by Peter Parkin
Grant cleared his throat again—Dennis noticed he was doing that a lot. "Dennis, what concerns us is that both of the missing persons had a connection to you. Your secretary's husband, who was clearly abusive. And the nurse, who was entrusted with the care of your mother when she passed away. You had motive in both of those murders."
Dennis stood up and leaned forward with his fists resting on the table. "Correction—they are disappearances, they aren't murders. We do not have any evidence that those two people were killed. And what is this—am I a suspect?"
"We consider you a 'person of interest.' The coincidence of two missing persons being connected to you is too much for us to ignore."
Dennis was at a loss for words. He just stared into Grant's eyes. Grant gulped back a long sip of water. Dennis could tell he was extremely uncomfortable.
Bart waded back in to fill in the gaps for Grant. "We're also concerned that you might be connected with the six known murders too, Denny. We have learned that you acquired very dangerous martial arts skills while you were in China twenty years ago. You never disclosed that to us. You're not required to, but it would have been the right thing to do."
"Bart, everyone on the force knows some form of Karate or Kungfu. We were taught that at the Academy."
"Yes, Denny. But those rudimentary skills pale in comparison to the Shaolin skills that you acquired. I've done some research—some of the wounds recorded for the victims are consistent with one particular Shaolin art, known as 'Diamond Finger.' Would you deny that?"
"No, I wouldn't deny that. And it already occurred to me a long time ago that someone might be using skills similar to what I have in these killings. But we have no forensic proof to lead us in that direction."
Bill Charlton leaned forward on the board table and gestured his finger in Dennis' direction. "You are the perfect candidate for vigilantism, Mr. Chambers. Your father was brutally slain. You killed two of the bad guys that horrible night, but the other three culprits were never caught. You exiled yourself to China to learn secretive and deadly skills. And you had opportunity and inside knowledge with all of these killings and disappearances, being a highly trained police officer. I would suggest you get a lawyer."
Dennis ignored the prick. He turned his head to Grant. "Chief, am I under arrest?"
Grant glared at Bill Charlton, then turned his kindly face toward Dennis. "No, and Mr. Charlton had no cause to speak to you that way. But I would like you to take some time off, Dennis. Paid leave. Indefinite. You're not under suspension, please don't think that. But I have to tell you, we will have an independent team of investigators take over this case and report directly to me. I need an objective view on this. You have to admit that it doesn't look good at all right now."
Dennis picked up his binder and walked to the door. Then he abruptly turned on his heel and came back, grabbed Bill Charlton by the necktie and yanked him out of his chair just as easily as if he were a sack of potatoes.
He softly whispered in his ear so that the other two couldn't hear, "How many friendly ghosts do you have working at the Casper Agency, Bill?"
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
The sun was shining brightly as they headed east towards Chesapeake Bay. Dennis was driving, and Fiona was lazing in the reclined passenger seat enjoying the rays pouring in through the sunroof of the Mercedes.
She gushed, "What a beautiful day for a drive in the country!"
Dennis looked over at her. Her long-tanned legs were stretched out as far as they could go, and her hands were clasped behind her head. Fiona had her eyes closed and her face was glowing. He couldn't resist—he reached over and stroked her forehead. She grabbed onto his hand and kissed it.
"I almost hope that we find nothing at the cabin, Fiona. Then you and I can just stay there overnight and enjoy the place—although it may be a bit dusty!"
"Oh, I don't care about a little dust. It would still be more civilized than camping. And...I know that you'd be a gentleman and clean the place for me if I asked you to. Right?"
Dennis laughed. "Oh, for sure. You can tell that I'm the real domestic type, eh?"
She grinned. "You keep that talent hidden, I'm sure—just like a lot of other hidden talents that I know you must have."
He had just turned off the Suitland Parkway onto MD-337 E. It had only taken them ten minutes to reach the outskirts of DC and enter the state of Maryland. Now the rest of the drive would only take about forty minutes. Dennis figured they should be at the cabin by 4:30 p.m. Barb was due to arrive around the same time in her own car, and Mel would be there by 6:00 with Sydney Fox.
