Go-Between (20 page)

Or maybe it was just Pynchonesque.

She sat down on the living room couch with the book and her coffee.

Flipping through, she didn't find any notes, anything obvious to explain why Danny had wanted her to see this.

She started reading.

 

In fact, the worst day flying was
not
better than the best day working. Sometimes flying was just work. Sometimes, when the Lawn Dart you're flying is a bag of balls and Bitching Betty chimes in to let you know things are well and truly FUBAR, flying's not much fun at all.

“What a goat fuck,” Telluride said.

 

Michelle hoped she wouldn't have to read this entire book.

When she got to page 4, she saw it—a faint pencil underline of the number 4. Okay, she thought. Maybe this wasn't anything, but she grabbed a pad of paper sitting by the landline and wrote it down.

The next underline was on page 10. Just the zero. Then, two lines down, an underlined period that ended a sentence.

40.

She kept going. On page 48, the 8 was underlined. On page 57, the 7. Then 1, 8, 0, 5.

40.871805.

The next markings she found were of letters. The “min” in “minute.” Then the word “us.”

Minus?

More numbers. 124.0610.

Letters and words followed.

At the end, what she had was this:

40.871805 minus 124.0610 between north side bridge and big tree by tree. Dig 1 ft.

She was pretty sure she knew what the numbers were, from the times Danny had taken her flying in the Caravan: latitude and longitude.

Directions to something he wanted her to find.

How could she figure out where these coordinates were?

She thought about her iPhones, both of which were switched off and stored in signal-blocking bags. She didn't have any illusions that Gary couldn't find her some other way—he was probably tracking her credit card spending, for one—but she hoped this would at least slow him down.

There had to be apps for finding someplace with the latitude and longitude—could Google Maps do that? But she had to assume her phones were hacked. Entering these coordinates into either of them, even using a VPN, was too risky. She didn't know enough about how that technology worked to know if a VPN was enough protection.

There were handheld GPS units out in the garage.

“You're out hiking, you can't count on your phone.” She remembered Danny telling her that. “They're not as accurate as one of these, and the battery life sucks.” He had them for his volunteer firefighting and for backup on the Caravan. That one was probably gone, seized along with the plane. But the unit he took when he was out fighting fires, and the one he'd given to her, the extra stashed in the earthquake kit, those were still out in the garage.

Maybe they hadn't been hacked.

Danny, bless him, had included the manual with the unit in the earthquake kit, with plenty of extra batteries. She grabbed a pack and went into the house to the kitchen. Poured herself another cup of coffee and sat down at the butcher-block island.

She skimmed through the manual and found the section she needed.

Press
mark
for your current location. Your current position will appear in the latitude/longitude window. Press
enter
and then enter your desired coordinates. Name your waypoint and hit
enter
again to save.

She didn't recognize the map that came up at first. A topographical map with a lot of green that she assumed meant forest. Then she saw the street name near the bottom of the screen: Fickle Hill Road.

The coordinates lead to a location in the Arcata Community Forest, not more than two miles from here.

All she had to do was press
go to
to lead herself there.

It was 2:45
p.m.
The meeting at Evergreen was at 4
p.m.
Did that leave enough time to get to the location, dig a foot-deep hole, retrieve whatever was there?

What if someone saw her? Would it be better to wait until later, after dark?

But if Gary was tracking her, maybe the only advantage she had was moving quickly.

Maybe not even that.

Shit, and her car. It had just been sitting here in the garage for the past few weeks. If he wanted to plant some kind of tracker in it, god knows he'd had plenty of time and opportunity.

How to get there?

Not the rental car, all those had GPS trackers in them, and she couldn't risk it.

Her mountain bike.

She rode down one
of the trails in the Arcata Community Forest, following the directions on her GPS unit, her Emily phone in the signal-blocking bag so she could call Evergreen in case she was running late, the handle of a short shovel sticking out of a GORUCK backpack that was one of Danny's favorites.

She also wore a fanny pack with a hidden holster, her .38 tucked inside.

Sunday afternoon, and there were people here, walking or jogging on the trails, riding horses and mountain bikes. Not huge crowds, but she couldn't count on privacy, either. It was a nice day, mid-sixties, light slanting through the tall, straight redwoods, which absurdly reminded her of telephone poles with Christmas trees stuck on top, the scent of pine and the hint of fog to come infusing the air.

By now she'd turned off a multi-use paved road and onto a trail, roughly in the middle of the over 2,000-acre forest. She passed two hikers and a couple pushing a baby carriage with oversized wheels that looked like a tiny dune buggy. She was getting close.

Up ahead was a small bridge that spanned a creek.

That had to be it.

About two feet from the north side of the bridge was an older redwood.

She got off her bike and wheeled it over, leaning it against the tree.

The leafy green ground cover around the tree—ferns and sorrel, she thought—looked thin compared to the others. There was a patch of nearly bare soil covered over with pine needles beneath the tree, between the tree and the bridge.

She got out the shovel, swept the pine needles aside and started digging.

Chapter Nineteen

“You geocaching?”

“What?”

