Submerged Page 3

  “Die-hard fishermen have their own ways and reasons.” Carl took a few more steps. “If I remember right, there’s a barbed-wire fence—there it is.” A rusty upright stuck up from some brush near the waterline. It angled sharply to one side. Even at a distance, Carl could see that it was old and untended. As they neared, Carl saw that the three strands of wire had been cut or rusted through, and they lay along the ground. Something white was partially buried under the dirt. Carl kicked at it, then rubbed the dirt off with his shoe.

  “Another no trespassing sign,” Janet said. “Looks old.”

  “Let’s check out the truck.”

  As they closed the distance, Carl noticed something else. Tracks. He stooped to examine them. “More boot tracks—just like the ones by the barricade.”

  “So? Maybe Mr. Barrett wore boots. It’s rough country out here. It would make sense.”

  “Look closer. There are several sizes. Same sole pattern.”

  “He brought friends. Nothing odd in that.” Janet started forward.

  “Hold on.”

  “Why?”

  “It looks like there may have been four or five pairs of boots tromping around here. That’s too many friends to fit in a pickup, and I don’t see any other car.”

  “Maybe they rode in the back,” Janet suggested.

  “Yeah, maybe, but would all the impressions be the same? Be careful where you step. For now, we treat this like a crime scene.”

  “We have no evidence of a crime.”

  “It doesn’t hurt to be cautious. If a crime has been committed, and we’ve kicked around important evidence, then we’ll hear about it from now until we retire. Just watch your step the best you can.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I say so. I’ll take the driver’s side; you take the passenger’s side.”

  Carl walked along the edge of the path, alternating his gaze from truck to the ground and back to the truck. Something inside him was churning, and he didn’t know why. He had read enough horror novels to fear finding a three-day-old corpse lying on the truck’s seat. That would put him off his feed for a while.

  The truck was dented, scratched, and battered. That was

  to be expected, Carl decided, since it was an old model.

  He guessed it was built in the early seventies. The driver’s side window was down. There was no putrid odor of decaying flesh.

  Carl looked inside.

  Nothing.

  Janet reached the passenger-side window a half step behind Carl. That window was down, as well. “No body.”

  “Not in the truck anyway.” Carl opened the driver-side door. He expected an eerie squeak from hinges too long on the job, but the door opened with no noise. A thin layer of dust covered the dashboard, steering wheel and column, and the bench-style seat. He heard the other door open.

  Janet leaned into the car. “I am going to check the

  registration.”

  “I don’t see any sign of a struggle.”

  “I appreciate your caution, but I doubt we have a crime scene.” She pushed the worn chrome button that opened the wide glove compartment. “Well, look at this. He’s orderly, I’ll say that for him. There’s just a leather folder and nothing else.”

  Carl watched her remove the small folder and open it.

  “He’s got some of those plastic pocket things in here. One for his proof of insurance, another for his registration, one for a maintenance log—”

  “I can see that. What does the registration say?”

  “Easy, Sherlock. I’m just trying to be careful and thorough. I know how obsessed with details you are.” She removed the registration. “Yup, Matthew Barrett, Henderson, Nevada. I still say that’s a long way to drive for a couple of fish.”

  “Where is he?” Carl scanned the lake again. “No Barrett, no boat, no nothing.”

  “Maybe he’s on the far end of the lake, or he motored over to the other side.”

  “I doubt his boat has a motor. No gas can in the back. I suppose it could be one of those little electric jobs, but then I’d at least expect to see an extra battery. I’m guessing a rowboat. Not that it matters. We’re here to find him, not his boat.”

  Carl stepped away from the truck and continued down the path. He searched the ground for something that didn’t belong. Movement in the water caught his eye. At first he thought it was a long pole. Then he saw it for what it was: an oar. He walked to the edge and studied it. It was like every other wood oar he had seen, except a brown slime covered it. He reached for it but stopped his hand inches away. Perhaps touching the oar wasn’t such a good idea.

