The Nature of the Beast (14 page)

She raised her right foot as far as she was able and then used a hand to pull it further upward, moaning at the pain, pulling harder until she was able to force her foot onto the trunk. She rested for a moment and then used the power of her leg muscles to force her body upward.

She stood sideways on the smooth wood, catching her breath before hoisting herself up onto the ledge, where she stood, feet together, back plastered against wall of the canyon, shaking like a palsy patient. She took stock. To her right, the path went up, toward the top of the butte. To her left, the path turned steeply downward, sometimes wide enough for two people, in other places no more than a foot wide. Every fiber of her consciousness called for her to go down rather than up. Anything but up.

So she started down, inching along the ledge until the incline became too steep for her feet, then scooting along on her bottom, all the while chanting to herself: ‘Don’t look down. Don’t look down’, over and over as she worked her way along, moving from bush to bush, using their firm purchase as a lifeline.

Despite her best efforts to remain positive, her mind overflowed with doubt. She had no idea whether or not this path went all the way to the bottom. What if it just ended? What was she going to do then? She’d already negotiated several sections she couldn’t hope to get back up. She kept moving, stopping at the wider sections to rest and reconnoiter. Assuming she did make it all the way to the canyon floor, what then?

Late in the afternoon, long after her throat had closed and her feet had gone numb, as the hazy yellow sun hung above the western mountains like a dance club disco ball, she squeezed around a jagged chunk of fallen rock, rounded a blind turn and came face to face with the biggest deer she had ever seen.

They stood for a moment, no more than six feet apart, taking one another’s measure, close enough for her to make out the bumps on his antlers and to smell his musky scent. Her sudden intake of breath startled the animal. He shook his antlers, stomped his foot and looked around. Assessing his survival options, the buck reversed field and hopped away. He cast a single disdainful glance back over his withers before shaking his tail and bounding from view.

That’s when it dawned on her. The deer had managed to climb this far. If he could get up, she could get down. She forced herself forward.

25

The couple strolled across the airport parking lot hand in hand. The woman turned and gamboled backwards, playful, teasing, pulling her companion along in the classic manner of lovers. The tug of romance drew him inexorably to her side, where he swung her in a wide weightless arc before setting her gently back onto the pavement.

They skipped between the rows of parked cars until the woman’s feet suddenly tip-toed to a halt. She bent at the waist and peered helplessly downward. Her body language made it clear; she’d dropped something. The young man put an assuring hand on her shoulder and then chivalrously squatted to retrieve whatever treasure his love had lost. After a moment of searching, he arose and handed the prize to the woman. He was favored by a kiss on the cheek before they ambled on.

Special Agents Jackson Craig and Audrey Williams lowered their binoculars in unison. Audrey’s ear radio began to squawk. She used her index finger to push it deeper into her ear canal and moved quickly to the far side of the space.

“Transponder’s in place,” a voice said. “The officer reports two large plastic containers in the rear of the vehicle.”

Jackson Craig slid to his right; he bent at the waist and stared intently at the portable bank of video screens. He pointed to the bottom row, at a low angle rear view of the Browning family SUV. “Get me closer,” he said.

Keyboard strokes clicked like castanets. The image size doubled. The focus automatically adjusted. The area behind the rear seats was filled with a pair of dark symmetrical shapes. “Again,” Craig said. And then again.

“That’s it,” another voice said. “Any more magnification loses out to the window tinting.”

“Then we’ll need another walk-by,” Jackson Craig said. “Going the other way this time. Driver’s side. Close up. Somebody taking the shortcut between the cars.”

Five minutes and twelve seconds later, a portly figure in a bright red ski parka moved along the side of the vehicle. They watched in silence as the figure made his way to the far reaches of the parking lot, where an idling sedan waited.

The technician seated at the far right of the video bank removed his head phones and handed them to Jackson Craig, who settled the cups over his ears before adjusting the microphone bar to the proper position.

“What have we got?” he asked.

A shriek of static followed by a disembodied voice. “Two big green plastic storage containers,” the voice said. “Igloo brand.” Before Craig could pose another question, the voice continued. “Maybe twenty-five gallons apiece. Three electrical wires running into each container. Red, white and yellow.”

“Running from where?”

“Somewhere in the front of the car.”

“Safety seat for the boy?”

“No sir. No safety seat. Keys are in the ignition. Parking ticket on the dashboard says the car came in this morning at three forty-three am.”

“Getting closer,” Craig muttered to nobody in particular.

“Excuse me sir,” the voice crackled in his ear.

Craig cleared his throat, then thanked the officer for his efforts. He returned the head-phone apparatus to the techie and then turned to the airport security chief.

“We’re going to need to evacuate the airport.”

The security chief was named Douglas Barden. He was tall, dark and bald as an egg. His scalp was the first thing to redden when he was annoyed or embarrassed. Craig had first noticed the phenomenon when Barden informed him that security cameras at that end of the parking lot had been on the fritz for a couple of days. Supposedly, they were waiting for parts. So much for homeland security.

Faced with the prospect of a complete shutdown, Barden’s administrative instinct was to wheedle, to offer alternatives, to suggest something, anything short of a full-scale evacuation. Instead, he looked out into the parking lot and the dozen or so people hurrying here and there through the arctic air and had a sudden spasm of lucidity. He gave Craig a nod of grudging agreement and began to hurry off.

Craig stopped him. “Having managed that, we’re going to require the services of an ATF bomb squad,” Craig said. He pulled his phone from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “I’ll get the local PD to button up street level and then see to the bomb experts. You get air traffic stopped, the building emptied and then get me a list of every vehicle entering or leaving this parking lot between three and five this morning.”

