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Conclusion
May 4th, 2002
What would we do without our toys? Diane has hers, and I have mine. My toys tend to be a little more obscure, but they're just as much fun. The disk that I had Molly plant in her husband's holster is an acoustic transmitter. It's designed to pick up both touch tone frequencies and voice frequencies. It's sensitive enough to pick up the voice on the other end of a phone handset -- if it's planted on the body somewhere and if the user doesn't press the ear piece too hard against the ear. It's powered with a battery the size of the head of a pin, has a transmit range of about 500 ft, and will work for about a week.
The other toy, the one I planted on the balcony of the hotel, is a transponder. It receives the signal from the acoustic transmitter, compresses the voice stream and saves the audio to a small hard disk. It can store about 50 hours of compressed audio. It can record and transmit simultaneously. The solar cells can keep it running for a long, long time. I access it via a wireless network on a classified frequency. Ah, yes, the Feds have their own wireless system too. My license to use that network costs me a bundle each year, but it pays off, usually saving someone's skin. Diane can log onto that national network in San Jose with my account and password, connect to that little box, and download audio at about -- a megabit per second? Pretty fast anyway.
The drive back to San Jose with Molly was uneventful. She slept a lot, and when she wasn't sleeping, she was eating something we'd stopped for or was mumbling about how her life had taken a turn for the worse. She'd started out as a waitress in one of the other Las Vegas hotels, but her talent for numbers and memorization came to the attention of the owners when they visited the bar, and that got her a job running the blackjack table. Later, she switched to better pay at the Star Trak, and that's when she met Cal two years ago. They were married four months later.
Cal made enough money that Molly didn't have to work anymore, so she tended to spend her days taking tennis lessons and shopping. But things were never completely calm with Cal. He'd come home tense and angry. He would complain about her credit card bills. Fights started and some mild beatings somehow got started. Not enough to make her run away instantly, but enough to make her ready to. She became withdrawn and tense, and that upset Cal even more. She suspected he was seeing another woman at the hotel.
On the way, I called Leslie in Family Services in San Jose and told them I had Molly, and we would be arriving late, after business hours. Then I called Diane and gave her an E.T.A. When we got to Family Services, about 6 pm, Leslie was waiting, and we unloaded the Rover. Molly looked very, very calm and happy. I knew Leslie would take good care of her. Another wounded bird saved by the carrier of the strong force.
I wasn't hungry when I got home. I'd been nibbling during the drive, so Diane and I sat down in her office to download some audio. While she was downloading, I filled her in on Molly and Cal Freeler and my adventure in Vegas. On her first pass through the downloaded data, the first three hours after I turned on the system, she scanned for touch tone frequencies. After just a few minutes, Diane turned to me and said, "This was recorded this morning at 11:25 am, Vegas time." She clicked on the mouse, and we heard an exchange after some touch tones from her computer speakers.
[Freeler] "Got a guy poking around here. Maybe a P.I. He mentioned Samura."
[Unknown, faint] "What's your assessment?"
[Freeler] "He was big and stupid. I was a dead end. He went away empty handed."
[Unknown, faint] "You get a plate?"
[Freeler] "Bell Captains did. SUV belongs to a Manuel Martinez in San Jose. That's all I could dig up for now."
[Unknown, faint] "Ignore him. Stay with plan A."
That was all. Diane turned to me. "Big and stupid, huh?"
"I never pass up a chance to let a man like that underestimate me. Did you convert the touch tones?"
"Of course! It's in area code six-five-zero. That's not far from here. Give me a few minutes and I'll get a name. There's some fresh ham and onion quiche. Help yourself."
The thought of Diane's quiche made me hungry again. While I nibbled on a piece in the kitchen, I called Will's house on our house phone. Ken answered. "Max here. Everything okay?"
"Just fine."
"I think there's going to be another attempt on Will. Soon. They're calling it Plan A. Whatever that is. Be careful."
"I will."
"Put Will on, please."
Will came to the phone. "They're not going to publish it!"
I had to play catch up. Then it clicked. "Good," I said relieved.
"Dr. Kaiser called from the Astrophysical Journal. He said the paper was 'fundamentally flawed' and he wouldn't even pass it on to the referees."
"The bad guys seem to be proceeding with Plan A against you."
"What's that?"
"I wish I knew. Now would be a good time to get some telescope time in Puerto Rico. Plant Rachel with relatives. Secondary relatives. Not parents."
There was silence for about five seconds. "I'm going to post the paper on the Internet tomorrow. A very widely read site. In a few days, the abstract will show up at arXiv.org."
