Authors: Cathy Perkins,Taylor Lee,J Thorn,Nolan Radke,Richter Watkins,Thomas Morrissey,David F. Weisman
“Because of your disability.”
He recognized the fact that Cooper said that as a statement. His
source had told him.
“That’s BS! It’s a twenty-percent disability. I’ve still got all
my strength and only a minor loss in range of motion.”
“Yeah?”
“They were embarrassed
because they screwed up. They didn’t insert the proper number of agents needed
for the operation. They reduced the size of the force against my
recommendations, and I got shot.” The force of his voice kept increasing. “Then
they buried me in paper, and I quit.”
“No love lost.”
“I loved that job. It was
the politics I couldn’t stand.”
Cooper lifted the yellow tape for him and he ducked underneath
it. It was raining again as he walked towards his car.
“Keep me posted!” Cooper yelled after him.
He didn’t answer, but shut himself in the car and turned the
engine over. He sat, leaning his head against the headrest. He closed his eyes
and let the vision fill his mind. Men running. Shots ringing out. Blinding
flames. Billowing smoke. Stabbing pain.
Bowden pounded his fist against the steering wheel. “Bastards,”
he snarled as he smacked his fist against the hard rubber again.
Raindrops obscured his vision, so he turned on the wipers. The
blades cleaned away the water, which was instantly replaced by other drops.
Something is
definitely wrong with the climate here
.
He put the car in drive and pulled out into traffic. He wasn’t
far from the Miller’s house and that was where he headed.
“
Hello,”
he said quietly, and smiled. A white car had pulled up behind
him as he approached a light. Bowden made a left turn, and the car followed.
He’d picked up a
tail.
He pulled into a parking lot and made a U-turn, forcing the
other car to continue down the road. He was laughing as they drove by. He made
another left turn and caught the traffic light. Another left turn, then he
drove out to the Miller’s.
He parked in the clearing again, knowing that there were only
the two places to park unless he wanted to drive up the driveway. He was almost
certain that the tail he had lost belonged to Cooper. His training had been so
ingrained that he lost them immediately, but he wondered if it could have been Bill
Kent. Now he wished that he had forced a confrontation.
He ran his hand over his chin and felt the hairs that had been
growing for three days. He felt tired. It was because he was getting old. He
didn’t have the energy he once did. He looked out at the rain that pounded
around him, watching the large trees undulate in the heavy wind.
Taking a deep breath, he opened the car door. The wind jerked
the door from his hand, swinging it open and slamming it against the hinges.
The wet cold assaulted the bare skin of his face, making him
squint against the force of the wind. He shoved the door closed and walked into
the woods, knowing he was going to get cold and wet while he waited for the
Miller house to empty. At least this coat was warmer than his first one. He
needed to get inside, with enough time to thoroughly search the place. He
squeezed his left arm against his side, unconsciously checking his gun. His
right hand fingered his lock picks.
He huddled beneath a big fir tree, which completely shielded him
from the wind. Large drops of water dripped from branches high overhead and
splattered against his clothes. The ground that he stood on consisted of rotten
pine needles, causing it to be very soft and loose. He realized that deep
grooves were forming where he shifted his feet, but he didn’t care. No one was
tracking him and the police were too lazy to canvass the area this far from the
house.
Three hours passed very slowly. He rubbed his red nose with the
back of his hand, remembering the last time he had watched the house for a
chance to get in. That watch lasted about 52 hours. He prayed this one wouldn’t
be as long. He didn’t have the time.
The front door swung open, and a lithe figure stepped out,
bundled against the elements. She made a dash for the only vehicle in the
driveway, a white Acura Integra. There was a series of hurried movements as a
clumsy attempt was made to enter the vehicle. An attempt hampered by woolen
mittens. He recognized the girl. It was Tara Miller. He didn’t know where she
was going and was unable to guess by the clothes that she wore.
The exhaust pipe billowed out a white cloud. The Acura jumped
forward, turned, and sped away from the house. He watched it disappear and
waited for five minutes, just in case Tara returned to retrieve a forgotten
item, then he jogged to the front door. The lock surrendered to his picks much more
quickly the second time, and the door swung open.
The warm air hit Bowden’s cold face, and his eyes began to
water. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, locking it and securing
the deadbolt. He shoved back the hood of his coat and ran his hands through his
black hair, raising it up in odd places and probably causing it to look like a
disheveled shag carpet. He hurried to the office. He hated working this way,
not knowing how much time he had and not having someone to watch the road and alert
him of a returning vehicle.
The file cabinet was free standing with four drawers. Bowden
opened the top one. It contained bank statements, insurance claims, and
financial records, all belonging to the Millers.
He closed it and opened the next drawer down. He leafed through
the files, looking for something with Fonck’s name on it. The third drawer
contained property records and he pulled them out. He found original purchase
papers and building permits from when Pierre Fonck bought the land in 1920. Fonck
listed a billing address in New York. Tax records showed that the house had
been completed in 1923.
He rubbed the stubble on his jaw and asked himself a question.