"Okay, Fiona. Time to tell me what you found out. You've been teasing me by saying, 'later, later,' every time I ask. So, spit it out."
She pushed the power button and raised her chair. "I don't know what it means and I've been thinking about it a lot. There seems to definitely be a connection to what we're looking into. It's just so weird—it jumped out at me."
"I'm listening. And don't worry about it sounding 'weird.' Everything about this so far is weird."
"Well, as you know, I have a security clearance but not a high one. My boss, Frank Suskind is cleared at a fairly high level though. Anyway, I had my weekly meeting with the CNN representatives yesterday, and they threw me a curve ball. Something they said they intended to report unless I could give them a good explanation."
Fiona leaned forward, pulled her can of Coke out of the cup-holder and took a long refreshing sip.
"Hey, we don't allow drink breaks here, girl! Keep talking!"
Fiona gave Dennis a playful punch on the shoulder. "Okay, slave driver.
I asked them to fill me in. They said that they had information in their hands from someone on the inside, to the effect that Pentagon officials have been making frequent trips to the islands of St. Kitts and Nevis. In fact, six in the last three months alone."
Dennis shrugged. "I guess it wouldn't be the first-time government employees took pretend business trips on taxpayer money. I would think that's probably been going on for quite some time."
"True. But why not Puerto Rico, or the U.S. Virgin Islands—both of which are only about half an hour from St. Kitts? And they're American territories. And they're much easier to get to. Flights to St. Kitts aren't that frequent from the U.S., and from there you have to take a ferry ride over to Nevis. Seems inconvenient, an odd choice of places to go. They're two beautiful islands to be sure, but more quiet and laid back.
"You would think that if government folks were going to take a chance on getting caught wasting taxpayers' money, they would at least make it worthwhile by going to where the action is. The action isn't on St. Kitts or Nevis—at least not that I know of. And six trips in three months? Seems rather excessive."
Dennis started tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. "Good points. I see what you mean. A bit of a red flag."
"That's what I thought. Anyway, let me tell you what I found. Frank, my boss, occasionally asks me to work on some of his documents. He starts them, gets stumped, and I finish them. He's always afraid to let them off his computer, so he won't email the drafts to me. I have to work on them on his computer and then save them to his hard drive. He looks at them the next
day, and either approves or asks me to do them again."
Dennis interrupted. "You mean, you do his work for him and he gets all the credit?"
"Yes, basically. But remember the old adage, 'to make yourself look good, first make your boss look good.' So, that's what I do—I make him look good."
Dennis slowed down and took the turn onto MD-260 E, a pretty route that would take them directly to Chesapeake Bay. "So, when do you do this work for him?"
"Always after hours. He rings me and tells me he's left a document open on his computer, so I run up and he briefs me. Then I take it from there, finish the draft, save it on his hard drive, then log off—but of course I'm logging off as Frank Suskind."
"He sure must trust you."
"He does. He probab
ly shouldn't, especially after what I did last night.
But Frank's lazy, and he'd rather trust someone than actually do the work himself."
Dennis turned his head from the road and stared at his pretty traveling companion. Pronouncing his words slowly, he asked, "What did you do last night?"
"Well, after my meeting with the CNN folks, I immediately went up to Frank's office and asked him about it. He said they had the wrong information, that no one from the Pentagon is visiting those islands on taxpayers' money. If they're going there, it's for vacation."
Dennis nodded. "He may be right—but Fiona, cut to the chase. I can't see the relevance here."
"Dennis, don't let that quick impatient brain jump ahead so much. Some of us normal people have to work our way through these things."
He smiled. "Ah, now you're patronizing me. I know what it means when you do that—you're basically telling me to shut the hell up and listen. And my dear lady, you are far from normal. I mean that in a good way."
