“Theodora,” he placated softly, and she found herself hating his voice, hating the way he looked at her, as if he resented her, and she surmised that he did, because she knew exactly the way the wills read, and the way that Louisianan law saw the deaths of her parents at the same time. One of his hands snaked out and took one of hers in a strong grasp. She tried to pull away but he had a firm grip. “In my position, I have to be very careful. Any hint of impropriety could damage my name irrevocably. Understandably this was a necessity.”
“And now that the initial reports from the NTSB are back,” she completed. She hadn’t needed to say that the proof was lacking. Someone had planted evidence in the Howe Mansion. Specifically, in Teddy’s room. Her fingerprints had not been found on any of the incriminating evidence, and forensic specialists had indicated that the items had been very precisely wiped clean. Furthermore, the explosive compound that might have been used in the actual sabotage had not been something for which the average twelve-year-old would have access. In short, the young woman and the crime, if there had been one, could not be directly linked, no matter how much innuendo was occurring.
“Your father had many enemies, I imagine,” he inferred mildly. His hand began to slowly squeeze hers, causing her to wince in pain, and she had tried to shake him off again. A small smile briefly crossed his lips. “As I’m sure that you’re aware. Many who might have attempted to divert attention from themselves to you.”
“What terrible people,” Teddy said. She tried to keep her composure but his grip was tight, so painful. “But certain types of explosives are extremely hard to come by.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“It means that I couldn’t be directly tied into the ones that were used,” she summed it up for her uncle, already aware that he must know the facts, even better than she could, hearing it second-hand from her father’s own lawyers. “The evidence didn’t add up, consequently, the grand jury declined to indict. Perhaps next year with further tests. But I guess you already know.”
“The attorney general has given me the brief,” her uncle stated with eerie calmness, staring at his only niece with odd eyes. He knew she was intelligent, had counted on it, as a matter of fact, but he hadn’t known how smart she was, and had only since found out that twelve months of solitude and implied incrimination had made her age decades beyond her tender years. Then there was that seething vengeance in her eyes, full of anger and uncertainty. He abruptly let her hand go, and she rubbed at it with the other, never looking away from him. “Of course, the doctors here tell me that you’re ready to leave.”
No more excuses, she thought. No reasons to keep her here like a common thug. And there were no longer rationalizations for her uncle to make.
“So you’ll return to Louisiana,” he told her.
“And you? Where will you live?”
“In Washington, of course,” he replied, angrily. “I have a life to live. We will visit, understandably. But I have been promoted this year.”
“Congratulations,” she said, sounding as if she were a thousand years old. “Deputy Director of Internal Security Measures is your new title. Only three men away from the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigations. It’s quite a coup.”
And Jackson Theron, older brother of Greer Theron Howe, uncle of Theodora Andrea Howe, and the next person in line to inherit every penny of the Howe billions, should Teddy either die or be proven unable to inherit, continued to stare at her. Finally, he reasoned that although his niece was clever, she couldn’t possibly be alluding to his own agendas. All he had to do was to wait a reasonable amount of time, waiting for the courts to conclude that she had to be responsible for the plane crash that he had orchestrated. And if that didn’t occur, then she would meet with another unfortunate accident. Some kind of event that could never be tied to him. Accordingly, he would gain control of the monies he so desperately desired.
So Teddy moved back into the mansion that she had shared in happier times with her parents. And she learned that she had moved from one type of prison into another.
•
Gower received the phone call at shortly after three PM. He had been following up the report of stolen gasoline at a small town in the Cascade Mountains, but had dismissed it as low on possibility. He thought it was too unlikely that the pair could have gone that amount of distance from the Oregon coast without being sighted by some law enforcement officer.
He took the call and listened to Jackson Theron tell him exactly what he needed to know. When he was done, he turned to Sheriff Hereward Bird and said, “I need the local address of one Robert Uriah Wren, former physics professor at the University of Oregon. We have an informant that tells us that Mr. Lee and Ms. Howe can be located at his residence.”