  Directing his eyes along the waterline, Carl spotted the other oar a few yards away. He lifted his head and took note of the wind direction. It was blowing toward him. No doubt the wind had moved the oars to the shoreline.

  “This gives new meaning to having both oars in the water,” Janet joked.

  Carl didn’t laugh. He knew her well enough to know that joking was her defense mechanism. She must have been as unnerved as he was.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “No fisherman, no boat, too many fresh tracks, and I haven’t seen a campsite, have you?”

  “No, but he told his wife he’d be staying in Tonopah.”

  “Husbands tell wives all sorts of things that don’t happen,” Carl said. “The wind is blowing across the lake. That’s why the oars are here—assuming they were lost while Barrett was on the water. If that’s true, we may find the boat farther down the path.”

  “Or worse.”

  “Yeah, or worse.” The thought of a bloated corpse floating on the surface didn’t appeal to Carl. “Let’s go.”

  “What’s that?” Janet tilted her head to one side. “Do you hear it?”

  Carl listened. He heard it—a low rumbling that was growing louder. It was coming from behind them. He turned and saw a cloud of dust over the rise. “What . . . Who . . .”

  Seconds later a large vehicle flew over the crest of the road and barreled toward them. It was an easy vehicle to recognize. Humvees were unlike any other car. And this one was the military version. It shot past the SUV, past the old Chevy truck, and came to an abrupt halt ten feet from where Carl and Janet stood. A brown cloud of dust was launched upward.

  Carl reached for his gun. Janet already had hers drawn. She held it in two hands, its muzzle angled toward the ground. It would take less than a second for her to raise it to firing position. Four men, all armed, exited the vehicle. They wore military fatigues or BDUs—Battle Dress Uniforms. These were all black . . . not the mottled green or brown usually associated with soldiers. Carl had seen these before. The FBI and other federal agencies wore similar uniforms when the occasion called for it.

  Carl raised his gun. “Hold it right there.” He was thankful there was no quiver in his voice. While his words were rock steady, his guts were little more than Jell-O. He held a Glock 9 mm. They held much more. Carl had been trained to recognize weapons he might encounter. With the advent of gangs armed like militia, it was important to recognize the other person’s weapon. Two of the black-clad men carried M16-A2s, and the other two sported MP5 machine guns. All of them were pointed his direction. Carl didn’t like the odds.

  “I was about to tell you the same thing,” one of the men said. He had emerged from the passenger side front seat.

  As the dust cleared, Carl could see that the man was the oldest of the four but not more than forty. The other three looked in their mid- to late-twenties.

  “Lower your weapons,” Carl demanded.

  One of the younger men laughed. The older man quieted him with a glance, then approached Carl as if he were threatening him with a piece of fruit. He stopped inches from the business end of Carl’s gun. “You are trespassing and must leave now.”

  “I am a deputy sheriff for Nye County, and I am conducting an investigation.”

  “There is nothing for you to investigate here, Deputy . . .” The man’s eyes focused
on the nameplate over Carl’s right breast pocket. “Deputy Subick. Go back to where you came from, write a few speeding tickets, and forget any of this happened.”

  “Not until I’m done. Tell your men to lower their weapons.”

  “I don’t think so, pal.” The man’s voice had a rough edge to it.

  “Who are you?”

  “We are part of the United States military, and you are trespassing on government property.”

  “This isn’t government property, at least not on any map I’ve ever seen. And since when do military personnel threaten peace officers? What branch of military? Who is your commanding officer?”

  “That doesn’t matter now,” the older man insisted. “All that matters is that you and your partner double-time it back to your little SUV and beat feet out of here. Do you understand what I am saying?”

  “What is your name? What is your rank? I want to see some ID.”

  The man started to raise the MP5 he held in his hand.

  “Don’t do it, buddy,” Carl warned. “Your pals may mow me down but not before I put a small hole in your chest and a big one leaving your back.”

  “I’ll say one thing for you: You got guts.” He lowered the machine gun. “I’m Colonel . . . Lloyd. That’s all you need to know.”