I didn't understand, but I knew that was geek talk for some science Website. Will wasn't listening. I hardened my voice. "Will, we can protect you from amateurs, like Samura. In the right circumstances, even from pros like Kurt O'Meara. But not everyone and not indefinitely. They tried to scare you off. Next time, it will look like an accident. Are you listening?"
"But..."
"Frankly, we took this case because we didn't want to attend another one of your family funerals. Think about Rachel."
"Sounds like I'm in danger whether I publish or not. I might as well get it posted. I'll send Rachel to Albuquerque. Her aunt lives there."
I could think of nothing to do but hang up abruptly. I put the handset down fairly hard, expressing my dissatisfaction. Will just wasn't going to listen.
Diane came into the kitchen and handed me a piece of paper.
"Bingo. Anything else on the download?"
"I'm up to 6 pm. There was a lot of screaming and cursing by Freeler when he got home and Molly's things were gone. Nothing else of interest."
"Keep downloading tomorrow. See if you can get a clue on Plan A."
"You got it," Diane said. But her look belied her customary enthusiasm. She must have overheard me talking about funerals.
Later, I loaded up the Rover and the Honda with motion sensors and double-checked all the alarms and radars. It was time for the kickoff of Plan A, and Will had elected to receive.
I did not sleep well.
Early on Friday morning, I called Will and told him that Diane and I were coming over right away. We wanted to stay close for the next 24 hours. We took the Honda, just to be inconsistent, and I drove. It was another beautiful, blue sky morning as we cruised up 680, but the early morning traffic slowed us down a little. Diane and I didn't talk much, preferring to gaze at the green hills around Pleasanton and Dublin. Diane had her iBook on her lap as usual, and she worked away, doing things that I will never understand. The S-2000 hummed like a Swiss watch and floated along in its usual composed and unflappable way.
When we got to Will's house, things looked fairly quiet. I double-checked with Ken on my cell before we entered and everything was cool. We sat around the kitchen table and refined our strategy. Ken would continue to ride to work with Will and remain close but out of sight. Diane would stay with Rachel, and I would cruise around in the Honda, never too far away. I set up another set of motion sensors around Will's house and wired them into Diane's radio receiver, actually another neat toy, a necklace she wore around her neck.
I got to know the streets of Walnut Creek really well.
Friday afternoon, Diane called. Rachel had to go to the Safeway before she left town. They waited until I could rendezvous, and I followed them to the Safeway. Rachel drove so Diane could ride shotgun.
Nothing. Nada.
When Will and Ken got home about 6:15 pm, we turned the necklace over to Ken, and Diane and I drove home. I was getting increasingly tense. Soon, Plan A would erupt. Diane easily noticed my fretfulness as she drove us home, knowing what I was thinking. "Actually," she said out of nowhere, "it should have been Plan nine."
"Huh?"
"Plan nine from outer space."
How can she say things like that so matter-of-factly? "I haven't a clue what you're talking about," I said, shaking my head.
"Yeah, but at least I have you talking. Let me tell you about this movie..."
And she did. And I was amazed. And soon we were home.
Every Saturday morning, when the weather permits, I do laps in the pool. I had just started and decided I didn't like the water temperature. With all the activity lately and Manuel gone, we weren't attending to the pool properly. I got out, shivering, and reached for a towel.
That was when I heard a crash in the kitchen and a scream. Diane's scream.
Without thinking, I ran to the kitchen screen door and yanked it open. On the far end of the kitchen, Cal Freeler was standing behind Diane, holding his hairy left arm around her neck and a .45 automatic to her head with his right hand. The hammer was back. Of course, I was admirably equipped for combat action, standing there stupidly in my swim trunks, dripping wet.
Freeler squinted at me. "Good morning, mister Hadron. Have a nice swim?"
"Sure. Care to join me?" I smiled.
"Maybe. Right after I take from you what you took from me."
I laughed out loud, and Diane knew the signal. She clamped her left hand on the gun trigger and brought her right elbow up smartly, outside of Freeler's right arm and caught him on the side of the head. She rotated clockwise and turned away from him, trying to pull the gun away. But it fell to the floor. Cal Freeler was amazingly fast. The blow staggered him, but he still managed to kick the gun along the floor, away from me. It skittered into the living room, out of sight. At the same time, he brought his own elbow forward and caught Diane on the back of her head.
She crumpled to the floor. Cal Freeler squared off at me and sized me up for a second.
Of course, I was banking on his previous perceptions of me that I had so carefully created. Big, slow, sleepy, and clumsy. I backed away as he charged with a big grin on his face. I gauged my distance from the kitchen cabinets. Brimming with overconfidence, he got six feet away, yelled a kiai, and threw a Karate kick right at my head. Of course, this is the classic move that everyone makes in the movies, and it is, of course, instantly fatal for the attacker in real life.
