Hope to Die (7 page)

AT 4:12 THAT AFTERNOON
—actually, 3:12 local time—Mitch Cochran downshifted the Kenworth T680 tractor-trailer pulling an empty container chassis into the CSX rail yard in east St. Louis.

Sitting between Marcus Sunday and Cochran in the truck cab, Acadia Le Duc said, “Jesus, we’re cutting this close. I told you and Dr. Fersing told you we didn’t want to get anywhere near the outside limit, and we’re pushing right on it.”

“Have faith, darling,” Sunday said calmly.

They were supposed to have landed in St. Louis an hour ago, but thunderstorms had delayed them, and it had taken a while to get through the paperwork at the truck-rental service.

“All I’m saying is if we have a catastrophe on our hands, I won’t take responsibility,” Acadia said.

“If it is a catastrophe, we’ll call it an act of God and be on our way,” Sunday said indifferently.

After expertly driving the tractor-trailer rig onto the scales, Cochran jumped out and went inside a steel office building with the necessary lading documents.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.

“We’re not going to pull this off,” Acadia said, frustrated. “We are—”

Cochran came running out of the building, climbed up into the cab, said, “They were backlogged.”

“Jesus,” Acadia said, wiping at sweat on her brow.

“Calm down,” Sunday said as the truck began to roll forward. “We’ve got a half hour.”

“You don’t get it,” she snapped. “It may be over already.”

“If it is, it is,” Sunday said. “And we’ll have a cleanup job to do.”

Cochran drove into a long wide gravel parking lot that abutted the rail lines. He maneuvered the rig to a gantry crane next to the tracks, stopped, and set the brakes. Cables whirled, swinging giant electromagnets above the rust-red container fitted with the solar panels.

The four magnets lowered. A worker positioned them. There was a loud clanking noise as they locked to the sides of the car, and then the cables began to retract. The forty-five-foot container lifted off the railcar as if it were no heavier than a box of Kleenex. The crane operator expertly swung the container and set it on the chassis behind them.

“We have twenty-two minutes,” Acadia said.

The magnets released, and Cochran started the engine, put it in gear, and said, “Where to?”

“Get back on the interstate, go east to that truck stop we saw coming in.”

“That’ll take too long!” Acadia said.

Sunday said nothing. Cochran maneuvered through the city streets by GPS and had them back on the I-70 heading east in nine minutes. When they had twelve minutes left, he got off at State Highway 203 and turned north into the Gateway Truck Plaza. Cochran pulled over out back by a field of weeds.

“Move!” Acadia said, holding a large duffel bag she’d retrieved from the sleeping compartment behind them.

Sunday jumped down, stepped around the diesel tank, and got up on the fifth-wheel frame between the cab and the container. He put a key in the lock of the custom hatch on the front end of the freight car. It wouldn’t turn.

Had that kid in the rail yard back in Philly bent the hasp? He tried again, then jiggled the lock and twisted a third time. He thought the key was going to break off in the lock. Then something gave, and the hasp released.

He pulled it out, raised the bar holding the hatch shut. It swung open.

“Ten minutes,” Acadia said, handing him the duffel.

“I’m putting my money on you,” Sunday said and ducked into the pitch-black space.

Acadia glanced up at the leaden sky before following him and shutting the door behind her.

WHEN THE HATCH OPENED
twenty minutes later, they were both drenched with sweat. Acadia came out first, carrying the duffel, which was considerably lighter. Sunday had a large black plastic trash bag in his hands.

“Told you we were good,” he said.

Acadia got down off the frame, wiped at the sweat on her face, said, “It was touch and go there, I’m telling you.”

“What you’re trained for,” he said, setting the bag down and turning to close and lock the hatch.

“I left the field because I hated stuff like that. Still do.”

“Sometimes we have to just push through the nasty tasks in life.”

“That qualified,” she said, and went back to the truck cab.

Sunday dug out a small plastic box filled with silicone earplugs. He mashed a chunk of one into the key slot so he’d know if it had been tampered with and then got down. Cochran had the engine going by the time he shut the door.

