, coming in from the left side.

  Standing, Ward saw Todd signal the other man before sprinting deep into the woods. Five minutes later the two men came walking back, their guns holstered. Todd was wiping dirt from his pants and his jacket.

  Ward walked out through the kitchen door and onto the patio in front of the covered pool, Natasha and Leslie following. He saw the two men looking down at the ground. Todd had disappeared below his waist. From a distance, he looked half buried. He reached down and came up with something that looked like a blanket with a man- size hole in the middle.

  “Wait here,” Ward told the women. He walked swiftly down the grassy slope and up the rise, approaching the two men.

  “He got away,” Todd said, reaching down into a hole that was about four by six feet wide and a good three feet deep. He lifted out a pair of armored binoculars by the strap and inspected them gently. What Ward had thought was a blanket was actually fine netting stretched across a wood frame with dead leaves attached to the material.

  “Mr. McCarty I'm Bixby Nolan. I work for Mr. Hartman.” The other man turned to Ward and nodded.

  “Nice to meet you,” Ward said absently.

  Nolan, wearing black jeans and a T-shirt under a lightweight jacket, was five six, and he looked like a prizefighter. He had a thin scar across his forehead, just above the dark sunglasses, and his blond hair was gathered into a ponytail.

  “I didn't see anybody,” Nolan said.

  “I saw a reflection from these glasses,” Todd said. “He ran from the hide when I broke around the house. He was wearing black jeans and shirt and ball cap. Maybe six feet tall with wide shoulders. He vanished into thin air.”

  Todd reached back into the hole and took out a small, rectangular, flat, dull orange object, which he studied for a moment before he set it on the ground beside the binoculars.

  “What's that?” Ward asked.

  “See the writing. ‘Fine India Made in the USA’ stone. For sharpening a survival knife,” Todd said. “Stones just like this one come with Randall fighting and survival knives. It fits in a little pocket on the holster.”

  “That's an expensive knife,” Bixby said.

  “I doubt the guy was a reporter,” Todd said, reaching down and feeling something in the front wall of the hole. He straightened and, climbing out, moved to the backside of the hole and kneeled to look in.

  “How do you know that?” Ward asked.

  “He's been here for a lot longer than just since yesterday, when the virus hit.”

  When Ward came around and knelt beside Todd he saw, carved in the clay walls, scores of carefully crafted letters stretched out in long straight lines, stacked to fill the space like a lesson painstakingly chalked on a blackboard. At the base of that wall was a pile of small bits of dry clay, lying where they'd fallen during the carving. Ward realized that the words were, in fact, one word written over and over, and, although they were run together without any spacing, the word was immediately readable because of the capital G every fifth letter. Whoever had been here had time and patience.

  Nolan Bixby asked, “What the hell does ‘Gizmo’ mean?”

  “Nothing good,” Todd said, with perfect certainty.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  “We should call the police,” Natasha said, after learning about the hiding place.

  “You sure should,” Leslie agreed as she poured Ward a cup of coffee.

  “What do you think?” Ward asked Todd. “Some nut has been watching our house for a long time. Would Dibble or Lander Electric hire a private eye to spy on us over time like that?”

  “This will be under the sheriff's jurisdiction, and the truth is we're only talking trespassing. It might be some private eye. Some of us will do anything to get a result. I think you should call Gene Duncan and see how he thinks you should handle it. Given all that's happened, I think he might want to report it to the FBI. Let them process the evidence.”

  “There's something else,” Ward said. “I was about to tell you when you saw the guy outside. Some weird things have been happening. Some of Barney's things have been moved around over the past week. A baseball from his room ended up in Natasha's bed under a pillow. She thought I did it. A stuffed bear of Barney's vanished from Natasha's room. A watch of his vanished from Natasha's jewelry box.”

  “And there's no other explanation? Nobody else has access to the house?”

  “No. And we found a handmade casket with a figure of a young boy in it in Barney's room. We are sure Barney didn't have that, and we certainly didn't put it there.”

  “I've been having hand tremors that started about a month ago,” Natasha said. “They're getting progressively worse. And Ward's been losing time and doing things he doesn't remember.”

