CHAPTER 23
* * *
Bo Thorson had been in love, deeply in love, only once in his life. She had been married. More than that, her husband had been the president of the United States. When he saved her life, he understood—they both understood—that they were bound in a deeper way than duty would allow. For both of them, duty dictated separate paths. Bo had found that the heart, once pierced, never fully heals. Sometimes when he was alone on surveillance, as he was now, he imagined a different life, a different duty, a different path. For himself and for her.
He was on a small island in Iron Lake, a hundred yards offshore. The sky was a black plate sugared with stars, the moon still below the treetops. He had a powerful set of ATN night-vision binoculars to his eyes, watching the lodge where Gerard had set up the headquarters for his operation. Much earlier, he’d placed a listening device the size of a postage stamp on the window glass. Gerard wasn’t a bad strategist when he believed he was on the offensive, and in Tamarack County, he’d pretty much been bullying his way around. Which meant he probably wasn’t watching his back as he should.
The big room with its maps and charts was unoccupied. Gerard had a man posted for security, a young guy who circled the lodge every few minutes on a regular schedule. Rookie mistake, one that had allowed Bo the brief interval he’d needed for placing the bug on the window.
He hadn’t figured the truth of Gerard’s involvement yet. Nor had he figured exactly who the other players might be. One thing was certain: Gerard believed the crash of Senator McCarthy’s plane wasn’t the result of pilot error. Who caused it and how were probably what Gerard’s presence was all about. He’d brought Bo in, he’d said, to help identify the other interests in this affair. But Bo knew that he’d been told only half-truths, Gerard’s modus operandi. Bo, for his part, had responded in kind.
In the period of waiting for something to develop at the lodge, Bo considered the past, the path of his life. He had no real family. He had cultivated many allies but few true friends. He lived alone in a condo high in a building in downtown St. Paul with a view of the Mississippi River, but he was seldom in residence there. More often, he was on a job that took him far from Minnesota.
He considered Cork O’Connor, a man who had built a life in one place and invested his heart in the people there. It was enticing, that comfortable, intimate existence, isolated from the world. Bo tried to imagine what it might have been like for him, had he made other choices. But that wasn’t who he was, or who he was ever likely to be. The kind of life Cork led, if it was threatened, became a dangerous entanglement. Once your heart was involved in life-and-death choices, you were vulnerable. Your heart got in the way of your head, clouded your judgment. It was a lesson Bo had learned the hard way. He liked Cork, liked that part of the family he’d met, but he kept the door shut on his heart. In the end, he needed to be prepared to sacrifice Cork. To sacrifice them all, if necessary.
His cell phone vibrated. He checked caller ID. It was O’Connor.
“We need to talk, figure a few things out. Can you meet me?”
“Where?”
“At my house on Gooseberry Lane.”
Cork gave directions, although Bo knew the address. When the call ended, he placed the receiver-recorder, which was tuned to the bug on the window, at the base of a pine tree and covered it with needles. He returned to the inflatable kayak he’d come in and paddled a quarter mile to an empty point where he’d parked. He deflated the kayak and stored it in the back of the Jeep. In another ten minutes, he was turning onto Gooseberry Lane.
Before knocking on the door, he stood in the front yard a few minutes, assessing the scene. It was a nice two-story house, with a lovely porch where a swing hung, the kind of house that Bo, when he was a kid living in ratty one-bedroom apartments with his drunken mother, had dreamed of having. But there was no resentment in him. No envy either. A man’s life was what it was.
Cork greeted him when he knocked. They went to the kitchen, where Stephen was sitting at the table, along with Daniel English. In the middle of the table sat a cookie jar shaped like Ernie from Sesame Street. Stephen munched on a chocolate chip cookie. English sipped from a cup of coffee. To Bo, it felt more like a family council than a war council.
“Have a seat,” Cork said. “Can I get you something?”
“Nothing, thanks.