Bird stared at Gower with his bull-dog-like face and grunted, “Is there anything else you want, Monsignor?”
“Yes, a helicopter would be sufficient.”
Chapter Seventeen
August 16th
From Dr. Morrison’s Guide to Birding, written by Frank Morrison, Starlight Publishing House, May, 2001, pg. 66: The Blue Jay, Cyanocitta cristata, which means ‘crested, blue chattering bird,’ is a loud bird, and migrant in nature, conspicuous and axiomatic from the top of his crested head to his magnificent azure blue coat. He ranges from southern Canada to the southern United States. Belonging to the crow family, he is a member of Corvidae that includes ravens, magpies, jays, and jackdaws. A particular favorite, if a common animal, of the birder, there have been many adjectives applied to the Blue Jay from audacious to clownish, from mischievous to resourceful. This is shown readily in his varied diet, from feasting on eggs from other bird’s nests or foraging from wild fruits, nuts, and a variety of insects. The Blue Jay is the cleverest of birds, using whatever tricks and applications that he can to survive and adapt...
“He framed you,” said Fitch. It came out as an outraged bark of anger. “Or at least he tried to. Didn’t the investigations at least focus on him as well?”
Teddy tried not to sound bitter, but it came out a little acrimonious. “He covered up very well. He didn’t make mistakes. Whoever was used to plant the explosives used a small package; something designed to give the appearance of an airplane malfunction.” She pulled away a bit of red hair hanging in her face. “I think that he planned it so that the plane would go down in a ball of fire, with little or no evidence, and many questions. And there weren’t supposed to be any survivors, least of all me. In any case, he was in Washington, D.C., at a very public conference on crime prevention at the time that the jet was being prepped in Baton Rouge. It was the maintenance company who was sued by the family lawyers, although they protested in court that one former employee could provide an identification of an unknown mechanic who had been seen around the jet just before we arrived at the airport. Of course, he didn’t do it himself. That much money pays for a lot of cover up.”
Fitch’s well-shaped features formed into a frown of distaste. “All for money.”
“All for billions of dollars. That’s a one with nine zeros after it times several. Of course,” she added contemplatively, “that was when I was twelve. It isn’t exactly sitting in money market accounts and savings bonds, so I suppose it’s a more significant amount.” She smiled brightly. “I haven’t had access to the accounts lately.”
“Let me get this straight. Good old Uncle Jack takes you in, out of the goodness of his heart, after having tried to murder your entire branch of the family, and after virtually ignoring you for a year, then what happens? You figured it out?”
“Not then. Then I was just mad at him, mad at the world. But it was natural to suspect him, and there were others as well. I had a list,” she said it coldly. And she tapped the side of her head. “Right up here. Of the people who would have benefited. The NTSB and the FBI both cleared him almost immediately. I don’t even think they tried very hard to make a connection. And later on, when I felt like sharing, they didn’t feel lik
e listening. I was, after all, only a smart-mouthed adolescent with her own motive, never mind that I was on the plane, too.”
“So you were in the hospital for a year, and then back to Louisiana, what then?”
“I waited for him to make a mistake. He was waiting for an opportune moment. He had gained control of the Howe billions. He still has control, with supervision from a team of lawyers, a special board of directors, which must really piss him off. He makes a salary from controlling the monies, because it’s such a massive amount, and he was rubbing his hands together and looking forward to the day someone from the bayous of Louisiana gave him a call to tell him that his niece had drowned in the pool, or she had contracted some kind of odd disease, or a cupola had fallen on her little, itty-bitty-wealthy head.” She leaned forward on the couch and rested her head on her hands, propping her elbows on her knees. Staring forward, she seemed to focus only on the past, a dirty past full of secrets and lies that refused to lie down and die.