She smiled back at him and rubbed his arm. "I know you do. And yes, shut the hell up, okay?"
Fiona took another sip of her Coke and continued. "Last night, when I was working on one of his documents, I noticed that Frank was still signed in to several high security Pentagon sites; sites I don't have access to. He had them minimized in his menu bar, and he was in such a rush to go home he forgot to log off.
"I couldn't resist. I checked them all. There was no risk to me, because they were already open under his password, whatever it is. I figured I'd never get another opportunity like this, so I took it."
Dennis grinned at her. "I'm getting kinda turned on here—my sexy little spy!"
"Wipe that grin off your face—this is where it gets serious. One of the sites was for Pentagon travel for their top officials. Frank must have been doing some of his own checking after I asked him that question. Anyway, contingents of officials: political, military and scientific, most definitely visited the island of Nevis not just six times in the last three months but a total of forty times over the past ten years. Sometimes by military jets, sometimes by commercial jets. Forty times, Dennis!"
Dennis could feel his stomach flip. "Fiona, what the hell?" "I know. Something is drawing them to Nevis."
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Brett printed off the email from Bill Charlton. Okay, the three stooges were going to be there around 5:00 p.m., followed by Dennis' sister accompanied by the nerdy lawyer no later than 6:00.
He looked over the directions—easy. He'd been to Chesapeake Bay numerous times and in fact had used the spot before to dispose of certain... things. And with some of the high cliffs in that area, it was also a perfect spot to make murders look like suicides. He'd orchestrated those before too. Brett had pretty much done every despicable thing that a human brain could imagine.
He walked over to his desk, opened the top drawer, and took out his holster and pistol. He snapped the holster onto his belt and checked his trusty Smith and Wesson 357 Magnum. Brett snapped open the cylinder. Yep, eight shiny bullets...big bullets.
He grabbed a handful of extras from inside the same drawer and stuffed them into one of the six inside pockets of his cream-colored Saville Row suit jacket.
Next, he went to the closet and pulled out a leather case. He didn't use the contents of the case too often, but today he figured he'd need it. He took out the equipment and inserted two fresh AAA batteries into the compartment. These little batteries would give him 100 hours of listening fun...but he certainly wouldn't need that much time today. A couple of hours at the most, he figured. This wouldn't be that complicated, or that lengthy a field trip.
He admired his tool—a sophisticated long-range listening device. It came with a recording device too, but he wouldn't need that today. He would bring along the headphones, amplifier, laser transmitter and laser receiver. That would do it.
This slick little machine shot an invisible laser infrared beam at any window of a target building. The long-range laser beam—invisible—could detect vibrations on the window glass, sift through regular static and other noise, and translate the voice vibrations back to the laser receiver. Then the vibrations converted to voices, then amplified—and Voila! Right into Brett's headphones.
And he could listen to lovely conversations from about 1,500 feet away. He pulled another case out of the closet and opened it up. He wanted to make sure all the pieces were there for him to assemble when he was out at the cabin. This particular little darling was a parabolic microphone—a dish—about twenty inches in diameter, complete with tripod. He would use this once his targets exited the house. The laser unit was only effective for listening to what was going on inside buildings. He needed the dish for when they were outside.
Brett glanced at his watch. Time to roll. He wanted to be in place long before anyone showed up.
He wondered if today was the day he would come home with the package in his hands.
But most of all, he wondered if today was the day he would start keeping things for himself.
*****
Chesapeake Bay is the largest estuary in the United States. Lying off the Atlantic Ocean, its beauty is hugged by the states of Maryland and Virginia. Its drainage basin covers a massive 64,000 square miles and a mind-boggling 150 rivers and streams drain into the bay.
The bay itself is about 200 miles long, from the Susquehanna River in the north to the Atlantic Ocean in the south. It's actually a drowned valley— an area that the river used to flow to when the sea level was much lower than it is today.
