Still, though, he couldn't shake off the feeling that this man was bad news. Time would tell, he thought, turning into his reserved space. Time would tell.
"Excuse me."
The secretary looked up. "Name?"
"Ordoñez, from the New York branch. I need to speak to Mr. Machry. It's an urgent matter."
"I can't help you there, Mr. Ordoñez," the receptionist said. Checking her computer, she added, "You can go to his office and wait for him if you want. He usually gets here about a half-hour from now, but he might be out with everybody else."
"Doing what?"
"Looking for the missing kids."
"What missing kids?"
The receptionist produced three photographs paper-clipped to newspaper cutouts. The first photograph was a yearbook photo of a smiling young boy, accompanied by the headline Woodsbrook Child, 11, Mysteriously Leaves Home.
The second showed a girl about the same age as the first boy. The headline read Girl, 11, Flees From Orphanage.
The final clipping was the most interesting, as this was why he had come. It had been taken from the local paper for the blind, with raised letters. Son of Woodsbrook Instruments VP Runs Away From Home.
The receptionist, cheerfully reciting a greeting, interrupted Ordoñez from the last article. "Good morning, Mr. Machry! This man needs to speak to you."
Machry froze in his tracks. "Who are you?"
"That's not important." Ordoñez had rehearsed this. "I must speak with you outside."
"Outside? Why not in my office?"
"It's a matter of life and death, Machry. It must be outside."
Without explaining any more, Ordoñez forced Machry out through the automatic door, and when they were out of sight from the waiting room, grabbed him by his collar. "Where is Roland Orson?"
"I can't…tell you."
Ordoñez slammed him against the wall. "Why not?"
"You…don't work here. You aren't authorized…to work on the Orson case…and you are not trustworthy."
Ordoñez threw Machry across the parking lot so that he skidded on the icy concrete. "Where is Roland Orson!?"
"I…can't…"
Ordoñez kicked him. "Where is Roland Orson!?"
"Alright…22596…Quentin Cove…north town."
Ordoñez smiled. He loved it when they cracked. "Thank you. You've been a big help, Mr. Machry." He turned to walk away. "Oh, and if you call the police, you'll find I'm capable of much more than what you have just seen."
Ordoñez hummed to himself as he drove his convertible along the main road, his roof down even though it was 31 degrees outside. He loved his job.
Woodsbrook Instruments supplied a technological company in New York City, bearing the name Xenontech, Inc. When rumor got out at Xenontech that their supplier's vice president of research and development was involved in a child abuse scandal, and later that the child had run away from home, Ordoñez just had to do some strategic interrogation and he had his new case. Orson would be happy, and since this would be such a fun job, he would offer a discount.
"Madam!" He stopped a woman by the sidewalk. "Am I near Quentin Circle?"
"Three streets over that way," she told him, pointing in the direction the car was already facing and wondering why this guy had his convertible roof down.
Jasmine View Way…Pine Circle…Quentin Cove. This was his street, a short, treeless road ending in a cul-de-sac. At the end of the circle was 22596. Ordoñez parked by the sidewalk and left his car, walking up the icy path, careful to keep his footing. It would not look professional if he broke his leg on a potential client's front walk.
He knocked on the door and waited, listening to the muffled sounds coming from inside.
"Catherine, get the door!"
"I'm busy, Roland! Get it yourself for once!"
"Damn it!"
Soon, Roland opened the door, cursing. "You know, we do have a doorbell—who are you?" he asked, his expression quickly changing from irritation to mild curiosity.
"Good morning, Mr. Orson. I've come to—"
"We already have insurance."
"I'm not selling anything. I've come to offer my services."
"We don't need a stockbroker."
"I'll put this bluntly, Mr. Orson. My name is Ordoñez. I'm here about your son."
"You can't claim we're abusing him. He's already gone, the little wretch. You don't work with that Machry guy, do you?"
"Machry was…quite helpful. He helped me find you."
"How did he help you?"
"I…questioned him."
"Did you hurt him?"
"One would imagine."
"I like you already," Roland said, opening the door. "Come in, Ordoñez. Want some coffee?"
"Please."
Warming his hands around the coffee mug, Ordoñez prepared to explain his job to Roland. "I understand," he began, "that your son Alexander recently ran away from home."
"How could anybody not understand? The entire Woodsbrook ASPCA branch is scrounging the Interstate for him!"
"I noticed on my way in. I came from New York City."
"New York City. The only reason this worthless state exists at all. Without it, Massachusetts and Pennsylvania could divide up the land…but then we'd probably have to bring in Puerto Rico or something so there would be 50 states…"
"With all due respect, I'm not here to talk geography."
