The Constantine Conspiracy (4 page)

One million dollars, one million dollars, one million dollars. His one chance to show he loved them, even though he’d screwed up so many times they might still have a hard time believing it. One million dollars.

Just this morning he had mailed Tina a letter that told her where to find the cash. “The cops will probably show up,” he warned Tina in the letter. “Ask a lot of questions. Just tell ’em the truth. You left me over a year ago. My drug use drove you away. You left me to protect Lisa. Say nothing about the money; use it to make a better life for you and Lisa. I do love you two—make sure Lisa knows that when she’s old enough to understand.”

Bobby opened his eyes and looked at the sky where the rain had stopped. Gray clouds scuttled away as if running from the carnage about to unfold below them.

“Why you want this done?” Bobby had asked the man who showed up at his door about a month ago and offered him the job.

“No need for you to know that,” said the man, a shaved-head stocky guy with eyes like steel-gray marbles. “You interested or not?”

“Why me?” Bobby asked.

The man waved his hand over Bobby’s ill-kept trailer. “Look around, Bobby boy. What’s to lose? No wife, daughter taken away. Drugs own you and that AIDS ain’t going nowhere. Your life expectancy makes a fruit-fly look ancient.”

“Where you from?” Bobby asked. “You talk like me, but different too.”

“Swamp country,” the man said. “But that don’t matter for you. I need an answer. You saying yes or no?”

“A million dollars?”

“Do whatever you want with it.”

“You bring it to me?”

“Two days before the job—the money and other essentials.”

“You’ll tell me how to make it all happen?”

“I’ll draw you a freaking picture if that’s what you need.”

Bobby weighed his options. He wasn’t a crazy man and this was a crazy notion, but no matter how he studied it, his future looked bleak. A two-time felony loser as a drug peddler; one more and he’d go to prison till his teeth fell out. He had no friends but other junkies, no job, and no prospects. A clinic doctor had predicted his death before Christmas unless he got in a rehab program somewhere. Better chance that he’d one day play wide receiver for the Dallas Cowboys than for that to happen.

“I’m in,” he said to the man.

The man did as he had promised, instructions, materials, and cash showed up exactly on time. Now here Bobby stood. Time to do the deed. He dropped his eyes and patted his jacket. Although he didn’t know much about explosives, the stocky man had assured him that the amount pocketed in the vest around his torso would do more than enough damage to make the point he wanted to make. Bobby pivoted and glanced at the entryway to the building before him.

A Muslim mosque.

Bobby checked his watch. 6:45 a.m.—almost time for morning prayers to end. The stocky man said that’s when he needed to sprint inside, get as close to the prayer room as possible, then light the place up. Take them all out if possible. Bobby’s heart rate notched up and sweat poured down his face. He’d pretty much failed as a human being and the towel heads in the mosque praying to a god he didn’t cotton to certainly didn’t mean anything to him. But other than accidentally running over a dog about four years ago, he’d never killed nothing, and he didn’t particularly like the notion of starting that kind of thing now. Maybe he’d alter the scheme a tad, get close enough to blow up a few things but without harming too many folks. After all, he already had payment for the job.

He thought of Lisa and Tina again. What would they think of him when the media spread his face all over the news? But maybe that wouldn’t happen. The stocky man had told him to leave his driver’s license in a trash can somewhere and he’d already done that. Since the truck wasn’t his, nobody could trace him that way either. If the explosives did their job, they might not find enough of him to identify, and Tina and Lisa would get the million without ever suffering for it.

The whiskey bottle showed up in his hands again, and Bobby drained it and shoved the bottle back in his pocket. One million dollars, one million dollars, one million dollars.

Only a couple more minutes until prayers ended. Needed to do the deed; just one more detail.

He slipped a phone from his jacket and dialed 911. When the operator answered, Bobby spoke quickly.

“Tell folks this,” he grunted. “The mosque—what I do now . . . I do . . .” Bobby took a big breath, his nerve faltering.

