Distant Memory (13 page)

“I’m okay now,” she said softly. “I just don’t know why anyone would want to kill me.” She laid her head back against the headrest and released a long, troubled sigh. “For all I know, I could be married to the mob or be president of the United States.”

“You’re not the president,” Nick said lightly, “and that’s a plus. I also doubt that you’re married to the mob. You don’t seem the type.”

“I didn’t know there was a type,” she said.

“Well, if there is, you’re not it.”

Lisa chuckled. “That’s a rather circular argument, isn’t it?”

“See? Would a mob moll know about circular arguments?”

A muted ringing interrupted the conversation. Lisa unconsciously stiffened, her stomach constricting. “What’s that?”

“Relax, it’s just my phone.” Nick reached down by his seat and pulled a cell phone from the door pocket.

Exploding into action, Lisa turned in her seat and reached across the space between them. “Give me that!” she shouted, snatching the phone.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Nick responded with surprise.

Lisa had the phone in her hand. She found the power switch, a tiny black rubber button marked PWR, and quickly pressed it. Turning the phone over she fumbled with the battery compartment release. The phone dropped to her lap and then fell to the floor.

“Lisa! Stop! What are you doing to my phone?”

Icy fingers of fear ran over her body and dug into her mind. Panicky, she released her seat belt and grabbed for the device. She flipped the phone over, pressed the release switch, and removed the battery. Then, as if they were covered with vile slime, she threw the dead phone and the battery into the sleeper cab, wiping her hands on her jeans. After several deep inhalations, she turned to face Nick. His lips were tight, his face red, and his jaw clamped shut. She thought she could hear his teeth grinding.

“I had to do that,” Lisa said weakly, not even sure herself why. She felt like a child who had just broken her father’s favorite radio.

“You
had
to do that?” Nick said, his voice barely above a growl. “That’s not some inexpensive phone you pick up at a mall kiosk. I paid good money for that. A lot of good money.”

“It’s not broken, just deactivated.”

“You couldn’t just turn it off?” he snapped. “That’s what most - people do. They just turn it off.”

“No. It had to be separated from its power source. They can trace phones, especially cell phones.”

“What are you yammering about?” Nick’s anger was percolating to the top. “They? They? Who are they?”

Lisa didn’t know.

“The CIA? The FBI? The IRS? If I hit any letters you like, let me know.” His voice had turned sarcastic.

“I … I don’t remember,” she admitted. “I just know that phones like that can be traced.”

“Wouldn’t they need to know the number? Wouldn’t they need to know me?”

“Yes … no … I don’t remember.”

“That’s convenient,” Nick said harshly.

“Fine,” Lisa said loudly. “I didn’t ask for a ride. I didn’t ask you to be a white knight. If I’m a problem, then stop the truck and I’ll get out.”

“And do what? You can’t make a living tearing phones apart.”

“I’ll figure something out.” Lisa felt anger mix with her fear, forging an explosive mixture.

“I can see it all now. The newspaper headlines will read, ‘Angry woman attacks cell phones.’ ”

“Stop the truck and let me out.”

“No,” Nick said flatly. “That’s not going to happen.”

“If I’m such a big problem, then you should be glad to get rid of me.”

Silence.

“Well?” Lisa asked.

Nick’s reply was softer. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to be rid of you. I’m just taken aback. Grabbing the phone the way you did shook me a little. I overreacted.”

Nick had every right to be angry, Lisa thought. She had acted rashly and without explanation. Anyone would have been put off by her actions. “No, I should be the one apologizing.”

Nick’s tight jaw, pursed lips, and flushed face melted into a small smile. “Next time, just talk to me. I promise to listen.”

“Okay,” she said, her terror beginning to ease.

“Great,” Nick said. “Now what was all this talk about
them
tracing my phone?”

“Cell phones are wonderful tools, but they’re not secure,” Lisa explained, wondering how she knew this. “If the phone is on, it can be
easily traced. As we drive, we pass relay towers. Your phone registers each time it passes one. It’s an easy matter to triangulate a position. Police use the technique all the time. And it’s now possible to do that even if the phone is off.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Not at all. What happens when you turn your computer off or there’s a power failure? When you turn it back on, does the clock show the correct time? Of course it does. Cell phones work the same way. A little power is used even if the phone is turned off.”

“Okay, I believe you, but so what? Who would care about where we are? I mean—” He stopped short. “You said someone tried to kill you by running you off the road.”

“Right.”

“But you still don’t know who?”

Lisa shook her head. “I’m not sure which is worse, knowing or not knowing.”

“Knowing is always better. At least then you can make plans and fight back.”

“Maybe,” Lisa said. “Maybe.” Once again she felt lost and confused, but most of all she felt frightened.

Raymond Massey spoke into the microphone of the headset he wore as he adjusted the helicopter’s collective. “Did you get that?” he asked McCullers. McCullers looked ill.

“Yeah, I got it,” he replied. “When you said that we would be taking a helicopter, I didn’t know you’d be the pilot.”

“One of the many things the military gave me,” Massey said. He made a sharp bank to the right, changing his course west. “We should be able to cut over to the 101 and be there in short order. We’ll have the truck in our sights in twenty minutes or so.”

“Great, just see if you can smooth the flight out a little. This is like riding a roller coaster.”

