by Alton Gansky
There had to be a reason, and Carl was determined to find out what it was. He wasn’t going to do that hiding in the shadows.
Dr. Yuko Nishizaki sat in an uncomfortable fiberglass chair and studied the notes on his desk. Before him were charts and reports. Each one bore the name of Henry Sachs. Some of the reports were duplicates. After receiving the results of the blood work, he had sent them back with a note that included terms not taught in medical school. The second report came back the same and was followed up by a phone call from the chief of the lab who had learned the same terms.
Also before him rested a fax from the coroner who had rushed the autopsy of an elderly woman named Cynthia Wagner and one from the medical examiner who examined Monte Grant. He read them again and again, and they made no sense—none at all.
He rubbed his eyes and checked his watch. He had been up all night, but sleep was impossible. He knew himself well enough to know that going to bed was a useless gesture. He would churn the facts over and over in his brain until he had answers. Besides, he had called for a meeting of all the department heads. He needed more wisdom and experience than one man could possess. Every expert the hospital had would be there, and he had to have facts for them to chew on. Of course, they wouldn’t believe him, but he would present the facts and drag any doctor who doubted him by the lapels into Henry Sachs’s room and challenge him to make a better diagnosis.
His real concern wasn’t what to tell the other doctors or the CDC. What he wanted to know was what he should tell Mrs. Sachs. The truth was unbelievable to him; it would be incomprehensible to her. Even now, he knew she was by his bed, hoping and praying for a man who was already dead.
Chapter11
“Time to open the peepers, pal.”
Perry blinked several times and tried to focus his mind. There was a roaring and the sound of Jack’s voice. He licked his lips and sat up. His back was tight and his side hurt. The backseat of the Humvee had not been designed for sleeping.
Gleason was behind the wheel; Jack was studying a map. He spoke again. “We should be there any time, assuming Gleason can find the gas pedal.”
“I’m doing the speed limit. You keep looking at the map and leave the driving to me.”
“I’m growing old here,” Jack said. “By the time you get us to Zeisler’s house, I’ll be retired.”
“That’s enough, kids,” Perry said. “If I hear any more bickering, there will be no ice cream tonight.”
“Sounds like he’s awake,” Jack answered. “By the way, you snore.”
“How long have I been out?”
“About four hours,” Jack replied. “That’s when Gleason took over at the helm. Good news is, we’ve covered three hours of distance in the time my grandmother could have done five.”
“What? That—that doesn’t even make sense.” Gleason shook his head.
Jack looked over his shoulder. “How you doing?”
Perry had to think about it. He had driven through the night and part of the morning, yielding the wheel only after drifting onto the shoulder of the highway. “I’m okay.” He checked his watch—one o’clock. Outside the sky was the color of topaz and clear of any clouds. Bright sunlight poured onto the quaint homes of a Carson City neighborhood. Trees lined the streets. The neighborhood seemed deserted, and Perry had to remind himself that it was a weekday. Most people would be at work and kids in school. Did kids go to school in August?
“Make a right at the next intersection. Zeisler’s house should be somewhere on the right.” Jack folded the map.
Perry leaned back and rubbed his eyes. He needed to be awake for the next thing on the agenda: meeting a man who doesn’t want to be met. He scratched his chin and felt a day’s growth. He ran a hand through his dark hair, trying to tame it enough so he didn’t frighten the neighborhood children. “I must look like death warmed over.”
Jack turned and scrutinized him. “Nah, you don’t look warmed at all.”
“Thanks, buddy. Keep that up, and I’ll make Gleason drive all the way to Tonopah.”
“Okay, okay.” Jack raised his hands. “I’ll be good.”
Gleason shook his head but said nothing.
“There it is.” Jack pointed at a Craftsman-style bungalow. “Quaint.”