Was
the house built in preparation for Pierre’s exit from Wall Street?
Pierre had three sons and the house was left to the oldest son,
Flavio. Flavio had three sons and a daughter, Kay. Two of the sons were dead;
the third was Vincent Fonck. Vincent had two sons that he hadn’t seen in years.
Kent was the oldest, with a constantly growing rap sheet. The younger son,
William, managed to keep his record clear, even though he hung around Kent.
Chase kept searching the old papers, looking at the names and
jotting down the connections in his notebook. There were still a lot of blank
spaces in the family tree.
Family. He looked up from the files and his gaze settled on the
wall across from the desk but he wasn’t seeing anything. His mind was working
on the Fonck family. It was a big family with a hidden secret that was
partially exposed. They were starting to realize that Grampa Flavio had a lot
more money than anyone expected. He suspected that money came from Pierre.
Bowden took a deep breath and blew it out through tight lips.
Sam Riley’s investigation of Pierre Fonck was based on a conspiracy to crash
the market when a group of insiders sold millions of shares while the market
was inflated. That was in 1929. The tax records showed the house as a vacation
home until the 1930 estate taxes listed it as a primary residence.
He stuffed the heavy file back into the drawer and slowly closed
it. He stood with his hand on the handle for several seconds. It looked like
the house and property had been built in preparation for the crash. It was in
an isolated area, well away from the horrific effects that the resulting
depression would have had on the major cities.
He wondered if Pierre ever thought that the Great Depression
would reach all the way across the United States. Would he have realized that
it would last until 1941? Was it even possible for a group of people to set up
the stock market for a crash? Many laws had been passed since then to keep it
from happening again.
A shadow flittered across the wall. It moved towards Bowden and
he watched it intently before realizing that it wasn’t a shadow being cast, but
a vague gray form.
His throat constricted, choking his voice. “Riley?”
A faint whisper returned to him. It was an answer to his
question.
“Yeahhhhhhh.”
“What’s wrong? Why can’t I hear you?” Bowden asked, taking a
step closer to the wavering form.
“Toooo light,” was the soft reply.
Bowden closed the window blind and shut off the lights. Riley’s
image took on a stronger form. The bluish skin tone and gaunt features reminded
him of their first encounter.
“I found the painting,” Riley said, his voice hollow.
Excitement flooded Bowden and his heart rate jumped. All
tiredness vanished.
“Where?”
“In the bunker.”
“What bunker?”
“Well, I guess it’s a bomb shelter. It’s under the house.”
“How do you access it?”
“The stairs… through here,” Riley explained, as he stepped
through the bookcase in the office.
Bowden watched as Riley disappeared into the wall. He stepped
over to the bookcase and ran his fingers along the edges. It was really old and
made of hand-carved wood. Numerous shelves were divided and subdivided by
ornate columns. New books had been stacked in with the old.
Riley’s head appeared from the bookcase and he looked over at
Bowden before stepping out. “Sorry about that.”
Riley pointed to a small shelf near the right side of the
bookcase and about five feet off the floor. “Pull this shelf straight out,
about an inch.”
Bowden grabbed the shelf and pulled. It slid easily in unseen
groves. The four hardbacks on the shelf slid out with it.
Riley pointed at an identical shelf about two feet below it. “Now
this one.”
He pulled and it slid forward.
“Those were the latches,” Riley explained. “Now, grab this
column and pull the bookcase away from the wall. It’s hinged on the left.”
Chase gripped the column that Riley indicated and pulled gently.
The bookcase swung away from the wall. It was well balanced and moved easily.
He looked into the entry that had been created. A steel door, hinged on a
concrete floor was open and propped against the opposite wall. The hole in the
floor was four feet square, with stairs leading down.
He stepped in and pulled the bookcase closed. A handle was
mounted to the back of the case and two levers were accessible to latch the
case closed. He could tell that the movement of the levers not only latched the
door, but pulled the shelves back in.
He stood in complete darkness. He couldn’t see the wall that his
hand rested on. He couldn’t even see his hand or the stairs that he knew were
at his feet, but he could see Riley perfectly.
“This is weird,” he muttered.
Riley shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah, I’d forgotten about this. No
one’s used it for so long, that I didn’t think the Millers even knew it was
here. Flavio used it from time to time, that’s how I knew how to open it. I’d
seen him do it a couple of times.”
“No. I was talking about you. I can see you, but I can’t see
myself.”
“Oh?” Riley laughed.
“What?”
“It’s kind of like, you’re the ghost.”
Bowden shivered. “Don’t say that.” He dug into his pocket and
wrapped his fingers around his penlight. He flicked it on and the beam caught
Riley in the eyes. The narrow beam of light caused Riley’s head to disappear, although
the rest of his body remained visible.
“Whoa!” Bowden exclaimed, taking an involuntary step backwards
against the wall and redirecting the light into the hole at his feet.
“What?”
“Uh, nothing.”
