Submerged (12 page)

“What? That—that doesn’t even make sense.”
Gleason shook his head.

Jack looked over his shoulder. “How you
doing?”

Perry had to think about it. He had driven
through the night and part of the morning, yielding the wheel only
after drifting onto the shoulder of the highway. “I’m okay.” He
checked his watch—one o’clock. Outside the sky was the color of
topaz and clear of any clouds. Bright sunlight poured onto the
quaint homes of a Carson City neighborhood. Trees lined the
streets. The neighborhood seemed deserted, and Perry had to remind
himself that it was a weekday. Most people would be at work and
kids in school. Did kids go to school in August?

“Make a right at the next intersection.
Zeisler’s house should be somewhere on the right.” Jack folded the
map.

Perry leaned back and rubbed his eyes. He
needed to be awake for the next thing on the agenda: meeting a man
who doesn’t want to be met. He scratched his chin and felt a day’s
growth. He ran a hand through his dark hair, trying to tame it
enough so he didn’t frighten the neighborhood children. “I must
look like death warmed over.”

Jack turned and scrutinized him. “Nah, you
don’t look warmed at all.”

“Thanks, buddy. Keep that up, and I’ll make
Gleason drive all the way to Tonopah.”

“Okay, okay.” Jack raised his hands. “I’ll be
good.”

Gleason shook his head but said nothing.

“There it is.” Jack pointed at a
Craftsman-style bungalow. “Quaint.”

Perry studied the house. He judged it to be
about seventeen hundred square feet, spread over two floors. The
exterior was well-worn shiplap siding painted beige along the first
level and gray on the second. A windowed dormer sat over a porch.
The paint looked fresh. A small lawn carpeted the front yard, split
by a concrete walk that bridged the distance between the sidewalk
and the porch.

“He’s not going to be happy to see us,”
Gleason said.

Perry shrugged. “Nothing ventured, nothing
gained.”

“That’s catchy, pal. You should copyright
that.”

Perry slipped from the backseat of the
Humvee. He had driven trucks, operated bulldozers and cranes, but
he was still impressed with how large the vehicle was. He stretched
his back. He had been in the car for almost fifteen hours, and his
muscles were reminding him of the fact. He started for the door,
Jack and Gleason a step behind. The air outside was warm but not
overbearing, and Perry was grateful.

A wood-framed screen door stood between him
and the front door. A doorbell button with a scratched metal collar
clung to the wood siding. Perry pressed it. The sound of

the bell pressed through the closed door. A
moment later,

the front door swung open. Through the
screen, Perry saw a distinguished-looking man with white hair and
beard and deep wrinkles. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt.

“Can I help you—” He stopped mid-sentence.
“Henry?” He stared at Perry. “No, of course not. Henry Sachs is my
age. You could pass for his double.”

“I’ve heard that before. I’m his son, Perry
Sachs. This is Jack Dyson and Gleason Lane.”

“Ah, the man I hung up on. I told him, and
now I’m telling you, I don’t know anything about Tonopah. Never
been there, and I have no plans on going.” He lifted a finger to
his lips, then reached to the side of the door. The screen door
kept Perry from seeing clearly.

“I know we came uninvited, but my father
needs your help.”

“I can’t help anyone,” Zeisler snapped.

Perry could see that the man held a small
notepad and a pencil. He was writing something.

“I don’t know what your game is, but I want
no part of it.” Zeisler held up the paper to the screen.
“Colleen’s Restaurant, 30 minutes.”

An address followed.

Perry nodded. “You won’t reconsider?”

“No. Now get lost before I call a cop.”

Perry made eye contact with the man and
wondered if age had altered his perception or reality. There was no
way to judge that. The man’s eyes were wide, and Perry could see
them well enough to recognize fear.

“I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“Perry—” Jack began.

“Let it go, Jack,” Perry said. Jack was
standing two steps back, unable to read the paper or the unspoken
communication between Perry and Zeisler. “If the man doesn’t want
to help, then he doesn’t want to help.” He spun and marched from
the porch to the vehicle, taking the driver’s seat. Seconds later,
Jack and Gleason were in the Humvee. Perry asked for the keys from
Gleason, started the car, and sped off.