  “I don’t see insignia or rank on your uniform,” Carl said. “For all I know, you’re some self-styled militia.”

  “I will tell you that we’re a special unit of the military. Now go before you make the mistake of your life.”

  Carl’s mind was boiling, trying to find an idea. He could call for backup, if the signal could make it out of the valley to one of the repeater stations. Yet even if it did, backup would be an hour or more away. He glanced at Janet, who reached for her radio.

  “Don’t do it, Deputy,” Lloyd said. “You’re stretching my patience.”

  “Turn around,” Carl demanded. “Drop your weapon. On your knees.”

  “Why? You going to arrest me?”

  “I’m placing you under arrest.”

  “You’re not serious. Look, little man—”

  That did it. Carl took a step forward, grabbed Colonel Lloyd by the shoulder, spun him around, and pressed his gun to the back of the man’s head.

  “Hold your fire,” Lloyd ordered.

  And then Carl was on the ground. He wasn’t sure how he got there. One instant he held a gun to a man’s head; the next he was facedown in the dirt. It had been a blur, but he saw enough to know his attacker had dropped to the ground and kicked Carl’s feet out from beneath him. Before he could catch his breath, his own gun was pressed into his temple.

  “I have tried to be polite, Deputy, but you’ve gone too far.”

  “Let go!” It was Janet’s voice.

  It hurt, but Carl managed to twist his head enough to see Janet facedown on the ground, two men holding her.

  The ice cold of terror mixed with scorching fury. He tried to struggle free, but his assailant was sitting on him. As he struggled, he noticed the barrel of an M16 a few inches from his head. “You had better pull the trigger, pal, because I will not forget this.”

  “You will if you ever want to work as a cop again.”

  Carl was jostled and his arms yanked back. Then handcuffs were snapped in place—his own handcuffs.

  “Disarm her,” the older man ordered. “Check for secondary weapons.”

  It was over in moments.

  Five minutes later, Janet was driving the SUV down the grade, backtracking the way they had come. Carl sat next to her, his hands handcuffed in front of him and those cuffs bound to the passenger grab bar. With no key to unlock the cuffs, Carl was helpless. Their weapons had been taken and their radios disabled.

  Lloyd’s last words were succinct. “Don’t ever touch me again, and don’t come back.”

  Carl made a promise to himself: He would return. And when he did, he’d find the truth of the matter and practice a little eye-for-an-eye justice.

  Chapter3

  A thick man with rounded shoulders and a half halo of hair around an otherwise bald head stepped through the door that stood between the ER and its lobby. He wore a white smock. Perry saw him emerge and watched him. The man looked around the room until his eyes met Perry’s. He approached. “Family of Henry Sachs?”

  “Yes, I’m Perry Sachs, his son, and this is my mother, Anna.”

  The white-smocked man then must have noticed Jack. Perry introduced him as “my good friend.”

  “I’m Dr. Hibbard. Please come with me.” The doctor started down the corridor Perry had traveled ninety minutes earlier.

  Perry had hung at death’s door several times, times when minutes passed like geological ages. But the last ninety minutes had been the longest of his life. He placed his arm around his mother’s shoulders and followed the doctor. Jack walked a respectful step behind.

  Three doors down a plaque read Conference. Hibbard pushed that door open and stood to the side, allowing Perry and the others to enter first. Then the doctor followed, closing the door after him. The room was small and painted in a glossy off-white. Overhead fluorescent bulbs flickered to life. A simulated brown leather sofa anchored one wall. Several armless matching chairs were present, as well as a cheap oak coffee table. The hospital was new, but it already showed signs of wear. This room, Perry decided, was used a lot.

  “Please have a seat.”

  Perry and Anna sat on the couch. Jack took one of the chairs, and Dr. Hibbard took another. Hibbard, however, turned his chair so the back faced Perry, then straddled it like a cowboy mounting a horse. He leaned his arms on the back.