I stepped aside to his right much more quickly than Freeler had counted on. His kick went right past me, and I stepped into him from the side. With every pushup I have ever done behind it, I threw my right elbow into his temple and stepped back. Freeler came to a stop, froze, and dropped to his knees. It felt like Kuwait all over again. I could sense his brain bouncing around in there and his eyes drifting into a glaze. On his knees, he reached down and fumbled around the cuff of his pants. Probably a knife. He knew he had only a few seconds of consciousness left.
Still at his right side, it only took about a second for me to wind up and throw a wheel kick. I put my shin squarely into his throat. Cal Freeler fell back against his legs and slid a few feet on the hardwood floor. He came to a stop and did not move. In a few seconds, rasping sounds started to come from his throat as his unconscious body struggled for air that was not going to come.
My attention turned to Diane. I lifted her up, took her into the living room and placed her on one of the couches. When I came back into the kitchen for a wet towel, Freeler's body was convulsing. I soaked a dish towel in cool water, went back to Diane, and placed in on her forehead. I gently opened an eyelid, and her pupil contracted in the light. Her breathing was deep and regular.
When I went back to the kitchen, I saw the throwing knife on the floor that had been pulled from Freeler's boot. It was a nasty looking knife. A very heavy throwing blade. I had been perhaps two seconds away from dying on the kitchen floor along side this intruder. I picked up the knife, went over to Freeler, and placed it against his throat as I searched for a pulse. But he was very still. No pulse. No respiration. Just 250 pounds of hate gone awry.
I went to the phone and called Bryan Whitcomb. When I hung up, Diane was standing in the doorway to the living room. "Looks like the good guy won."
A grunt was all I could manage. It wasn't by much this time.
After the police left and the emergency room staff declared that Diane did not have so much as a concussion, and we were home again, we called Will. In the spirit of inconsistency, I wanted them out of their house for awhile, so we invited everyone over for dinner later and to stay the night. Rachel's flight would be on Sunday, so she packed and brought her suitcase.
Cal Freeler was, indeed, a security expert. He was able to connect Manuel to me, which is hard to do, and he did a very good job of finding the one weakness in my security system and had exploited it. I spent the rest of the afternoon applying a remedy and confirming the design with one of my consultants. It would not happen again.
Lucky for me, Cal Freeler was also all too accustomed to beating his wife and muscling unruly, drunken hotel guests. His final, careless, close encounter was with someone he seriously underestimated. Regrettably, I had probably closed a door with that wheel kick, but survival comes first. No time to think about anything else during a fight with a man like that.
Ken deployed some more toys and booby traps in the Pattersen's house, just to make sure that when they got back home there would be no surprises. Diane prepared one of her feasts inside while I worked on some barbecue ribs on the patio grill next to the pool. I worked on a couple of icy cold Samuel Adams darks and tried to ignore the pain in my elbow. As I poked at the ribs, I realized that this was probably not part of Plan A. Cal Freeler had likely strayed outside the play book, angry that a stranger had whisked Molly away. How would Plan A evolve? Would Freeler's death stall it? Or accelerate it? How high would the trail lead in the government? Who's funeral would be next?
I can't wait to retire in the Virgin Islands. Lie on the beach all day. Sip on Rum. Gaze at Diane's lovely brown legs. Sleep in every day.
After dinner, Rachel and I wandered outside and sat on the recliner chairs next to the pool. The underwater lights lit up the pool and created a beautiful, shimmering blue rectangle in the evening twilight. The stars were coming out against a cobalt sky. Inside, Diane was pumping Will about what kind of telescope to get. Ken was still eating ribs.
Rachel's eyes were getting misty. She pulled out a small pack of Kleenex and blew her nose. "Max, I'm worried to death about leaving. If I stay, I'm just in the way, and Diane can't baby sit me forever. If I leave, I might not ever see Will again. I don't know what to do, and I don't see any end to this."
"I've tried to get Will to leave the country for awhile. He won't listen. He has to follow his own path. I know how you feel, but the best thing is for you to go to Albuquerque. It'll be easier for us to watch over Will. It's really the best thing..."
"Do you think mister Feeler... Freeler is the end of this?"
"No. Rupert Samura was a pawn. Cal Freeler was a Knight, directing the pawns. In my estimation, things are just getting started. We have a lead to a government employee. He might be the King or he might just be a Rook. I'm not sure I want to play this game."
"What do you think will happen?"
"Sooner or later, Will is going to die if he doesn't start looking after himself."
