Submerged (8 page)

Gleason studied the drawing in the notebook.
“This looks like your father’s writing, but I know he can draw
better than this. What is it?”

“I don’t have a clue. It’s like he wanted to
record something only he could read.”

“Makes sense. What do you want me to do?”

“Jack is pulling together a few things for a
trip. I want you to get me as much information as you can about
these people and what they might have been doing in Tonopah,
Nevada.”

“What were the other words Mr. Sachs
used?”

“Lloyd. Lake. Dam. Nevada.”

Gleason wrote nothing down. Perry knew he
didn’t need to. The man’s memory was phenomenal.

“The Nevada part ties in with the Tonopah
picture.” Gleason closed his eyes, and Perry imagined gears and
wheels spinning. “When do we leave?”

“Jack and I leave this evening. I need you to
stay here and do this.”

“What if I’m done before you leave?” Gleason
looked wounded.

“I have a couple hours of work to do. Until
Dad is back on his feet, I’ll need to take over some of his
projects. If you can be done, then you’re welcome to come along.
The truth is, we may need you.”

“Go do your work. In the meantime, I will
amaze you with my research skills. Can you leave this notebook and
photo album?”

Perry said he could but wanted them cared for
like they were more valuable than gold. They probably were.

Night had come to the desert. Overhead was a
shimmering blanket of stars. Wind, which came more days than not,
flowed over sandy soil, down dirt and paved streets, rustled trees
in yards and desert plants in unconquered acres. Carl Subick had
hung up his uniform, put away his Sam Browne belt, and dropped his
work shoes in the closet. In their place, he wore three-year-old
Levi’s that were well broken in, inexpensive running shoes, and a
plain white T-shirt.

He was off duty now and glad for it. There
were days when being a deputy sheriff was frustrating and taxing
enough for him to consider selling life insurance, but today was
the first time he had ever felt embarrassed by the badge and
uniform.

He was angry. Beyond angry. While in the
course of his duties he had been held at gunpoint, assaulted, and
bound with his own handcuffs. He had faced a squad of men who
showed no respect for the uniform he wore, and when the story was
related to his immediate superior, it was passed over with a
dismissive wave. Carl had never seen such behavior before. Police
officers were brothers in arms and purpose, and Captain Julius
Whitaker was turning a blind eye to the crime that had injured
Carl’s pride as a man and a deputy.

Sitting in the back corner of Tammy’s Oasis,
one of the cleaner bars off of the main street, Carl composed his
resignation letter in his mind. He would never write it, and if he
did, he would never deliver it. That would be quitting, giving up
in the face of adversity. Carl Subick wasn’t a quitter. He sipped a
beer that had grown warm over the last forty minutes.

“I thought I might find you here. Find
anything interesting in that glass?”

Carl looked up through dim, smoky air. Nevada
still allowed smoking in certain public places. Carl had never
picked up the habit. Both his parents smoked a lot, and he had
inhaled enough secondhand cigarette smoke to last him a lifetime.
“I keep looking, but it’s still beer.”

Janet Novak took a seat in the booth opposite
Carl. “How many of those have you had?”

“So far just this one, but I’ve been here
less than an hour.”

“At least you’re not a guzzler.”

“It comes from being a child of alcoholic
parents. What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you. I’m not a happy camper. The
department treated us wrong. And if I’m stewing about it, I knew
you would be, too. I thought maybe we could be miserable
together.”

“Are you sure you’re not here to make certain
I don’t do something stupid?” Carl raised a hand with two fingers.
The cocktail waitress gave a nod of understanding.

“Of course I am. It’s my week to watch you.”
Janet smiled, and some of the bitterness in Carl melted. She had a
smile that caused birds to sing.

“If this were a movie, I’d blow up and shout
something about my not needing a babysitter, but the truth is, I’m
glad you’re here.” He reached across the table and took her hand.
She gave a gentle squeeze. “As long as you’re the one doing the
babysitting, I don’t mind.”

“I’m not here to babysit, Carl. I need you
right now as much as you need me.”

The waitress brought two mugs of beer and
took away Carl’s still half-full glass.