  “It's like I lose my nights, don't remember dreams, feel dull in the mornings.”

  “I know it sounds crazy,” Natasha said, “but now in the light of everything else that's happened, I'm seriously thinking that we're being drugged.”

  Todd was silent.

  “I can't believe I'm saying this. Look, since our symptoms are very different, I think the drugs we've been getting are as well,” Natasha said. “Isn't it possible that someone out there might be giving each of us the different drugs, different ways? Isn't it possible?”

  “It's possible,” Todd said. “If someone's been in here, he certainly could be moving things and even drugging you both. Maybe he's doing it and watching his handiwork. Yes, it sounds paranoid, but I think you have reason to be paranoid.”

  “That's scary,” Leslie said. “Sitting in a hole for days on end, carving a word into the clay over and over, is way beyond creepy. If the crazy bastard has been coming in here when you weren't home, he could have come in when you were, or hidden in here and …”

  “Maybe he knows what only one of us drinks or eats. He spikes hers with one drug and mine with another,” Ward said.

  Todd stared at him and nodded slowly. “So let's see if we can figure out what that might be.”

  “Well, she drinks wine. I don't care for it,” Ward said.

  “Daily,” Natasha said. “That's the only thing I can think of. I know how far- fetched this is, but it makes sense, doesn't it? Oh, and I drink orange juice and Ward has a citrus allergy.”

  Todd nodded. “And you, Ward? What's only yours?”

  “Scotch. That and bottled water. Natasha drinks our well water. I don't mind the taste, except when I pour it into my single malts.”

  “Gather up the bottles you have, and I'll take the samples and drop them at a lab I use.”

  “Shouldn't they get the FBI to test them?” Leslie said.

  “You could let the FBI test them. I'm not saying you shouldn't. But I'll do it, too, in case they screw it up or don't actually do it. Are you ready to trust them? They may just think this is a smoke screen designed by Ward to throw them off him.”

  “I don't trust the FBI,” Ward agreed, surely.

  “But, on the other hand, if someone's been in and has done that, it might help convince them of your innocence with the virus,” Natasha told Ward. “And they might be convinced we didn't spike the drinks ourselves. I mean, there's no real evidence you are guilty of anything. And this same person might have put the virus in your computers. I mean, they have to see that's possible, and would explain everything.”

  “Why would he be targeting both
of us, not just me?” Ward said. “I think we should let the FBI see the hole out there, and if they seem receptive, we can tell them that we think we're being drugged.”

  “I'll take samples of the wine, the OJ, and the Scotch, and we'll give them the rest and see if we get the same results. They'll have to check it out. It isn't proof that there's someone else doing it, but coupled with the hole out there, it sure gives your lawyer ammunition for reasonable doubt.”

  “I'm a doctor with access to drugs and compounds,” Natasha said.

  “But they haven't accused you of anything. Just me,” Ward said.

  “I'll call Gene,” Ward told them. “He'll know what we should do, legally speaking, and he can call the FBI and explain it to them. He can probably get them to come out here.”

  “And we can see if someone has figured out our alarm system's code,” Ward said. “It's a top-of- the- line system and we always arm it when we leave, and at night when we settle in. With all the home invasions around, I figured that because people might think Natasha keeps drugs here they might come to find them.”

  “Has it gone off recently?” Todd asked.

  “No. A few times when we first got it and made stupid mistakes. Not in three or four years, though.”

  “There should be a record of entries. Even if he entered your code, or somehow added his own, the entries should have registered with the monitoring service,” Todd said. “Get me their information and I'll get the log and we can see if it was disarmed when you weren't here. Go ahead and call Duncan.”

  Ward reached for the portable phone.

  “I'll sweep the house for bugs,” Todd said, standing. “I carry some sweeping equipment in the truck that'll tell me if there's anything here. And I'll take pictures of the hide and what he left there. And if you'll empty some water bottles and get a funnel if you have one, I can collect the samples.”

  “But wine bottles have corks,” Leslie said.

  “A syringe would take care of that,” Todd told her bluntly “We'll know if there's anything in them later today. A toxicology screen doesn't take long, and I'll get it rushed.”