Michelle had seen the hiker coming: a college-aged kid with a rainbow bandana tied pirate-style over his head, leading a mid-sized mutt on a leash. She'd also smelled the weed he was smoking. She'd put the shovel aside, leaning it against the tree, and rested her hand on the fanny pack with the .38.

“Geocaching. Is that a cache?” He was a skinny white kid, not that tall, wearing a worn long-sleeved T-shirt and Patagonia vest.

“I
. . .
haven't quite gotten there yet.”

He peered into the hole. “I didn't think they usually buried them like that.”

“It's
. . .
actually a scavenger hunt.”

“Oh. Cool.”

His dog, which looked like a cross between a beagle and an Australian shepherd, nosed at the pile of dirt and needles she'd dug up.

He held out the joint he'd been smoking. “You want a hit?”

“Thanks, but no. I have to work later.”

He took another draw, nodding, stubbed the joint out on the sole of his shoe and tucked it in his shirt pocket. Crouched down and gave his dog a two-handed scratch behind the ears.

Now what? Michelle thought. He seemed harmless, but he didn't seem to be going anywhere, either.

“Well, I have a deadline,” she said. “So I better keep digging.”

“Cool.”

She picked up the shovel. He stood there, watching her.

Christ. If someone like Carlene could be one of Gary's people, who's to say this kid wasn't?

Just dig, she told herself. If he tries anything, hit him with the shovel. But she didn't think he was going to try anything. He was just hanging out, watching her dig, and he seemed extremely stoned.

Her shovel hit something solid. A tree root?

No. Something metal.

A steel box in military gray-green, about ten inches long and seven inches high. She grabbed the handle on the top and tugged.

“Need a hand?”

She forced a smile. “That's okay. I've got it.”

He crouched down on his haunches, his dog sniffing at the dirt.

“Oh wow. It's an ammo box.”

Michelle brushed it off. Whatever was in there shifted with a soft thud—a solid weight, but not too heavy. She unzipped her pack and put it inside.

“You aren't going to open it?”

“No, it's part of the game,” she said. “We have to bring what we find to the party, and we'll open it there.”

“Oh.” He seemed disappointed, a kid who wanted to know what the present was. “Well, have fun with that.”

“I will. Nice meeting you!” she added. She used the shovel blade to push dirt back into the hole, quickly as she could, glancing over her shoulder at the hiker as he ambled down the trail, his dog pausing to sniff at a fallen branch.

“I'm not trying to
‘stifle your creativity'!” Helen made finger quotes, the rising red on her cheeks making the freckles stand out. “I'm just saying that all that fancy shit doesn't
sell
here!”

“Bullshit. You're not even
trying
to sell it!” Joseph's face was even redder, but then, he was a redhead.

It was feeling very cramped in her little office.

Guillermo, the line cook, leaned back in his chair and sighed. She'd included Guillermo because if Joseph walked, he was the one who'd be taking over.

Michelle lifted her hands. “Guys
. . .
None of us has time for this.”

She hadn't even had a chance to open Danny's box yet.

“Okay,” she said. “Joseph, this isn't El Bulli or Moto. You can't go crazy with experiments. Our customers want high quality, locally sourced food with seasonal ingredients at a reasonable price point—”

“You're not giving people here enough credit. They just need some education—”

She raised her hand with more force. “I'm not finished. You want to do one special a night that's as complicated and wild as you want to make it, go for it.” She turned to Helen. “And I want you to sell it hard. We'll offer half-price on an appropriate wine pairing. Nice bottles. Call it ‘Chef's Adventure.' We'll see how it goes.”

Helen gave a little shrug. “Okay. Sounds good.”

“Are we all on the same page?”

“Yeah,” Joseph said, clenching and flexing his big, scarred hands. “Sure.”

“Works for me, Emily,” Guillermo said, stretching in his chair. “Okay if I get back to the kitchen? I still have some prep to do.”

“Sure,” she said. “I just want to let you know
. . .
”

She hesitated. Not because she didn't know what she wanted to say, but because the words were getting caught in her throat. “All of you are amazing. I know I've been asking a lot from you, and
. . .
I just really appreciate it.” She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping that would stop the tears, because crying at this point was just too embarrassing.

When she opened her eyes, all three were staring at her.

“Sorry,” she said. “I've had a long day.”

Helen took a step forward, like she was thinking about giving her a hug, but she didn't quite get there. “Is there
. . .
do you need anything, or
. . .
?”

“No. No, I'm fine. Just tired.” She managed a smile. “I'm going to take a little time to go over the accounts and let you guys do what you need to do. Helen, why don't you and I meet for a few minutes after I'm done? And Joseph
. . .
put me down for one of those chef's specials tonight. I haven't had a decent thing to eat all day.”

After they all left, she closed the office door and collapsed in her chair.

She knew that she came across as cold much of the time. Oh, she did the right things. Holiday bonuses and bottles of wine. She thought that she treated people fairly. But she'd been so closed off for so long, keeping a part of herself behind walls. She couldn't admit who she really was. And she wasn't sure she even knew anymore.

But who had time to worry about that?

She unzipped the GORUCK and pulled out Danny's ammo box.

Three vacuum-sealed plastic bags.

