It took some time before she was able to clear her mind of the myriad images of the day: the perfect shooting score, the terrifying final downhill, and the trophy—the trophy she and Carl had worked so hard for. Slowly, she began to relax. Her heart rate slowed, and she tried to open her mind to nothingness.
Half an hour later, she stretched out into the downward dog, holding it for a minute, then ended with a couple of minutes in the corpse pose.
When she stood up, she took her glass of water and sat next to the stove, gazing into the flames.
It had been an almost perfect day—with one exception. Her friend Michael had promised he’d fly in from New York to root for her, but he hadn’t appeared.
Michael was a writer for the New York Times. They’d become good friends because of their shared interest in the environment, particular endangered species. He’d originally contacted her to talk about a series of articles she’d written for the Duluth News Tribune on the plight of gray wolves. After that, they’d emailed each other a lot, chatted on the phone, and met on several occasions at conventions in various parts of the country. They were kindred spirits and became close. He was serious and committed to wildlife, but he was also fun…and good-looking in a craggy sort of a way. He was the sort of man she’d been waiting for, and she could feel herself falling for him. So she’d been thrilled—with just a touch of jealousy—when National Geographic had invited him to write an article on rhino-horn smuggling.
While he was traveling in Vietnam and South Africa, they’d kept in touch as usual. He let her know what he’d learned on his trip, and then he’d tease her about the frigid weather in Minnesota. In return, she’d write that she knew the rhino assignment was just a cover for a vacation in the sun. They were both looking forward to getting together at the time of her big race. It would be great to have the support of such a good friend, Crys had told herself.
Then the emails stopped coming.
In his last email, about four weeks earlier, he wrote excitedly that he’d found out about how the rhino-horn embargo was being circumvented in South Africa and was going digging for the final pieces of information he needed for his article. He’d jokingly invited her to his inevitable Pulitzer reception.
Initially, she hadn’t been concerned about his lack of contact; it was normal—he was pursuing a difficult story, after all. She understood that. But when she still hadn’t heard from him after a couple of weeks, she’d started to worry. For the past ten days she’d been trying to contact him—both by email and by phone on his New York and South African numbers. All to no avail.
Finally, she’d sent an email to National Geographic asking whether they knew where he was, but they hadn’t replied.
She decided that now she had some free time, she was going get to the bottom of the matter.
* * *
The next morning, she negotiated an early morning snowfall on the way to her office at the Duluth News Tribune. She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down to plan what she needed to do to find Michael.
She pulled out her cell phone. First, she called Michael’s New York numbers—at home and at the New York Times, but only reached voicemail messages that indicated he was on assignment overseas. As before, she left messages asking him to call her.
She also tried his South African number; it went to voicemail immediately, suggesting that the phone was turned off. She left a message there too.
She knew that Michael was from Princeton, New Jersey, but he’d told her that he wasn’t on speaking terms with his father. That had struck a chord with Crys, who hadn’t spoken to her own father for twelve years, since he threw her out of the house for not behaving as he thought an obedient Vietnamese daughter should.
Next, she called directory assistance and was given the numbers of three Davidsons in Princeton. She called the first and asked the man who answered whether he had a son, Michael Davidson.
“Why do you want to know?” he asked. “If you’re trying to collect on his debts, you’ve come to the wrong place.”
Crys guessed this wasn’t the right Davidson, but it would be rude to just hang up.
“No, nothing like that. I’m looking for a Michael Davidson who is a journalist with the New York Times. I must have the wrong number.”
“Yeah, that’s my son. He’s with the Times. What’s it to you?”
“He and I are good friends and exchange emails quite often. I haven’t heard from him for a while and was wondering if he was ill or something,” she said, not wanting to worry him about his son being missing in Africa.
“I’ve no idea where he is. I haven’t spoken to him for two years.”
“He’s on a project overseas and—”
“He’s sure to be up to some no good somewhere or other. Probably hiding from the debt collectors.”
Crys frowned. This conversation wasn’t getting her anywhere.
“Would you have the number of his ex-wife? Maybe she knows something about where he is?”
He gave a sour chuckle. “Sheila? Forget it. She’d love to get her hands on him. He’s always behind on his alimony payments, and he owes the doctors and hospital a fortune for his daughter’s surgery. Fool didn’t have health insurance. Must have got his brains from his mother.”
“I’m sorry I disturbed you, Mr. Davidson.” Crys was eager now to hang up. She didn’t want to listen to any more unpleasant family stories. “Thank you, though.”
“Good luck finding him,” the man said and rang off.
Crys felt a pang of sadness that he seemed to care so little about his son. Shouldn’t he be concerned, no matter what had happened between them in the past? She knew Michael had been married, but was puzzled that he hadn’t mentioned a daughter. She wondered if he was scared that telling her would put her off him. Or perhaps whatever had happened to her was too painful to talk about. And whatever his father had said, Crys was pretty sure Michael would be paying off his debts. He just seemed that sort of person.