“Where is everybody?” Bo asked, because it was evident that the house was empty.
“We thought it best to move them someplace safe, so they can’t be used as leverage against Daniel,” Cork explained.
“A good idea,” Bo agreed. “Where are they?”
“Safe,” Cork said.
Bo held back a smile. Cork was more careful than he’d imagined.
“I just came from a meeting with Gerard,” Cork told him. “The man who questioned Stephen this morning.”
Bo let nothing show on his face. “How did that come about?”
Cork explained the encounter, then held out a small transmitter. “I found it under the dash of the Jeep after they let me go. Gerard’s people must have put it there when they questioned Stephen this morning.”
“This Gerard,” Bo said. “Think he’s in charge of whatever’s going on?”
“Here, anyway. Who knows who’s pulling the strings and from where?”
“What strings, do you think?”
Cork eyed him frankly. “I thought you might have a better idea than we do. These people who hired you, they didn’t give you any information to go on?”
“Just their concerns.”
“Family?”
“I can’t say, you know that.”
“People on the rez, friends of mine, are missing. At this point, they may even be dead. Bo, this has gone way beyond professional courtesies.”
“All right.” Bo reached into Ernie’s head and pulled out a chocolate chip cookie, clearly homemade. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a homemade cookie of any kind. He took a bite and chewed while he considered what to tell them. “NTSB will continue to put out the story of pilot error. It’s the safest explanation for the general public. But as this Gerard hinted to Stephen, there may be other forces involved.”
“Terrorists,” Stephen offered. “That’s pretty much what Gerard said.”
“Why would terrorists want to take down Senator McCarthy’s plane?” English asked.
“Don’t let Gerard or anyone like him fool you,” Bo said. “This terrorist thing may be just one of the cover stories.”
“You have a better idea?” Cork said.
Bo did have an idea, though not as solid as Cork might be hoping. “Senator McCarthy sits on the Foreign Relations Committee. She’s the staunchest opponent of the proposed Manila Accord, which comes up for debate in the Senate in a couple of weeks. If it’s passed, it not only makes trade with Southeast Asia easier but also provides for the sale of significant military hardware, much of it to regimes with horrible human rights records. One of the senator’s main concerns was the arms part of the accord. She was adamant that we shouldn’t try to buy friends with bullets or ignore atrocities because it’s convenient for our economic and political interests. One of the inside pieces of information I was given by those who hired me is this: Senator McCarthy had been briefed on threats to her life. It’s possible some of those threats came from one of the nations that would benefit from the accord.”
“I haven’t heard anything about that on the news coverage,” Cork said.
“They’re probably trying to keep a lid on that.”
“Who’s they?”
“NSA is the first agency that comes to mind, although I can’t say for sure.”
“Gerard is NSA?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” The first real lie Bo had told them. “But it would make sense that the government wouldn’t want the possibility floated out there that a country we’re going to call an ally has assassinated a U.S. senator. That would put an end to any hope of Senate appro
val.”
“You’re really saying it might have been agents from the Philippines or Thailand or Indonesia?” Cork said.
“You asked what I thought was really going on. That’s my best shot at the moment. If you have a better idea, let’s hear it.”
The others were sitting back in their chairs. It was as if news of this magnitude had knocked the wind out of them. Geopolitical conflicts intruding on their quiet lives in such a huge and unexpected way. Foreign agents? their faces said. Really?
“However,” Bo went on, offering a nugget of truth, “there are so many interests affected by the Manila Accord that God only knows who might actually be at work here. It doesn’t matter who that is, it’s in the government’s best interest to continue the drumbeat of their story of pilot error. They understand that if you repeat a lie often enough, eventually the public is going to accept it as truth.”
“What about the media?” English tossed in. “Newspapers, television. If they got wind of foreign involvement, they’d scream to high heaven.”
“Maybe.”
“I’d be happy to repeat publicly what Gerard said to me,” Stephen said.
