Blind Eye (16 page)

Rancho Bernardo, California

T
here wasn't enough time for a shower. Cynthia hastily yanked on a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt, and pulled her hair into a ponytail. Casting a cursory glance in the mirror, she frowned and ran downstairs.

“Blame it on the engineer in me,” she told Shadow. The animal, sitting on a kitchen chair, shot Cynthia the cool look that she used anytime she was not the center of her human's attention. “Besides, I have twenty minutes to get to the copy store and back.”

Cynthia didn't want to say anything to Nellie, but she was stunned that her father would take the only copy of any important document and send it outside of the company. Even to his daughter. She agreed that Fred had been exceptionally nervous before the procedure the week before. Still, she doubted he'd do that. At least, it bothered her to think that he might.

Cynthia decided that there was no point in arguing the issue with Nellie. Her father was dead.

When it came right down to returning it, though, she
was
her father's daughter. She would never send the
only copy of anything so important via courier. Things got lost all the time.

The black cat hopped off the chair and trotted over. As Cynthia tried to find her car key amid the piles of half-sorted mail on the kitchen counter, the animal rubbed up against her calves.

As Cynthia thought about it more, she knew she was doing the right thing…even if she wouldn't say anything about it to Nellie. There was always a method to her father's madness. Cynthia was the same way herself. It was genetic. Outsiders might not see the rationale for their decisions right off the bat, but a rationale existed nonetheless.

Fred wanted his daughter to have those documents, and Cynthia wasn't going to send off the only copy. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but sometime soon, she would go over them.

She grabbed the thick folder off the counter and found her car keys. Glancing at the clock on the kitchen wall, Cynthia knew she was cutting it close. She didn't wait around until second thoughts had a chance to surface. Instead, she ran for the garage.

Though her car hadn't been started for a week, it roared to life as the garage door began to rise on its tracks. Backing up, she heard the twang of the antenna clipping the door on the way out.

As she emerged into the sunlight, she caught sight of a young boy on a bike behind her. His parents were walking briskly behind him, and Cynthia waited in her driveway for them to pass.

She'd already decided which stationery supply superstore was the closest. She looked up at her condo as the garage door closed. Shadow was back in the window upstairs, scratching on the glass.

“What is it with you?” she asked under her breath. “You act like you're still dealing with separation anxiety. I told you I'd be right back.”

She turned around to back the car out of the driveway. A dark sedan was blocking her in. Cynthia's fingers immediately reached for the lock button. Hearing the distinctive sound, she quickly double-checked the windows. They were closed. This looked like the same car that had been in front of her condo before.

Cynthia glanced up and down the street. She could only see the backs of the couple with the son on the bicycle. She reached in her purse and grabbed her cell phone. She wasn't one to overreact, but an uncomfortable feeling was clutching at her stomach.

Her neighborhood was safe. Still, she hated people who acted stupid in dangerous situations. There was no reason for these people to be here. She didn't know them.

She considered who to call. Shawn was on the other side of the world. Calling her mother would be useless. It was embarrassing to call the police. What would she say? She wasn't some college coed who needed an escort to get somewhere.

She checked the directory of her phone and saw the number for the neighbors who'd watched Shadow. It was a long shot for the Newmans to be home on Sunday, with the boys involved in so many different sports. Even so, she called them.

She watched in the mirror as the passenger door of the black sedan opened and a burly man in a navy-blue Windbreaker stepped out. He was wearing sunglasses and quickly pulled a baseball hat on. For the second or two that the door was open, she only caught a glimpse of the driver who remained in the car.

Her neighbor's answering machine clicked on. The large man started toward her door.

“Hi, this is Cynthia…Adrian. Please pick up if you're home.”

He was standing next to her car door, looking in.

Cynthia left the car running and looked up. The mirrored aviator glasses blocked her view of the man's eyes. The Windbreaker was zipped up. No company logo or name tag. The baseball cap, also devoid of any identifying logo, shaded the face.

“Ms. Adrian,” he said through the window, tapping the glass with his knuckles as he bent down slightly.

The phone buzzed into her ear. The answering machine had timed out. Cynthia continued to hold the phone against her ear.

“Hold on a second,” she said to no one on the other end. She lowered her window a fraction of an inch. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, ma'am. I'm here to pick up a package for New Mexico Power Company.”

The thick folder sat on the passenger seat.

“I wasn't expecting you until noon,” she told him.

“It just so happened that I was in your neighborhood when the call came in.”