Massey made another sharp bank. “First we verify the truck; then we follow it. We’ll have to be cautious. We can conceal ourselves from them, but not from the other motorists. It’s also possible that other helicopters will be in the area, and they’d be sure to notice us. If we’re lucky, we’ll find the truck quickly and can then decide on our next move.”

“How did Moyer know where the truck was?” McCullers asked.

“He is a resourceful man,” Massey said cryptically.

“That doesn’t answer the question,” McCullers complained.

“You’re right.” Massey said nothing more.

C
opying frames from the motel video was easy. By using a video capture device and program, Bill Hobbs soon had several photos of the woman and the man. The clerk had identified the man as the one who registered for the rooms using the name Nick Blanchard. The clerk didn’t know the woman’s name.

“Let’s get this out with the APB,” Hobbs said to Tanner. The men were in the conference room of the sheriff’s substation. The black-and-white photos taken from the video were on the conference table. “Let’s make sure that the border patrol gets copies too, just in case our couple want to make a quick trip to Mexico.”

“They could be there by now,” Tanner opined.

“Maybe, maybe not. A semi is not the best vehicle to make an escape in—if they’re escaping anything.”

“Something’s up,” Tanner said. “Useless VIN numbers and license numbers tell us that.”

“That is exactly why we’re pulling the stops out on this.” Hobbs studied the photo. The picture was gray and slightly blurred, a testimony to the motel owner’s frugal approach to business. But some simple computer enhancement made the pictures useful. He had watched the tape several times. “She looks frightened,” Hobbs said thoughtfully.

“Frightened or guilty?” Tanner asked.

“Frightened. She seems uncertain of her surroundings. The question is why.”

“Do you think she was abducted by this Blanchard?”

Hobbs shook his head. “Not from what the clerk said. He said that she seemed lost but that she left under her own power and by her own choice. He didn’t think she was coerced.”

Hobbs studied the photos again. The lobby of the motel had several large windows that looked out over the main road. A white semitrailer was parked at the curb. Hobbs had quizzed the clerk about the truck, but the man couldn’t be sure that it was the truck Blanchard and the woman had left in. He guessed that it was. “Let’s do this,” Hobbs said. “Let’s get a blow-up of the truck.” The motel camera was set to record events in the lobby, not on the street. The image was blurry, but it was all he had.

“Why?” Tanner asked.

“I want to have it distributed to all the weigh stations in the area.”

“There are a lot of trucks on the road,” Tanner said pessimistically. “It’s going to be hard to find one.”

“There are a lot of cars on the road too, but we still put APBs out on them and make plenty of arrests because we do. We have a few things in our favor. One, the truck looks new, and two, there is no logo, company name, or anything else on it. That makes it unique.”

Tanner nodded. “Makes sense. I’ll make sure the aerial crews know about it. The CHP has a few helicopters and airplanes in the area. They may be able to spot it from the air.”

“Good idea,” Hobbs agreed. He sighed. “Now comes the hard part—waiting.”

They had passed over Pyramid Lake and were now pressing on over the San Ynez Mountains, Massey pushing the small helicopter as fast as it
would go. He wished for a faster craft, but he knew wishing would change nothing. At least he could travel in a straight line, unhindered by traffic and road conditions. Every few minutes he received a communication from Moyer with an update about the truck’s position. Each time Massey adjusted his course slightly, aiming not at where the truck was, but where it would be in the near future. The tactic dramatically cut down airtime and course corrections.

McCullers had settled into an uneasy silence in the passenger seat. He was not enjoying the ride, and Massey knew that he wasn’t enjoying the company.

“Look,” he said, nodding forward. “See that hawk?”

McCullers looked where Massey was indicating. “Yeah, I see it. So what?”

“Have you ever wondered how a hawk can find its prey?”

“No. I usually have better things to think about.”

Massey shook off the cold response. He was going to make his point whether McCullers liked it or not. It was important for him to remind McCullers that he was no longer in charge. “Most people think that it’s because the hawk has superior eyesight, which it does. But its prey is small. A field mouse is only a few inches long. No matter how keen its eyes, it would be difficult for the hawk to locate a brown mouse scampering on brown ground underneath brown shrubs. Look down, do you think you could spot a mouse with binoculars?”

“Probably not.”

“You couldn’t. No one could. At least not well enough to spot it, track it, and then capture it. The hawk has an extra advantage.”

“Like what?” McCullers was beginning to show interest.

“The hawk not only has keen eyesight, but he can see in the ultraviolet. Most of its prey are burrowing animals like field mice, small rabbits, and the like. Many of those animals mark their territory with urine.”

“How nice,” McCullers said sarcastically.

Massey ignored the comment. “Urine glows a pale blue under ultraviolet light.”

“You really need a different hobby.”

“Shut up and listen,” Massey snapped. “The hawk doesn’t just look for a mouse on the move, he looks for the pale blue glow that indicates a burrowed community of animals. The animal’s markings alert the hawk to their home. In a sense, it acts like a fast-food sign.”

“And?” McCullers prompted.

“In most ways, humans are inferior to animals. We’ve got big brains, but they have better physical senses. Technology is changing that and changing it fast. Because of advanced technology, we can now see farther than ever before and see in new and revealing ways.”