The Sound of Echoes Page 4

  She looked at the floor, shaking her head, as if coming to terms with the truth of the situation. “Every now and then, this is a very ugly business we are in.”

  “Just be thankful it doesn’t happen more often.”

  “Indeed,” she said, looking at him. She needed him to think she understood, which couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  Stenson clasped his hands across his knee as if preparing to offer some fatherly advice. “In ten or twenty years, do you honestly think you’ll remember this moment? Or even this day? No, you won’t. What you will remember is the incredible advantage Eddie’s box gave us, and all the good we accomplished because of it. Caitlin, there is nothing we won’t be able to know, and no one will have any idea how we got our information.” He paused for emphasis and spoke with absolute certainty. “Whatever it is you are feeling now, trust me, in due time, you will get over it.”

  She nodded again convincingly, though she had just one overriding thought: this was wrong. Very, very wrong. But she was also now beginning to doubt her objectivity, which was exactly what Stenson had wanted. She recognized the possibility that she had, indeed, lost her stomach for this—but she couldn’t be sure. She needed some perspective.

  And there was only one way she was going to get clarity.

  CHAPTER 10

  SEMINARY ROAD

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  June 1, 1:03 p.m.

  Caitlin declined Stenson’s offer to join him for lunch, claiming she had already committed to plans with her father. What made this such a perfect excuse was that she was overdue for her weekly visit to his nursing home, and Stenson revered him almost as much as she did. After all, her father had hired and trained him. Stenson visited him several times a year just to pay his respects, and he asked her to give him his best, which she promised to do.

  She drove her 2014 Subaru Forester south along Seminary Road, which became Janneys Lane south of Interstate 395. She had NPR on the radio as she absentmindedly picked up her cell phone. Just before dialing, she stopped herself, realizing what a colossal blunder she was about to make.

  Putting the phone down, she reached into her center console without taking her eyes off the road. She fished around for something at the bottom of it. When she finally reached the desired item, she pulled out a prepaid cell phone still in its original plastic case. She had purchased the phone in cash for ten dollars at Walmart several months ago, when something told her that such a device might one day come in handy.

  That day had come.

  She used her teeth to rip open the plastic case and turned on the phone, or tried to. Whatever charge the phone had been packaged with had dissipated in the intervening months. Fortunately, she had also purchased a charging cable, which she plugged into a USB outlet next to her. The phone powered right up. After waiting for the device to get a signal, she dialed a number she had committed to memory one week earlier.

  Detective Butler McHenry had just arrived at the Ridgewood YMCA for a good hard workout. Having been placed on temporary leave from the NYPD for his recent involvement with federal fugitives, he now had lots of time to pump iron. And he was certainly taking advantage of it.

  Once upon a time, Butler had been in wicked shape. Five hundred sit-ups per day was just his starting point. He could whip off twenty-five pull-ups before breaking a sweat. The military had a way of sculpting even the most unwilling of physiques into biological machines capable of feats of strength and endurance most people could only dream of. This was particularly true of the covert-operations branches that cherry-picked only the finest specimens from the rest of the services. And they had cherry-picked Butler.

  It was his fourth day in a row here. His body hurt in a variety of places, especially his joints, but it was a good kind of pain. At least, that’s what he’d been telling himself. Pain is good. Pain is good. He had chosen this gym because it was not a place where people went to exercise in nice outfits and to be seen looking glamorous doing so. This was where they went in stained gym clothes to push tons of iron and sweat their asses off.

  It could have been located on a military base.

  Which was why he looked so annoyed when his phone rang. It was not a number he recognized, but that wasn’t unusual. Privately, he was hoping the call was from somebody on the departmental review board saying they’d made a big mistake; that this was all one giant misunderstanding and that he was being reinstated immediately. “This is McHenry.”

  “Detective McHenry, someone you know is in grave danger.”

  This was the last thing he was expecting to hear. “Who is this?”

  “I can’t give you my real name.”

  “Why not?” He didn’t intend to sound demeaning, but he’d gotten so many crazy calls over the years that he did it subconsciously.

  “I’ll get to that. Please, you’ve got to listen to me.”

  “Well, I need to call you something.”

  “Then call me Eleanor.”

  “Why Eleanor?”

  “Because Eleanor Roosevelt is one of my heroes.”

  The caller might be crazy, but at least she was educated. “Okay, Eleanor, how about we start with you telling me how you got this number.”

  “It doesn’t matter how. What does matter is that Dr. Skylar Drummond is in terrible danger, and you’re the only one who can help her.”

  She now had his complete attention. The entertainment portion of the conversation was over. “Look, I’d like to help you, but I’m currently on suspension. You should call the police.”

  “If you don’t help her, she will be dead by this evening.”

  Now he listened with laser focus. “What’s this all about?”

  “The echo box.”

  McHenry stopped cold. He no longer thought she was crazy. He was also certain that he would no longer be getting in his workout, so he picked up his gym bag and walked out the door. “What do you know about the echo box?”

  “I know that Eddie Parks played it for you. I know that you understand its potential.”