“So you bailed,” said Fitch. He didn’t like watching her like this. He liked the sassy Teddy. The one whose body language said, ‘The hell with everyone else, let’s rock!’ That was the one who attracted his attention, and the one he wanted to help. Not this pathetic creature who was feeling sorry for herself. He only wanted to pat her shoulder and murmur that everything was going to be all right, even when it was patently obvious that it would not.
“Not for two years,” she said at last. And the fighting spark returned to her eyes, as she turned to look at him squarely in the face again, the frightened woman yielded to the strong one. “Not before the worst part.”
•
Not ten minutes before the sun was setting a helicopter was setting down in a cleared area off a narrow pass through the range of mountains that split the state of Oregon from north to south. The Santiam Pass meagerly allowed Oregon State Highway 20 to slide through the craggy Cascade Range at a miserly altitude of 4817 feet. On the northern side was the snow-covered mountain, Three-Fingered Jack, its peaks sharply jagged and ever remindful that Mother Nature’s fits of temperament could be devastating. To the south sat a smaller mountain, Belknap Crater, which paled in comparison to its own southern, mountainous companions, the Three Sisters, each crowned with great caps of pearly-white snow.
Five hundred feet off the road, on a large, unpaved parking lot, which was the area for ambitious skiers and snowboarding enthusiasts to drop off their vehicles, a Bell UH-1H series Iroquois, known as a Huey, settled itself down. It caused the local law enforcement to tilt their hats downward to avoid being dusted by the spinning props that seemed to be twice the size of the aircraft. The markings of the helicopter indicated its origin was an air and rescue airship that often pulled foolish skiers and hikers off the dangerous peaks of the many deadly mountains of the Cascade Range.
Without allowing the props to slow to a stop the wide cargo bay doors rolled open and a tall man emerged. He was dressed in an immaculate suit. The downdraft of the Huey’s propellers tickled his hair as he paused. His frigid features observed the lands around him and the law enforcement officials waiting for him, and he realized he was close to his target once more. Gower was ready for her this time. He signaled agents in the helicopter to follow him as he proceeded across the gravel-strewn lot to the expectant police officers. Three other men clambered out of the helicopter and straightened their suits as if no lethal blades rotated above them.
“You’re the Feds,” called one of the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Deputies. He was a short, Hispanic man in his forties. His name tag announced he was, ‘M.J. Jiminez.’
Gower nodded, too impatient to answer a foolish question. After all, how many helicopters was the idiot expecting to land in a skiing parking lot on a mild August afternoon? “How far is it to the objective?”
Jiminez looked at the other man for a moment and thought that he truly hated federal officers. He had a whole list ready in case someone was to ask why. In twenty years of law enforcement he’d never had a good experience with these hotdogs, and each time never failed to add another item to the list. They looked down on you, took credit for your actions, and didn’t hesitate to stomp on your toes. So he answered slowly, “It’s twenty miles down this highway.” He cocked a thumb in the correct direction, and didn’t bother to mention that the road was a mountain road, with two lanes half the time, winding back and forth like a sinuous snake.
The other Feds lined up behind the towering guerro and did their best to look bored. The first one identified himself as John Gower and did not offer his hand. Jiminez kept his own hands hooked over his Sam Browne belt and successfully kept the sneer off his face. Boy, is the sergeant going to owe me on this one. Gower asked in an icy tone, “What about surveillance?”
“No surveillance,” answered Jiminez. “We don’t have that kind of manpower. Besides there’s only two ways to go off the mountain...”
Gower waited, silently willing the surge of anger off his face, for the deputy to answer.
The Hispanic grinned broadly and finished, “East or West.”
•
Robert Uriah Wren observed his handiwork with great approval. One of his oldest friends, a man by the name of Joe Peter, stood beside him and nodded favorably.
