Dead Float (25 page)

Chapter Fifty-two

I stood there staring at the cell phone in my hand while I tried to deny the reality of what I'd just heard. This couldn't be happening. It had to be a nightmare.

From far away I heard Daina say, her voice quivering, “Cal. Who was that? Tell me.”

My brain had shut down, and I couldn't speak. I dropped the phone and grabbed my head with both hands. My chest folded in on itself, and my heart started thrashing around in the shrunken space like a trapped animal.

From far away, again, “Cal, speak to me.”

I dropped my hands and turned to face her. “That was El Cuchillo. He's got Claire.” The words came, but it was as if someone else had spoken them.

“No! God, no.”

“I'm supposed to stand by. No cops.”

My cell phone rang again. We both recoiled involuntarily. It was Hiram. He told me Archie's skull had been fractured with something heavy, probably a tire iron, and that he was doing everything possible to save him. I grimaced at the news. “Do what you can.” Then, forcing my emotions down, I added, “Listen carefully, Hiram. I don't want you to call the police or breathe a word of this to
anyone
. Got that? Not a
word
until I get back to you.”

I was over the shock. My mind began to hum with a crystalline clarity and a single purpose—
get my daughter back or die trying.

I turned to Daina. “Where does Streeter live? He doesn't know we're on to him. Maybe we can take him by surprise.”

Daina had the directions to Streeter's house up on her phone in an instant. We were there in forty-five minutes, an upscale neighborhood in West Linn. My gut told me they wouldn't chance holding Claire there, but I felt certain Streeter would know where she was.

We parked on Willamette Drive, and to be less conspicuous I walked up the hill toward Streeter's development alone. The neighborhood was quiet, but I worried about Neighborhood Watch types. I was relieved to see that the windows were curtained off on the side of Streeter's house I was approaching. I quietly opened a narrow gate and let myself into his backyard, which was completely enclosed with a high hedge. I clicked off the safety on my Glock and crept to the back door. It was locked, but I found an open window on the other side of the house.

I climbed into the attached garage without making a sound. My heart sank. His yellow Hummer wasn't there, only a late-model Corvette with the top down. Nevertheless, I swept the house with my gun drawn.

Streeter was gone.

My knees felt rubbery as I fought off a sickening rush of anxiety. The only people who could tell me where to find Cuchillo were CJ Manion and Andrew Streeter. One was dead, and the other, God knows where.

I called Daina and told her to come up the hill and ring the front bell. If there was a hint of where they'd taken Claire, I intended to find it. I let her in. Daina took the first floor, and I took the second.

A few minutes later I called down to her, “Daina. Come up here. I need help.”

She bounded up the stairs and found me in Streeter's study, standing over his computer. “It was hibernating. When I nudged the mouse, his e-mail account popped up. “Maybe Cuchillo got sloppy and sent him something unencrypted,” I said as I double- clicked the icon. His inbox listed several unencrypted messages, but they contained no useful information. The last e-mail had come in at 8:35 that morning. The message consisted of a title and several lines of text composed of scrambled letters. The title read: XXFTYQAG23#. “Encrypted,” I said grimly.

Daina put her hand on my shoulder and squeezed.

“What do I do next to open this?” I demanded.

“You can't.”

“
Tell me
. What's the next step?”

“Click on that icon.” She pointed to the upper right corner of the toolbar at what looked like a tiny treasure chest with a big lock on it. I clicked it and the following message came up:
Welcome to Strong Box E-Mail Encryption Service. To decrypt your message, please enter your personal pass code in the box below.

I sat there for a moment, motionless. The room was still, and all I could hear was the blood thumping in my ears. “The Goddamn Latin phrase,” I heard myself say.

Daina was squeezing my shoulder, hard. “What?”

I sat down at the keyboard without answering and began to type with a shaky hand—
Fac Ut Gaudeam
.

Halfway through Daina said, “What are you doing, Cal?”

“Betting the farm,” I answered through clinched teeth. When I finished typing, I hesitated for a second before hitting the enter key. The screen jumped and the following message came up: “Access denied. Please re-enter your personal pass code.”

“Shit!”
I hissed.

This time I entered the longer Latin phrase, the one I'd copied from Streeter's rolodex. When I entered it, the same message came up.

Denied again.

Daina's grip tightened on my shoulder. It'll give you only one more try, Cal.”

I grabbed a pen from a cup next to the computer and wrote the phrase out carefully on a pad of paper—
Nemo Me Impune Laccessit.
I studied it for a moment. “Damn, never could spell.
Lacessit
has one c.”

I typed the corrected phrase in, took a deep breath, and entered it. The pause seemed interminable. A long, rectangular box finally appeared, and green dots started filling it from left to right.

“My God, Cal!” It's working.”

I was too numb to speak.

When the dots filled the box, the screen flickered and a blank page came up that instructed me to copy and paste the message to be encrypted, which I did. I hesitated again. Daina was squeezing both my shoulders as I entered the final command. The screen jumped and flickered again, and the message reappeared. This time it was decrypted. The title read:
Heads Up.
The text:
Plan A unsuccessful. I'll be busy with Plan B this morning. Join me at cabin by noon, latest and bring your rifle. Hunting should be excellent.

It hung together. Plan A was the effort to kill me last night and Plan B, Claire's kidnapping.

I read the postscript on the message twice before I allowed myself to believe it. “There's the address of the cabin and a set of directions. I guess Streeter didn't know how to get there. It's up at Rhododendron on Mount Hood, on a crook in the Zigzag River.”

