Tom shrugged. “Figured they were for magazine salesmen.” The guards continued silently leading him up the steps. “Hollingsworth owns this place, too, right?”
Neither of them answered.
A third man, also armed, appeared from around the side of the house and joined them at the rear of the one-story building.
Tom looked him over and directed his attention back to Fu Manchu. “Look, I’m investigating a murder. We have reason to believe the victim wanted to talk to your boss about something right before he died. I just wanted to ask Mr. Hollingsworth a few questions, that’s all.”
The third guard, whom he’d also seen at the Plantation House, moved closer and stuck a finger in Tom’s face “No lip, understand?”
Fu Manchu pointed his pistol at the back door. “Inside,” he barked and jabbed the muzzle into Tom’s back.
With Tom leading the way and the guards close behind, they entered a small room at the rear of the house. Tom glanced around and saw a sparsely furnished area only slightly larger than his bedroom at home in Dallas. A late-fifties, four-by-four Formica table with matching chairs took up most of the room.
“Guess you don’t entertain much,” he said.
Muscles nodded. “We don’t.”
“You can’t hold me like this for simply being on your property.”
Muscles pointed to his partner’s handgun. “Unfortunately for you, his Walther says otherwise.”
Fu Manchu man left the room for a minute at Muscle’s direction. Tom sat down on one of the chairs and again looked around. “What is this place anyway?” he asked.
Fu Manchu reentered holding stainless steel handcuffs. Tom saw they were Smith & Wesson like he’d carried for twenty years. Muscles snapped the cuffs on Tom’s wrist. “Your home for a while,” he said.
Tom tested the restraint on his left wrist. The other end was fastened to the angle brace on a leg of the table. Except for a closely regulated bathroom break, they kept him seated in the padded, red vinyl cushioned chair for the next two hours.
They allowed drinking water on request, but the only other response he got from them was a curt explanation about waiting for Hollingsworth to arrive.
It was obvious when they ushered him into the disheveled rear portion of the house, the structure wasn’t being used as a residence. Rather, besides the Formica table and chairs, the room appeared to be a makeshift office consisting of file cabinet, small desk, and two floor lamps. Rounding out the sparse decor were a microwave, refrigerator, and badly soiled sofa.
Tom caught an occasional glimpse of the adjoining room in the few seconds the door was opened by one of the guards. Neat and clean, it appeared considerably more organized than the room in which he was held. More sterile, with stainless steel cabinets, ceramic tile floor, and recessed, industrial-style lighting mounted on the ceiling. A microscope and computer sat on top of a counter and bank of lower cabinets not far from the door. A monitor was mounted on the wall, high and to the left of the upper stainless steel cabinets. It appeared to Tom to be a live shot from one of the outdoor security cameras.
Occasionally, a scholarly-looking man in his forties, with short gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses, would briefly enter the small room and remove a bottle of water or sandwich from the refrigerator. Then he’d hurriedly return through the steel door to the more sterile portion of the house without uttering a word.
35
Princeville, Kauai, July 13th
Marchetti looked at his watch for the umpteenth time. Nine a.m. and Tom hadn’t checked in to tell him where he was. The ache in his stomach told him something wasn’t right.
He dialed him one more time to ease his mind but still didn’t get an answer. It wasn’t like Tom not to stay in touch while on a job, particularly when they’d discussed specific procedures for doing so. Last Marchetti had heard, Tom was headed for the Plantation House yesterday afternoon. After which he planned to get together with an old cop buddy and his wife at the Grand Hyatt in Koloa that evening, where they were staying, before heading back to Dallas.
Marchetti thought for a moment and then called what was by now becoming a familiar number.
“Police Department, Sergeant Haines,” the voice answered.
“Mike Marchetti calling. Is Sergeant Kalani in this morning?”
“No, sir. He’s with the presidential detail. Won’t be in ‘til later this evening. Can I help?”
