Submerged (4 page)

Janet leaned into the car. “I am going to
check the

registration.”

“I don’t see any sign of a struggle.”

“I appreciate your caution, but I doubt we
have a crime scene.” She pushed the worn chrome button that opened
the wide glove compartment. “Well, look at this. He’s orderly, I’ll
say that for him. There’s just a leather folder and nothing
else.”

Carl watched her remove the small folder and
open it.

“He’s got some of those plastic pocket things
in here. One for his proof of insurance, another for his
registration, one for a maintenance log—”

“I can see that. What does the registration
say?”

“Easy, Sherlock. I’m just trying to be
careful and thorough. I know how obsessed with details you are.”
She removed the registration. “Yup, Matthew Barrett, Henderson,
Nevada. I still say that’s a long way to drive for a couple of
fish.”

“Where is he?” Carl scanned the lake again.
“No Barrett, no boat, no nothing.”

“Maybe he’s on the far end of the lake, or he
motored over to the other side.”

“I doubt his boat has a motor. No gas can in
the back. I suppose it could be one of those little electric jobs,
but then I’d at least expect to see an extra battery. I’m guessing
a rowboat. Not that it matters. We’re here to find him, not his
boat.”

Carl stepped away from the truck and
continued down the path. He searched the ground for something that
didn’t belong. Movement in the water caught his eye. At first he
thought it was a long pole. Then he saw it for what it was: an oar.
He walked to the edge and studied it. It was like every other wood
oar he had seen, except a brown slime covered it. He reached for it
but stopped his hand inches away. Perhaps touching the oar wasn’t
such a good idea.

Directing his eyes along the waterline, Carl
spotted the other oar a few yards away. He lifted his head and took
note of the wind direction. It was blowing toward him. No doubt the
wind had moved the oars to the shoreline.

“This gives new meaning to having both oars
in the water,” Janet joked.

Carl didn’t laugh. He knew her well enough to
know that joking was her defense mechanism. She must have been as
unnerved as he was.

“What now?” she asked.

“No fisherman, no boat, too many fresh
tracks, and I haven’t seen a campsite, have you?”

“No, but he told his wife he’d be staying in
Tonopah.”

“Husbands tell wives all sorts of things that
don’t happen,” Carl said. “The wind is blowing across the lake.
That’s why the oars are here—assuming they were lost while Barrett
was on the water. If that’s true, we may find the boat farther down
the path.”

“Or worse.”

“Yeah, or worse.” The thought of a bloated
corpse floating on the surface didn’t appeal to Carl. “Let’s
go.”

“What’s that?” Janet tilted her head to one
side. “Do you hear it?”

Carl listened. He heard it—a low rumbling
that was growing louder. It was coming from behind them. He turned
and saw a cloud of dust over the rise. “What . . . Who . . .”

Seconds later a large vehicle flew over the
crest of the road and barreled toward them. It was an easy vehicle
to recognize. Humvees were unlike any other car. And this one was
the military version. It shot past the SUV, past the old Chevy
truck, and came to an abrupt halt ten feet from where Carl and
Janet stood. A brown cloud of dust was launched upward.

Carl reached for his gun. Janet already had
hers drawn. She held it in two hands, its muzzle angled toward the
ground. It would take less than a second for her to raise it to
firing position. Four men, all armed, exited the vehicle. They wore
military fatigues or BDUs—Battle Dress Uniforms. These were all
black . . . not the mottled green or brown usually associated with
soldiers. Carl had seen these before. The FBI and other federal
agencies wore similar uniforms when the occasion called for it.

Carl raised his gun. “Hold it right there.”
He was thankful there was no quiver in his voice. While his words
were rock steady, his guts were little more than Jell-O. He held a
Glock 9 mm. They held much more. Carl had been trained to recognize
weapons he might encounter. With the advent of gangs armed like
militia, it was important to recognize the other person’s weapon.
Two of the black-clad men carried M16-A2s, and the other two
sported MP5 machine guns. All of them were pointed his direction.
Carl didn’t like the odds.

“I was about to tell you the same thing,” one
of the men said. He had emerged from the passenger side front
seat.

