Uncertain whether this was in fact the exit for ‘Rest Stop
- Limited Services,’ he cursed the tiny blue-on-white sign and removed his foot
from the accelerator; the turbo-boost gage fell into
vacuum
as he
downshifted and exited onto the ramp. There was only one car parked in the lot,
another in the process of leaving.
Good
. The rest stop building was one
of the state highway commission’s self-service glass-and-timber structures with
a rustic appearance designed to appeal to motorists. The phone booth inside the
lobby, Thompson saw, was unattended. He would make this quick and be on his
way.
Thompson entered the lobby to discover a man wearing a
rumpled suit speaking softly into the pay phone. Disappointed, he took the
opportunity to study the West Virginia highway map on the wall. He traced his
finger along Highway 50 and found ‘You are Here’ beside the red arrow.
Yep,
it’s going to be late—I’ve got to call Stuart.
Minutes passed. The man on the phone was casually shooting
the breeze, the subject progressing from business to sports. Thompson removed
from his pocket his prepaid calling card and the note with Stuart’s phone number.
The man appeared to be eyeing their two reflections in the window. Eventually,
he hung up and turned to leave.
Thompson ignored the departing scowl as he grabbed the
handset and tapped in the numbers. Suspicious of his shaking hands, he hung-up
and dialed again. He reviewed in his mind what he wanted to say.
About the time Thompson heard the other end ring, the
talkative salesman was accelerating his car back onto the interstate. Thompson
did not see yet another car, headlights extinguished, as it drifted into the
parking lot.
STUART EXCUSED HIMSELF
from
the table and hurried from the dining room for the telephone. Snatching it up
before Ashley for once evoked a mock-pout that he cheerily ignored.
“Stuart,” he answered habitually and with a smile for his
daughter.
There was a moment’s silence on the line. “Mr. Stuart?”
“Who’s calling?”
A sigh on the other end. “My name’s Sean Thompson, from Thanatech.
You may not remember me.”
“Sean, sure I do. You work for Emily Chang.” He pictured
the thick eyeglasses and adolescent moustache. “What can I do for you?” Stuart
expected the answer would be to help find him a job.
“I have something extremely important to discuss. I’d like
to come by to see you.”
Stuart could tell the young man was nervous about
something. “You mean here, tonight?”
“If that’s okay.”
“Look, I don’t mean to sound reluctant, it’s just that I’ve
got dinner guests and—”
“
Mr. Stuart
—I’m in serious trouble and I really need
your help. I’m three hours or so from Fredericksburg. Your guests will be gone
by the time I arrive, won’t they?”
Stuart thought it a strange way to appeal to someone for
help. Why come all this way—what, an eight or nine hour drive? Hell, he was
planning to be in Cleveland late next week. All Thompson would had to have done
was call and arrange to meet over lunch.
Stuart’s curiosity was aroused. He looked at his watch. “That’ll
make it eleven o’clock. What is this about?”
Thompson promised to explain and apologized for the
imposition. Stuart reluctantly agreed to wait up until eleven but not a minute
longer.
THOMPSON STOOD AT THE
URINAL,
eyes closed with relief.
One step closer to having this
monkey off my back
. He heard what sounded like grit between the sole of a
shoe and the tile floor.
Zipping his fly, he swiveled his head toward the vacant
row of gleaming white porcelain urinals beside him, but nobody had entered the
room. At the instant the word ‘
janitor...?’
occurred to him, the lights
went out.
DEVINN’S STOMACH CONVULSED
as Thompson’s brain exploded onto the bathroom wall—the
thwwaack
of the silenced pistol reverberated off the tiled enclosure like the sound of
splitting firewood. Thompson’s legs collapsed and his body fell to the floor;
Devinn backed away as the torso toppled toward his feet. The engineer came to
rest with eyes staring at the ceiling, narrow streams of blood trickling from
the crescent where he’d bitten through his lower lip. A much larger pool
spreading over the floor, along with all the gore on the wall, made moot
Devinn’s plan to hide the body in a stall.
