50
T
he front entrance of the Hop was a blur of students, even at this late hour. A small pack of dogs chased each other in circles. Two Dartmouth Security cruisers idled in front of the building and Sterling thought he recognized one of the officers but couldn't be sure in the darkness. He drove far enough that they couldn't see him, then jumped out of the Lexus and walked through one of the open doors on the side of the building. Two men were delivering what looked like boxes of paper.
A student pointed Sterling downstairs to the basement, where he found a series of bright, deserted corridors. He made two right turns before entering a dark, open area with several walls of small combination mailboxes. The lights burned on as he walked near the mailboxes and activated the motion sensors. Sterling approached the center, where the walls converged into a vortex. A sign giving the counter hours had been posted on the double doors.
A quick look at the doors and Sterling knew he was in luck. This type of lock was the easiest to pick because of the small strip of open space between the doors. Any kind of laminated or hard plastic card would do the trick.
Sterling had it within seconds and immediately began his search for Wilson's mail. The office was in shambles, with mail circulars and envelope bundles scattered everywhere. A mound of oversized boxes had been stacked along the entire back wall with return addresses as far away as China and New Zealand. Looking at the laundry tubs stuffed with postcards and envelopes, he better appreciated the unsung miracles of the U.S. Postal Service.
Sterling next raided a series of wall cabinets, expecting to find more mail, but instead discovering shelves of tape, markers, rubber bands, and other supplies. He stopped suddenly. It sounded like someone was outside. He crept close to the door and listened. A few minutes passed and there was only silence. He went back to his search, raking through the tall laundry tubs, hoping to spot Wilson's name.
Then he noticed the shelves under the front counter. Two rows of plastic U.S. Postal Service bins had been lined up along its length. Sterling's heart kicked into high gear as he pulled the bins out one by one and inspected their contents. So far so good—most of the mail had been marked for the administrative offices and department heads, which meant Wilson's mail would likely be there. And it was. Wilson's name had been written in heavy marker. The bin had been stuffed with so much mail that it barely fit underneath the bottom shelf. He slid it out into the center of the room and cleared a large circle of floor space before turning the bin on its side.
Small letters, scientific journals, sports memorabilia magazines—they all fell into a collapsing heap. There must have been a couple of hundred pieces of mail, but Sterling was looking for a specific package. He put the small envelopes and magazines off to the side, then methodically inspected the packages and larger envelopes.
That's when he found it.
Kelton had said it.
And Professor was very specific about how he wanted us to deliver our drafts. When we were done, we would copy a version onto a diskette and leave that on his desk along with a printed version. We'd also e-mail him a copy. Then as a final precaution, we'd go to the post office and mail him a copy.
Never demand of others what you don't demand of yourself. Wilson had followed the same routine and sent a copy of the paper to himself.
Sterling just stood there, unable to move his eyes past the title: “The Blackbird Papers.”
“You did it, Wilson,” he whispered. He pushed the other mail aside and took a seat in the middle of the floor.
The manuscript read more like a mystery novel than it did a scientific case report. Wilson began by detailing one of his morning nature scouts when he discovered the carcasses of two blackbirds. He was drawn to the birds because the death seemed fresh, and unlike the other dead animals he had found in the woods, these bodies were intact, untouched by scavengers, almost as if predators had purposely avoided the feast. For the next several pages, Wilson enumerated the birds he discovered, the times he found them, and their various stages of decomposition.
Wilson then dedicated an entire section to Mandryka's laboratory work and the conclusion they had drawn that too many birds had died for it to be a mere coincidence. They searched for an environmental cause, which they isolated in blood samples taken from the dead birds. Bufalin toxin was the active ingredient, but it had been combined with a novel protein that caused the entire molecule to degrade and disappear from the blood, leaving only a chemical trace if caught in time.
Then Sterling read something he hadn't heard before. Wilson reported on a series of suspicious deaths that he had reviewed in the Dartmouth-Hitchcock medical records. Over the last two years, ten people in the Upper Valley had died from “suspicious natural causes.” Only a handful of those cases had actually reached the county medical examiner's table, but a finding that either the ME had ignored or thought insignificant was that each of the corpses had an enlarged heart. The most alarming case was an otherwise healthy twenty-one-year-old woman who worked as a hiking guide. She woke up one morning, got into the shower, and dropped dead. Her body was found two days later with the water still running. Her heart, just like the others, not only showed enlargement, but a damaged electrical system, similar to what Mandryka had discovered in the blackbirds. Wilson dug even further and found that all of the “suspicious death” victims lived on property that shared the same water system running through the back of the Potter farm. The toxin had contaminated their well water.