  The detective couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Who told you this?”

  She ignored him, continuing, “But what you don’t know is that Parks disabled the machine so that it no longer works, because he became afraid of what people might do with it. This upset some very powerful people who are willing to do anything to get their hands on the technology. Including kidnapping and torturing Skylar Drummond unless Eddie gets his machine to work.”

  Frustration crept into Butler’s voice. “Tell me how you know all this.”

  There was a pause on the line. “My employer hired the man who is torturing her.”

  McHenry shook his head. This was too much. All he wanted to do was get his job back. He had left the world of shadows and secrets a long time ago, and for good reason. It was too convoluted. There were too many agendas and too many conflicting interests to know if he was even on the right side. He had moved on to the simpler life of a being a cop—where there were still good guys and bad guys, at least on most days. “I still don’t know what you think I can do. You should really call the police, or one of the federal agencies.”

  She exploded. “Detective, stop playing games with me! I’ve read your military files, including the parts that were supposed to be redacted. You were an Army Ranger from ’98 to 2004. During that time, you were involved in seventeen covert ops, including missions in Baghdad, Panama, Ukraine, and Mexico City. You are credited with fourteen official kills. I need your skill set, and I need it now. Please cut the bullshit.”

  Every hair on Butler McHenry’s body was standing up. His blood ran cold. He was utterly dumbfounded, because the details mentioned by the caller were accurate. “No one is supposed to have access to any of that information.”

  “You want to know how I have access? There was no way you could have known this at the time, but on most of those ops, you were working for us.”

  McHenry felt a wave of nausea come over him, as questi
ons long ago buried were suddenly brought back to life. Does this mission make sense to anyone? Isn’t this illegal? What the hell have we gotten ourselves into? He paused to collect himself. “Who in God’s name do you work for?”

  “All I can tell you is that we’re not military. We’re not intelligence, or any other part of the government, but we have access to everything, and sometimes even more than official channels do. Which is why you must believe me. If I contact any federal agency, Skylar Drummond will be dead within the hour. And if you don’t help her, she won’t live through the day. Am I being clear enough for you?”

  He considered the risk the caller was taking. No wonder she wouldn’t identify herself. “Tell me you’re calling from a burner.” He didn’t want any trails leading back to him.

  “This isn’t my first rodeo, Detective.”

  Butler paused. “If you work for these people, why are you telling me any of this?”

  “Because a long time ago, I made a promise to someone I care about. If things got out of hand, I would do something about it.”

  All McHenry could think was: Eleanor Roosevelt would have done that. Shit! He paused, staring at the cement, frustrated by what he was about to ask. “Where do I find Skylar Drummond?”

  CHAPTER 11

  HARMONY HOUSE

  WOODBURY, NEW JERSEY

  June 1, 1:19 p.m.

  Eddie’s fingers were a blur above the keyboard of his laptop supercomputer, which was connected to the echo box. Some of the keys were streaked with blood, which had also dried on his hands. Eddie didn’t seem to notice. He was “gone,” as various members of the Harmony House nursing staff used to say. So focused, he appeared to be in a trance, which was why he didn’t hear the question the first time it was asked.

  From the other laptop, the man wearing the Einstein mask repeated his question. “What are you, deaf? I said: How much longer?”

  Eddie finally came out of the trance but didn’t look away from his computer. “No, I am not deaf. I could not hear you if I was deaf. Most people say I have an unusually acute sense of hearing. Like the golden ears of William Tuthill.”

  “Who the hell is William Tuthill?”

  “He was the architect who designed Carnegie Hall.”

  “Well, Tuthill can kiss my ass.”

  Eddie looked up, clearly confused. “Why?”

  Tristan shook his head in disbelief. “Are you trying to piss me off?”

  “No, I’m not trying to piss you off. I don’t understand expressions, and that is one I’ve heard on many occasions and it has confused me every time, including this one.” He kept his eyes focused on the revised computer code in front of him.

  Tristan stepped behind Skylar, putting his blade to her right ear. The terror in her face heightened as he said, “Ask me why again and your doctor will lose the ability to hear in stereo.” He said it like this was something he’d done before.

  Eddie grimaced, closing his eyes. “I will try extra hard not to do that. Please don’t hurt her. Please don’t hurt her.” He repeated his desperate pleas several more times.

  The masked man lowered his knife. “How. Much. Longer?”

  Eddie’s fingers resumed flying across the keyboard. “I cannot give you an exact answer.”

  “Approximate.”

  Eddie thought carefully. “Thirty-seven minutes. But if you keep interrupting me, it will take longer because I lose my concentration.”

  Tristan shook his head. “Hurry up, or your doctor may lose her hearing completely.” He caressed both of Skylar’s ears gently. She was clearly repulsed and frightened but seemed determined not to show it. Not to her captor, and especially not to Eddie as the camera zoomed in on her face. She stared directly into the lens to make Eddie think she was looking at him. Her eyes were still bloodshot, but they were now steeled with purpose. She had not given up, and she wanted Eddie to know it.