“Have you ever seen Whitaker act that way?”
Carl asked. “He’s always been a street cop’s friend. I’ve seen him
go toe-to-toe with the Old Man himself on behalf of someone in the
department. If he can go rounds with the Sheriff, then why did he
go weak in the knees now?”

“Someone got to him. Someone scary.”

“But who? Who could intimidate someone like
Whitaker? The guy has been around the block and faced his share of
bad guys.”

“I don’t know, but whoever it was found his
soft spot.” Janet sipped at the beer. Carl knew that she drank less
than he did. The beer, the bar, the darkness were all props. Carl
glanced around the room. The place was filled with a medley of
people: tired ranch hands, retail clerks, city workers, pencil
pushers, and shovel wielders. Here a person could get a drink, buy
a sandwich, and get out of the August heat. Nighttime in the desert
always brought relief. At six thousand feet elevation the small
city was spared the suffocating heat that blanketed the desert at
lower elevations. The summer daytime temperatures hovered in the
nineties, and the thinner air released captured heat faster. Las
Vegas and other cities were a different matter. In Tonopah hot was
just hot; there, it was blistering.

Tonopah was a small town with an official
population of three thousand. A few thousand more populated the
areas just outside the city limits. Nye County boasted less than
fifty thousand residents, not enough to make a decent-sized city.
Carl could recognize most of the faces in the room, and they could
recognize him. Still, a few strangers, travelers probably, were
peppered around the room, sitting at tables, the bar, or in one of
the well-worn booths.

“Do you suppose it was those guys?”

“Which guys? The ones who showed us the way
home?”

“Yeah. They didn’t much care that we wore
badges. Maybe they got to Whitaker.”

“I’m wondering if the sheriff didn’t get to
Whitaker,” Janet said. “That’s even more frightening.”

“It’s got to be some of the feds,” Carl
reasoned. “Maybe we stumbled into someone else’s
investigation.”

“You mean like FBI, ATF, that kind of
thing?”

“Maybe.”

“Why wouldn’t Whitaker just tell us that?”
Janet asked. “Why not just say, ‘Look, the Feds have something
going on up there, and we’ve been asked to give them some elbow
room’? He looked more than a little put out, if you ask me. I don’t
think he enjoyed telling us to forget the whole thing.”

“But he did, and that’s what I’m having
trouble swallowing. There’s still a man missing up there and a
family waiting to hear from us. What about them?”

“It’s not our decision. There’s nothing we
can do about it.”

Carl said nothing. Instead he ran a finger up
and down the glass handle of the frosty mug. He had yet to drink
any of the beer.

“Don’t go there, Carl,” Janet warned. “I know
that look. We’ve been told to stay out of it.”

“They handcuffed me with my own cuffs and
took my weapon.”

“Whitaker said the department would replace
everything we lost.”

He raised his eyes. “They can’t replace my
honor.”

“Oh, brother! Men and their honor. We have
nothing to be ashamed of. We were outgunned.”

Carl lowered his eyes. She was right. They
did everything they could. They played by the book, and the book
didn’t help. Two cops caught off guard by automatic-toting soldiers
or militia or whatever they were didn’t stand a chance. So why
didn’t he feel better? Why couldn’t he just accept it and move
on?

He leaned back and rubbed his eyes. The smoke
and weariness were getting to him. Lowering his hand, he opened his
eyes and looked across the table. Janet was staring at him, concern
chiseled into her features.

He offered a weak smile. “Maybe I should just
call it a night. I’m bringing you down.”

Janet shook her head. “I came here looking
for you. Stay a little longer. We can split some nachos.” She
paused. “I need you right now, if only for an hour.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the
table. “You got me.”

Finn MacCumhail had his seat belt off seconds
after the Boeing jet landed and began its taxi off the runway and
along the tarmac. He straightened his tie, ran a hand through his
hair, and took hold of his briefcase and waited. He waited with the
patience of a confident man, a powerful man, an unquestioned man.
It took less than five minutes for the Boeing to roll to a stop. He
knew that it was close to a hangar where the private craft could be
stored until called upon again. Finn even knew the hangar. He had
committed the base’s entire layout to memory, as he had its chief
personnel.