Wasting no time, he stooped to search Thompson’s pockets. He
removed his key ring and then his wallet; loose change he let scatter over the
floor. He found a note with writing scribbled on it. Satisfied there was
nothing else, he took one look around the room and walked swiftly for the door,
the grip of his pistol warm and hard through the surgical glove on his hand.
Devinn jogged across the lobby and out through the door. There
were no other cars in sight as he quickly made his way to the Porsche. Opting
not to use the keys, Devinn smashed in the passenger window with two kicks from
the heel of his shoe. He reached inside and plucked both the cellular telephone
and briefcase off the passenger floor. Next he removed a small cellophane bag
from inside his coat and sprinkled the trace powdery contents onto the carpet
and seat.
Devinn tossed Thompson’s belongings onto his Maserati’s
passenger seat; he would empty the wallet and briefcase of their contents
before tossing everything out along the side of the highway. He climbed behind
the wheel and gunned the Maserati’s engine to life. The car was barreling down
the on-ramp to the interstate and the speedometer passing sixty before he eased
the gas pedal from the floor. The rest stop was barely a mile behind when he
reached for Thompson’s cellular phone. Scrolling the memory log he confirmed
the presence of Stuart’s home telephone number. He swore quietly.
30
Monday, May 18
“ALL THE WAY
from
Washington?” asked Emily Chang as she released the man’s large hand.
“Fortunately not.” Special Agent Edward Hildebrandt removed
a billfold from inside his coat and presented his identification. “We have a
field office here in Cleveland.”
The introductions complete, Paul Devinn then rose from the
chair behind his desk wearing one of his trademark European suits. He asked his
secretary to hold all of his calls, closed the door, and the three took seats
around the coffee table inside his office. Emily clasped her hands together
tightly in her lap while the FBI agent proceeded to flip through the pages of a
notepad. Paul Devinn seemed to be scrutinizing her.
After what seemed like minutes, Devinn leaned toward her. “Mr.
Hildebrandt delivered some distressing news this morning. Sean Thompson works
for you, isn’t that right?”
The mention of Sean Thompson jolted her the instant
Devinn’s lips began forming the name. “Yes,” she answered.
“Was Sean away on a business trip?”
Emily frowned. “No.”
Agent Hildebrandt glanced up from his notepad. “Did he
happen to indicate he would be traveling out of town?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“You don’t believe so? Does that mean maybe he—”
“Sean would normally tell me if he didn’t plan to show up
for work. In fact he hasn’t shown up yet, but lately with the hours we’ve kept,
people arrive all hours of the morning. As their manager I only care that they
get their work done.”
“Has Sean Thompson been getting his work done?” asked
Hildebrandt.
Emily didn’t know what to say. Why should the FBI care
about that?
Devinn cleared his throat. “Earlier I was explaining to
Agent Hildebrandt that the heavy work load in your group recently ended on a
disappointing note. Do you think Sean may have taken this a bit worse than the
others? Has he said anything that might lead you to believe he was feeling, oh,
under duress?”
“No more than anyone else.”
Devinn nodded slowly—her answer seemed important to both
men, who pondered it for several moments.
Emily glanced back and forth between them. “May I ask what
this is about?”
Agent Hildebrandt asked, “Did Mr. Thompson ever give you
reason to suspect he was involved with narcotics?”
“Sean and drugs? I really don’t think so.”
“Police found his employee badge in the glove compartment
of his car,” Hildebrandt explained, “in the state of West Virginia...so he
wasn’t traveling on business?”
“I already said that he wasn’t.”
Hildebrandt nodded, studying her. “I’m afraid Sean Thompson
is dead, Miss Chang.”
A buzzing in Emily’s ears gradually intensified. “Was he
involved in an accident?” She instinctively knew there had been no accident.
“It appears he was murdered.”
Besides shock, her first reaction was to wonder with dread what
this meant with respect to the sabotage cover-up. Maybe some sort of a warning
that she would be next? Were her parents in more danger now—or with Sean no
longer alive, had the danger suddenly diminished?
“Emily...?” She became aware of Paul Devinn reaching toward
her across the table. “Are you okay?”
