Echoes of the Dead--A Special Tracking Unit Novel Page 2

  I can tell she’s confused. Slipping off my shoe, I hold it up. “If the sole of my shoe is a half inch thick, it still leaves a nice print on the ground when I walk around. Shine is left not only on the shoe but on the ground. Odd thing is, if I just hold my foot the same distance from the ground without touching”—I extend my foot and demonstrate—“there’s no shine.”

  I pause and slip the shoe back on, glancing at her nervously as I do. Part of me still expects her to jump up and race down the boardwalk, screaming as she goes and pointing at the monster on the bench.

  “Go on,” she says in a whisper.

  I nod, and she squeezes my hand.

  “The only thing I can figure is that some type of pressure is required, even if it’s minute. As long as there’s physical contact, it’ll leave shine behind, even if it’s through a shoe or a coat or a glove.” I fall silent as a large group draws near and then passes by, college students from Western Washington University by the looks of them.

  After they pass, I continue in a lower voice, “Blood, urine, semen, and other bodily oils and fluid—even skin cells—are a different story. They retain their shine, even when separated from the body.”

  “Separated from the body,” Heather parrots with a shiver. “Sounds ominous.”

  As she grows quiet, deep in thought, I leave her to it. When she rises from the bench and walks to the rail, staring out over Bellingham Bay, I give her a moment before following. “It’s a gift,” she whispers at length, coming to terms with the idea and its implications.

  “It’s a curse.”

  “No,” she says, more forceful this time. “And it’s not as freakish as you try to make it out.” Extending a hand, she draws me to her side. “Did you know that bees and a lot of other insects see using ultraviolet light? How’s that much different from what you’re describing?”

  “They’re insects,” I say flatly.

  She smiles patiently. “But it’s not magical or freakish or paranormal. It’s just the way they see, like living in a world of black lights. Then there are bats, of course, which use sound waves to see the world as they flit about. Snakes use infrared, cats have night vision, and Steps sees shine. How is one stranger than any of the others?”

  “Cats are pretty strange,” I point out with a smirk.

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I. Besides, the others were born that way, I wasn’t.”

  “As I said, it’s a gift.”

  I want to argue with her, but I can’t. I’m just thankful she’s taking it so well, that she hasn’t called 911 and requested an involuntary mental hold.

  She says slowly, “If everyone has their own color and texture—”

  “Windex.”

  “What?”

  “You were going to ask me what color your shine is. It’s Windex … or, I suppose I should say it reminds me of Windex. You know, kind of a luminous aqua blue?”

  “So, I’m window cleaner?”

  “I just read the shine, I don’t choose it.”

  Slipping my glasses off, I hand them to her. “Give these a try.”

  She’s curious but doesn’t question the odd request. A moment later, glasses perched on her nose, she looks at me, confused.

  “Expecting the world to look fuzzy?”

  “That’s generally what happens when I wear someone else’s glasses.” She slips them off and studies them.

  “They’re lead crystal; the only thing that’ll block the shine.”

  “Lead crystal?”

  “Something I discovered when I was ten. I was with Mom and Dad at one of those glass shops, the ones where they have a furnace and they blow wineglasses and fancy Christmas ornaments while you watch. I just happened to glance through a lead crystal platter and realized I couldn’t see the shine on the other side. Dad ordered a pair of lead crystal glasses the next day.”

  “Did your mom know?”

  I shake my head. “Still doesn’t. Trust me, it’s better that way.”

  Heather is just about to fire something back when my phone rings. I check the caller ID. “It’s Diane.” I want to let it go to voice mail, but Diane doesn’t call for trivial things.

  “Go ahead and take it.”

  I give Heather an apologetic smile and connect the call.

  Before I have time to utter a greeting, Diane says, “I hate to interrupt tea, but something’s come up.”

  “Where?”

