Call Me Joe (35 page)

She slouched over to the United counter and plopped down her passport and Idaho driver's license.

"One way to Salt Lake via Dallas? Name of Natalie Springfield?" she murmured.



Bettijean Moorage sauntered into Art's office and closed the door. Art looked up from the text of a deposition he was massaging back to health and grunted with surprise.

"Did you need so…" he began.

"Art," Bettijean interrupted, "shut up and don't speak again until I'm finished."

"B.J., if this is about the raise…" he sighed.

"Art," she said sharply, "if you say so much as 'boo' for the next five minutes, I'm going to take this file and lock it up in my home safe and you'll never,
never
know what it says."

"Okay, okay," he  chuckled, throwing up his hands in surrender. "So, what's this about?"

"Janie Wright," Bettijean said simply, "and you're not gonna like it much."

"B.J…." Art groaned.

"Art," Bettijean barked, slapping the file down on his desk, "just read it, okay?"

He sighed theatrically, pulled the file across to his desk pad, opened the front-leaf, and began to read.

In about 20 seconds, he went deadly still and quiet. For a good 15 minutes, the only sound in the room was the sharp crackle of papers turning.

He came to the last page and froze with it suspended in front of his face.

"How…" he began, his voice raspy and quivering, "how reliable is this?"

"Completely," Bettijean replied. "That's a Xerox from state records, shot this morning."

"Dear God!" Art murmured. "Have you told Tru?"

"Not yet. Not about that part," she yawned. "The rest of it, yes."

"Call him, get him in here," Art said tightly. "If you can't reach him, call Jack."

"Already did," B.J. nodded, "but I haven't gotten Tru, yet."

"My God, what a mess," Art moaned. "How…how could she…"

"Oh, c'mon Arthur," Bettijean growled. "You still think of her as 12 and every other man in the world is angling to screw her. She can get away with anything she wants. Any pretty girl understands that before she knows how to walk."

"How did you know?" Art gaped.

"I'm a brilliant and chronically underpaid harpy who doesn't like her," Bettijean smiled lazily, "and I'm just one of dozens. We've been digging."

"Get her dad on the phone, will ya?" Art sighed. "I need all four of them in here before quitting time."

"Now you're talking," Bettijean smiled.

"Oh, and…B.J.?" Art moaned, running his temples.

"Yo?"

"Put in papers for your 15% merit raise today," Art smiled feebly. "You earned it."

"Yeah," Bettijean grinned, "I did, didn't I?"



It was almost two miles from the Coyote Creek Lodge to the brushy spine of land called Deer Kill Ridge, where Joe's cabin was situated on a broad shelf about 100 yards below the spray of boulders that defined it. The patchy trail meandered through the rocky terrain like a drunk through a minefield but, as I quickly discovered, it was the only logical path that didn't involve serious rock climbing.

Simmons was showing no signs of wear and I was surprised to find how little strain it was for me, considering that most of my training regimen consisted of weights, nautilus, and treadmills. The most aerobic thing I do is running to the beer kiosk between innings at Mariners games. We were almost there and I could still breathe, see, and feel most of my extremities.

We hadn't talked much on the way up. If any of my suspicions were true, there wouldn't be much conversation once we got there. The Desert Eagle, as always, chafed at the callous in the small of my back but it's weight was reassuring and kept me focused.

"We're getting close," Simmons said, panting lightly. "This guy's a vet, Colonel. He owns, guns, most likely. He probably isn't all that shy with 'em. Stomping up to his front door ain't a real good idea."

"Yeah," I nodded, "and if he is the C.I.A. phantom, he could have a bead on us right now."

Simmons went a little pale and shifted left into the shadow of an old-growth pine.

"You think he could get a sight line in these woods?" Simmons said softly.

"Can you see the ridge?" I asked calmly.

"Yeah," Simmons replied, glancing around the trunk.

"There's a sight line," I shrugged. "I could hit you from there. If he's our shooter, he could do it in his sleep."

"Shit," Simmons grunted. "I just walked right up his fucking driveway, both times."

"Like I said," I chuckled, "maybe he's
not
that Joe. I'm just being careful."

"Second that," Simmons breathed. "What now?"

"A little basic caution," I smiled. "I'll circle the hill. You go just off the path. Keep something between you and the ridge at all times. Same as 'Nam—funny noises, flash of sunlight, movement anywhere, hit the deck and get small."

"Signal, at the cabin?" he asked.

"If he's there," I answered. "I'm just gonna yell at him. I don't want to sneak up on him. I just don't want to get shot."

"Got it," he nodded. "15 or so?"

"Say 20," I suggested. "Don't know how rough the rest of this is.

"Twenty," Simmons repeated. "Meet ya up top."

I veered off to the left and followed a small cleft in the rocks. I wormed my way through and emerged on a relatively clear hillside that led up about 45 feet to a solid wall of tall pines and boulders the size of refrigerators. I checked it intently for maybe 5 minutes and then picked my way across the open space to a steep path leading down and around the flank of the ridge under a huge stone overhang. I could walk erect under the rock shelf and followed it for more than 200 yards when a wrong noise brought me up short.