  Eddie glanced at her, seeming empowered simply by being able to see her. When he turned back to his laptop, he moved with renewed determination. Skylar smiled ever so slightly.

  CHAPTER 12

  KELMAN NURSING AND REHAB CENTER

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  June 1, 1:37 p.m.

  Caitlin drove up the facility’s driveway faster than usual. Gravel sprayed as she skidded into a parking space next to an Oldsmobile Cutlass. The 130-bed skilled-nursing facility was built in the late sixties and was long overdue for a makeover, not that any of the residents would have noticed. The youngest was seventy-three. They all seemed to think the decor quite contemporary, which was why they had never complained, at least according to the home’s chief operating officer at their last board meeting.

  Caitlin removed the battery from her burner phone and pocketed it as she approached the Formica-covered front desk, where she was immediately recognized by the day-shift clerk, Quentin James. He had worked here longer than any other employee and knew more about each resident. He had his favorites, of course, and Caitlin’s father happened to be one of them. “Your dad’s in his room.”

  Caitlin nodded her appreciation. “How’s he doing?”

  “Same as always.” It was the refrain Quentin gave to most relatives who asked about their loved ones in this facility. Because it was the truth. In the final phase of life, the only time things really changed was when the person died. “See if you can get him to eat some of his lunch.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” she answered, glancing over her shoulder as she continued down the hall. She walked past several other patient rooms and heard the familiar beeping of medical monitors as well as a few moans. Discomfort was part of everyday life here. Most of the residents were hard of hearing, so the sounds never bothered them—it only bothered their visitors. Perhaps that was why so many had poor impressions of the place. Well, that and somebody died here almost once a week.

  Caitlin knocked on the door to her father’s room, which was cracked open, but there was no answer. She wasn’t expecting one, but she waited a moment anyway because it was the polite thing to do. “Dad?” Again, no answer. She opened the door slowly and entered to find him in his easy chair, staring out the window. This was how he spent most days lately, sitting quietly, looking at his view of the parking lot. His left hand quivered uncontrollably—one of the more obvious symptoms of his Parkinson’s. She leaned down close to him to make sure he could hear her. “Hey, Dad, how are you?”

  Lawrence looked up at her and smiled sweetly. “I’m doing just fine. How are you?” His cadence was slow and methodical, giving him time to find the right words.

  She pointed to the untouched meal tray next to him. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “For edible food, yes. Not for that. Have you seen what they consider egg salad?”

  She picked up his sandwich and cringed. She couldn’t blame him for not eating it. “If I give you some contraband, would you promise to keep it our secret?” She reached into her purse and offered him a Milky Way bar.

  He gladly took it. “Milky Way’s my favorite. How’d you know?”

  She studied his face, fixing hair that had fallen over his eyes. She had given him a candy bar every time she visited—at least once a week for the last three years. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

  “I most certainly do,” he answered indignantly.

  She smiled lovingly. “Okay. What’s my name?”

  He paused, trying to remember. “It’s right on the tip of my tongue. I promise you. Raquel?”

  “It’s Caitlin.”

  “Right, Caitlin. Of course. I was going to say Chloe, but I knew that wasn’t right.” He took a bite of chocolate, relishing the taste. Of his many bodily functions that no longer worked completely or at all, taste was not one. While he no longer craved a great many things, like the glass of Louis Royer XO cognac he used to enjoy while puffing on a Cohiba Siglo, he clearly still loved the taste of this candy bar.

  She kneeled right in front of him so he could get a good look at her. “And how do you know
me?”

  Lawrence studied her closely. “You look very familiar. We’ve known each other a long time, haven’t we?”

  She nodded. “My entire life.”

  “I knew your mother, didn’t I?”

  Caitlin chortled. “I’d hope so. You were married to her for forty-seven years.”

  “I was? That means . . .” But he still couldn’t quite connect the dots.

  “I’m your daughter, Dad. Caitlin.”

  “Right, of course. Caitlin, so nice of you to visit.” He reached up and hugged her warmly. “Is mother coming?”

  “No, Dad. Mom died four years ago.”

  He nodded, clearly trying to make sense of it all. “Is that why I’m in this godforsaken place?”

  She smiled sweetly. “Well, that, and you have Parkinson’s.”

  He spoke thoughtfully. “Don’t get it, this Parkinson’s. It’ll kick your ass.”

  She took his shaking hand and held it lovingly as he continued eating the chocolate bar. “Dad, there’s something I need you to try and remember for me. Do you think you can do that?”

  Lawrence nodded again and took another bite of candy bar. “I can try.”

  “Do you remember what you told me when I started working at the foundation?”

  “Which foundation is that, dear?”

  “The American Heritage Foundation. The one you started.”

  “I did? Sounds impressive.” He sat a little more upright.

  “It was. And still is. But you told me that if I ever felt those you had left in charge let the power corrupt them, I was to inform you immediately.”

  “Do you know why I said that?”

  She shook her head, realizing this was pointless. It was a mistake to have even asked. “I wish I did. You clearly had a plan, but you never told me what it was. All I knew was that I should come to you, but I guess it’s too late.”