“Did I read that paper right?” Gleason
asked.

Jack frowned. “I couldn’t read it at
all.”

Perry recited it. “He wants to meet us
someplace other than his home. He doesn’t seem to be comfortable
talking on the phone or at his home.”

“He thinks his house is bugged?” Jack said.
“Seems a little paranoid.”

“Maybe he has a right to be paranoid.” Perry
turned down the next street.

Colleen’s was still bustling from the lunch
crowd. The eatery was a mere three miles from Zeisler’s home, and
Perry imagined Zeisler ate here quite a bit. Forty-five minutes
later, Victor Zeisler walked in, nodded at the young, blond
hostess, handed her a note, then glanced around the room. He
examined every diner before settling his eyes on Perry. Instead of
walking toward them, he walked through an opening into a dark and
unused room.

The hostess approached, smiled, and said to
Perry. “I apologize. One of our daily patrons will be here soon and
prefers to sit in this booth. May I seat you elsewhere?”

Perry looked at her, then the opening through
which Zeisler disappeared. Perry got the point. “If it will
help.”

“It will. Thank you.”

Perry and the others slipped from the booth
and followed the young lady across the worn, linoleum-clad floor.
Perry was carrying a file folder. She stepped to the side and
motioned for them to follow the same path as Zeisler, then returned
to her post. Perry walked in.

The room was a smaller version of the larger
restaurant, except there were no windows and only half the ceiling
lights were on. A wheezing roar came from the ceiling. Zeisler sat
at the table closest to the center, his hands folded in front of
him. Perry approached.

“Sit down, gentlemen,” Zeisler said. “I’ve
taken the liberty of ordering for you. Everyone is having chicken
potpie. They make it here themselves. It’s the best chicken potpie
you’ll ever have. Oh, and you’re paying.”

Jack smirked. “Thanks.”

Zeisler eyed Jack and shook his head in
disbelief. “Man, you’re big.”

“It’s an optical illusion,” Jack said. “I’m
actually a ninety-eight-pound weakling in a muscle suit.”

Zeisler addressed Perry. “Is he always like
this?”

“Always. Why this room?”

“Straight to the point. A no-nonsense kind of
guy. Just like your father. We’re in this room because it has no
windows, and the air-conditioning makes a lot of noise. Modern
eavesdropping devices can pick up conversations from window
vibrations.”

“I doubt anyone could pick up anything with
all the noise in the dining room,” Gleason said.

“No, but the person sitting next to you could
hear you just fine. Not that it matters. I imagine they know you’re
here. That car of yours makes it hard to hide your presence. Could
you have been more obvious?”

“Who are they, Mr. Zeisler?” Perry asked.

“It’s Dr. Zeisler, and they are the
government—well, an element of the government. And no, I’m not a
paranoid old coot.”

“No one said you were,” Perry clarified. “I’m
hoping you can answer some questions.”

“I bet you are.” Zeisler leaned forward and
stared into Perry’s eyes. “You have eyes like your father. Did you
pick up any of his genes for getting into trouble?”

Jack guffawed.

“I’ll take that as a yes. What’s that?”
Zeisler pointed at the file.

Perry opened it and pushed the photo across
the table. Zeisler picked it up and held it close to his face.
Too vain for reading glasses,
Perry
guessed.

The old man smiled. “That was a lifetime
ago.” The corners of his mouth plunged. “I miss my youth. You will,
too.” He examined the photo some more. “I thought your father was
crazy when he insisted on this photo. He was quite a man back then:
brash, opinionated, rushing forward regardless of danger.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Gleason
said.

“He’s sick, you say.” Zeisler handed the
photo back to Perry.

“Yes, very ill. I believe his disease is
somehow connected to what happened here.”

“You know that was over thirty years ago,”
Zeisler said.

“I know it doesn’t make sense, but I’m
determined to find out what happened then.”

“You planning on heading up to the site?”

Perry said he was.

Zeisler bit his lip. “You’ll never make it.
They’ll stop you.”

“The government?” Jack asked. “The government
will stop us?”

“People in the government. Powerful people
you know nothing about. People who know how to keep secrets and
make sure others keep them, as well.”