Marchetti thought for a moment. “I don’t think so, Sergeant, but I’ll run it by you. My partner, Tom Shannon, was headed to the west side of the island yesterday afternoon to check on something, and I haven’t heard back from him. I’m concerned something may have happened.”
“What was this about?”
Marchetti considered beforehand how much to tell the desk sergeant in the event Kalani didn’t answer and decided to give him only the basic circumstances. He’d choose his words carefully.
“He was checking out a place for a friend of ours. It’s on Kokee Road, north of Waimea. Some people refer to it as ‘the lab.’”
“Not familiar with it–at least not by that name. If you don’t hear from him in a few hours, I’d urge you to file a missing persons report.”
“Thanks, I may do that.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “You don’t have any reports of car accidents today along Route 50 or Waimea Canyon Road, do you?”
“No, nothing.”
“Then I’ll probably head over there this morning myself–see if I can locate him.”
“I wouldn’t go there alone. It’s pretty remote along the canyon road. But if you do go, make sure to check your gas in Waimea. You won’t find any stations north of there.”
“Thanks, officer. I’ll be sure to do that. If you happen to talk to Sgt. Kalani this morning, would you tell him I called and ask him to call me back as soon as he can?” He gave the officer his cell number. “And please let me know if you hear about anything at all today related to Tom Shannon or a Toyota 4Runner.”
“You bet,” he said and hung up.
Marchetti then called Janine on her cell phone. She answered in what sounded like bustling surroundings he presumed to be the hotel lobby. He said, “I haven’t heard anything from Tom since he left for Hollingsworth’s lab yesterday afternoon. He was supposed to keep in touch, so I’m getting concerned.”
“What do you suppose–?”
“I don’t know. I just talked with the desk sergeant in Lihue, hoping Kalani was there and might be able to help. But he’s busy with the president’s visit, so I thought I’d head over to the property myself.”
Janine paused a few moments. “Are you sure about that? We don’t want both of you in trouble.”
“I’ll be all right,” he said. “Can we meet in a few minutes? I’d like you to show me on a map where Hollingsworth’s properties would be.”
“Sure. We’ve got a big reception this evening, so things are a little hectic, but I’ll meet you in the lobby in ten minutes.”
Marchetti rode the elevator down to the ground floor and spotted Janine behind the main desk talking on the phone. She saw him at the same time and pointed to a sofa at the far side of the spacious Polynesian-style lobby.
He headed for the sofa, where she joined him a few minutes later. As she pulled up a chair at a small table, he unfolded a map he carried in his jacket pocket. “It’s not as detailed as I’d like, but perhaps you can show me where the Plantation House and 100 Kokee Road property might be.”
She spread out the map on the small table in front of them and studied it a few minutes. “The one on Kokee Road should be about here,” she said, making a small circle with a ballpoint pen she kept in her jacket. “It’d be shorter, of course, if you could drive west from here around the northwest side of the island past the missile base. But you probably know by now the road west from Princeville ends at Haena State Park and doesn’t go through to that portion of the island.”
“Right, I saw that on the helicopter tour. I plan on go
ing to Lihue and along the south coast.”
“Go the way you went to meet Kendall on Highway 50. It’s slow much of the way. When you reach Waimea, head north on Waimea Canyon Road until it meets Kokee Road, then either continue north, or backtrack on Kokee Road to find number 100. It should be somewhere near that Waimea Canyon-Kokee Road intersection,” circling the area on the map with her pen. She then studied it one more time. “I doubt you’ll find a neat little sign confirming you’ve reached number 100; you may have to drive up and down the road a couple of times looking for it. But I’m guessing there aren’t many other houses around there either, so it should be fairly obvious.”
“And the other property–the Plantation House–where is that, just in case? Tom was headed for the lab but could’ve changed plans.”
“Right here,” she said and made another mark on the map. I’ve only been there one time, but it’s easy to find. Once you’ve passed the turnoff to Poipu, take Omeo Road north a few miles, and you can’t miss it. It’s a big, old plantation-style home with lots of trees. He’s also got a black, wrought-iron fence around the residence grounds and a lower fence around the entire property itself.”