“And what, exactly, did Gerard tell you? Did he actually say anything about terrorists?”
“Alex Quaker paid a visit to our sheriff today,” Cork said. “The number two man in the FBI’s National Security Branch. They oversee the Bureau’s Counterterrorism Division.”
Bo offered a shrug. “Easily explained. In this day and age, with an accident that kills someone of Senator McCarthy’s stature, it’s important to eliminate terrorism as a possibility. And they will, mark my words. As long as this is in the news, pilot error will be the constant refrain.”
“How do you sort any of this out?” Stephen sounded overwhelmed.
“Exactly.” Bo looked to Cork. “Any more word on the reservation about the folks who’ve disappeared?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s a place to keep poking.”
“We will. What about you?”
“I have a resource I haven’t tapped yet but I think it’s time.”
They waited for him to explain further.
“Sorry,” he told them. “Confidential.” It was getting late. It had been a long day. Bo could feel the weariness in them all. “Let’s call it for tonight and get some rest. It’s hard to think clearly when you’re tired.”
“We’re going to do a sweat tomorrow,” Stephen said.
“A sweat? You mean like in a sweat lodge?”
“You might find it interesting.”
“Is that an invitation to join you?”
“If you’d like.”
“Think I’ll pass.”
Stephen said, “It clears your mind and your spirit. It might help with your thinking.”
“My thinking is fine, thanks. But let me know if it helps with yours.” Bo stood. “Thanks for the cookie.”
“Where are you staying?” English asked.
“The cabin of a friend.”
“We know this friend?”
“Confidential. If that sweat clears your thinking, Stephen, and we need to talk, let me know. And remember, Cork, just because you found the transmitter and removed it, that doesn’t mean you’re not still being tracked somehow, so be careful. Good night, gentlemen.”
He left them at the kitchen table and returned to the night. He drove around the block, parked, and walked back to Gooseberry Lane. If he’d known about the transmitter, about Gerard’s interest in the O’Connors, he wouldn’t have agreed to meet with them. He studied the street. There were only a couple of vehicles parked along the curb. The one that interested him, a black pickup, was half a block from the O’Connors’ house, out of the glow of any streetlamp.
Gerard’s people? Whoever they were, if they didn’t know before that he was working with O’Connor, they knew it now.
CHAPTER 24
* * *
He watches the boy on the steep rise above him. He is that boy and he is not.
The vision played out as it always had: the eagle appearing; the boy shooting it from the sky; the egg and the eagle falling; something huge looming at Stephen’s back, so monstrous that he can’t look. He and the boy screaming bloody murder.
He woke in the quiet of night, rose from his bed, and walked to the window. Bright moonlight illuminated the landscape, silvering the front yard, making the empty street the color of winter ice.
It wasn’t over. He understood this was what the vision was trying to tell him. It wasn’t over. Maybe there was still a chance to . . . to what? He lay his forehead against the cool glass of the windowpane. There must be a way to know, he thought. Maybe the sweat.
He was too restless to go back to bed and stepped into the hallway. The house stood silent all around him, his father and Daniel asleep. He waited for Trixie to come trotting from somewhere. She may have been old, but Trixie still heard everything. When she didn’t show, Stephen moved to the top of the stairs. Moon glow through the front door window lit the bottom landing in a ghostly way. He expected to see the dog there, waiting for him to come down, but the landing was empty. He descended, telling himself she was just deep in the slumber of an aged hound. Which was his head talking to him. His gut told him something different, reminding him of the fate of Cyrus and Noggin.
He stood on the carpet of the living room and called, “Trixie,” in a hushed voice. “Come here, girl.”
He crossed to the kitchen. During the day, Trixie’s usual resting place was the corner in the kitchen nearest her food dish. The dog wasn’t there. He turned back and stepped on shattered glass. It didn’t cut him, but it made him stop dead in his tracks. He saw that one of the panes in the mullioned window had been broken. He walked carefully to the door and tried the knob. It was no longer locked, and he understood that someone who didn’t belong there was inside the house.