Rachel paused, and her eyes widened. "He trusts you, Max." Rachel blew her nose again and stuffed the Kleenex into her pocket. "He trusts you too much. After Scott O'Meara tried to kill us last year, he believes you can protect us forever."
"You know I cannot. Neither can Ken."
"And so, Albuquerque is not just a precaution, is it? It's really good-bye."
"Unless you can convince him otherwise."
"I've tried. Believe me. There is no one more pigheaded than Will."
"Then get on a plane and protect yourself."
Rachel took this in for a long time. She put her head back on the recliner and stared up at the stars for several long minutes. Presently, her tears dried up and she stood. "It's getting cool," she said. "Let's go inside."
When we walked into the living room, I heard the tail end of the conversation between Diane and Will. Something about how eight inches is best and Al Nagler is the best. I thought they were talking about telescopes. Anyway, I didn't even think about getting involved in that conversation, no matter the subject.
It had been a long day, and so we showed Will and Rachel to the guest quarters. Ken and I took another walk around the perimeter and double-checked everything. Through the gate, I saw a black and white cruise by slowly, a thoughtful addition to our security thanks to Bryan. Ken slept on a couch.
For the first time in years, I slept with my shoulder holster on and a round in the chamber of the H&K.
On a quiet Sunday morning, after hugs and kisses, Ken and Diane took Rachel to the airport. I got the pool set up to my satisfaction and did a lot of laps, trying to work out my frustrations -- as well as the stiffness in my elbow. Sunday afternoon Ken and I watched ice hockey. Diane and Will geeked out.
Will went to work on Monday, and we decided it was safer to let electronics watch the Pattersen house than to do any house sitting and become a sitting duck. All the sensors indicated that nothing much happened during the day except that the mail was delivered. Tuesday was a repeat. I was beginning to think that if Johansen was the source of it all, Freeler's death might have put an end to his shenanigans. But I wasn't ready to confront the bureaucrat. Bryan Whicomb did us a favor by keeping the event in our kitchen quiet. No reporters, no news. Even so, Johansen would finally figure out Freeler was dead and would try to find out how. All a visit now would do is make his task easier and quite possibly bring the focus onto Diane, That wasn't going to happen. Further activities would require a more indirect approach.
On Wednesday, March 13th, I was washing the Rover in the drveway. Ken called about 9:30 am.
"I have bad news. Will is dead."
I sighed. It hit me hard, and yet there was a certain resignation about it. "What happened?"
"Apparently, he opened a package and a bomb inside exploded. There isn't much of him left. There isn't much of his office left."
"Where were you?"
"I was in the library, about thirty feet away. I was almost buried by a thousand pound bookcase. What do you want me to do?"
"Nothing. Walk away. Go home."
The funeral was on Saturday morning. Rachel was back from Albuquerque. It was cool, and there was a wet, foggy mist. Diane and I attended, holding our umbrellas, but we kept our distance. After the service was over, Will's parents, who had been eyeing me during the funeral, walked over to us.
"You again," the senior Pattersen said with a scowl.
I took a deep breath and bit my tongue. Diane, who is better at these things, took over. "We are deeply sorry," she said.
"This is the second funeral in less than a year in my son's family. Somehow, you two always seem to be involved. It's a terrible thing. You shouldn't have come here."
"We did our best to protect your son," Diane said calmly. In my own head, I could hear myself add, "That is, your pigheaded son."
"Well you did a lousy job," Mrs. Pattersen added. "I think it would be best if you stayed well away from Rachel. If you even talk to her again, we will call the authorities." They both stared at us with wet fire in their eyes, and then, together, they turned curtly and walked away.
It was Monday, March 18. Diane and I were having lunch in town and doing some shopping. I got a call from Brad McGovern up in The City. He asked if we could come up and visit. It was urgent. So we hopped back in the Honda, put the top down, and cruised into town. When we walked into Brad's office, he was poring over a photograph. Diane and I sat down.
Brad looked up. "Hey. Max. Diane. How are things?"
"My elbow's better. Diane's headaches are gone. We need a vacation. So what's up?"
Brad frowned at this and slid a photograph across his desk. "Here, take a look at this. I'm sorry to hear you're hurting."
Diane and I put our heads together and looked at a very crisp 8 x 10 black and white photo, taken from a ceiling camera, of a woman at a Post Office counter. "Looks like Rachel Pattersen," I said.
"Yep. That photo was taken in an Albuquerque Post Office on Monday, March 11th, at eight forty in the morning. It shows Rachel Pattersen mailing a package to Will's office Zip code."
I interrupted. "How can you tell that from this photo?"