Wilson had saved the best for last. He explained how during one of his night scouts he stumbled on an empty metal canister buried underneath a heap of fallen branches and dead leaves. On the bottom of the concave cylinder, he found the company's stamp: Sunny Fields Company. Wilson had contacted a chemist friend at Harvard and asked him to examine the canister and see if he could analyze the liquid residue. The tests confirmed what he had already expected. Highly concentrated bufalin toxin.
Sterling read the acknowledgments and paused over the name Yuri Mandryka. He placed the manuscript back in the envelope, slid it inside his jacket, and turned off the lights before closing the door. He picked up his cell phone and dialed FBI headquarters and asked to be connected to the cell phone of Agent Lonnie Brusco. A few moments later and the phone was ringing.
“Brusco.”
“In before forty-eight hours,” Sterling said.
“Are you ready?”
“All the pieces are in place.” Sterling started walking down the dark hall, but didn't notice the motion sensors hadn't activated the lights.
“Where are you?” Brusco wanted to know.
“Hanover. I'm heading to the pit.” Sterling turned the corner and walked toward the exit sign in front of the dark stairwell. He opened the door, but jumped when he felt something hard digging into his back.
“Put the phone down, Mr. Bledsoe.” The voice was deep and uncompromising. “Slowly.”
Sterling held the phone with his fingertips and slid it in his front pocket, then raised both hands above his head. The pressure in his back felt like it was going to snap a rib.
“Now slowly put your hands behind your back and put your wrists together.”
Sterling obeyed, hoping this would snuff the intense fire burning in his back. Cold metal handcuffs pinched the skin of his wrists, followed by the loud snap of sliding locks. He almost lost his balance as a powerful shove spun him around. He froze when he looked up into the meaty face of the giant mound of flesh towering over him. Bigfoot. No shawl or headband or turquoise-studded vest. Instead, he wore a khaki two-piece suit with a white shirt spread open almost to his shoulders to accommodate his massive neck.
“We need to take a little ride,” Bigfoot said, shoving the barrel of the gun so hard into Sterling's chest that he doubled over in pain. “You've been quite a busy man.”
51
T
hey rode in silence, except for Sterling's futile attempts at extracting an explanation from the stoic Bigfoot. “Kanti has your answers” was all that Bigfoot was willing to say as the small car strained up the steep mountains and rattled over the rocky dirt roads. Sterling sat crammed in the passenger seat, shoulder to shoulder with Bigfoot, his leg knocking into the stick each time the gear needed to be shifted. He thought about his options but they were limited. His feet were free, but space was so tight in the car, he'd never be able to reposition himself to get a good kick at Bigfoot or the steering wheel. Besides, what would that accomplish other than sending the car plunging down the side of the mountain or provoking a pummeling from the much larger man.
Sterling looked out into the darkness and read aloud the few signs they passed along the deserted road. Bigfoot shot Sterling a menacing look, expressing his displeasure in a low grumble that started deep in his enormous girth and got caught somewhere in the middle of his tree trunk of a neck. Sterling spotted the deer crossing signs, the same they had passed on his first trek to Kanti's house. Then it dawned on him as if a shade had been lifted in his brain. He had his answer. Kanti and Bigfoot were the last two names on the list of those who had known about the blackbirds. Last man standing held all the secrets. Sterling cursed himself for not figuring it out sooner. It all made perfect sense, the way they had enticed him with the message from Ahote and her refusal to answer his questions that afternoon when they spoke behind Mortimer's mansion. Was she part of the plan or had she truly just been the messenger?
Sterling thought of her hypnotic eyes, the color of the waves in the ocean. Strong and unforgiving. He prayed like hell that she had not been a part of all of this, but it only made sense if she had. She worked for Mortimer and worshipped with Kanti. Sterling shook his head. He should've asked more questions, done more investigating. But he was so taken by Kanti's noble presence and the stories and his calling the blackbirds from the sky. Could someone like that be caught up in such a devious and murderous plan?
Bigfoot turned the car onto a small path of tall grass and low-lying shrubs. Two other cars were parked in the clearing, but it was too dark for Sterling to make them out. Bigfoot killed the engine, then lifted himself out of the small car and thundered around to the passenger side, opening Sterling's door and ejecting him from the car like a parent snatching up a disobedient toddler. The thought of running off into the darkness occurred to him, but any escape plans Sterling might have been hatching disappeared the minute he felt the barrel of Bigfoot's gun burrowing once again between his shoulder blades.
Sterling followed the narrow path, stumbling over the rocks as the tree branches and thorns sliced through the sleeves of his jacket. They emerged from the thicket of heavy brush and stepped onto the soft grass of the open lawn. Every light in the house burned through the windows, giving it a strange, partylike atmosphere. Any minute he expected the band to start playing and the balloons to start flying. Then he stopped. He suddenly realized that he was marching to his death. He wondered if a more glorious end to his life would be attempting to run rather than simply walking to his slaughter.