He'd been sitting in front of her condo when Cynthia had been speaking to Nellie on the phone. Suddenly, she felt a greater sense of urgency about not sending the only copy of whatever this file was.

Nellie had been her father's right hand for four years. The young woman was trusted with everything. She took care of all the details, large and small. To copy and mail anything, Fred would normally have asked his assistant to take care of it. Cynthia should have questioned sooner why Nellie didn't know anything about these documents.

“Well, I have to run out for a quick errand. You can pick it up at noon.” She rolled up the window, dismissing him.

He glanced at his watch. “That's only fifteen minutes from now.”

“I'll see you in fifteen.”

“Ms. Adrian, I have other pickups and deliveries scheduled. We won't be able to come back later today.”

“That's fine. I'll ship the package tomorrow, then,” she told him. “Please move your car. I really need to be going.”

The man straightened up, and Cynthia no longer could see his face. She thought he motioned toward the car blocking the driveway.

She didn't trust them, and she was fighting back her fear. She looked around the car. There wasn't enough room to turn or go around the sedan. The next driveway, separated from hers by shrubbery and a curb, sat a foot lower.

“Yes, I'm back,” she said, pretending to be talking on the phone and looking over her shoulder as she inched the car backward.

The man continued to stand beside her door. She saw the driver's door of the sedan open and another man step out. She shut the phone and dumped it on the seat, holding on to the wheel with both hands.

The little boy on the bicycle and his parents were coming back. She jammed her hand on the horn and rolled her window down an inch again. “I'm running late. Would you please move your car?”

She had the attention of the family. Cynthia saw the driver get back into the car. The man standing by her door backed up a step and stared into the window for a moment before slowly walking back toward the sedan.

She waved to the couple, though she'd never seen them before. She knew everyone in the condos around her, but it didn't matter that they weren't neighbors. They waved back, and the husband was looking hard at the sedan blocking her in.

Cynthia was relieved when the two men drove off. She quickly backed the car out of the driveway and onto the street.

The boy had stopped the bike and was standing with one foot on the curb. The parents were standing next to him.

“Beautiful day to learn to ride a bike,” she told them, rolling down the window.

She didn't pay attention to what they said in return. Her mind was focused solely on seeing if the sedan was still hanging around. She saw the car take a left at the end of the street and then disappear from view.

Suddenly, she didn't want to send this package back to New Mexico at all. She didn't know of any private couriers who made deliveries in black sedans. And those men frightened her.

This was more complicated than she had imagined. There was a reason her father had sent the files to her. She wanted to go back inside the house and read what was in there. She had a strong suspicion, though, that the two men would be back. Her mind was racing. She again considered calling the police, but what would she say?

Her cell phone started ringing. She looked on the display. It was a New Mexico number. She didn't have to answer to know it would be Nellie Johnson. She ignored the ringing phone, grabbed the thick folder and got out of the car. Hurrying to where the condo sections mailboxes were situated, she stuffed the package into the Newmans' box and closed the door.

The young family was looking at her curiously. She simply nodded to them, jumped behind the wheel and drove off.

People didn't check their mailboxes on Sundays. And even if her neighbors did, Fred's note was in the folder. They would know whom it belonged to.

Cynthia still didn't know what she was going to do. She had no clue what was written in the pages of those files or why Nellie wanted them back. There was, of course, a strong possibility that she was overreacting to everything. After all, she'd just buried her father.

Nonetheless, she knew there was safety in numbers. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. There was a noon yoga class every day at the community center not five miles away. Normally, she went three times a week, and she was friends with a number of the people who took the class. She could go there and invite a couple of them back to her condo for lunch. They all knew she'd lost her father last week. They'd be sensitive to her feelings. She could get the file out of the mailbox when she got back and go over it.

Cynthia took a right on Pomerado Road. It was difficult to imagine Nellie being part of some conspiracy. Fred was a good judge of character, and he'd trusted her for many years. Right up to the very end.

She didn't know where the other car came from, striking her vehicle with the force of a cannon. Cynthia felt as much as heard the loud crunch, and watched in a stunned helplessness as her own car, pushed by the impact, shot across the center line into oncoming traffic.

The telephone pole loomed straight ahead. Cars were coming straight at her, the horns blasting.

Cynthia jerked the wheel once, then lost her bearings as the car spun and flipped over. The sound of screech
ing metal drowned out every other sense, but as she dangled upside down, she thought vaguely that she was going to survive this.