As the dust cleared, Carl could see that the
man was the oldest of the four but not more than forty. The other
three looked in their mid- to late-twenties.

“Lower your weapons,” Carl demanded.

One of the younger men laughed. The older man
quieted him with a glance, then approached Carl as if he were
threatening him with a piece of fruit. He stopped inches from the
business end of Carl’s gun. “You are trespassing and must leave
now.”

“I am a deputy sheriff for Nye County, and I
am conducting an investigation.”

“There is nothing for you to investigate
here, Deputy . . .” The man’s eyes focused on the nameplate over
Carl’s right breast pocket. “Deputy Subick. Go back to where you
came from, write a few speeding tickets, and forget any of this
happened.”

“Not until I’m done. Tell your men to lower
their weapons.”

“I don’t think so, pal.” The man’s voice had
a rough edge to it.

“Who are you?”

“We are part of the United States military,
and you are trespassing on government property.”

“This isn’t government property, at least not
on any map I’ve ever seen. And since when do military personnel
threaten peace officers? What branch of military? Who is your
commanding officer?”

“That doesn’t matter now,” the older man
insisted. “All that matters is that you and your partner
double-time it back to your little SUV and beat feet out of here.
Do you understand what I am saying?”

“What is your name? What is your rank? I want
to see some ID.”

The man started to raise the MP5 he held in
his hand.

“Don’t do it, buddy,” Carl warned. “Your pals
may mow me down but not before I put a small hole in your chest and
a big one leaving your back.”

“I’ll say one thing for you: You got guts.”
He lowered the machine gun. “I’m Colonel . . . Lloyd. That’s all
you need to know.”

“I don’t see insignia or rank on your
uniform,” Carl said. “For all I know, you’re some self-styled
militia.”

“I will tell you that we’re a special unit of
the military. Now go before you make the mistake of your life.”

Carl’s mind was boiling, trying to find an
idea. He could call for backup, if the signal could make it out of
the valley to one of the repeater stations. Yet even if it did,
backup would be an hour or more away. He glanced at Janet, who
reached for her radio.

“Don’t do it, Deputy,” Lloyd said. “You’re
stretching my patience.”

“Turn around,” Carl demanded. “Drop your
weapon. On your knees.”

“Why? You going to arrest me?”

“I’m placing you under arrest.”

“You’re not serious. Look, little man—”

That did it. Carl took a step forward,
grabbed Colonel Lloyd by the shoulder, spun him around, and pressed
his gun to the back of the man’s head.

“Hold your fire,” Lloyd ordered.

And then Carl was on the ground. He wasn’t
sure how he got there. One instant he held a gun to a man’s head;
the next he was facedown in the dirt. It had been a blur, but he
saw enough to know his attacker had dropped to the ground and
kicked Carl’s feet out from beneath him. Before he could catch his
breath, his own gun was pressed into his temple.

“I have tried to be polite, Deputy, but
you’ve gone too far.”

“Let go!” It was Janet’s voice.

It hurt, but Carl managed to twist his head
enough to see Janet facedown on the ground, two men holding
her.

The ice cold of terror mixed with scorching
fury. He tried to struggle free, but his assailant was sitting on
him. As he struggled, he noticed the barrel of an M16 a few inches
from his head. “You had better pull the trigger, pal, because I
will not forget this.”

“You will if you ever want to work as a cop
again.”

Carl was jostled and his arms yanked back.
Then handcuffs were snapped in place—his own handcuffs.

“Disarm her,” the older man ordered. “Check
for secondary weapons.”

It was over in moments.

Five minutes later, Janet was driving the SUV
down the grade, backtracking the way they had come. Carl sat next
to her, his hands handcuffed in front of him and those cuffs bound
to the passenger grab bar. With no key to unlock the cuffs, Carl
was helpless. Their weapons had been taken and their radios
disabled.

Lloyd’s last words were succinct. “Don’t ever
touch me again, and don’t come back.”

Carl made a promise to himself: He
would
return. And when he did, he’d find
the truth of the matter and practice a little eye-for-an-eye
justice.