Perry studied the house. He judged it to be about seventeen hundred square feet, spread over two floors. The exterior was well-worn shiplap siding painted beige along the first level and gray on the second. A windowed dormer sat over a porch. The paint looked fresh. A small lawn carpeted the front yard, split by a concrete walk that bridged the distance between the sidewalk and the porch.
“He’s not going to be happy to see us,” Gleason said.
Perry shrugged. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
“That’s catchy, pal. You should copyright that.”
Perry slipped from the backseat of the Humvee. He had driven trucks, operated bulldozers and cranes, but he was still impressed with how large the vehicle was. He stretched his back. He had been in the car for almost fifteen hours, and his muscles were reminding him of the fact. He started for the door, Jack and Gleason a step behind. The air outside was warm but not overbearing, and Perry was grateful.
A wood-framed screen door stood between him and the front door. A doorbell button with a scratched metal collar clung to the wood siding. Perry pressed it. The sound of
the bell pressed through the closed door. A moment later,
the front door swung open. Through the screen, Perry saw a distinguished-looking man with white hair and beard and deep wrinkles. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt.
“Can I help you—” He stopped mid-sentence. “Henry?” He stared at Perry. “No, of course not. Henry Sachs is my age. You could pass for his double.”
“I’ve heard that before. I’m his son, Perry Sachs. This is Jack Dyson and Gleason Lane.”
“Ah, the man I hung up on. I told him, and now I’m telling you, I don’t know anything about Tonopah. Never been there, and I have no plans on going.” He lifted a finger to his lips, then reached to the side of the door. The screen door kept Perry from seeing clearly.
“I know we came uninvited, but my father needs your help.”
“I can’t help anyone,” Zeisler snapped.
Perry could see that the man held a small notepad and a pencil. He was writing something.
“I don’t know what your game is, but I want no part of it.” Zeisler held up the paper to the screen. “Colleen’s Restaurant, 30 minutes.”
An address followed.
Perry nodded. “You won’t reconsider?”
“No. Now get lost before I call a cop.”
Perry made eye contact with the man and wondered if age had altered his perception or reality. There was no way to judge that. The man’s eyes were wide, and Perry could see them well enough to recognize fear.
“I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“Perry—” Jack began.
“Let it go, Jack,” Perry said. Jack was standing two steps back, unable to read the paper or the unspoken communication between Perry and Zeisler. “If the man doesn’t want to help, then he doesn’t want to help.” He spun and marched from the porch to the vehicle, taking the driver’s seat. Seconds later, Jack and Gleason were in the Humvee. Perry asked for the keys from Gleason, started the car, and sped off.
“Did I read that paper right?” Gleason asked.
Jack frowned. “I couldn’t read it at all.”
Perry recited it. “He wants to meet us someplace other than his home. He doesn’t seem to be comfortable talking on the phone or at his home.”
“He thinks his house is bugged?” Jack said. “Seems a little paranoid.”
“Maybe he has a right to be paranoid.” Perry turned down the next street.
Colleen’s was still bustling from the lunch crowd. The eatery was a mere three miles from Zeisler’s home, and Perry imagined Zeisler ate here quite a bit. Forty-five minutes later, Victor Zeisler walked
in, nodded at the young, blond hostess, handed her a note, then glanced around the room. He examined every diner before settling his eyes on Perry. Instead of walking toward them, he walked through an opening into a dark and unused room.
The hostess approached, smiled, and said to Perry. “I apologize. One of our daily patrons will be here soon and prefers to sit in this booth. May I seat you elsewhere?”
Perry looked at her, then the opening through which Zeisler disappeared. Perry got the point. “If it will help.”
“It will. Thank you.”
Perry and the others slipped from the booth and followed the young lady across the worn, linoleum-clad floor. Perry was carrying a file folder. She stepped to the side and motioned for them to follow the same path as Zeisler, then returned to her post. Perry walked in.