He listened carefully but heard only his own soft, fast breathing. Gingerly, he stepped around the broken glass and into the dining room. A long, translucent drape was drawn over the patio doors, and against the sheer fabric, the moon cast two shadows, human in shape but exaggerated into things monstrously huge. For a moment, Stephen was unable to move. It wasn’t just uncertainty that paralyzed him. It was also fear. The kind of fear that, in his nightmare, kept him from turning to look at the monster at his back. The shadows moved across the drape and disappeared. Stephen forced himself to the patio doors. Hesitated another long moment, and finally pulled the drape aside. The silver eye of the moon stared down at him. The patio was empty.
He crept through the first floor of the house, checking it room by room. He quietly mounted the stairs to his father’s bedroom. His father’s bed was empty. The squeal of the screen door hinge and the click of the front door handle as it was turned brought him to the top of the stairs, where he caught a glimpse below of someone stealing into the living room. He darted to his bedroom closet, grabbed the Louisville Slugger his father had given him on his twelfth birthday, gripped it with determination, and descended to the first floor. Whoever it was in the house now had moved into the dark of the kitchen. Stephen heard a drawer opened, wood scraping softly along wood. He clutched the bat as he had when he’d played Little League and had bent over the plate, waiting for a pitch. He eased into the kitchen doorway.
“You heard him, too,” his father said.
Trixie came trotting, tail wagging, and Stephen lowered the bat. “Where were you?”
“Outside.” It was Daniel who answered. Stephen saw him then, near the window above the sink, peering out into the dark.
“Both of you?” Stephen wondered why he hadn’t been included.
“Trixie was sleeping in my room,” his father said, rummaging in the drawer. “She woke me up with a woof. Daniel was already awake.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Daniel explained. “Worried about Jenny and Waaboo.”
His father closed the drawer, flashlight in his hand. “We both came down to check on things. S
omeone tried to break in through the back door. We spooked him. He’s gone now.”
“You saw him?”
His father shook his head. “Got a glimpse of him, but he ran. We followed him to the street, saw a truck down the block pull away. Probably him.”
“Who do you think it was?”
“No idea.”
Stephen looked at Daniel. “Someone coming for you?”
“Maybe.”
“I think that’s all the excitement we’ll see,” Cork said. “I’m going to sweep up that broken glass and hang out down here tonight with Trixie. You two try to get some sleep.”
But Stephen lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, searching for answers that, like sleep that night, continued to elude him. Along with everything else that troubled him, he wondered why his father and Daniel had gone after the mysterious visitor without him. Did they think he couldn’t handle a violent confrontation, if it came to that? In the long hours of dark, he was tortured with doubt, asking himself, What kind of man do they think I am? He searched his heart and wondered, What kind of man am I?
* * *
In his cabin, Bo listened to the conversations the transmitter had picked up in the little war room Gerard had established at the abandoned lodge. There was nothing of substance, mostly Gerard talking with subordinates about the search on Desolation Mountain. They referred to the object of their search in code: bear tracks. As in “We didn’t find the bear tracks, sir.” And, “Maybe there aren’t any bear tracks on the mountain. Maybe the bear tracks are somewhere else.” They decided to abandon the search on the mountain and concentrate on something they called the “beach.” As in, “Let’s hit the beach and see if we can find any evidence of waves.”
Bo had himself been a part of covert operations before and knew that this kind of veiled reference was meat and potatoes in any black-ops conversation. Part of the game.
It was late when he finally laid himself out in his bunk. He wasn’t sure where the long day had gotten him. Things had only become more complicated. The shot dogs, the missing people on the reservation. Cork O’Connor and his family. They rattled around in his thinking like gravel in a tin can. He needed sleep, but no sooner had his head hit the pillow than his cell phone rang. Not his personal cell phone. One of his burner phones. It was her.