"Then what are you here to talk?"
"Where is your son now?"
"How the hell should I know? Could be anywhere. Could be dead, for all I know."
Ordoñez was a bit worried now. "Dead?"
"Not likely, but possible. The kid's pretty smart. You can't even imagine how hard it was to keep him from getting out." Roland groaned. "Years of psychological warfare, and I finally lost to a kid. A kid." He sank back into his chair, as if trying to purge himself of this thought.
A smart kid, Ordoñez thought. This will be fun.
Roland cut off his thoughts. "So what exactly is it that you do, Ordoñez?"
"I'm a tracker."
"A tracker?"
"A population reduction agent. A human hunter."
"Get to the point."
"I'm an assassin, Mr. Orson."
Ordinarily, Ordoñez appreciated the shock value of this statement, but to his surprise, Roland didn't even seem fazed. "Interesting…but it's imperative that he is brought back alive. Can you do that?"
Alive. This will be great. Like he said, psychological warfare. Best part of the job.
"I can do that. But I require extra."
"Name your price."
"500 dollars a day, plus expenses."
"I'll consider it. But first, I need to know your first name. Something might come up."
Ordoñez hesitated. "Alberto."
Machry's head was spinning, lights were flashing before his eyes, and it felt like someone was pounding a hammer on the spot where Ordoñez had kicked him.
Cautiously, he rose. Looking around, he saw that Ordoñez's car was gone. Machry wondered wether he was still in town—probably talking with Orson.
Brushing the snow off his pants, he made his way back inside. When the doors opened, he hailed the receptionist.
"Linda, I need to talk to you. Did Ordoñez leave any information?
"Nothing, sir. Only his name." She looked at him. "How did you get all that snow on your clothes? Did you trip?"
"Yes. It's urgent, Linda—are you sure he didn't tell you anything?"
"Absolutely nothing. He just walked in, told me his name, asked to see you, and then you walked in, and he left," she said, adding irritatedly, "With my newspaper cutouts, too."
"I ask because he just left to talk to Roland Orson. I'm afraid he'll seriously complicate the case."
"As if it's not complicated enough already. Wait… he did say something else…New York. He's from the New York City branch."
"New York City. Thank you, Linda."
"How are things going
outside of town?"
"I was there a while ago. No signs of any of them."
"Nothing?"
"It's strange. Alex must have known we were on the case since we visited yesterday. Yet, he chooses to take meager supplies and walk fifty miles along the interstate to the next town, which will most likely send him back here. Why?"
"I don't know. He's probably made some plans and doesn't want to go back on them. Which reminds me—why did you ask me to make sure nobody took him away?"
"Because they'd put him in the orphanage, and any amount of abuse is preferable to that hellhole."
"I see your point. Do you think that's why Sarah Jones left?"
"Most likely. What about Jake Harwell, though? His parents are perfectly nice people. I've met them. His home is great, he does well in school, he has lots of friends, and yet he chooses to run with Alex—who would make that sacrafice?"
"I really don't know, sir. I really don't know."
Seated in his car, parked on the edge of town, Ordoñez got the familiar good feeling he got whenever he was about to go on the hunt. His weapon of choice, a .45 pistol, felt like an old friend in his hand. Orson had graciously agreed to his price, and he was already working on his plan for intercepting the runaway in the countryside. He only hoped the little brat had traveling companions—friends gave him some leverage, made the job a lot easier.
A defining issue, he reasoned, was whether the kid was heading north or south on I-81. South meant Ordoñez would be hunting in familiar territory, southern New York, northern Pennsylvania. Since he'd been working out of New York City, he'd been contracted for several jobs in that area of the countryside.
A northern trek would be more of a problem. If Alex headed north, he would either go through Vermont and New Hampshire, which was unlikely since it diverged from the interstate; or he would take the more practical route and cross into Canada.
Ordoñez was wholly unfamiliar with the landscape of Canada, only having worked in the cities. His Canadian employers, who didn't operate in the wilderness much, assigned him several jobs in Ottawa, Montreal, Quebec City, and so forth. This kid, however, probably knew his geography, and would take the Transit, cutting into the landscape to hide. Canada would be tough.
Even so, Ordoñez brought equipment for that eventuality. A man in his line of work had to be able to anticipate everything.
Soon, I'll be able to hunt, he reminded himself. Soon. Very, very soon.
Henry Machry beat a quick path to his office, ignoring anybody who stopped to greet them and trying not to make eye contact. He prayed that he had the right book.
Opening the door to his office, he made a beeline for his bookshelf, scanning the phone book titles. Where is it…Woodsbrook…Albany…New York City!