They made an interesting pair standing at the entrance of an old mine. One was a grubby, bearded man with gray hair and green eyes that might have been cut from the bottom of old bottles that have been long sitting in the sun. He wore a tattered T-shirt that proclaimed, ‘Trust no one who makes over $10,000 a year!’ and patched jeans with Birkenstocks on his feet. The other man was of a similar age, with trim, white hair, a clean-shaven face, clean cotton shirt from Sears, and neat corduroy pants. When the two were observed together it would have been difficult to tell which had been a respected and much published professor of physics at the University of Oregon for twenty-five years, and which was the proprietor of an organic food store, which dealt almost solely with customers of a similar bent until the last two decades, where organic food stuffs had begun to gain popularity.
“Joe,” said the bearded one, who possessed not one but three doctoral degrees in physics, quantum theory, and chemistry. “Do you know what they used to mine here?”
Joe Peter, who owned Karmic Goods and Groceries, perhaps five miles away as the crow flew from Banjo Bob’s restaurant, replied, “No, man. But the lock got busted last year. Someone was keeping their stash in here. And the park service only comes by to make sure it stays shut.” He grinned inanely as his head bobbed up and down in mute agreement with his own statement. F-Bob nodded again. He knew exactly who had broken the lock on the mine’s heavy wooden doors and exactly who might be keeping a stash of private materials in the mine. And his initials were Joe Peter. “A good place for a stash,” he said, surveying the heavy padlock and even heavier chain that encircled the door and the wooden frame around it. Although it was as big as a barn door, he wouldn’t have guessed that someone could drive a full-sized vehicle through the wooden entrance. But Joe had insisted it could be done, and therefore it had been done, with both men chuckling at themselves at having struck a blow against the establishment. Then, Joe cheerfully re-locked the padlocks on the door with a key attached to his key chain.
“They real regular about checking it?” asked Bob.
“Nope. Maybe twice a year. The rest are hikers, hillbillies, and those little harebrained freaks that come up to the meadow to snowboard in the winter. You should see what they do in the summertime. They mess up the grass and rile up the wildlife something fierce by going down the hill on these boards with rollers on them.” Joe shook his head sadly. “It’s not like it was in the sixties. Do you know my granddaughter is pregnant?”
“You’re going to be a great-granddaddy,” exclaimed Bob. He pointed over his shoulder at Joe’s brand new Chevy Suburban. “Let’s get back. I ain’t had the restaurant open in two days, and someone’s gonna call my old lady up and ask what’s up with me, have I died and am I stin
king up the inside of the house. Besides it’s getting dark, and I know you can’t see that well in the dark, great-granddaddy.”
“Man, you don’t need to say that word,” protested Joe irately.
“What word?”
“Great-granddaddy,” clarified Joe. He resisted an involuntary shiver. “I don’t even want to think about how I used to bounce her on my knee. Now she’s nineteen and married to...a stockbroker who works on Wall Street.” He shivered again. “Ye gods.”
Twenty minutes later they made it off the mountain and met up with Highway 20, which bisected the old mining road that was primarily used now by fishermen, hunters, rabid snowboarders, and once-hippies interested in flaunting authority in their twilight years. Joe was sitting at the edge of the road with his hands gripping the wheel of the ‘Burban, waiting for traffic to pass so that he could pull out, mildly complaining about the difference between life today and life in the sixties when Bob interrupted. “Man, so you dropped acid three times in 1967, and you might have dated the sister of a member of the Black Panthers, and you supposedly attended one meeting with some offshoot of the Weathermen. But man, oh, man, you’re driving an urban monster that gets six miles to the gallon if the wind is blowing in the right direction, living off capitalist gains, and I know for a fucking fact, that you got back a substantial return on your income taxes last year, bro, because your wife was giggling about it all the way to the bank.” His voice lowered into a conspiratorial smirk, “Said she wanted to get a high-definition television, and watch Oliver Stone’s JFK.”
“That’s really, really cold, Bob,” whined Joe. “Did I complain when you started voting again? Huh? You voted for McCain, well, Jesus H. Christ in a psychedelic mini-bus, that’s like the liberal kiss of death. Do you know what the guys at the commune would say?”
Flight of the Scarlet Tanager Page 20