"Every package is weighed and the computer calculates the postage to the destination Zip code. It was priority, with a delivery date of March thirteenth. At that time, a photo is snapped with a date time log and the counter number. Here's the printout."
Diane and I were amazed. We stared at the photo for a long time, and it really looked like Rachel. But it couldn't be Rachel. "Rachel was totally freaked that she would never see Will again. She couldn't have done this. And she knows nothing about bombs. And even if she did, she couldn't get one ready that fast. She had just arrived in Albuquerque the afternoon before." Diane took the photo to look closer while I engaged Brad. "I'm serious Brad. This is a setup. We know Rachel too well."
"I have photographic evidence. I can't ignore it."
"This is not Rachel," Diane said very suddenly and boldly. "The woman in this photograph is wearing a wedding ring."
"Of course she is," Brad said and shrugged.
"Max, remember when I took Rachel to the Safeway? When was it? Friday the... the eighth? She went to pick up a prescription for a rash on her hands. She'd picked up something in the garden. She wasn't wearing her ring then, and she told me she hadn't worn it in several days."
"Maybe the rash got better?" Brad suggested.
"In three days?" I tried to control my tone. "I doubt it. Look Brad, don't you see what's happening here? Someone wanted Will dead. I think I know who it is now. And clearly, they'd like to divert attention from themselves while the state goes after a false lead. It has setup written all over it."
"You think you know who did it? Tell me more."
I decided that it was time to give Brad a briefing. I spent fifteen minutes and told him everything that had happened over the last two weeks. Including how I'd banged up my elbow.
"My, my, old friend. You really have been very busy. Don't you think it's time we took this over?"
"I want you to," I said.
"Max, here's how I see it. There's been a murder. It was conducted with a bomb via a Federal facility. I have a photograph of the person who sent the bomb."
I stood up abruptly.
Brad paused and looked out his window. "Nevertheless, I'll grant you this. You've given me plenty of reasons to doubt the photo. Let me work on this. I'll assign an investigator that I know you'll get along with. You can assist, but not lead. We'll see if we can clear Rachel and find out more about this Johansen fellow. And follow the trail where it may go. But I make no promises."
Diane and I looked at each other and she nodded. It was the best we could hope for.
That evening, Diane and I were relaxing. I had just finished popping a couple of Advil for my elbow, and Diane was in her office. I was trying to read a book we'd picked up that morning, Astronomy for Dummies, but it made my head hurt more than my elbow.
I wandered into Diane's office to see what she was up to. She was at her computer, glass of lemonade at her side, and printing what looked like star maps.
"So what's up?"
"Star charts. I'm setting up an observing program."
"They look funny. Why are the stars black on a white sky?"
"Saves ink. Easier to read in the dark. Will taught me that."
I leaned over to take a look, but when I put my hand on the table, I bumped her glass of lemonade. Some of it spilled on one of her maps. It was a dreadful lemon sky. "No problem," Diane said. "I'll print another."
"Did you decide on a telescope?"
"Yeah. An eight inch Schmidt-Cassegrain. Eight inches is all I can handle."
At that, I smiled, didn't say a word, and flopped onto the couch next to her desk. Soon it would be time to take the next snap and try to clear Rachel. If she would let us. Poor woman. She'd lost her daughter and then her husband. I guess Will was just too nosy, too curious, too stubborn. Too smart. But it wasn't his fault people couldn't deal with his discoveries.
I know two things. We won't ever forget Will Pattersen. And if humans really are all alone in our galaxy, it's a pretty sorry galaxy. I looked up at Diane. "Think you can handle me?"
Diane turned from her funny looking computer, the one that looks like an oversized make up mirror, and slid off her chair. She dropped on top of me, pushed me down into the couch, and smothered me with kisses.
"Always," she said and ... well, the rest is classified. If you know what I mean.
Previous adventures of Max Hadron:
The Case of the Extraterrestrial Redirect (June 10, 2001)
The Case of the Paperless Portfolio (Nov 12, 2000)
The Case of the GoogolPlex Smackdown (June 25, 2000)
The Case of the WWDC Murder (June 13, 2000)
Copyright 2002 by John
Martellaro, All rights reserved. Quantum Threads banner
artwork by Tracy Haynes. This is a work of fiction. All
people, places, entities, and events are the product of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business
establishments, events or locales is entirely
coincidental.
About the Author
John Martellaro lives in Colorado at 2,800 meters above sea level with a Ph.D. wife and two cats, Nikki and Data. He holds a B.S. in Astrophysics and an M.S. in Physics. His hobbies, include amateur astronomy, downhill skiing, bicycling, and listening to piano solos. His personal Macs are a B&W G3/400 with a flat screen Studio Display and a TiBook.
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