The steps leading down were very steep and he had to duck to
clear the edge of the floor. The room they entered was a perfect twelve-foot
cube. Shelves ran along two of the walls from floor to ceiling and were almost
completely bare. A small table with an old chair stood at the far end of the
room. The painting rested on the table, leaning against the wall. A single 60-watt
bulb hung from an outlet in the center of the room.
He followed the exposed wiring to a switch on the wall and
flipped it on. Nothing happened. He flipped it a couple more times and ended up
leaving it off. The bulb was probably burned out.
Riley walked to the desk and sat on the corner, looking at the
painting propped there. “This is the painting that everyone is so anxious to
get hold of. I remember watching Mr. Fonck… Flavio, paint the thing.”
Chase walked slowly towards the painting, taking it in as a
whole. It was painted from the point of view of a sailor on a boat looking
across the waves to a rocky cliff covered with trees. The forecastle of the
boat and some of the instrument panel and instruments were visible, as the
sailor or captain looked out the window. The window of the boat framed in the
landscape.
“The value is in the painting,” Bowden quoted as he rested his
hand on the back of the chair.
“What’s that?”
“The will that Flavio left stated that he ‘placed great value in
the painting.’”
“Do you think that this is an actual landscape?” Riley asked.
“It could be.” Chase pulled the chair out and sat down. “But how
many linear miles of coast are there?”
“Well, it is a rocky cliff. That should cut it down a lot.”
Bowden rubbed the stubble on his chin, as he searched the
painting for clues. The compass was visible, indicating a northwest heading.
The depth gauge registered 15 fathoms.
“What’s a fathom? Five, six feet?”
Riley leaned over and looked at the painted gauge. “Six feet, I
think.”
“Ninety feet of water. That’s not much help. Every place around
here is going to have ninety feet of water.”
“I’m guessing the green tint to the water means it’s the ocean.
At least that’s what I’ve been assuming.”
“Yeah. So what’s northwest of here?”
“The San Juan Islands.”
Chase turned the penlight to the lower left hand corner of the
painting where the edge of a map could be seen. He rose from the chair and
leaned across the desk to look at it more closely, hoping to find the Islands
painted in.
The corner of the map had been painted in detail, there just
wasn’t any information to be garnered from it. Lines on the edge indicated
nautical miles and the topography of the ocean floor was evident, but it was
such a small piece of the page that no landmark was shown. The whole rest of
the map was off the edge of the painting.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve been looking at it all morning. There are
obviously some clues here: the compass heading, the depth of the water and the
lay of the land. But why would he paint all of this in detail, and then paint a
map where the only thing you can read is the page number?”
Bowden slid the chair back and stood up. He took a couple steps
back from the table and looked at the picture again. He ran his hand through
his hair and nodded to himself. It all had to be here. The will only mentioned
the painting.
“Wait a minute. The boat is in the painting. Maybe we are
looking at this all wrong. Maybe the money is not on the land but in the boat
that the person is looking from.”
Riley jumped off the table. “Flavio had a boat. Yeah. The
Treasure Trove.” He spun around and looked at the painting again. “The Treasure
Trove!” he shouted again, slapping a fist into his hand. There was no noise and
he paused a moment to look at his hands.
“Aptly named,” Bowden mused. “I think Kay said that Flavio
sailed out of Everett.”
“That would put him closer to the San Juans.”
Chase paced up and down the little room. His mind raced through
the facts that he knew, tying little things together. The burglary that Barry
Miller reported never happened. Whoever put the painting in the room had
intimate knowledge of the house. There was no way that the room had been found
accidentally. That meant that Barry and Kay were involved, and probably Tara.
One of the other relatives might have known, but they would have looked in the
cellar.
If Barry moved the painting, he could have killed Adam. Michelle
was still missing. If Barry abducted her, the best hiding spot for her would
have been in the cellar… she never would have been found. So, Bowden concluded,
Michelle was involved. Then where would she be? He only had one guess. The
boat.
The deafening sound of the steel door slamming shut echoed in
the small, concrete room. Bowden jumped. He flicked the penlight off and dove
to the floor, drawing the Glock from the holster. He watched the stairs,
wondering if someone had stepped in and closed the door behind them. A brief
second of total silence in the total darkness convinced him that someone had
slammed the door and locked them in.
He flicked the light on and ran up the stairs. He slowed as he
reached the top, his heart pounding violently in his chest. He ran his tongue
over his lips as he put his arm over his head and pushed up on the door,
testing it. It didn’t move.
He flicked the light off and stuffed it in his pocket, then
fastened the Glock into his holster. He turned around so that he was facing
downstairs and, bent over double, scooted up onto the fourth step. He pressed
his back flat against the door, his legs bent beneath him. He sucked in a deep
breath, exhaled, took another breath and shoved. His muscles strained… burned.
The joint in his left knee popped. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth as
he strained to lift the steel door.
Nothing moved.
He groaned as he slid out from under the door. His back ached.
He turned the penlight on and searched for a latch. There wasn’t one; just a
heavy metal bar that could be slid into place to prevent people on the outside
from opening it. That bar wasn’t keeping the door shut; something else was…
something on the outside.