Sunday looked at the driver.

“Any visitors?”

“Couple of pickups went by,” Cochran said, putting the truck in gear and pulling out. “Nothing to worry about.”

Acadia said, “It’s five twenty-two. Well, four twenty-two here. We’ve got until Monday morning, same time.”

“Gotta be at the dock by six.” Cochran grunted.

Sunday looked at Google Maps, said, “Piece of cake.”

After they’d gotten onto I-70, heading west this time, toward the Mississippi River, Acadia said, “Why are we doing all this, Marcus? I mean really. Deep down, is this just payback for Cross savaging your book?”

Sunday looked at her sidelong for several seconds before flipping his hand dismissively. “If it was just that, I wouldn’t have bothered. I
am
proving to Dr. Alex that I was correct and he was wrong. But mostly, Acadia? I’m doing it because I can, and because this little project and the logistics involved intrigues and amuses me a great deal. Does it continue to amuse you?”

He’d delivered the question in a hard voice.

Acadia hesitated.

But Cochran chortled in the driver’s seat, said, “I can tell you it’s kicking my ass, Marcus. Most fun I’ve had since Iraq by a long shot.”

“Acadia?” Sunday asked, watching her closely.

Acadia seemed to struggle before she shrugged in resignation. “Ma always called me a shooting star, born to burn bright and brief.”

Sunday smiled, reached over, and stroked her cheek. “The hell with a shooting star, am I right? Why not ride a comet?”

ACADIA WAS GROWING INCREASINGLY
uneasy about everything Sunday had gotten her into, but she said, “A comet sounds good too.”

Rush-hour traffic slowed them, but within sixty minutes, they were pulling onto the scales at the new AEP River terminal north of the city on the Missouri side.

The woman working the scales said, “She’s just fifteen hundred pounds?”

“She’s riding empty while we test our experimental solar refrigeration and heating system,” Cochran said. “How fast will it go downriver?”

“You’d be surprised. With the current up like it is, it’s two and a half days to Memphis, maybe less. Five days to New Orleans, maybe less. Double that coming upriver.”

“We’d like to be able to inspect the container at Memphis and then again at New Orleans.”

“Long as you’re there with the right papers, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Can you make us copies?” Cochran said. “I’m always losing stuff.”

“I can give you two.”

“Thanks. What do we owe you, then?” Cochran asked.

“Loading fee’s one fifty. You’ll pay the full freight at New Orleans.”

Cochran handed her cash. She gave him the receipt and lading documents, said, “Pull on ahead. You’ll see the dock on your right.”

“Gantry?” he asked.

“New gantries aren’t up yet. They’ll be using the boom crane.”

They drove to one of the freight docks on the bank of the river and pulled close to the
Pandora
, a container barge with a three-story white-and-blue wheelhouse at the rear. Cochran showed the crane operator and the barge captain the necessary documents. Cochran, Sunday, and Acadia watched as wide straps were run beneath the container and then hooked to the cable. The crane whirred. The container car rose, swung several times, and then was settled on the deck forward of the other fifty containers already stacked aboard.

“There was a lot of movement,” Acadia said worriedly.

“Everything inside is strapped down or bracketed in place,” Sunday reminded her before calling over to the captain, “We’ll see you in Memphis to make an inspection.”

Scotty Creel, a hearty man in his early fifties, nodded, said, “Just have that paperwork with you, and you’ll have no problems getting through the gates. We’ll be tied up there three, four hours Monday morning.”

Back in the Kenworth, Cochran drove them south toward St. Louis, said, “We got plenty of time before the flight. Let’s get something to eat. Ribs? Gotta be good here.”

Sunday turned up his nose.

Acadia said, “Marcus doesn’t do pork.”

“Oh, that’s right, sorry,” Cochran said. “Steak?”

“That’ll do,” Sunday said.

“And Cross?” Acadia asked.