__

He reached over and retrieved the plastic bag from the passenger seat.
He held it up so he could keep his eyes on the road while perusing the contents.
He swung it back and forth, allowing the light to play on the stained plastic.
Back and forth.
He had a thought and snapped out of it.
Looked like fish sticks with lots of ketchup.
Roly poly fish sticks.
He
’
d eaten them as a child.
Every Thursday.
Mrs. Paul
’
s.
He could see the blue and white box in his mind
’
s eye, taste the crunchy breading and the clean white fish.

‘
Fish sticks, fish sticks roly poly fish sticks.
’
He chanted the line several dozen times before returning the bag to its resting place.
He checked the rear view mirror, squinted and then leaned as far forward as the seat belt would permit.
Red lights to the rear, closing fast in the left lane.

He pulled the Smith and Wesson forty caliber from the pocket of his jeans.
Something at the bottom of the pocket fluttered to the floor of the car.
He slid the gun into the storage area in the car door.
He turned the gun
’
s handle toward the front of the car, making it easier to access with his right hand should he be asked to step out of the car with his hands in sight.
He flicked the safety to
‘
off
’
and again raised his eyes to the mirror.
Little red and blue explosions, coming fast.
Red and blue, red and blue.

A minute later he could make out the black sedan beneath the light bar.
Another thirty seconds and his ears began to hear the scream of the engine as the cruiser approached from the rear like a Cruise missile.

He rolled down his window and hugged the right shoulder.
‘
Fish sticks, fish sticks, roly poly fish sticks.
’
His hand crept toward the forty.
He pulled it back and threw a death grip on the steering wheel. A siren whooped. Once. Twice.

The inside of his head rang like a bell.
‘
Watch out!
Watch out!
Pull over! Pull over!
’
Clank. Clank. Clank.

The unmarked cruiser roared by in the left lane at a million miles an hour, bound for some other emergency, somewhere down the road.
He watched the cruiser pull away until it was nothing more than flashing bits of red and blue out at the other end of the horizon. Over the rainbow maybe.

He took several deep breaths before lifting the Smith and Wesson from the door pocket.
He used a knee to steer as he thumbed the safety back to
‘
on
’
and slipped the revolver under his shirt.
In the backseat, the boy squirmed but did not wake.
He refocused on the road and depressed the accelerator.

‘
Fish sticks, fish sticks, roly poly fish sticks.
’
He plucked the plastic bag from the passenger seat, held it up for a final inspection and then tossed it out the window.

26

At first, Becky thought it was a mirage, one of those desert induced hallucinations where you made up an entire oasis, palm trees and all, like in those old French Foreign Legion movies. She used her knuckles to brush the hair from her face and then tried to clear her vision. When she could still make them out, she figured they must be real, two men on horseback, a pair of white cowboy hats bouncing along side by side, maybe four hundred yards from where she sat. Before she could fully process the possibilities, another flash of movement caught her attention. She rubbed her eyes and refocused. A black dog trotted out in front of the riders, stopping every so often to sniff the air before resuming his rambling gait across the valley floor.

The riders kept moving. The dog, however, stopped and turned her way. She waved and croaked again. The dog cocked its head and stared in her direction. He began to move, stiff-legged and hesitant at first, before breaking into a full trot.

Sobs of relief gushed from her chest as the dog picked up speed, galloping in her direction now. By the time the beast had covered half the distance, she could make out his long ears and the bright pink of his lolling tongue. She waved her arms with all of her remaining might.

And then, for no apparent reason, the dog stopped. Just stopped and stood there looking around. He was a football field away, standing still, panting, sniffing the air. She wanted to call out but couldn’t muster the strength. The dog turned and began to trot back out into the desert, back toward the riders, loping now, then running hard again, gaining speed with every stride as he disappeared from view.

Becky willed herself to her feet. She began to limp forward, thinking she’d follow the dog and the riders. If they kept going in that direction then that must be the way out. If they turned around, she’d be right there waiting for them. While the notion was sound, the body was not.

She tried to concentrate on her steps, one foot in front of the other like when she was working her way to the valley floor, but found herself unable to focus either her vision or her mind. She stumbled and fell.

When she opened her eyes, a man was standing over her with a rifle.

27

“Nothing,” Audrey said, snapping her phone closed as they hurried across the terminal floor. “The Bureau’s finished checking ground transportation. They say our guy didn’t leave the airport in any form of public transportation.” Audrey checked her notes. “Busses accounted for three families with children, all of whom checked out as legitimate. We’ve got fourteen children across the way in the hanger, and none of whom is Michael Browning.”

Craig wasn’t surprised. “Public transportation isn’t really an option for this fellow is it?” he said. “Too risky for a man with a hostage in tow.”

“Bureau’s still working the cabs,” Audrey said. “As of forty minutes ago, they’ve been unable to locate two drivers who logged passengers in from the airport last night.”

Craig slowed and then stopped walking altogether. He looked around, seemingly lost in thought. The only human beings in sight were half a dozen security personnel, two with dogs, all doing the same thing they were, making certain the building was empty. Jackson Craig rubbed his temples.

“As I recall NSA had a team on the way to that Florida address.”

“She’d been gone a full day by the time the team arrived.”

“She?”

“Forty to fifty-five. Dark hair. Dark clothes. Too much eye make-up. Overweight. Used the name Christine King on the lease. Paid in
cash
and in
advance
. References checked out from top to bottom.” He anticipated Craig’s question. “Forensics has already processed the apartment. We should have the results later today. They’re also working up a composite image with the building’s super.”