Authors: Jeff Buick
Sunday morning dawned brilliant blue, not a solitary cloud scarring the sky over Salt Lake City. Claire Buxton woke at six,
a half hour before the alarm. She rolled out of bed and tiptoed to the shower, careful not to wake her husband, who usually
slept soundly until seven. A quick shower invigorated her and by the time her kids and husband rolled into the kitchen a few
minutes after seven-thirty, she had breakfast prepared and on the table.
“Since when does this happen?” Deirdre, her seventeen-year-old daughter, asked. “You never cook in the morning.”
“Special day.” Claire removed her “Kiss the Cook” apron and draped it over the back of a chair. She sat with her family. “Dad
gets to golf and we head out for a day trip to the mountains.”
Her son, Abraham, said. “I like going to Logan. It’s cool up there. Lots to do.”
“For a fourteen-year-old,” Deirdre said. “Things change when you get older. Like you get a life.”
“You’re a witch,” Abraham said. “If we lived in Salem, they’d burn you at the stake.”
Claire gave her daughter a sideways look. “Don’t start anything, honey. It’s not often I get to spend time with you two. It
would be nice to have a fun day.”
Deirdre smiled. “Okay, Mom. Logan’s not so bad. The canyon is neat.”
“We’ll visit it. After lunch.”
Eric Buxton finished his breakfast and kissed his wife on the cheek before loading his golf clubs and heading out for an early
tee time. Claire and the kids were twenty minutes behind him. They took her van, a Chevy Uplan-der, and headed north through
the city. The prominent spires of the Salt Lake Temple flashed through the thick canopies of leaves, and the State Capitol
rested on a hill to the north of the downtown core. The Georgian marble in the Ionic columns glistened in the sunlight. They
passed the central part of the city and headed north on Highway 89.
Dry expanses of scrubland greeted them and the temperature rose as the sun heated the arid land and sent undulating heat waves
drifting up from the hard-packed sand and dirt. Claire sat alone in the front, the kids watching a Jennifer Lopez movie on
the DVD screen in the back. They pulled into Logan, home of Logan State University and a stunning Mormon Tabernacle, slightly
before noon. Claire found a parking spot two blocks from the Bluebird Restaurant and they ducked in for lunch.
“Love this place,” Deirdre said, standing near the soda fountain. The inside of the Bluebird was a throwback to the fifties
and early sixties, with checkered tiles on the floor and vinyl-covered stools lined up along the counter. “Was this really
what it was like when you grew up?”
Claire laughed. “Pretty much. Times were simpler. Nobody had much money, we lived in smaller houses and drove old cars, but
I think growing up when I did was easier. Not as many diversions or pressures.”
“And no video games,” Abraham said.
“Not true, we had Atari.”
“Pong, or whatever they called it,” Abraham said, laughing. “I saw something on TV the other day about that game. It was a
paddle you moved up and down and a ball that bounced across the screen. Totally lame.”
“Like I said, times have changed.”
They ordered and ate lunch, followed by a dessert from the soda fountain, then walked down Main Street for an hour. The bookstore,
complete with a musty smell that told of old tomes on the shelves, was a favorite. It was closing in on two o’clock when they
returned to the van and traveled northeast from the city, parallel to Logan River and toward the canyon. The slope of the
road increased as they climbed into the Wasatch Mountains, the river and canyon to the south side of the winding road. They
crested the plateau at Bear Lake Summit and Claire pulled the van over at one of the many roadside stops.
“It’s weird breathing up here,” Deirdre said as they picked a trail and hiked.
“Air’s thinner,” Abraham said. “We’re almost eight thousand feet above sea level.”
“This would be tough enough even if I could breathe normally.” Claire picked her way along the narrow trail. Her cell phone
rang and she answered it, surprised that there was service in the area.
“Senator Buxton, it’s Bradley.”
“Things okay in Washington?” she asked. The phone she carried with her was her private line—only her husband and the staff
in her DC office had the number.
“Fine. No problems. But I’ve got something for you. The information you wanted on Reginald Morgan’s death.”
“Go ahead,” she said, breathing deeply. Her lungs never seemed to fill and her body craved more oxygen.
“The Mexican police came aboard
Brilliance of the Seas
when the ship docked. They spent the entire day walking each of the decks, looking for traces of blood. One of their team
was a forensic specialist and she gave Morgan’s room a thorough search. They came up empty and allowed the ship to sail on
schedule. When
Brilliance
arrived in Miami, the FBI boarded and repeated the procedure. Again, nothing.”
“So they’re looking at the incident as an accident.”
“Yes. There’s no proof of any sort that would point to foul play. Their stance is that Mr. Morgan slipped and fell overboard.
The investigation is closed.”
“Interesting,” Claire said. “The timing is certainly suspicious.”
“There’s probably never a time when a rich guy dies that the timing doesn’t look that way,” Bradley said. “That’s the problem
with being rich. Everyone trying to kill you for your money.”
“And you’d know about that?” Claire asked.
“Not yet. Maybe someday.”
“Okay, thanks for looking into that. Anything else on the go while we’re talking?”