The first one was money. Five bundles of hundreds, so probably fifty grand. She sighed. She had enough trouble with excess cash as it was. What should she do with it?

Deposit some to her Emily personal account, maybe. Under $10K to avoid the reporting requirements. She could use some extra cash to cover the rent, since she wasn't paying herself what she usually did from Evergreen. And of course, there were the lawyers. It was Sunday, but she could deposit up to fifty bills at her bank's ATM.

Except large cash deposits
. . .
as the girlfriend of a man jailed on federal drug charges
. . .
didn't that just scream “Drug money! Freeze my bank account!”

“Shit,” she muttered.

Next, a smaller package, the size of a sandwich bag. Passports.

She opened the package. There were two. The first had Danny's photo, with the name “Justin Terrence Carver.”

The second was for her. “Meredith Evelyn Jackson.”

If she needed to run, now she could. He'd made sure of that.

She took in a deep breath. Let the tears flow, this time, until one dripped onto the passport.

No time for that.

The last package was a notebook. Longer than it was tall, about 8” x 6”, with a sturdy, slightly battered dark-blue pebbled cover. A pair of wings, like the Air Force logo, and
Pilot Logbook
stamped in silver, faded in places.

She opened it. Light-green pages, like a ledger book. Columns for date, route, aircraft category and class, conditions of flight, type of piloting time. Some columns had no headings or ones that were handwritten; one of those was labeled “Account.” The last column on the right-hand page was a longish space for “Remarks and Endorsements.”

She looked at the first entry. It was dated about ten years ago.

The most recent entry was just over two years old.

When she'd met Danny in Mexico.

She was pretty sure she was looking at the logbook of the missions that Danny had flown for the Boys.

At first the entries were minimal. Abbreviations and numbers that she didn't understand. Locations marked by airport codes and coordinates. But further in, the notes became more detailed. Names. Dollar amounts. “Kilos” instead of “Load.” Strings of numbers that looked like bank accounts. Remarks like: “Exfiltration.” “Face Shot.” “Dead drop.” “Ghost transpo.” “Wet job.”

“They burned Rami. FUBAR.”

“Target was bullshit.”

“Fuck this.”

There were about twenty unformatted pages in the back, just ruled lines, like a regular notebook. The first
few pages were fragmented notes, a few doodles. Then, several pages in, a page of writing dated shortly after they'd arrived in Arcata.

 

For approx. 10 years I worked as an asset for an off-the-books CIA black ops unit. This log contains a record of those missions, including relevant names, dates, operational details and account numbers when applicable.

When I started I was proud of what I did. I truly believe we accomplished some good things. We took out some real bad guys and helped some good people. But on the balance, what I did wasn't good. I supported missions that eliminated people we had no business targeting. I helped take gold and other valuables out of Iraq and Af-Pak. I ran illegal narcotics into the US and money and guns to Mexico, Central America and South America, all this as a means to continue to fund our missions and other ops, some within US borders. I've recorded what I know about those.

Some of the times when I was moving money around, I don't know for certain what it was for. But from my years of working with these people and observing the behaviors, I believe some of these missions were just about making money. Everybody made good money, including me. But what
we
made is nothing compared to the people we were really working for.

Like Smedley Butler said, “War is a racket, conducted for the benefit of the very few, at the expense of the very many.”

I wasn't serving my country, I was feeding the war machine. If you're reading this, it's because it's time I did something to make up for it.

Captain Daniel Finn (USAF, Ret.)

 

She slowly closed the notebook. Rested her palms on its pebbled surface.

What was she supposed to do with this?

There was a scanner/printer in the office. Would that be smart, having another hard copy? Was there someplace she could hide it? Someone she could mail it to?

How would that help? Could she really say, “Let Danny go and leave us alone, or all this comes out”? Did things like that actually work?

Gary killed people who found out things they weren't supposed to know.

She needed time to think about what to do.

Scan it and put it on a flash drive, she decided. Easier to carry that way, and she could make as many copies as she wanted.

The printer had a USB port that you could print from or scan to directly. She wasn't sure if clearing the data from the printer really got rid of it, but it had to be better than having it on the computer and hoping “secure empty trash” did the trick.

First things first: she disconnected the printer cable from the desktop.

After she'd finished, some two and a half hours and over two hundred pages later, she cleared the data, plugged the printer cable back in and printed out a slew of reports on expenses and earnings, hoping that would overwrite anything still in the printer memory, having no idea if it actually would.

By the time she
was ready to leave Evergreen, dinner was in full swing.

She stood by the end of the bar, sipping a half glass of wine from a bottle of Russian River pinot she'd been wanting to try. A nice crowd for a Sunday night. Everything looked good. The food, the warm lighting, the wood-burl tables, her photos on the wall. She wondered if this was the last time she'd ever see the place.

If nothing else, I proved I could do it, she thought.

“Hey, Emily. Nice to see you.” Matt, the young tattooed bartender, took a moment to wipe the counter in front of her. “Can I get you anything?”

“I'm good,” she said. “Thanks.”

He scrubbed at a sticky spot on the bar. “So, how's Jeff doing?” he said in a low voice.

Had he heard something? Did he know?