There was one more call she wanted to make before calling National Geographic to follow up on her email.
“Barbara Zygorski,” the voice on the other end of the line said.
“Hi, Barb. This is Crys Nguyen. How are you?”
“Well, thanks. It’s been a long time.”
“Sure has. I wonder if you’ve heard from Michael recently.”
“Not for a while. Probably a month or so. Last I heard he was heading for Mozambique, hot on the trail of some smugglers. What’s up?”
“I’m really worried. He’s usually so good at dropping a line every day or so. Now it’s been four weeks.”
“Knowing him, he’s probably up to his ears in crocodiles somewhere in the bush. With no internet connection.”
“You’ve been at the Times a long time—would you do me a big favor?”
“If I can.”
“Could you ask someone in IT to check if Michael has used his email account anytime since I received my last email from him? It was exactly four weeks ago today.”
There was silence on the line. Crys decided to wait for a response.
“I don’t know…”
“Look, I know it’s against policy and all that, but this could help us find him. I’m sure you know someone who won’t blab.”
Another pause. Then: “Okay, Crys. I’ll see what I can do, but I’m not making any promises.”
Crys thanked her and hung up.
Finally, she phoned the National Geographic office and asked for Sara Goldsmith, the editor who’d offered Michael the rhino assignment.
Crys introduced herself and explained she was calling because she’d not heard back in response to the email she’d sent inquiring about Michael Davidson’s whereabouts.
“I do apologize for that,” Goldsmith said, “but I’ve been trying to find out where he is myself. I was waiting to have s
ome definite news before I got in touch with you.”
“Do you mean you haven’t heard from him either?”
“Well, when he was in Vietnam, and after he headed for South Africa, he’d email me every few days with updates and asking me to keep his notes and photos for safekeeping. Then about a month ago, his emails stopped coming. The last place we know he was at was a rhino farm called Tshukudu Nature Reserve near Kruger National Park. I spoke to them recently, and they said that he had been there, but had then left for Mozambique—something he hadn’t told me about. Anyway, we then contacted the South African police and asked for their help. They took a while to get back to us, and when they did, they said that the only contact they’d had with Michael was in a town called Phalaborwa, where he’d interviewed the police chief about some poachers they’d caught who’d been given stiff prison sentences. They did tell us that South African Immigration had confirmed that Michael went to Mozambique around that time, then returned ten days later. There’s no record of him leaving South Africa after that. I insisted that they open a missing person’s docket, but I haven’t heard back, I’m afraid.”
“So, he must still be in South Africa, unless he left illegally—which is unlikely.”
“We’re worried that something may have happened to him,” Goldsmith said. “Smugglers are generally not a pleasant group of characters.”
Crys’s chest tightened. “Have you contacted his family?”
“As far as I know he’s an only child, and he told me his mother died young. I located his father, but he said the two hadn’t spoken in years.”
“I just spoke to him too. He has no idea where Michael is…and apparently doesn’t care.”
There was a silence. Cry wondered what could have happened and realized Sara must be doing the same thing.
“You’ve got to send someone to find him,” Crys said at last. “You can’t just stop looking.”
“We’ve thought about hiring a private investigator, but nobody who has anything to hide will speak to them. They’ll just clam up. We’ll be wasting our money and end up knowing no more than we do now. I guess we just have to leave it to the police for the moment.”
“But you’ve got to do something!” Crys protested with a sinking feeling that everyone had washed their hands of Michael.
“So, what do you suggest Ms. Nguyen?”
“I…I don’t know...”
When Crys put the phone down, she slumped in her seat. It seemed that Goldsmith had spoken to everyone Michael had had recent contact with, without any success. Michael had truly disappeared.
And no one seemed to care too much about it.
Chapter 2
That evening, Crys couldn’t focus on anything. She tried to watch TV—a BBC wildlife documentary—but she couldn’t concentrate. Her mind kept wandering to Michael and what could have happened to him. No one went off the radar for a month without letting someone know where they were. But what could they do to find him?
Sara Goldsmith hadn’t been optimistic that a private eye would ever get close to the people who had useful information, and she was probably right. Government officials and the police would be open to meeting, and perhaps the farmers that Michael had spoken to would, too, but the people actively involved in poaching almost certainly would stay clear.
So, who was left? That was the question that haunted Crys for most of the evening.
The answer came to her when answers often did—when she was in a yoga position and her mind was clear. She should go herself.
It made perfect sense. She had a strong personal interest: she really liked Michael and their friendship was developing. She had the qualifications: she was a relatively well-known environmental writer with a strong background in investigative journalism. Her general focus of interest was endangered species—and rhinos certainly fit that bill. And she had the time—her last major project had just been published.
All she had to do was convince National Geographic to send her to look for him and work on the article.