Chapter3

A thick man with
rounded shoulders
and a half halo of hair around an
otherwise bald head stepped through the door that stood between the
ER and its lobby. He wore a white smock. Perry saw him emerge and
watched him. The man looked around the room until his eyes met
Perry’s. He approached. “Family of Henry Sachs?”

“Yes, I’m Perry Sachs, his son, and this is
my mother, Anna.”

The white-smocked man then must have noticed
Jack. Perry introduced him as “my good friend.”

“I’m Dr. Hibbard. Please come with me.” The
doctor started down the corridor Perry had traveled ninety minutes
earlier.

Perry had hung at death’s door several times,
times when minutes passed like geological ages. But the last ninety
minutes had been the longest of his life. He placed his arm around
his mother’s shoulders and followed the doctor. Jack walked a
respectful step behind.

Three doors down a plaque read Conference.
Hibbard pushed that door open and stood to the side, allowing Perry
and the others to enter first. Then the doctor followed, closing
the door after him. The room was small and painted in a glossy
off-white. Overhead fluorescent bulbs flickered to life. A
simulated brown leather sofa anchored one wall. Several armless
matching chairs were present, as well as a cheap oak coffee table.
The hospital was new, but it already showed signs of wear. This
room, Perry decided, was used a lot.

“Please have a seat.”

Perry and Anna sat on the couch. Jack took
one of the chairs, and Dr. Hibbard took another. Hibbard, however,
turned his chair so the back faced Perry, then straddled it like a
cowboy mounting a horse. He leaned his arms on the back.

Perry waited as the doctor situated
himself.

Hibbard took a deep breath. “First, the good
news. Mr. Sachs is alive and stable. We will be moving him to MICU
in a few minutes.”

“MICU?” Anna asked.

“Sorry,” Hibbard replied. “Medical Intensive
Care Unit. The hospital has three intensive care units: one for
surgical patients, one for coronary patients, and one for medical
needs. We can monitor his vitals better in an MICU, and he’ll
receive more attention there than in a regular room.”

“What . . . what . . .” Anna began.

“What have you learned?” Perry asked. His
words were calm and even, belying the storm of emotion raging just
below the surface.

“That’s the bad news,” Hibbard admitted. “I’m
not going to sugarcoat this. I don’t have a clue. Neither does any
other doctor in the ER. I’ve called in specialists to help. We’ll
also be running more tests.”

“You’ve never seen anything like this
before?” Perry pressed.

“I’ve been an ER doctor for a lot of years,
and this is new to me. Were you with him when he fell ill?”

“My mother was. I wasn’t there.”

Hibbard turned to Anna. “I know this is hard
for you, but can you tell me what happened?”

She dabbed at her eyes. “We had just finished
lunch. The mail came, and he was sorting out the junk from the
bills and other mail. He was reading a letter when he complained of
feeling odd. Then his breathing became irregular. A few moments
later, he fell over on the floor.”

“What did he eat for lunch?” asked
Hibbard.

“Tuna fish sandwich. The tuna was fresh. I
ate some, too, and I’m not sick.”

“Did he eat anything else?”

“He had a glass of orange juice and a few
Fritos. He loves Fritos.”

“Had he showed any other symptoms before he
collapsed? Had he been ill recently?”

“No,” Anna said. “Outside of the occasional
head cold or flu, I’ve never seen Henry sick.”

“Has he ever traveled overseas?”

This time Perry answered. “Travel is part of
our business. My father has been to almost every continent and
scores of countries.”

“Recently?”

“No, I don’t think he’s left the States in
the last year. I do most of the overseas work now.”

“Has he been taking supplements, vitamins,
health food stuff?”

Anna shook her head.

“Is he on any medications—heart, blood
pressure, anything?”

“He hates medications. Sometimes he takes
ibuprofen if his muscles are sore, or if he tweaks his back working
in the yard.”

“Is he prone to headaches?”

Again Anna shook her head.

“Dr. Hibbard,” Perry said, “my father may be
sixty-three years old, but he is the healthiest man I have ever
met, and I’ve met a great many people.”

Hibbard nodded. “When was his last
checkup?”

Anna appeared thoughtful. “Two months ago.
He’s a stickler about getting a physical every six months.”