The room was a smaller version of the larger restaurant, except there were no windows and only half the ceiling lights were on. A wheezing roar came from the ceiling. Zeisler sat at the table closest to the center, his hands folded in front of him. Perry approached.
“Sit down, gentlemen,” Zeisler said. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering for you. Everyone is having chicken potpie. They make it here themselves. It’s the best chicken potpie you’ll ever have. Oh, and you’re paying.”
Jack smirked. “Thanks.”
Zeisler eyed Jack and shook his head in disbelief. “Man, you’re big.”
“It’s an optical illusion,” Jack said. “I’m actually a ninety-eight-pound weakling in a muscle suit.”
Zeisler addressed Perry. “Is he always like this?”
“Always. Why this room?”
“Straight to the point. A no-nonsense kind of guy. Just like your father. We’re in this room because it has no windows, and the air-conditioning makes a lot of noise. Modern eavesdropping devices can pick up conversations from window vibrations.”
“I doubt anyone could pick up anything with all the noise in the dining room,” Gleason said.
“No, but the person sitting next to you could hear you just fine. Not that it matters. I imagine they know you’re here. That car of yours makes it hard to hide your presence. Could you have been more obvious?”
“Who are they, Mr. Zeisler?” Perry asked.
“It’s Dr. Zeisler, and they are the government—well, an element of the government. And no, I’m not a paranoid old coot.”
“No one said you were,” Perry clarified. “I’m hoping you can answer some questions.”
“I bet you are.” Zeisler leaned forward and stared into Perry’s eyes. “You have eyes like your father. Did you pick up any of his genes for getting into trouble?”
Jack guffawed.
“I’ll take that as a yes. What’s that?” Zeisler pointed at the file.
Perry opened it and pushed the photo across the table. Zeisler picked it up and held it close to his face. Too vain for reading glasses, Perry guessed.
The old man smiled. “That was a lifetime ago.” The corners of his mouth plunged. “I miss my youth. You will, too.” He examined the photo some more. “I thought your father was crazy when he insisted on this photo. He was quite a man back then: brash, opinionated, rushing forward regardless of danger.”
“Sounds like someone else I know,” Gleason said.
“He’s sick, you say.” Zeisler handed the photo back to Perry.
“Yes, very ill. I believe his disease is somehow connected to what happened here.”
“You know that was over thirty years ago,” Zeisler said.
“I know it doesn’t make sense, but I’m determined to find out what happened then.”
“You planning on heading up to the site?”
Perry said he was.
Zeisler bit his lip. “You’ll never make it. They’ll stop you.”
“The government?” Jack asked. “The government will stop us?”
“People in the government. Powerful people you know nothing about. People who know how to keep secrets and make sure others keep them, as well.”
“Like a shadow government?” Gleason pressed.
“Call it what you like, but if you go cruising up there without an invitation, they’ll hand you your lunch before you have an opportunity to get your shoes dirty.”
This time Perry leaned forward. “Dr. Zeisler, we’re going there. I don’t know if you’re delusional or being truthful, but we’re going.”
Zeisler reached for the photo again. Perry could tell the man was remembering events from decades before.
Taking the photo from Zeisler, Perry set it on the table. He pointed at the young Cynthia Wagner. “Dead.” Then he pointed at Monte Grant. “Dead.” He leaned back. “Of the names my father gave me, only you and my father remain alive, and he may die at any moment.”
“You’re suggesting I may be next. That is the mystery, isn’t it? How come I’m not reclining on some autopsy table?” He paused. “How much do you know?”
“Not much.” Perry recited the information Gleason had gleaned and the materials Perry found in his father’s home. When he was done, the hostess brought their order in. It was clear Zeisler didn’t want anyone else serving them.
“She’s my granddaughter,” Zeisler explained. “She and her mother are the only family I have left. My wife died two years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Perry said.
“Don’t be. She wasn’t well. Alzheimer’s is a horrible disease.”