“What? Who is this?”

Bobby almost shouted to speak the words he’d been ordered to say, what he’d been paid a million dollars to say, what he knew the TV would play over and over again after they gained access to the 911 call.

“What I do now I do in the name of Jesus Christ and for his eternal glory!”

He shut off the phone and stepped into the building. One million dollars, one million dollars, one million dollars.

At least ten steps short of reaching the main prayer room, Bobby closed his eyes, thought of Tina and Lisa one last time, then touched the detonator on the explosives in his vest.

4

W
hen the walkie-talkie squawked, it took several seconds for the sound to register in Shannon’s drowsy brain. For a year she’d waited on this contact, the message that signaled the start of either the beginning or the end for her. But when the walkie-talkie actually bleeped, it took every ounce of her strength to punch the button to receive the call.

“Officer Bridge,” she said when her finger finally triggered the receiver.

“Acknowledge that,” the dispatcher said. “We got a 911 from 1001 Elk Ridge. You copy?”

Shannon’s breath almost stopped, but she managed to respond anyway. “Copy,” she said. “1001 Elk Ridge. That’s the Carson place, right?”

“Roger that. EMT on the way, police also, but ETA of authorities over 45 minutes. Can you respond?”

“Acknowledge that, Bridge to respond to 1001 Elk Ridge,” she said, already moving toward the cabin porch. “Condition status of 1001 Elk Ridge?”

“Negative on that—no details. A distress call, that’s all we got, injuries on site but type unknown.”

“Acknowledge that. Bridge is responding.”

“Backup on the way.”

Shannon shut off the walkie-talkie, yanked shut the cabin door, and ran to her jeep. A second later she flipped open the back to verify the presence of the first-aid satchel that all NPS officers kept on board their vehicles. A quick survey showed everything in place, so she shut the jeep’s hatch, hopped into the driver’s seat, and peeled out, leaving behind everything but the panic that filled her throat and the hope that filled her heart.

Less than fifteen minutes later, Solitude’s alarm system announced a vehicle approaching the entry gate. In the great room on the first floor, Rick Carson stepped from the fireplace, checked the video monitor, and saw a jeep headed his way. Unsure of the driver’s identity, he moved to the library, grabbed a German Luger handgun from the desk, and rushed to the front door. A few seconds later the video showed the jeep as it pulled to the locked gate.

“A guest is at the gate,” the monitoring system said.

“Identify,” Rick said.

The window of the jeep dropped and a young woman’s face showed in the video. “Shannon Bridge,” the woman said, holding up an ID. “Gates of the Mountain Wilderness Park Ranger.”

“Where are the police?”

“Maybe twenty minutes away. I’m first responder. What’s your status?”

Rick hesitated, found it difficult to voice what had happened. Bridge waited in her jeep, and Rick studied her closer, saw a brunette, late twenties, an angular face, nothing threatening. “Okay,” he said. “Gate open.”

The gate swung back, and Rick slid the weapon into his back waistband, opened the front door, and waited on Bridge. A slight chill ran over him and he closed his eyes; a feeling of unreality seeping into his bones. It wasn’t possible, he thought, his dad couldn’t be dead. But he was and he had to deal with it. A wave of loneliness suddenly washed over him. Other than his granddad, whom he’d already tried to call but without success, and his mom, whom he couldn’t call given her condition, he knew of no human he trusted enough to walk with him through this.

Rick heard the jeep scratch to a halt, and he opened his eyes as the ranger climbed out, an attractive woman wearing little or no makeup, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, her lean frame covered by an unflattering uniform. A sidearm hung from her right hip. She stepped to the back of the jeep and pulled out a black satchel marked with a red cross on the side.

“I’m Rick Carson,” he said, waving her inside.

“I know who you are,” she said. “I’ve read about you.”

He thought he heard judgment in her voice but decided it didn’t matter so let it go. “You won’t need that,” he said, indicating the first aid kit.