The bay was formed by a bolide impact, otherwise known as a meteorite hit, some 35 million years ago. The entire Chesapeake Bay is simply an impact crater. Parts of the bay are framed by cliffs, particularly in an area known as Calvert County, and these cliffs are famous for fossils, particularly ancient shark teeth.
This is an area of the country that is renowned for its tourist attractions— the beauty of the bay itself, the majesty of the cliffs, and the beaches that have formed down near the Plum Point area of the bay. Oyster harvesting has always been a huge industry here, but in the last few years, either due to over-harvesting or environmental reasons—the debates rage on as to who is to blame—the oysters seem to be disappearing.
Dennis remembered shucking oysters with his sister Melissa—and crabbing too which was even more fun—when they were just kids. They also found their share of sharks' teeth. He still had some of them in a glass case back in his office.
He thought to himself how sad it was that he hadn't been back here in so long. The memories he had of this place as a kid were precious to him. But maybe that's why he hadn't come back. With his father dead, and his mother who had lost all memories of this place when she was alive, it just wouldn't have been the same. In fact, it was just plain sad to remember sometimes.
The cabin was located in the Calvert County area of the bay, right on the edge of one of the massive cliffs. The views were spectacular.
He remembered sitting on the bay-facing porch with his parents and sister, each bundled up and bracing themselves against the ferocious winds that sometimes fought their way up from the ocean. His mother would make hot chocolate and his dad would always be struggling to keep his pipe lit.
Eagles and hawks soared effortlessly with the wind currents, barely moving their wings. The water down at the base of the cliffs licked the rocky shoreline and sent their watery songs up to the porch, seemingly just for their private enjoyment.
The smell of the salt air was something Dennis always loved—it wasn't as strong as he remembered from being at ocean resorts with his parents, mainly due to the fact that as an estuary the bay water was a rare combination of both salt and fresh water. So, the smell was somewhat muted—but more pleasant than the strong ocean salt smell.
He turned onto Bayside Rd and headed south in the direction of Plum Point. The cabin was only about ten minutes away now, and he was starting to feel a knot in his stomach. He didn't know whether that knot was th
ere out of anticipation of what they might find, or out of nostalgia.
Dennis reached over and rubbed Fiona's shoulder. "Continue your story, Fiona, dear. I know you're not finished yet."
"You're starting to know me too well, I think."
"Yeah, I'm getting used to your little methods of telling me things. You work up to things, don't you? And I always just cut to the chase."
"I guess so. And yes, there is more. The travel itineraries I saw online had little notations beside each trip. Kind of like noting what the trips were for—just words or expressions, no detail."
"Okay. You have my complete attention."
"On countless itineraries, I saw references to 'Behavioral Modification Foundation,' apparently a facility on Nevis. And I saw the word 'Chimps,' usually notated beside the names of the scientists. And...I saw something very curious that was noted over and over again— 'Operation Creepy Crawlers.' This was generally seen beside the names of the military personnel."
Dennis looked over at her and stared, almost forgetting to put his eyes back on the road.
Fiona continued. "The other sites that Frank had left open on his computer had nothing to do with any of these words. But I checked his search history—it looked as if he had done some surfing within the Pentagon database, trying to access files associated with those words. He didn't succeed. The 'source' pages showed that he tried to log in but failed. So, his security clearance obviously didn't allow him to get that far."
The cabin was now just a few hundred feet away and Dennis' stomach was doing cartwheels. Most of the homes looked the same as he remembered, and they were all immaculately maintained. Then he saw his cabin and he felt ashamed.
It was in horrible shape. The roof shingles were all curled and the paint was flaking off the spruce siding. It looked like the house that was owned by the 'Adams Family,' a show he used to watch as a kid and always thought to himself that their ramshackle house was one he could never ever live in. Now he had one of his own.
The old oak tree shaped like a scythe was a lot bigger than he remembered. He drove past the house, glancing at an old pickup truck with dark tinted windows parked along the side of the road. He thought to himself, 'that truck and my house go together well.'