Bradley took a few more minutes to run over a few things that had come up since Claire had been in her office. He wished her
a good day in the mountains and she tucked the phone back in her pocket. She buttoned her coat against the wind, cool even
on a beautiful summer day. The kids were a hundred yards ahead of her and she quickened her pace. No sense appearing any more
out of shape than she was.
Claire Buxton’s van was parked halfway along a row of eight spots, facing an outcropping of rock. Five minutes
after she and her children left the parking lot, a rental car pulled in next to hers. The driver remained in the car, tinkering
with something. After a few minutes he looked around the empty lot, then opened his door and got out. That simple action put
him inches from the van’s passenger door. He pulled out a thin piece of metal and slipped it between the window and the rubber
and pushed down. A few seconds of fishing for the locking mechanism and he pulled sharply upward. The door opened to his touch.
He set the tool back in the front seat of his rental and slid into the van, closing the door behind him.
Darvin glanced about, but there was no one in the parking lot and the vehicles were far enough from the road that it was impossible
for anyone to have noticed him breaking into the vehicle. He removed a canister with a small metal and rigid plastic mechanism
attached to one end from under his windbreaker and leaned across and down so he could see under the driver’s seat. The space
was cluttered with wires running to the motors that moved the power seat. He tucked the device in among the jumble of wires
and activated the receiver on the remote control. A tiny red light glowed.
Darvin straightened up and looked around. Nothing. The parking lot was still deserted. He slipped from the van into the front
seat of his rental, then backed up and pulled into a spot at the far end of the lot. He turned off the car and settled in
with the latest Dean Koontz paperback. Now it was time to wait. Utah’s representative to the Senate would be back soon enough.
Deirdre could hardly walk when they arrived back at the parking lot. Her open-toe shoes were fine for cruising Main Street,
but next to useless for hiking on the uneven mountain paths that rimmed Logan Canyon. She fell into the backseat of the van,
unfastened the straps on her shoes and gingerly slid her feet out.
“Oh, my God, that feels good,” she said, lying flat and wiggling her toes. “I thought I was going to die.”
Claire caught the language but let it pass. “We’ll find something to rub on them when we get to Logan. You can survive until
then.”
“I doubt it,” she said.
Abraham jumped in the front seat. “Shotgun.”
“Like I care,” Deirdre said.
Claire started the van and backed out. The forestry road wasn’t busy and she pulled out, heading south toward Salt Lake. Hiking
with the kids was fun; they were still young enough to enjoy spending time with their mom, but old enough that she didn’t
have to worry about them. Memories of her children as toddlers sifted through her mind and a hint of a smile crept across
her lips. Kids grew up too quick. One minute they needed their parents, the next they wanted to walk on the other side of
the mall. The gap between the two stages was a lot smaller than she could ever have imagined. She glanced in the rearview
mirror but Deirdre was lying down. Next to her, Abraham was playing a video game on his Game Boy, his fingers tapping the buttons
like he was a concert pianist.
She looked back to the road, a series of twists and switchbacks under the afternoon shadow of Naomi Peak, a ten-thousand-foot
wall of rock to the west. The road was a challenge, even on a clear summer day. She’d never traveled it in the winter and
had no desire to try. They were only twenty miles out of Logan, then she’d be back on Highway 89. From there it was easy driving
back to Salt Lake. Claire relaxed her grip on the wheel slightly. No problem, everything was fine.
Darvin kept Claire Buxton’s van within his line of sight for the first three miles, losing it on some of the twisty sections
of road. He wasn’t worried. Following someone on a highway was easy. Unless they turned off on one of the tiny secondary roads,
or into a campground, they weren’t going anywhere but straight. Four miles from the parking lot he touched the accelerator
and closed the distance between his vehicle and the van.
“Almost there,” he said to himself. “What’s it like to have a minute left to live? But then, you wouldn’t know that, would
you, Senator?”
He slipped a remote control from his windbreaker pocket. He entered a four-digit code and waited. The road climbed slightly,
then crested and began a long downward slope. His index finger touched one of the buttons, triggering a deadly sequence of
events. A tiny receiver under the driver’s seat in the van picked up the radio signal, electronically closing a circuit and
sending a current from the battery to the solenoid coil. A small electric magnet opened the canister, releasing the pressurized
cyanide gas into the passenger compartment of the van.
“Good-bye.” He set the remote on the seat behind him.
Claire shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs. Beside her, Abraham’s fingers were slowing down and his head was drooping.
Then he stopped altogether. She turned back to the road and swerved sharply to the left. The van’s tires caught the edge of
the road and gravel spit up, peppering the side of the vehicle. She brought the van back under control, but her reaction times
were slow. Too slow. She misjudged the next turn, going over the center line and almost hitting a car coming the other direction.
The look on the man’s face registered for a brief second, then she forced her attention back to the road.
Another corner. This one coming fast. She steered into it, but her actions were sluggish and the van’s passenger tires caught
the gravel and slammed into the guardrail. It held, forcing the vehicle back onto the road. Claire’s brain finally sent a
message to her foot.
Get off the gas. Slow down. Stop.