“May I please have a glass of water?”
Devinn returned a minute later with a tumbler of ice water.
For the moment she chose simply to hold on to it.
“We have reason to believe that his murder might have
involved drugs,” Agent Hildebrandt explained. “I hope you understand that we
are interested in anything you, as his direct manager, might have to say about
the matter.”
Emily sipped some water and stared through the glass table
top at the pattern in the carpeting. “Sean might have been acting a little bit
strange. But everyone has been working under such pressure I just attributed it
to that. I never had the impression he took drugs.” Something suddenly struck
her, more a sense than a coherent thought and she heard herself ask: “Will the
FBI be investigating this?”
Both she and Devinn awaited Hildebrandt’s reply. Emily
realized that Hildebrandt was more likely pondering the reason behind her
question than how to respond.
“The FBI will occasionally investigate things like this jointly
with local officials, you know, murder across state lines, or when drugs are
involved. We’ll have to see who takes the lead in this particular case.”
Devinn removed his stare from Emily. “By the way, in very
short order I will not be available at all. This is going to appear
insensitive, but you see, I’ve planned for some time to take a leave of
absence.”
“You’ll be out of town?” Hildebrandt asked.
“Out of the country actually, and in just a few days. I
plan to be in touch with the office, but logistically speaking, it will
probably be difficult for me to assist you in any way.”
Now that he had given voice to what she had previously
heard, Emily noticed the
Field & Stream
and AAA road map of Manitoba
among the assortment of magazines on the table.
First Sandy, along with all
of those other poor people, and now Sean...
“If there’s anything either one of you need assistance with
in the next few days, don’t hesitate to call or stop in,” Devinn soothingly assured
both of his guests. “Emily, I trust you can come up with the right words to
inform Sean’s colleagues of the terrible news. If you prefer, I’d be
available—”
“We’ve yet to notify next of kin,” Hildebrandt interrupted.
“You need to keep word of his death quiet for a day or so. Someone will call
you.”
Emily nodded. “Thanks, Mr. Devinn, but that won’t be necessary.”
With a trembling hand she placed the tumbler on the table and stood to leave.
Later that morning, Emily found herself unable to focus on
the work pouring into her cubicle. Eventually, she simply gave up. She left the
plant and drove until she found a quiet location to use her cell phone, hoping
to find a positive aspect to the horrible incident. Reaching her cousin in his
San Jose office produced yet more disappointment. Her parents’ whereabouts
remained unknown. She did learn that her cousin thought he could land her a
job; she could move to the west coast and put the entire unpleasant Mojave
business behind her.
Emily found herself both hounded by the question of
what she should do and rueful that she really had nobody with whom to discuss
it. If Sean was in fact complicit in the test flight sabotage, then maybe he
was involved in spying on her subsequent to the demands of the blackmail. Now
that Sean was dead, what should she do? But—she had acted on impulse before,
and now Sean was dead. Even Stuart was no longer part of her life because of
something she had done. With the world collapsing around her, she had to do
something, didn’t she?
* * *
WITH HIS PRIMARY
vulnerabilities
suitably quashed, Devinn had just a few remaining preparations to make. Already
that afternoon he had made two trips between his townhouse and locker to place
into storage two large, trunk-style suitcases and three garment shipping boxes
all fully crammed with clothing, and an assortment of other personal affects. Drawing
down his checking account, he advance paid two months on his townhouse rent,
furniture lease and utilities, except for the telephone which he temporarily
canceled. All of his periodical subscriptions were notified along with the post
office to withhold delivery. He thought a particularly good touch was having
his secretary acquire, through the corporate travel office and his personal
credit card, his round-trip airline ticketing to Winnipeg.
Devinn capped the afternoon’s errands by driving to Queen’s
Auto Mall and terminating the Maserati lease—for good measure, he argued
testily that they retroactively nullify his two-thousand dollar cancellation
penalty if, upon returning from his extended trip, he agreed to lease another
car from the firm. Slipping behind the wheel of the rented Ford Taurus, Devinn
realized how much he was going to miss the Jag.