  “Northeast of Bakersfield, California. Sometime over the last twenty-four to thirty-six hours, four men went missing from the Upper Kern River. Search and Rescue was activated at eight this morning, and they have about seventy volunteers running a grid search. So far there’s nothing.” Diane pauses as if to lend weight to the coming words. “The director himself called a few minutes ago. He wants you and Jimmy down there as soon as possible.”

  “From what you’ve described, this only barely qualifies as a mission requiring our type of expertise, so why would the director of the FBI call? What aren’t you telling me?”

  Diane sighs. “I’ll have the details when you get to the hangar. Speaking of which—how soon can you be here?”

  I look at Heather and just shake my head.

  This wasn’t supposed to be how today ended. High tea was meant to soften Heather up for the long-overdue revelation about my special ability, my curse. After that—provided the outcome was favorable—I thought we’d take in a movie and then have dinner at the Hearthfire Grill. This development is disappointing, but then, after six years with the Special Tracking Unit, I’ve grown accustomed to disappointments.

  “Give me an hour,” I say.

  3

  Hangar 7 sits at the southern end of Bellingham International Airport.

  The facility itself is within the extensive security fence protecting the runways, hangars, and scattered outbuildings, but due to its special status, the cipher-protected door at the southeast corner building opens onto a small but private parking lot beyond the security perimeter.

  Most would look at the hangar with little interest, unaware of what lies within. It’s taller and wider than many of the surrounding hangars, those that house Cessna, Beechcraft, and Piper aircraft, among others. In a previous incarnation, Hangar 7 had a completely open floor plan, looking more like an empty warehouse. It was rented out to corporate clients and could house two private jets at once.

  The FBI paid $300,000 for the empty building and spent another $120,000 building the two-story complex that hugs the inside of the western wall. The upper floor has three offices that empty onto a mezzanine.

  Aside from providing office space and a spot on the hangar floor for the foosball table, Hangar 7 is also home to Betsy, the Special Tracking Unit’s Gulfstream G100 corporate jet, the only real perk that comes with the job. Les is our contract pilot, and Marty is his copilot. At fifty-three years of age, Les is everyone’s image of a calm and seasoned pilot, right down to his salt-and-pepper hair and his aviator sunglasses.

  Marty is twenty years younger and reminds me of a Chihuahua on a caffeine binge. Most of the time, he has a thrilled, half-crazed look on his face—but in a fun way. If the wind happens to kick up and ruffle his hair the wrong way, he starts to resemble someone who just walked out of a psych ward.

  He’s a good guy. Just don’t get him talking about aquariums.

  * * *

  Jimmy and Diane are waiting for me in the conference room when I arrive, and as I take my seat, I notice that Diane has a map displayed on the flat-screen television hanging on the back wall.

  “Kern River?” I ask.

  “Correct. I was just explaining to Jimmy that the men you’ll be searching for usually camp at this bend”—she circles an area with her pointing stick—“but they were known to fish locations up to a mile from their base camp, which widens the search area considerably.”

  “And we’re sure these guys are missing?” Jimmy presses. “I only ask because it seems like a hard place to get lost unless it’s on
purpose. What if they found a new fishing spot farther away or set up a secondary camp somewhere upriver?” He shrugs. “What if it’s just guys out fishing? You know, out in the wilderness, living in the moment. Sometimes it’s easy to lose track of time.”

  “All of them had prearranged call times with either spouses or associates,” Diane replies, “and none of them made yesterday’s call-in.”

  Jimmy and I exchange a look.

  “There could be a hundred reasons for that,” he finally says, though with less conviction. “What about local Search and Rescue? What are they saying?”

  “Kern Valley Search and Rescue has been on the scene since eight A.M. They know the area well, so the fact that they haven’t found anything is concerning.”

  “What’s the rest of the story?” Jimmy suddenly asks, leaning forward on his forearms and eyeing her suspiciously, as if she’s been holding out. “Why did we get the call, and how did this land in the director’s lap in the first place?”