“Dispatcher reported injuries.”

Rick dropped his eyes. “My dad is upstairs,” he said. “Dead.”

“Dead?”

Rick nodded and led her toward the stairs. “I found him less than thirty minutes ago.”

“Any idea what killed him?”

“Looks like drugs.”

“Drugs?”

“Yes, but they weren’t self-injected, in spite of what you’ll see.”

“You’re saying he was murdered?”

“No other way to explain it. There’s a knife too, but that’s not what killed him.”

“A knife?” Her eyes widened.

“Yes, you’ll see.”

“Anybody else here?”

Rick paused on the top landing. “Our cook Luisa, she’s in her room. I thought it best she stay there for now.”

“You checked the rest of the house?”

Rick nodded. “While I waited for you.”

“No bodyguards?”

“My dad and I leave them behind when we come out here. We’re both familiar with guns, plus we have the alarm system. At least we thought we did.”

“It didn’t work?”

“Obviously not.” Rick exhaled, then led Bridge to his dad. She set the first-aid kit on the floor, then checked the body for a pulse.

“Nothing,” she said, laying down the wrist.

“There’s the needle,” Rick said, pointing to it on the desk. “You’ll find a spot in the crook of his left elbow where the drugs were injected.”

Bridge briefly examined the tiny pin prick, then turned her focus to the knife. “Unusual design on the handle,” she continued. “Ruby crosses. Obviously not bought off the shelf. Mean anything to you?”

“Nope.” Rick trudged to the open balcony doors. “Somebody entered here,” he said.

“Any idea why the security system didn’t go off?” Bridge asked, glancing his way.

“Malfunction, I guess.”

“Everything seemed fine when I came through.”

Rick moved back to her but didn’t look at his dad again. “It didn’t work earlier so something went wrong, what can I say?”

“I assume the system has a camera, films everybody coming or going from the property.”

“Normally, yes.”

“The cops will want the video.”

“I checked it while I waited on you. Nothing on it.”

Bridge shrugged and stood. “You move anything?” she asked.

“Just the needle, took if off the floor. Plus I wiped the knife blade with that pillowcase.” He indicated one lying on the foot of the bed.

Bridge studied the desk again, saw the printout by the computer monitor, and checked it without touching anything.

“It says, ‘i could not,’” Rick said.

“Could not what?”

“I have no clue.”

Bridge raised herself. “Find anything else?”

“One other item, crazy, but here, let me show you.” He stepped to the computer and hit the Enter key.

She leaned to see the screen, and Rick felt her breath on his forearm, smelled a light hint of perfume, or shampoo maybe.

“CONS,” she said. “What does that mean?”

“Again, I have no answer. Looks like the start of a word, a sentence maybe.”

“Why not print it out like the other words?”

Rick shook his head.

“And why capitalize it but not any of the other words?”

“No idea, maybe he accidently hit the caps button.”

She frowned. “Your dad typed three words, printed them out, then thought of something else and typed that, but then died before he could print it?”

“It makes no sense to me either.”

“The cops will need to fingerprint the keyboard, the printer.”

“They’ll find my print on the Enter key.”

“Did you also take the paper from the printer?” Bridge asked.

Rick ground his teeth. “Yes.”

“You know that was another mistake, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“One of several you’ve made.”

“I screwed up. But you don’t think well in these situations, least I didn’t.”

Bridge backed away and stuck her hands in her pockets. The pose made her look younger, like a teenager almost. “You do anything else you shouldn’t have?” she asked.

Her tone was gentle, but Rick stiffened at the question and studied Bridge more closely. Although slight of frame, her arms were well-toned, athletic, and she carried herself with assurance, like somebody who did a multitude of things well and knew it. Nice cheekbones, full lips. Nothing flashy but alluring in a clean, fresh kind of way. Her eyes met his and refused to waver as he searched her face. Something in the gaze seemed knowing, aware, like she saw things he didn’t. His suspicions rose. “Who are you?” he asked.