Sunday glanced again at his watch.

He said, “Mr. Harrow needs time to finish his business. I’ll wait until just before our flight leaves to have my first chat with Dr. Alex.”

I WOKE UP AROUND
eight thirty that Friday evening, lying on the couch in my darkened office, my rain jacket over my shoulders, and my muddy shoes on the floor beside me. The headache that had tortured me the past six days had calmed somewhat.

Good nap.
Maybe that’s all I needed
, I thought, before I fully awoke into the living nightmare again.

If that was Bree’s body, what was I going to do with it?

She’d wanted to be cremated and have her remains spread in the Shenandoah, somewhere near the river, where she’d spent the summers of her childhood. I owed her that, I—

Captain Quintus flipped on the light, and I blinked and shielded my eyes.

“Alex, why don’t you come on upstairs.”

“What’s going on?”

“Just wanted to talk some things through with you.”

“I got time for a shower? I haven’t had one in—”

“Go ahead,” my boss said, then he slapped the doorjamb and walked away.

I felt better after the shower and a change of shirt from my locker, more alert than I had been in days. When I reached the third floor, the demolition team was long gone, and the floor had been swept clean. I went through the plastic sheeting and saw five people standing near that island of desks under the fluorescent lights.

Sampson looked like he had something left over from the pig farm on his shoe. I was about to tell him I had the same problem when I noticed Mahoney stirring a dark cup of coffee. Captain Quintus was drinking water, and Aaron Wallace, the DC police chief, appeared saddened.

Detective Tess Aaliyah was the only one who gave me a steady gaze.

She swallowed, said, “I wanted to tell you myself.”

Questions exploded through my brain. Had they found Mulch? Had another member of my family turned up? Was I going to have to be tortured again, go to a dump scene to identify someone I loved? In the end, it was something even more unimaginable and cruel.

“The autopsy,” Aaliyah said. “I was there, and …”

Her eyes were watering and she shook her head.

“What?” I demanded.

“We still don’t have DNA, but the blood types match,” she said. “And there’s …”

Sampson cleared his throat, said, “She was pregnant, Alex. Six weeks.”

Hearing about the blood type had made the grief real. Hearing about the baby was too much.

My head spun and I felt sicker than at the pig farm. I sat down hard in one of the chairs, put my face in my hands, the headache pounding with every bit of its earlier fury.

“I’m sorry,” Aaliyah said. “Had you been trying?”

I shook my head bitterly, said, “This is a miracle and a tragedy at the same time. Can you believe that?”

“Shug?” Sampson said.

A great part of me wanted to rail at the sky and the moon, curse God and demand to know why I’d been singled out for this kind of punishment.

Instead, I gazed around at all of them and said, “Bree had uterine fibroids about five years ago. They removed them, but the procedure left scars. The doctors told us she’d likely never have children. A one-in-a-thousand chance, they …”

I don’t think I’ve ever felt more bewildered in my life than I was at that moment. I didn’t even hear Chief Wallace come over beside me, but I felt his heavy hand on my shoulder before he said, “Hell of a thing you’re going through, Alex. Hell of a thing. Too much for one man to handle.”

I nodded, cleared my throat, and in a voice tight with emotion said, “Chief, it’s beyond anything I’ve ever had to deal with before.”

He patted my shoulder again. “I can’t imagine the stress.”

“I’m still standing.”

The chief took a chair, set it opposite me, and sat down on it, his forearms resting on his thighs, and his face twisted in anguish. “I know you’re still standing. I know you’re a fighter, and I know this is personal. That’s what makes what I’m going to say now so hard.”

I’d been nodding, but now I knitted my brow. “Chief?”

“Alex, for your own good, and because I respect you so much, I’m placing you on medical leave.”

That made no sense. “What?”

“For the time being, I want you to take a break from this investigation, let us work on your behalf for once. I’m sorry, Alex, but I need your gun and badge.”

For a moment, even those words didn’t penetrate, but then they did and it felt like I was being tossed overboard.