Without warning, another wrenching blow hammered at her…and then there was nothing.

Waterbury, Connecticut

T
he quickest Mark Shaw could get to the accident site in the Gulf of Mexico would be tomorrow morning. But even if by some miracle he could get there sooner, he had enough experience with the red tape of investigations to know that getting somebody to talk to him or even listen to what he had to say was pretty unlikely. The television news was reporting that the fires enveloping the facility continued to burn. Mark wondered how long it would be before Marion ran out of air or the lab blew up.

He made three calls from the extended-care facility. The first one was to Attorney Viera, but he only got his answering machine. He left a message, asking the conservator to call Sid Conway. The neurologist needed to talk to Viera and explain the latest developments with Amelia.

The second call he made was to his police chief back in York. He reached him at home.

“You're not going to take a job in Connecticut and leave my ass hanging in the breeze here, are you?” Lucas Faber wanted to know when Mark called to confirm he could use the chief as a reference.

“No, Chief. I'm not. And I won't even start looking without talking to you first.”

Mark mentioned Marion's name and the accident in the Gulf of Mexico. He only went as far as explaining that he'd gone to Connecticut because of Marion's twin sister. Mark wasn't ready to offer any more detail than necessary, but he needed the chief's help.

“Can you tell me how I can get in touch with whoever is in charge of the rescue operation—or whoever's running the investigation at the accident site in the Gulf?”

“Why, Mark? What do you have?”

“The doctors working with Marion's sister have come up with some information that could be critical for the people working the case.”

Mark knew there were a lot of questions that Faber could have asked, but he must have sensed the urgency in Mark's voice.

“Let me see what I can do. I'll call you back.”

Mark called Rita Ricci next. The detective had left her cell phone number with Mark and offered her help if he needed it.

There wasn't too much to explain to Rita. She had all the background information from their meeting with the conservator last night.

“The neurologists have come up with information,” Mark said, “that suggests there might be survivors at the lab facility.”

The detective was silent for a long moment. “You know it's gonna be pretty damn difficult getting the right person's attention.”

“I know,” Mark agreed. “I've already left a message for Attorney Viera. I'm hoping he can suggest something.”

“Look, I'm working today. Why don't you come in, and I'll try to find out what I can here.”

She gave him directions to the police station.

Mark checked again with Sid before leaving the facility. They were still recording pieces of information from Amelia, but the output now was scattered and often incoherent.

The Sunday-afternoon streets of Waterbury were nearly empty as he drove to the station, and Mark had no trouble finding his way. Rita Ricci met him at the dispatcher's desk and escorted him back to her cubicle.

“I have some bad news.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“My deputy chief was able to get a copy of the report from the fire rescue group submitted to the New Mexico Power Company this morning. The report will be all over the six-o'clock news tonight.”

She handed him a fax from her desk.

Mark looked down the page, skipping past the background information he already knew.

“Second paragraph,” she told him. “There were a number of fuel storage tanks on the platform, even though the platform itself was not being used for production.”

Mark looked where she pointed and read aloud.

“‘…gas condensate leaked from the two blind flanges. At around twenty-three-hundred hours, the gas ignited and exploded, causing damage to other areas with the further release of gas and oil. Some twenty minutes later, a third major explosion occurred, followed by widespread fire. Further explosions then ensued, followed by the eventual structural collapse of a significant proportion of the installation.'”

“It's clear to them, based on what's here, there's no way there could be any survivors,” Rita told him.

“I understand that, Detective, but Amelia is telling us her sister is alive,” he said adamantly. “I'm not imag
ining this. Dr. Conway has substantial data that points to that conclusion. There has to be something more they could be doing. What about sonar searches? If the underground platform has imploded, has anything there been recovered? Body parts, pieces of clothing? Is anyone pushing these people to do more?”

“You're asking the wrong person,” she said softly.

“I'm sorry. I just…”

“I understand. I was there last night myself. But it's hard to explain what those doctors are doing if you haven't been there. When I was trying to get my deputy chief to help out, I realized I sounded a little wacko with what I was telling him.” She paused and looked him in the face. “Word of advice. If you're thinking about demanding anything more than what those rescuers are already doing…”

“I know. I don't have much to push them with.”

She paused and thumbed through the folder on her desk, pulling out a page. “You need next of kin. Get Marion Kagan's mother on your side. With her doing the asking, you might have more leverage.”

She handed him a paper with the woman's name and phone number on it.

“I suggest you call her and see what she says.”