  Diane purses her lips and then—uncharacteristically—takes a seat at the conference table next to Jimmy. “Are you familiar with second-term congressman Marco Perez out of Bakersfield?” She reaches out and clicks the mouse on her laptop.

  The image of a smiling white man in his early forties fills the center of the television screen. Though it’s just a press photo, his intense eyes stare down and find me in my chair, holding me in place, as if his gaze alone can transfix and constrain. He looks vaguely familiar, but I don’t follow politics.

  “I’ve heard of him,” Jimmy confesses. “Is he one of the missing?”

  “He is, which is why the director got a call from Secret Service this morning. Right now, it’s being treated like any other case of missing or overdue campers, but if they don’t find him soon, things will ramp up. The director asked that you and Steps get down there as quickly as possible and see what you can see. Or in his words, do your thing—whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

  “How do you go missing on a fishing trip?” I wonder aloud. “Rivers are usually close to civilization, and if they’re not, you just have to follow them downstream and you’re bound to find a bridge or a road.”

  “Oh, trust me, it gets more intriguing,” Diane says. “Congressman Perez was on a fly-fishing trip on the Kern River with three of his college friends. This is an annual event for them, something they’ve done since their days at USC.”

  “The fly-fishing on the Kern part or just fishing in general?” I ask.

  “The Kern part. More specifically, the Upper Kern, at least according to the congressman’s sister. It has something to do with their experiences together in college, but she didn’t elaborate. They all met in Bakersfield Thursday morning and were fishing by that afternoon. Marco checked in with his sister on Thursday at three, the agreed-upon time, and then again at the same time on Friday.

  “When he didn’t call on Saturday, she tried calling him, but it kept going to voice mail. By eight that night, none of the men had been heard from in almost thirty hours, and a lot of people were starting to get concerned.” Diane clears her throat. “When I say a lot of people started getting concerned, I’m talking about more than friends and family. I’m talking business associates, powerful political figures, and titans of industry.”

  “For one congressman?” I ask skeptically.

  Diane nods slowly, but not in agreement. “If only it were that simple.” She clicks the mouse again.

  The image of a stern white man in his midforties pops up and fills the television screen. His look is so severe that one might think he ate glass shards for breakfast two days earlier and is now having a hard time passing them. He’s wearing an off-the-rack suit and a generic military haircut that reminds me of the colonel from the movie Avatar, but that was an actor. This guy is the real deal, and every edge of the man is sharp and hard.

  “Meet Wade Winchell,” Diane says. “Forty-five years of age, and the deputy district attorney out of Los Angeles County in charge of Major Crimes. He just finished a big case involving several senior members of La eMe, better known as the Mexican Mafia. In the course of his career, he’s been shot at, had a Molotov cocktail tossed through the sunroof of his car, and been the victim of two targeted assaults, one of which broke his jaw and the other fractured two ribs and cracked three others.” She pauses to let this sink in. “Not exactly the kind of guy we can afford to misplace.”

  The next slide depicts a Black male around the same age, but with a softer, more cultured look. His haircut came from a salon. His suit is tailor-made.

  “This is Jason Norris, cofounder of Norris and Lambert, an accounting firm with offices in San Jose, Houston, and New York. No gangbangers in his history, but he has a string of lawyers that’ll tear you a new one if you end up in a legal dispute with him. From what I can tell, his net worth is about ten million dollars, and he donates generously to both political parties.”

  Jimmy lets out a low whistle.

  “And this”—Diane clicks to the next image—“is Noah Long, cofounder of Ascot and Long, a hedge fund out of New York with seven billion dollars under management. I don’t even want to guess what his net worth is, but it probably puts Mr. Norris to shame.”

  She pulls up a final image showing all four men together and leaves it on the screen. The wealth, power, and influence represented by the four figures is daunting, and I feel something creeping up my spine that feels a lot like anxiety, or perhaps just dread.

  Clicking back to the map, Diane sits in silence.

  “How old is the congressman?” I ask after a long pause.