“Like a shadow government?” Gleason
pressed.

“Call it what you like, but if you go
cruising up there without an invitation, they’ll hand you your
lunch before you have an opportunity to get your shoes dirty.”

This time Perry leaned forward. “Dr. Zeisler,
we’re going there. I don’t know if you’re delusional or being
truthful, but we’re going.”

Zeisler reached for the photo again. Perry
could tell the man was remembering events from decades before.

Taking the photo from Zeisler, Perry set it
on the table. He pointed at the young Cynthia Wagner. “Dead.” Then
he pointed at Monte Grant. “Dead.” He leaned back. “Of the names my
father gave me, only you and my father remain alive, and he may die
at any moment.”

“You’re suggesting I may be next. That is the
mystery, isn’t it? How come I’m not reclining on some autopsy
table?” He paused. “How much do you know?”

“Not much.” Perry recited the information
Gleason had gleaned and the materials Perry found in his father’s
home. When he was done, the hostess brought their order in. It was
clear Zeisler didn’t want anyone else serving them.

“She’s my granddaughter,” Zeisler explained.
“She and her mother are the only family I have left. My wife died
two years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Perry said.

“Don’t be. She wasn’t well. Alzheimer’s is a
horrible disease.”

Jack dug into his chicken potpie. Gleason
took the time to press the upper crust into the gooey insides, add
pepper, and stir. Jack was close to finished by the time Gleason
started. Perry ignored his. Instead, he watched Zeisler tap the
brown crust of his meal with his fork. His mind was weighing
something.

“As it is, you don’t stand a chance,” Zeisler
said. “They have to know about it by now. If you know, they know.
That means you’ll have a welcoming committee that will do
everything but welcome you.”

“What are they going to do?” Jack asked.
“We’re just ordinary citizens, taking in the beauty of this
country.”

“They will put a bullet in your head, tie a
concrete block to your feet, and drop you in the middle of the
lake,” Zeisler said. “Over the years, there have been other deaths.
Not like what you’ve described with Monte and Cynthia—murders.”

“Murders?” Perry stated, incredulous.
“Related to the lake?”

“The lake isn’t the issue, Mr. Sachs. It’s
what is at the
bottom
of the lake. In
fact, when your father and I were there, there was no lake at
all.”

“I don’t understand,” Perry admitted.

“I’m counting on that.”

Gleason spoke up. “So you’re not going to
help us? Not even for your friend?”

“Of course I’m going to help. I’m going with
you.” Zeisler drove his fork into the potpie.

Perry shook his head. “I’m sorry, Dr.
Zeisler, but this may be dangerous, especially if what you’ve told
us is true. It could also be very strenuous.”

“Oh, it will be dangerous and strenuous, but
I’m still going.”

“Again—” Perry started.

“Look, Sachs, this isn’t negotiable. You’re
acting like we’re bartering on a car. We’re not. You need the
information in my head, and I’m not giving it to you unless I get
to go along.”

“Why would you want to do that?” Jack
asked.

“I have my reasons.” He looked Perry in the
eyes. “I am the key to your success. I go, and you might succeed. I
don’t go, and you will fail.” He smiled. “Now eat your meal. I have
what I need in the car, and we can leave as soon as we’re
done.”

“You’re pretty sure of yourself.”

“I am much more than that, Mr. Sachs. Much
more.”

Chapter12

1974

The Suburbans stopped
near a line of pine trees
. The climb from the floor of the
high desert to the higher elevations of the mountain had changed
the view from vast openness to crowded clumps of pines. Nash and
Sanders parked the vehicles under a canopy of limbs. Henry Sachs
exited and stretched. The air was cool and redolent with the smells
of mountain plants and moist soil. The latter was the result of a
brief rainstorm. Henry had seen the clouds brooding over the
mountains when he flew in the afternoon before.

To his right, a gentle slope rose toward the
sky; to his left was another, steeper slope, leading to a valley of
tangled plants and thick trees.

“At least it’s pretty.” Cynthia stepped to
Henry’s side. “When I first arrived, I had visions of us toiling in
sand and rocks.”

“I’m opposed to toiling anywhere,” Zeisler
interjected. “I prefer to work with my mind.”