Jack dug into his chicken potpie. Gleason took the time to press the upper crust into the gooey insides, add pepper, and stir. Jack was close to finished by the time Gleason started. Perry ignored his. Instead, he watched Zeisler tap the brown crust of his meal with his fork. His mind was weighing something.
“As it is, you don’t stand a chance,” Zeisler said. “They have to know about it by now. If you know, they know. That means you’ll have a welcoming committee that will do everything but welcome you.”
“What are they going to do?” Jack asked. “We’re just ordinary citizens, taking in the beauty of this country.”
“They will put a bullet in your head, tie a concrete block to your feet, and drop you in the middle of the lake,” Zeisler said. “Over the years, there have been other deaths. Not like what you’ve described with Monte and Cynthia—murders.”
“Murders?” Perry stated, incredulous. “Related to the lake?”
“The lake isn’t the issue, Mr. Sachs. It’s what is at the bottom of the lake. In fact, when your father and I were there, there was no lake at all.”
“I don’t understand,” Perry admitted.
“I’m counting on that.”
Gleason spoke up. “So you’re not going to help us? Not even for your friend?”
“Of course I’m going to help. I’m going with you.” Zeisler drove his fork into the potpie.
Perry shook his head. “I’m sorry, Dr. Zeisler, but this may be dangerous, especially if what you’ve told us is true. It could also be very strenuous.”
“Oh, it will be dangerous and strenuous, but I’m still going.”
“Again—” Perry started.
“Look, Sachs, this isn’t negotiable. You’re acting like we’re bartering on a car. We’re not. You need the information in my head, and I’m not giving it to you unless I get to go along.”
“Why would you want to do that?” Jack asked.
“I have my reasons.” He looked Perry in the eyes. “I am the key to your success. I go, and you might succeed. I don’t go, and you will fail.” He smiled. “Now eat your meal. I have what I need in the car, and we can leave as soon as we’re done.”
“You’re pretty sure of yourself.”
“I am much more than that, Mr. Sachs. Much more.”
Chapter12
1974
The Suburbans stopped near a line of pine trees. The climb from the floor of the high desert to the higher elevations of the mountain had changed the view from vast openness to crowded clumps of pines. Nash and Sanders parked the vehicles under a can
opy of limbs. Henry Sachs exited and stretched. The air was cool and redolent with the smells of mountain plants and moist soil. The latter was the result of a brief rainstorm. Henry had seen the clouds brooding over the mountains when he flew in the afternoon before.
To his right, a gentle slope rose toward the sky; to his left was another, steeper slope, leading to a valley of tangled plants and thick trees.
“At least it’s pretty.” Cynthia stepped to Henry’s side. “When I first arrived, I had visions of us toiling in sand and rocks.”
“I’m opposed to toiling anywhere,” Zeisler interjected. “I prefer to work with my mind.”
“That’s good to hear,” Sanders said. “You’ll be doing plenty of that.”
Henry watched as Bill Nash stepped from the large car and led a group of three men toward the others. Nash was slipping the straps of a backpack over his shoulders. Strapped to the side of the pack were two short-handled shovels.
As they approached, Henry felt small. He was not a tall man, just under six feet, but he wasn’t tiny, either. The three men with Nash were two to four inches taller than him and had wide shoulders. They wore jeans and long-sleeve shirts. Henry could see muscles testing the boundaries of their sleeves. They walked with confidence and subtle precision. These were trained men, probably Special Forces of some sort. Nash had been introduced by Sanders as “navy intelligence.” Perhaps his men were Navy SEALs. Henry saw no purpose in asking. Each carried an automatic weapon Henry recognized as a CAR-15. He wasn’t a weapons expert, but he had picked up enough knowledge working with the military to recognize the assault weapon and to know that because they were smaller than M16s, they had become the choice of Special Forces units.
“Those aren’t hunting rifles,” Zeisler said.
“No need for alarm,” Sanders said. “These men are here for our protection.”