  “Forty-three.”

  “You said they’ve been fishing the same river since college, let’s say about twenty years, give or take. That means they probably know the area well.”

  Jimmy picks up on my train of thought. “You’re wondering how they could have gotten lost in an area so familiar.”

  I point at him dramatically, as if he’d just revealed some inescapable truth.

  “That’s exactly why his sister is concerned,” Diane says, ignoring the theatrics. “Besides”—she gestures at the map—“you said it yourself: there aren’t many places you can get lost without getting unlost in short order. I think the main worry is that they stumbled into an old mine or fell down an embankment.”

  “The trees look thick enough around the river,” Jimmy observes, “but they’re pretty sparse on the hills. If you were lost, all you’d have to do is climb one of the low hills and get your bearings.” He begins to strum his fingers on the table. “This is an annual male-bonding experience, right? So maybe they got drunk and decided to climb a hill in the middle of the night. By the time the sun came up, they could have been pretty disoriented.”

  “Bit of a stretch,” Diane says. “Besides, the congressman is a teetotaler.”

  “What about the rest of them?”

  “The deputy DA drinks like a fish, or at least that’s the rumor.”

  Leaning toward Jimmy, I mutter, “Mexican Mafia,” implying that we’d all drink prodigiously if a powerful prison gang wanted us dead.

  He chuckles darkly and then turns back to Diane. “What about Noah and the other guy?” He snaps his fingers a couple of times, trying to remember.

  “Jason Norris,” Diane says.

  “Right. Norris. Do either of them drink or indulge in recreational herbs?”

  “I don’t know.”

  When Jimmy throws his hands up in mock frustration, Diane gives him a long stare. “I’ve only had the names for the last hour,” she says, carefully enunciating each word and wrapping it tightly in a hard shell. “I know you might find this difficult to believe, but even I have my limitations.”

  “It’s okay,” I say to Jimmy, holding up a consoling palm, “we should be getting our real analyst in a few weeks. Until then, we’ll just have to make do.”

  Diane lowers her head and glares at me over the top of her reading glasses.

  Contemptuous loathing doesn’t come
naturally to her, but it is one of her favorite costumes, and she wears it well. With a scowl the size of West Texas, she continues the stare down, shifting her gaze between Jimmy and me. We grin back like a pair of dyspeptic Cheshire cats. After casting her eyes back and forth a few more times, her face reverts to an unimpressed smirk.

  She sighs and adjusts the papers in front of her. “You should know that the press has already gotten wind of this. ZeroHedge, an online financial blog, ran an article a few hours ago, mostly focused on Noah and the implications for his hedge fund. There’s also a news van parked outside the congressman’s office, and another one making its way to the Upper Kern.”

  “Great,” I mutter, tossing a pencil onto the table.

  “Tell me honestly,” Jimmy says. “How sure are you that this is going to be a straight-up search and rescue?”

  “Pretty sure,” Diane replies softly. Then she meets his gaze. “If not…”

  The unspoken words hang in the room like wing-wrapped bats, a slumbering colony of terrifying possibilities.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later we’re in the air and climbing to thirty-nine thousand feet for the two-hour-and-twenty-minute flight to Meadows Field Airport, which is just three miles northwest of downtown Bakersfield. Digging out a worn paperback copy of Ready Player One from my early-1900s-style travel bag, I turn to the bookmark and dive in. Two pages later I can’t remember a thing I’ve just read and close the book in frustration.

  It’s just a search and rescue, I tell myself.

  I try to push my concern aside, but I can’t answer the one question that’s searing a hole into the back of my skull: How do you go missing in a place as familiar as your own backyard?

  4

  Meadows Field Airport was built north of Bakersfield by the Kern County Chamber of Commerce in 1926 and quickly became a stop for the fledgling US Air Mail service, which had been established just eight years earlier. In 1935, Kern County purchased the airport from the Chamber of Commerce, and Meadows Field became the first county-owned airport in the nation.