“Got it,” he said, folding the map and sticking it back in his pocket. “I’ll take Tom’s pistol with me, too, just in case. If nothing happens, no one will ever know I had it; and if it turns out I need it, it’ll help me get me back in one piece.”
“Be careful,” she replied.
“One last thing, Sergeant Kalani’s supposed to be on duty this evening. If you don’t hear from me by seven, tell him Tom and I went to one of Hollingsworth’s two locations... and may be in trouble.”
36
Marchetti removed Tom’s Glock from the hotel safe, along with two full magazines and a box of nine millimeter ammunition. He also grabbed the small binoculars Janine kept in the office closet and stuck them in his pocket. When he’d reached the parking garage, he stashed them in the trunk of the car and headed for Wilcox Memorial Hospital, forty-five minutes away.
Vicki was still scheduled to be discharged the next day and appeared in good spirits–markedly better than a few days ago. Not surprisingly, after two weeks of surgery, treatment, and therapy, she was anxious to leave the sterile and restrictive confines of a hospital and get back to more comfortable surroundings at the St. Francis. Marchetti didn’t want to be the one to tell her if the doctors decided she had to stay a few days longer; there’d be hell to pay.
Even half asleep, Vicki could tell Marchetti was preoccupied. They chatted briefly about how she was feeling and then he gave her a quick rundown of what he and Tom had been doing the past two days. He promised to check with her doctor later that day or early the next morning regarding aftercare once she was discharged.
Marchetti returned to the parking lot, opened the trunk lid, and slipped the Glock and holster over his left shoulder. Satisfied they felt comfortable, he donned his jacket and opened the driver’s side door.
He rechecked the map Janine had marked up earlier. He assumed Tom had been headed for Hollingsworth’s property on the tax rolls belonging to his wife’s limited liability company.
Marchetti also made sure the compass app on his smartphone was working so he could get continuous and accurate coordinates along the way. He programmed in the lab’s approximate location to get a heads-up nearing the property.
He questioned whether he’d have adequate cell phone coverage the entire trip. He remembered his phone working satisfactorily when they met Commander Kendall at the café in Kalaheo. With the Barking Sands missile base so close to Waimea, the defense department would make sure there would be adequate cell coverage within a reasonable range of the base, wouldn’t it? But he couldn’t simply assume that.
Even driving on the south–and driest–side of the island, Marchetti saw ominous dark sky and thunderclouds ahead. If rain was indeed imminent, it might make finding Tom more difficult, and the further west he drove, the more threatening the sky got. The wind was beginning to pick up, as well. So much for sunny, tropical weather on the Garden Isle, he thought. Kona winds from the west the last two days had brought moisture to this side of the island, surprising even the locals. He hoped any storms would be light and brief.
Twenty minutes later he slowed and exited right onto Route 550, also known as Waimea Canyon Road. Any other time he would have enjoyed the twisting, mountainous drive with vistas of red, iron-rich soil, green vegetation, cascading waterfalls, and an occasional feral chicken. But on this particular morning, the worst of possibilities kept flashing through his mind. What if Tom had an accident and was lying in a ditch somewhere–or worse?
Five minutes later Marchetti’s cell phone navigation quit. He was now winging it northwest on a little-used narrow road, not knowing where his destination might be. He’d seen no other cars since he’d left Route 50. Janine wasn’t kidding, he thought. If Hollingsworth was trying to hide a mysterious lab, he’d picked the right place.
He reached the intersection and backtracked down Kokee Road, twisting along at a slow enough speed he’d be able to see anything resembling a house or other structure anywhere along the road. Tom mentioned the property was on the tax rolls as being forty years old and 2,100 square feet, so it wasn’t a large building by real estate standards, and he didn’t expect it to be a pristine structure, either.