“Keep it moving,” Bigfoot grumbled. He pushed the gun so deep in Sterling's back that Sterling thought if his hands were free, he could feel the nose of the barrel poking out of his chest.
Sterling stumbled forward a couple of steps, then regained his footing and walked toward the house. The door opened just as his foot struck the top step. He looked into the cold, unflinching eyes of Kanti, who greeted him with an almost imperceptible nod of the head. Kanti said something to Bigfoot in a foreign tongue, then motioned for Sterling to enter the adjacent room. Sterling wasn't surprised by the two men seated next to each other against the far wall. They had been in that same position when he first met them, their heads leaning toward each other, speaking in low tones. Mortimer was dressed for a day at the races, with his forest green blazer and a gold ascot that looked like it had taken someone hours to fold it just so. The orange flames from the burning fire bounced off of Chief Gaylor's hairless dome as if it were a video screen. He wore a black windbreaker and plaid pants, perfect for a round of golf at the club.
“So the gang's all here,” Sterling said, looking into the faces of his brother's killers. “I'm glad I could make it before the champagne is gone.”
He felt a hard shove in the middle of his back and tumbled onto the sofa.
“It didn't have to come to this,” Mortimer said. The same condescending tone, his chin slightly elevated. “We never intended for anyone to get hurt.”
“Because you never intended for anyone to find those blackbirds,” Sterling said. Kanti took a seat, but Bigfoot remained standing with the gun aimed at Sterling.
“I would've done anything for someone other than Wilson to have stumbled upon this,” Mortimer said. “Not that I expect you to believe me, but I was very fond of your brother and the tremendous service he gave to the school.”
“But not fond enough to spare his life,” Sterling said.
Mortimer let the words pass. His expression remained flat. “We wouldn't be sitting here right now if you had just listened to us.”
“The WLA was set up perfectly to take the hit.” It was Gaylor this time. His big, doughy ears twitched like a clown's when he spoke.
“It was too damn easy,” Sterling said, adjusting himself on the couch until he found a more comfortable position. “Those rednecks had no more interest in my brother than that bear's claw sitting over there on the mantelpiece.”
There was silence as wood popped in the fireplace.
“Now that we're all gathered around the campfire, maybe I can get some answers to a few of my questions,” Sterling said.
“Like?” Mortimer said.
“How did you first know that Wilson had discovered the dead birds?”
Mortimer picked up a coffee mug from the end table next to him and took a long drink. “Kanti and I have been working on this for some time,” he said. “I explained to him why we needed to control the blackbirds, and he wisely agreed.”
Kanti said nothing.
“Because they were damaging crops in the Midwest?” Sterling asked.
“You've done your homework,” Mortimer said. “That's right. We needed to find a way to kill some of those damn birds without their deaths getting traced back to us. These were perfect testing grounds, far enough into the woods where no one would notice, away from the Fish and Wildlife Service. What most people don't know is that sunflower seeds will soon be a big business, much bigger than cooking oil. We'll be using it to lubricate automobile engines. It's cheaper and more effective than what's on the market right now. And better for the environment. Kanti and his people saw the importance of protecting sunflowers from these ravaging blackbirds. We compensated them generously, and they helped collect and bury the carcasses. Unfortunately for all of us, Wilson found them.”
Sterling digested the words slowly. “So Wilson tells Heidi and she in turn uses it to blackmail you.”
“She was a very misguided young woman,” Mortimer said. “She played all of us to get what she wanted.”
“And how did you manage to get my face in that last e-mail? The one that Harry sent from the lab.”
“That was a little more difficult,” Mortimer said. “And quite costly.” He nodded at Gaylor.
“It was only a matter of time before the lab unscrambled that video and got a clean shot of our man leaving Burke that night,” Gaylor picked up. “He had gone in to get the film Professor Bledsoe shot of the dead birds. But we had forgotten about the camera surveillance, and afterward underestimated your team's ability to process a recognizable still photo from it. We knew that e-mail was coming, so we needed someone down in Washington to rearrange things for us. The name is irrelevant, but after we had agreed on a price, he was more than happy to accommodate.”
“Does that satisfy your curiosity?” Mortimer asked.
“Just one more thing,” Sterling said. “That phone call.”
“Which one?”
“The call Kay made to your cell phone. Why was Kay calling you on your cell phone?”
“Because your brother threw away thirty years of my life for a little tramp who never wanted to do anything more than manipulate him like she had everyone else.” Sterling turned toward the unlit doorway in the corner of the room. Kay walked out of the shadows and stood defiantly with her arms folded across her chest. She looked tired, as if she had aged ten years in the last couple of weeks. Maybe it was because her hair had been pulled back, but for the first time, Sterling noticed streaks of gray hair along her temples.