Heaving the tome off of its shelf, he opened it on the desk, looking through the "O" section. Ordaz, Ordiway, Ordner—Ordoñez! There was only one listed, Alberto, 555-4891.
His palms sweating, praying Ordoñez didn't have Caller ID, Machry dialed the number. The phone rang—once, twice, three times, four times. Finally, the answering machine picked up, and Machry readied his fake accent. The recorded message began to play.
"Nice try," the machine said, "but finding me will be a little bit harder than that."
CHAPTER 5
Niagara
Alex awoke with a start.
He had been dreaming. In the dream he had been in the same place he was now, asleep beside the highway, Jake and Sarah near him. Suddenly he had seen them moving away, as if being pulled by something invisible, and he tried to grab them, but he couldn't move his arms. He called out, but he was silenced by another force, and the thing pulling his companions away laughed, a cold and merciless laugh.
Knives, no, swords of cold pierced through his coat as he struggled to gather his thoughts. Reaching for his backpack, he took a swig from his water bottle and tried to forget his dream. A feeling of foreboding, however, had settled over his thoughts, and he couldn't shake it. It's nothing, he reminded himself, I don't buy into this stuff anyway.
The night before, they had been lucky enough to find a small alcove in the side of a hill, shielded from the road and snow and just large enough to accommodate their equipment (Sarah would have to sleep on the ground, until they found someplace where Alex would grudgingly buy her a sleeping bag).
Leaving the campsite, Alex walked to the top of the nearest hill and exhaled deeply, his breath dancing in front of him before vanishing into the mist. He gazed out across the hills, then down the interstate, contemplating their journey. Beautiful, he thought. At least we're not in Kansas. Nothing but grass for miles.
He checked his watch. The face was covered in frost, but he could make out the digital reading—6:32. Early enough to wake up. He beat a path through the snow back to the alcove.
"Alex, what the hell…" Jake turned over. "What time is it?"
"Time to get going. We barely got 15 miles yesterday. We'll never get to Niagara at this rate."
Jake threw some snow at his face. It melted on contact.
"I'm awake," he said, taking the backpacks and walking towards the road.
"Sarah!" Alex nudged her with his foot. "We have to get going if we're going to make 20 miles today."
"20 miles? Can't we take a break?"
"No. 20 miles a day will get us there in no time."
"Hey, Alex," Jake called from the roadside. "I just took inventory. We need more money."
"Damn it. How much do we have?"
"Forty-five bucks."
"What!? We've stopped in three towns to buy food. That cost a hundred and fifty-five dollars?"
"You budgeted for two people. We have three."
Alex shot daggers at Sarah, and started to walk.
Three miles out of Niagara, Anthony lit another cigarette.
The smoke filled his lungs, superficially calming him. He sat against a tree and tried to relax.
He'd been out here every week for three years. Perhaps it just didn't have the same effect anymore.
His parents never really seemed to care that he vanished down the interstate weekly. Then again, they didn't care that he chain-smoked or painted graffiti either.
Maybe, he thought, maybe I go here because expect something to happen. It's not like anything happens in Niagara anyway. The town had been his home for years, and the falls finally bored him.
Once, he had stolen a boat, and after a long joyride around the Niagara River, he weighted the throttle and sent the boat over the falls. That was the only time he'd been in jail, as well as the most fun he'd ever had in the town. His parents, as usual, had not cared.
He tossed his cigarette and lit another. Here's hoping this place does its job.
Alex loved to walk, even so much that it didn't bore him to do it for hours on end. Jake and Sarah obviously didn't, but they never griped. Anything becomes easy if you do it enough.
He'd reached a rhythm, so that his feet stepped without having to think. Once you can do this, you can walk as far as you want to.
Walking on autopilot, for miles in the same direction, gave him time to think. They'd have to do some work in the next few towns if he was going to get to Manitoba without hitchhiking. It was too bad he'd be losing Jake in Niagara, but he'd send letters.
He wondered what Sarah would do once he left her on the other side of the river. Considering the tax she had been imposing on their supplies, he had to admit that he didn't particularly care.
"Alex." He turned and saw Jake walking next to him. "I just want to know. Why are you being so hard on Sarah?"
"Because she's ruining my plan."
"You didn't seriously think this whole thing would go strictly according to the blueprint?"
"As opposed to what? The plan is perfect."
"And yet you say it's being ruined. This is the biggest gamble any of us have ever made. It's nothing to be taken lightly. The slightest hitch could tip the balance."
"Look how we're doing already."
Alex produced the marked map from his pocket. "Niagara's in ten miles."
"You've got to think about this, Alex. No plan is ever foolproof."
Cold Snow: A Legal Thriller Page 5