A hundred yards farther he spotted a narrow gravel driveway to his right–the west side of the road. Just south of the entryway he saw a sandy pullout between the paved road and an ice plant-covered embankment.
He carefully pulled off the paved road onto the sandy shoulder. He left the engine running while he got out and checked the right wheels. Satisfied he’d parked on firm enough ground he wouldn’t find himself stuck when it came time to leave, he walked back to the driver’s side and turned off the engine.
Marchetti slid his hand inside his light, windbreaker jacket and felt the stippled grip of the Glock. Then he stuck the binoculars in his outside jacket pocket and began slowly walking up the gravel driveway.
The property had a perimeter fence of simple chain-link construction, with a gate across the driveway and a heavy chain and padlock holding it secured.
He walked to his left around the outside of the perimeter fence through a sparsely wooded area of halapepe and koa trees until he reached a spot offering him both cover and an adequate view of the structure and grounds. He pushed a few branches away from his face and settled into a comfortable prone position facing the old building. He removed the binoculars from his jacket pocket and adjusted the focus using one of the house’s vertical window frames as a sighting reference.
Shades were partially drawn on the forward two windows on his side of the house; the shade on the third, rear-most, window was rolled up nearly to the top. Even in poor, mid-morning lighting, he could see a simple, ceiling light fixture through the rear window, a refrigerator, portion of a table, and at least two chrome and vinyl chairs. It appeared to be a kitchen or break room of some sort.
He spotted three vehicles, including Tom’s rented Toyota, pulled up close to the rear of the house. Further back and separate from the main structure was a weathered, two-car garage with wood shake shingles on the roof and sides and two metal roll-up doors.
A man dressed in denim shirt appeared in the kitchen, having entered from the interior area to the right. Marchetti could only see him from the waist up because of the height of the windowsill, but he appeared to be in his mid-thirties and reaching into an overhead cabinet. Non-threatening stuff, he thought, but one person accounted for at least.
He studied the man’s movements another few minutes and then decided to move up closer to the house. He rose and slowly crept further down the fence line until he could clearly see the rear entry door. If he could make it to Tom’s SUV, he figured, he wouldn’t be spotted from either the rear window or multi-paned rear entry door. Better yet, if he made it to a spot between the car and the house, he’d be in an even more advantageou
s position, out of sight from anyone in the kitchen.
He continued circling around the rear of the property until he had Tom’s vehicle between himself and the doorsteps. Peering through the binoculars, he was able to pick up the denim-shirted man occasionally moving from one part of the room to another. He still couldn’t see him from the waist down. Was he carrying a weapon? Muscular or athletic?
He stuck the binoculars back in his jacket and pulled out the pistol. Taking one more quick glance around the building, he leapt the chain-link fence and made a dash for the front of one of the two dark sedans.
He slid in the dirt to a position alongside the front bumper of a blue four-door Nissan. Once the beating in his chest slowed, he listened for voices coming from the kitchen. He briefly heard the mumblings of a male voice talking on a phone, though Marchetti couldn’t discern the accent or what he’d said.
He was deep in thought about his next move when he heard the doorknob rattle. A few seconds later, someone opened the door and started down the steps.
It was the denim-shirted man, with prominent Slavic facial features, carrying a camouflage bag. He walked around Tom’s rented SUV, opened the driver’s side door, and reached across the front seat.
Marchetti sprung from behind the blue sedan and slammed the driver’s side door of Tom’s vehicle hard on the man’s legs. The man groaned and struggled to back out off the front seat.
Marchetti shoved the barrel of the Glock hard against the back of the man’s head. In a low voice, he said, “Keep it quiet or you’re a dead man.” When the man twitched his right shoulder, Marchetti jammed the barrel into his skull even harder. “And don’t move until I tell you.”
The man nodded almost imperceptibly.
“What’s your name?”
The man paused for a moment. “Kamaka.”
“How many inside?”
He paused again. “Two.”
The Omega Covenant Page 21