Something’s wrong.
Her foot lifted off the gas pedal, and without power driving the van into the turns, it started to skid. The passenger-side
rear wheels slid forward until the van was traveling almost sideways down the center of the road. Then the rubber caught on
the pavement, sending the van directly into a rock wall on the wrong side of the road. The air bags deployed, but the force
of the crash was too great. The impact crushed the front of the van, driving the motor into the passenger compartment and
impaling the driver with the steering column. The van bounced off the wall and careened across the road, hitting the guardrail
head-on. The posts and metal were designed to keep a car on the road when it sideswiped the rail, not a frontal impact. The
van cut through the guardrail and flew off the road into the ravine.
It crashed through the first row of trees, each of the thick trunks taking its toll on the battered piece of metal and plastic.
When one of the trees finally stopped the van’s forward motion, there was little left of the front section and the entire
passenger side was ripped apart. A couple of branches snapped, and there was a grating sound as one of the wheels slowly rolled
to a stop. Then a surreal quietness settled over the forest.
Darvin overshot the accident scene by a couple of hundred yards, then ran back to where the van had left the road. His car
was far enough down the road that no one would notice the make or the license number. He would be some guy at the scene, nothing
more. But now, he had to move quickly. The car Claire Buxton had almost hit had stopped and turned around. He had less than
a minute. But that should be enough.
He jumped over the destroyed guardrail and slid down the steep slope, grabbing tree trunks and branches to slow him. The van
was almost a hundred feet below the road and hung up on a couple of large spruce trees. As he reached the vehicle, a smile
spread across his face. The driver’s door was forced open and he could see inside the compartment. It was completely destroyed,
Claire Buxton’s battered body visible, crushed between the seat and the steering column. Since the door was open, the threat
of any cyanide gas lingering in the vehicle was almost nil. He approached the vehicle with caution, then, convinced that the
gas had dissipated, slipped his hand under the seat and found the canister. He pulled and it came free. The device he had
activated from his rental car was still loosely attached, but the solenoid was missing. It must have fallen off onto the floor.
He cursed under his breath, slipped the empty canister into his windbreaker pocket and knelt down to search for the trigger
mechanism. It was impossible to see under the seat, it was too tight to the floor. He moved his hand carefully across the
carpet, feeling from one side where the seat was bolted in to the other. Nothing. Time was running out. He tried again, quicker
and pushing harder with his hand in case the tiny mechanical device had sunk into the carpet pile. He felt a sharp piece of
the seat cut him before he could react. He swore under his breath but ignored the pain and kept searching. It took another
fifteen seconds to locate the device and he squeezed it between his index finger and his thumb and pulled. Some carpet fibers
came out with it and he tucked everything in his pocket and jumped back to his feet. He had the evidence. His finger was bleeding
slightly, and he wrapped a tissue around it, dabbed at the blood, then stuffed it in his pocket.
He glanced over at the body in the front seat. It was Bux-ton’s son. He was dead, his head almost severed by an impact with
some part of the van or a tree. It angered him that the boy had died. If his mother wasn’t such a power-seeking bitch, he
would still be alive. Another decent life snuffed out by the walking vagina that had brought him into the world. Like it was
their birthright to destroy the lives they had created. He traced his finger across the boy’s cheek, his flesh still warm.
“Sometimes they kill us fast. Other times they take a whole lifetime,” he whispered to the corpse.
A low groan emanated from the backseat and he peered in. The daughter was still alive. Barely. He would have preferred they
all died, but there was nothing he could do now. She must have been lying down on the seat otherwise the roof of the van,
which was caved in, would have hit her in the head, probably breaking her neck.
He leaned into the cab slightly, so he was only inches from Claire Buxton’s bloodied face. He stood motionless, staring at
her. His expression changed, mutating into a cold mask. His eyes went dead, all emotion drained from the pupils, like a flower
left without water. His mouth turned down into a sneer, devoid of hate, but also of empathy. Color drained from his face,
giving his already white skin a pasty texture. His hand snaked through the air, tracing the outline of her face.
“Dead now, dirty thing,” he said, his voice a low whisper. He was careful not to touch her. “So close, but you can’t get me.
Dead dirty things are helpless.”
Above him were voices. The glazed-over look slowly dissipated from his eyes as people coming down the hill toward the crash
site. Within a few minutes the scene would be crowded. Do-gooders all over the place. Trying to save the girl. Throwing up
at seeing a body impaled by a steering column. Then, once the scene was sufficiently overrun, he would leave. A quick jaunt
through the trees, then up the hill to his car. And gone.
“Holy shit,” the man said as he reached the vehicle. “Is anyone alive?”
“I think so,” Darvin said, not meeting the man’s gaze, but keeping his focus inside the van.
If they don’t see your eyes,
they’ll never remember what you look like
. “The girl in the back. I think she might still be breathing.”
More people arrived, scrambling down the slope, cell phones pressed to their ears. Emergency crews and police would already
be dispatched, but Logan was fifteen miles to the south. At least fifteen minutes from the time the first person called in
the accident. And by that time he’d be gone. A ghost in the forest.