Ticking. The sound hot metal makes as it cools. The noise your car makes after you park it.

I sat very still and heard it again, coming from somewhere straight ahead and to my right.

I moved a few feet forward and looked down the hillside, checking for anything that looked out of place.

It was mostly luck that I saw it at all. I'd like to claim great skill or even good eyes but the simple fact is, yellow really stands out in the forest.

A single pine, little larger than a sapling, was bending out and down the hillside at a strange angle. There is the occasional freak of nature but, as a rule, trees grow upwards in search of light and water. They don't try to burrow downwards like an ostrich.

A tiny flash of yellow was showing within the small pines outline. I climbed down and parted the outer branches.

A thin nylon rope was tied around the topmost end of the trunk. It had been there for quite a while, as the bark had begun to grown around it. There was no more tension in the tree. It was now trained to its new position and the rope could simply be removed.

Under the tree was a large gap in the rock. The sheen of polished, painted metal was visible under it.

I shinnied over the edge of the gap, chinned myself down off a tongue of rock, and landed lightly in the near dark.

The black Blazer wore Washington plates and both doors were locked. I circled around, hoping, to the hatchback and gingerly worked the catch.

The tailgate cleared the side wall by less than a half inch, and I had to wriggle into the cargo area sideways. I sat up and climbed into the driver's seat and flipped on the interior lights.

The Blazer, for its age, was scrupulously clean. The glove box was completely empty but a bracket on the visor contained a Washington vehicle registration in the name of Joseph Warren Mathis, 1366 Peyton Drive, Enterprise, Oregon.

Above the passenger's visor was a state map with some hurried notes scrawled in pencil in the legend box:  "SLC4904SW 1247SPGF." I was guessing about some of it; the writing was done quickly, with the map on an uneven surface.

I pulled out my cell. No signal. I wasn't surprised. I was on the far side of the ridge, under tons of rock, away from any possible cell tower.

I memorized the message and quickly searched the rest of the interior.

A Desert Eagle very much like my own was in a complicated spring-load contraption under the radio. There was a small warp showing in the rubber floor mat behind the brake pedal, and I poked it firmly with my knuckles. The Eagle rotated down and out with a soft "snick" and slid out easily. I reached back under, found the ignition wire, ripped out the whole thing, and jammed it in my pocket.  I pocketed the Eagle and climbed into the back. I sat and looked around me carefully. Something about the shadows at the top edge of the folding bench seat looked a little odd, and I ran my fingers along it until I came to a knot under the rubber gasket. I pushed in and the entire seat back swung out on the hinge that accommodates the fold panel at the bottom.

A Dragunov Romak 3/PSL rifle with a no scope was mounted in a foam-lined bracket. Just below it, in a cut-out in the foam, were three boxes of steel-jacketed long shells; the kind of high-velocity loads used for ultra long-range shooting.

I shouldered the Dragunov and pocketed a full box of shells.

There might have been more to find but I was convinced.

I climbed out and left the tailgate slightly ajar. My presence in the Blazer would be obvious, anyway. No point in being fastidious.

From the truck's slow ticking, I knew Joe had left it long enough ago to be home by now.

I circled the hill until my cell showed a signal. I hit Jack's number and heard it ring twice.

"Where are you?" he asked breathlessly. "Bettijean Moorage is about to kill me to get to you."

"I'm about to meet our boy Joe," I replied softly. "I'm about 100 feet from his house."

"Let me get to this, then," Jack said quickly. "Jane was…
is
a twin. Birth records from Ketchum, Idaho, show twin girls born to her mom and a Serge Dageneau back in '70. The mother's name is listed as Kirkham, her maiden name. We got a marriage license, also issued in Ketchum, from two days later. Mom marries Gene Kasten. But, you follow the paper trail and the Kastens only enroll
one
kid in school in Spokane, Miz Jane."

"This from Bettijean?" I asked.

"Yep," he replied. "How soon can you get back?"

"I don't know," I puffed. "I want you to do something, though."

"What?"

"Three things:  Call Southwest Airlines, in Salt Lake City and see if there's a Flight 4904 arriving at 12:47 either tonight or tomorrow. It would connect with Orly, Heathrow, somewhere in Europe. Then call (212) 426-5507 and ask for Nat West. Tell him I sent you and I need everything on a Major Allen Simmons, about our age, Marine Corps. Now, here's the tricky part. If Nat finds anything funny in Simmons' service records, I want you to call me. Let it ring once, hang up, call back and let it ring twice. I won't answer. Got that?"

"What are you doing?" Jack asked gravely. "Do I need to call for some help?"

"It's a two-hour hike up here, Jack," I said evenly. "Nobody would get here in time. Just do that stuff and then call Art. Tell him I need to see the Wrights and Karstens late tomorrow morning but here’s the important thing: if he meets with them tonight – and he probably will because of the thing with Jane earlier – he can’t discuss anything beyond her bank accounts and the resort. Got it?"