Two minutes after the wheels stopped turning,
one of the pilots emerged and opened the door. The stairs lowered,
bridging the distance from the door to the concrete tarmac below.
At the foot of the stairs stood two persons in uniform. Finn raised
his head and descended the steps.

“Mr. MacCumhail,” a trim man with piercing
eyes said. “I am Colonel Brian Cassidy. I hope you had a good
flight.” Finn knew the colonel’s height was six feet, his weight
175 pounds, and he hailed from North Dakota. He had graduated from
the Air Force Academy third in his class.

“It beats commercial airliners, Colonel.”
Finn studied the other officer, a woman, who had come to greet him.
She was two inches shorter than Cassidy.

“Major Megan Ramos, Mr. MacCumhail.” She
bungled the name, but Finn didn’t bother to correct her.

“I assume you’ve received instructions.”

“Yes, sir,” Cassidy said. “Everything is as
you’ve requested. Our base commander apologizes for not being able
to be here to meet you himself. He was called to the Pentagon.”

I know. I’m the one who
called him
. “Show me my quarters. I want to get some rest. I
leave at O-dawn-thirty.”

Finn let them take the lead. Tonight he would
sleep. He had no idea when he might sleep again.

Chapter7

Perry stood as
strong
and immovable as a marble statue. The dim light of
the MICU cubicle gave the space a depressing air. There seemed to
be too little oxygen and too little ventilation. He gazed down upon
the man who lay unmoving, skin pale, eyes open in slits that
revealed white, sightless orbs. His father’s skin seemed to have
grown whiter over the last few hours. It now hung limp on arms that
Perry always recalled as strong and dense.

A sniff from behind him reminded Perry that
his mother was near. She had remained by his side, leaving only for
the blood draw that Dr. Nishizaki ordered.

Now he was planning on leaving her. Guilt
moved in like the tide.

Perry had spoken to the doctors. Tests had
been run, more tests were scheduled to be done, and no one knew
anything. “To be blunt, Mr. Sachs,” Dr. Nishizaki had said, “your
father should be dead.”

Somehow Perry already knew that. Now he stood
by the bed, holding a hand that could not hold his back. Perry let
his eyes drift to the IV bags that hung on a stainless steel stand
attached to the bed, then his father’s vitals. No matter how well
Perry understood that oxygen tubes, catheters, monitors, and IVs
were needed, it seemed so undignified.

“I did some research on those names, Dad.”
Perry had heard that people in comas were sometimes aware of others
around them. He had no idea if that was true, but he did know that
as long as his father drew breath, Perry would do everything to
make him comfortable, including carrying on a one-way conversation.
“We’re still running down some leads, but I’ve made some of the
connections.”

He paused, as if his father would respond.
“Jack and Gleason have been helping me. They’re praying for you. A
great many people are praying for you.” He gave his father’s hand a
squeeze. There was no response. Perry felt as if all his internal
organs were shutting down.

A presence came alongside him. He didn’t need
to turn his head to know that his mother stood there, her arm
around his waist.

“I’m going to check a few things out for you,
Dad. That means I have to leave town.” Perry’s eyes began to burn,
and his stomach was ready to boil over. “Aunt Nora is going to be
here soon and will stay with Mom. I have everything taken care of,
so don’t worry about anything.” Aunt Nora was Anna’s sister.

A tear ran down Perry’s cheek and fell to the
white linen of the bed. “I will be in constant contact. I’m going
because I think you want me to. I mean, you gave me the names . .
.”

“He knows, Perry,” Anna said. “He knows.”

“But do you understand, Mom?”

“I’ve been married to your father long enough
and been your mother long enough to understand. He wouldn’t have
given you those names if he didn’t want you to do something with
them.”

Perry put his free arm around his mother and
pulled her close. “I keep changing my mind. I keep thinking that my
place is by his bedside.”

“Your place is doing what is right, whatever
that might be. If that means going to Nevada, then you must go.
Your father expended a lot of energy to say those few words.”