She untwisted from her half lotus and was so excited by the idea that she nearly forgot to end her session with stretches and a cool down.
When she stood up, she could barely wait until the morning, when she could call Sara Goldsmith and make her suggestion.
* * *
“Good morning, Ms. Nguyen. I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. Have you heard from Michael?”
“Good morning, Ms. Goldsmith. Unfortunately, I haven’t. But I have been stewing over our conversation yesterday and the fact we couldn’t come up with a good plan to look for him.”
Goldstein didn’t respond.
“Okay, so I have a suggestion that I’ve thought through carefully, which I think would work.”
“And that is?”
Crys hesitated, then took the plunge. “I’ll go…”
She paused, but again there was silence from the other end of the line. She realized she was going to have to convince Sara.
“I can go under the pretext of writing a story about rhino poaching—just like Michael. If you’ll let me see his notes, I should be able to speak to the same people he spoke to and perhaps find out who he thought was involved in his big story.”
“Hmm…it’s an interesting idea,” Goldsmith said at last. “And you’re willing to fund yourself?”
Crys took a deep breath. “Actually, I was hoping that you would hire me to finish writing Michael’s story.”
This time there was a very long pause. Crys wished she’d worked her way around to the suggestion rather than just throwing it out immediately. But she wasn’t good at prevarication.
“I don’t know,” Goldsmith said eventually, and Crys’s heart sank. “I’m worried that Michael may have run afoul of the smugglers—they are very nasty, I believe. I wouldn’t want the same to happen to you.”
“Ms. Goldsmith, I can do the job. I’m an investigative reporter and deal with environmental affairs….”
“I know who you are,” Goldsmith interjected. “That’s not the issue. I’ve been very impressed with the reporting you’ve done on the plight of gray wolves and how poaching disrupts their social groups.”
For a moment Crys was taken aback. This was a huge compliment, coming from such a prestigious source. She felt herself blush.
“Thank you,” she stammered. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d ever have read any of my work.”
“Because of who we are and the people who are our customers, we try to keep tabs on everyone who’s doing good work in the same areas as us. Your name has popped up a few times, including from Michael, so we’ve been keeping an eye on what you’ve been up to. I thought your gray wolf piece in the Duluth News Tribune last week was excellent. And it was widely syndicated too.”
Crys wasn’t sure what to say, so she just repeated a thank you.
“So, what you’re suggesting is that we send you,” Goldsmith continued, “because you’ll have a better chance of gaining access because of the National Geographic connection. Is that right?”
“Exactly.”
There was a silence. And the longer it lasted, the less optimistic Crys became.
“I don’t know.”
“Please give it some thought, Ms. Goldsmith. We have to do something. This isn’t just about the story. Michael may be in serious trouble. We have to find out what has happened to him.”
“Give me a call tomorrow. I’ll have an answer, but don’t get your hopes too high.”
* * *
The next twenty-four hours moved as slowly as the sap from the maple trees next to her house during a spring cold snap. Every time Crys looked at her watch, after what seemed like hours, only minutes had passed.
She slept so badly that she left the house at seven the next morning to ski for an hour. Anything to keep her mind off the clock. She’d had three cups o
f the Duluth News Tribune’s coffee by the time she called Sara Goldsmith again.
“It’s Crys Nguyen, Ms. Goldsmith.”
“Please, call me Sara…”
“Have you thought about my suggestion?”
“Of course.”
Crys waited anxiously for her to continue.
“Are you sure about this, Crys? If Michael ran into trouble researching his story, you could too. It could be extremely dangerous.”
“I’m willing to take that risk. And I’ll be very careful.”
“If I say yes, when could you leave?”
“As soon as I can get organized. Perhaps by tomorrow night. Every day may make a difference to Michael’s safety.”
“Crys, listen to yourself. You’re talking about rescuing him, not finding him. That’s a big difference. You aren’t qualified to rescue anyone…but, I suppose you are qualified to find someone.”
Crys held her breath. Had she overstepped the mark in her enthusiasm?
There was another of Sara’s long silences.
“Okay, Crys. I have management permission to hire you to work with Michael on finishing his piece. We’ll obviously pick up all expenses, and there’s a reasonable stipend if we publish your article.”
Crys felt a huge wave of relief. “Thank you, Sara. Thank you. I won’t let you down. I promise. Please send Michael’s material by overnight. I’ll email you the address. And also, please email me the names of anyone you know he spoke to so I can set up meetings with them.”
“I’ll send the email now, and you’ll get the material tomorrow morning. I’ll include the remit I gave to Michael. So, you’ll know what we asked him to do. Any questions?”
“Not at the moment,” Crys replied, her head spinning with excitement.
“There is one other thing: Michael’s deadline is six weeks from now. I need you to meet that.”
“Six weeks? For the travel and research and writing? Michael had more than twice that.”
Shoot the Bastards Page 2