  Perry waited as the doctor situated himself.

  Hibbard took a deep breath. “First, the good news. Mr. Sachs is alive and stable. We will be moving him to MICU in a few minutes.”

  “MICU?” Anna asked.

  “Sorry,” Hibbard replied. “Medical Intensive Care Unit. The hospital has three intensive care units: one for surgical patients, one for coronary patients, and one for medical needs. We can monitor his vitals better in an MICU, and he’ll receive more attention there than in a regular room.”

  “What . . . what . . .” Anna began.

  “What have you learned?” Perry asked. His words were calm and even, belying the storm of emotion raging just below the surface.

  “That’s the bad news,” Hibbard admitted. “I’m not going to sugarcoat this. I don’t have a clue. Neither does any other doctor in the ER. I’ve called in specialists to help. We’ll also be running more tests.”

  “You’ve never seen anything like this before?” Perry pressed.

  “I’ve been an ER doctor for a lot of years, and this is new to me. Were you with him when he fell ill?”

  “My mother was. I wasn’t there.”

  Hibbard turned to Anna. “I know this is hard for you, but can you tell me what happened?”

  She dabbed at her eyes. “We had just finished lunch. The mail came, and he was sorting out the junk from the bills and other mail. He was reading a letter when he complained of feeling odd. Then his breathing became irregular. A few moments later, he fell over on the floor.”

  “What did he eat for lunch?” asked Hibbard.

  “Tuna fish sandwich. The tuna was fresh. I ate some, too, and I’m not sick.”

  “Did he eat anything else?”

  “He had a glass of orange juice and a few Fritos. He loves Fritos.”

  “Had he showed any other symptoms before he collapsed? Had he been ill recently?”

  “No,” Anna said. “Outside of the occasional head cold or flu, I’ve never seen Henry sick.”

  “Has he ever traveled overseas?”

  This time Perry answered. “Travel is part of our business. My father has been to almost every continent and scores of countries.”

  “Recently?”

  “No, I don’t think he’s left the States in the last year. I do most of the overseas work now.”

  “Has he been taking supplemen
ts, vitamins, health food stuff?”

  Anna shook her head.

  “Is he on any medications—heart, blood pressure, anything?”

  “He hates medications. Sometimes he takes ibuprofen if his muscles are sore, or if he tweaks his back working in the yard.”

  “Is he prone to headaches?”

  Again Anna shook her head.

  “Dr. Hibbard,” Perry said, “my father may be sixty-three years old, but he is the healthiest man I have ever met, and I’ve met a great many people.”

  Hibbard nodded. “When was his last checkup?”

  Anna appeared thoughtful. “Two months ago. He’s a stickler about getting a physical every six months.”

  “And they found nothing wrong with him?”

  “Not a thing.”

  Hibbard raised a hand and rubbed his forehead.

  “Tell us what’s going on, Doc,” Perry said.

  “I wish I could. Here’s what I know. He presented with shortness of breath, hypotension, an irregular heartbeat, and is unresponsive to all stimuli. His lungs have fluid in them, and his blood . . . his blood looks . . . funny.”

  Perry raised an eyebrow. “Funny?”

  “Odd. I don’t know how to explain it. We did a blood draw, and the color of your father’s blood is darker than it should be. I’m waiting on the results of those tests. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Is he going to . . .” Anna began but couldn’t finish.

  “Die? I don’t know. We’re doing everything we can, but it doesn’t look good. Don’t give up, but you should prepare yourself for the worst.”

  Anna began to cry, and Perry pulled her close. His heart felt like it was in an oven. “Can we see him?” Perry asked.

  “Not right now. Maybe after they get him settled in MICU. He remains unconscious.”

  “What other tests are you going to perform?”

  “Every one I need to until I get some answers.” The doctor paused. “I don’t suppose anything like this has happened before in your extended family.” Perry said no. “I was puzzled by something else. We went through his wallet looking for medical alerts and the like. I couldn’t help noticing that his driver’s license is current.”