“I didn't want to believe it, Kay,” Sterling sighed. “I would've accepted any explanation for that call other than this.”
“And I didn't want to believe Wilson had betrayed me, betrayed us.” Her voice was starting to crack. “I found out about them almost right away. I kept asking myself how he could have done it. I'd been too good to him to be treated like that.” She began to cry. “You can't even imagine how much it destroyed me, everything we had built together.”
“But murder, Kay? After all those years? Divorce him and take what's yours. But to go along with him being murdered . . .”
Kay wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. “Look who's talking. You hated your own brother so much that the mention of his name made you physically ill. Don't sit there and preach to me like some saint. Death might be better than the kind of hurt you brought him all those years.”
These words stung Sterling. There was no denying how much pain he had caused Wilson through the years. He couldn't help but wonder if Wilson would be alive at that moment had the two of them been on better terms. He looked away from Kay and found himself once again drowning in a sea of what-ifs.
Sterling didn't notice Mortimer nod to Bigfoot.
“Let's go,” Bigfoot said, snatching Sterling to his feet. “Time for a little walk.”
Sterling knew that all of this had been leading up to something, and now he was going to find out what. He looked at Kay, but she turned her back on him and left the room. Bigfoot shoved him down a short hallway and out the back door. Kanti followed. They walked in the frozen darkness, guided only by the hazy glow of lights from the house. The night calls of the animals filled the air with the sounds of a wild kingdom. Bigfoot shoved him to the edge of the property, then ordered him to stop.
Sterling turned and could barely make out the house off in the distance. He looked down beside him and into a deep hole that had been freshly dug. A shovel stuck out of a mound of wet topsoil.
“One day, they will find me here,” Sterling said. “If I figured all this out, so will someone else.”
“But they will never find you,” Kanti said. “This is protected land, part of the Indian Reservation System that our people control. Without our permission, they have no rights to search this land. This will be your grave. And it will return you to the earth from which all life is born.”
Kanti walked behind Sterling and pulled a key out of his vest. Sterling felt the handcuffs loosen.
“It is dishonorable to kill a man whose body is not free,” Kanti said, coming around from behind Sterling. He made a small sign in front of Sterling's face, then returned to Bigfoot's side.
Sterling looked up into the sky, tracing the stars dancing on the black stage of night. He had done this hundreds if not thousands of times as a little boy, allowing his imagination to carry him to distant lands. He thought about Wilson, chased through the woods in these lonely mountains, killed like helpless prey and carved like game fowl. But at least Wilson had gone down with a fight, valiantly struggling to save his life against weapons that his bare hands could never match.
Sterling decided he, too, would fight for his life so that in death he could have honor.
“Let's make this easy,” Bigfoot said, almost as if he had read Sterling's mind. “Turn around and kneel. It will be fast.”
Sterling looked up into the eyes of the imposing man, searching them for a glimpse of compassion but finding only cold determination. He looked over Bigfoot's shoulders and into the thicket of trees and shrubbery, quickly mapping out the escape route he would try. It was likely he'd be full of lead by the time he reached the dense cover, but if he could get there without too many bullets, he might be able to outrun the enormous man and his ancient leader.
Just as Sterling turned and prepared to run, a shot cracked the still night. He felt a hard thump in his right shoulder that knocked him to the ground. The intense pain came on in seconds, burning him like the jab of a hot poker. A hail of shots rang out and Sterling looked up. He could see Bigfoot's hand jump as the pistol discharged. Bigfoot fired several times, then his body fell backward as a bullet struck his firing arm. He switched the gun to the other hand and returned fire. This time, his leg jerked as a bullet struck his thigh.
Sterling reached down to his ankle holster and pulled out the Beretta. He couldn't lift his shooting arm, so he grabbed the pistol with his left hand and emptied the entire round in Bigfoot's back. Bigfoot fought to remain on his feet as he absorbed the bullets and fell to the ground only after his legs could no longer support his collapsing weight.
As Sterling got to his feet, he realized that Kanti had fled. Sterling ran toward the house, still uncertain who had saved his life.
“You all right, Agent Bledsoe?” Lieutenant Wiley stepped out from the trees, holding his gun firmly, pointing it in the air.
Ahote soon followed. A cacophony of sirens filled the open air and swirling lights cut through the darkness as a platoon of cruisers rushed to the property. Sterling met Wiley and Ahote in the middle of the lawn.
“What took you so damn long, Lieutenant?” Sterling smiled.
“We couldn't find the place at first,” Wiley said, winded from all the excitement. “I owe you a big apology, Agent.”