“That
has
to be where they're holding Claire,” Daina gasped.

“Right,” I said, finally allowing myself the tiniest sliver of hope, “This gives us a shot.”

I hit the print icon and flinched when Streeter's printer clattered to life, imagining everyone in the neighborhood would be alerted to our presence. When it stopped I grabbed the printout and turned to leave. Daina said, “Wait,” sat down at the computer and pulled up Google Maps. She entered the address Cuchillo had so obligingly provided and up came a detailed satellite image of a remote cabin. “We'll need this, too.”

She zoomed in, and we studied the images. The cabin was in a clearing at a sharp bend in the river. A narrow road ran from the clearing for about three miles through dense woods and connected to a Forest Service road, which continued out to I-26. The cabin, an A-frame, sat on a raised wooden deck, facing the river. We could just make out a kayak lying on the deck and what looked like an outhouse at the edge of the clearing. The terrain behind the clearing sloped up steeply through a thick layer of conifers to a boulder-strewn ridge that ran more or less parallel to the incoming road and the river. A much smaller structure that looked abandoned was closer in, maybe a mile from the cabin.

We printed one satellite image at the highest magnification and then cranked it back so we could see the overall layout as well.

As we moved down the hall toward the staircase I pointed to a wall-mounted gun case in an adjacent room I'd already searched. The door to the case was ajar, the four slots in the rifle rack were empty. A box containing thirty-ought-six rifle shells sat on the bottom shelf with its top open. Half the shells were gone. Daina glanced at the Glock I was carrying, then back at me.

“Yeah,” I said, “I'm definitely outgunned.”

At the back door, Daina nodded toward a large, stainless steel bowl filled with water next to a matching, empty bowl. “That feeds a big dog. Thank God it wasn't home,” she said in a low tone as we slipped out.

We had just gotten back to Daina's car when my cell rang. “Dad, it's me,” Claire said in a voice filled with defiance. “I'm okay, but Archie—”

Before Claire could finish, Cuchillo took the phone. “Listen, Claxton,” he began in his squeaky voice, “if you want her back, here's the deal. We're calling a truce, you and me. I give you your daughter, you forget who I am, and what you know about me and my client. No harm, no foul. Got it?”

“Sure. I got it.” I noticed I wasn't “asshole” anymore. Cuchillo was making nice with me now. He was pitching the deal.

“Okay,” he continued, “to keep your amnesia permanent I want you to write a note of confession for that murder on the Deschutes and the one in Portland. You confess to it, like you're getting it off your chest, and that you did it for Bruckner's bitch of a wife,” he said with a laugh, obviously pleased with what he considered a clever idea. I imagined my hands around his neck, the squeak getting higher as I slowly choked off that disgusting sound.

He went on to dictate the note, but I didn't bother to write anything down. When he finished he said, “You write that out, sign it, and give it to me. Then I give you back your daughter. I keep the note for insurance. Got it?”

“Right. I have no beef with you. I just want my daughter back safe. Where's the exchange?”

“Stay tuned. And remember, Claxton, if I even
think
you've called the cops or the FBI, your daughter gets my blade across her neck.”

“Don't worry, I—.” He cut me off.

Daina looked at me, her eyes clouded with dread. I told her what Cuchillo had said. “He doesn't mean that, does he?”

I shook my head. “No. It's just a stupid ruse. He's trying to make sure I come in alone. He intends to kill Claire and me both. We've got to go in and get Claire out
before
the exchange. It's our only chance.” Then it hit me what I was asking her to be a part of. “It's going to be dangerous, Daina. Just give me the car, and I'll go alone.”

She shot me an angry look, shook her head, and started up the VW. “How do we get to Mount Hood from here?”

“Straight ahead. But don't go so fast you get stopped by the cops. I'm on their radar.”

Chapter Fifty-three

“Take the Estacada turnoff,” I told her, “and watch your speed.” We were cruising north along I-205. I called Philip, desperately hoping he'd pick up. The call went immediately to his voice mail. I left the following message—“This is Cal. Claire's been kidnapped by El Cuchillo. Come as fast as you possibly can to Rhododendron and turn off at Forest Service Road 18. I'll meet you there, right off the highway. Come armed, and don't call the cops. Time's running out.
”

Next, I called Philip's wife, Lanie. She told me he was somewhere on the Warm Springs Reservation, where the cell phone coverage wasn't all that great. She gave me four other numbers on the rez to try and promised to have him call immediately if she heard from him.

I kept calling Philip every couple of minutes but had no luck. Out of the four numbers she'd given me, I was only able to reach Philip's dad. I told him to spread the word that Philip needed to call me about a life and death emergency.

Just past Sandy on Interstate 26, a sheriff's car came up behind us and followed along for a couple of miles. “Are your tags up to date?” I asked Daina, who had both hands on the wheel, keeping the VW steady at 55 miles an hour.

“Oh, God, I hope so,” she answered without taking her eyes off the road. She was apparently correct. After another mile that seemed like ten, the sheriff's car turned off, and I started breathing again.

We were about ten miles south of Rhododendron when my cell phone rang. “Pull over
now
,” I said. “If this is Cuchillo, I don't want him to know we're on the move.” We skidded to a stop on the fourth ring. I thought my heart would beat itself out of my ribcage as I answered.

“Okay, Claxton, here's—”

“I want to hear my daughter's voice,” I broke in. “There's no deal unless I know she's—”

“Shut up, asshole! I'm giving the orders here!” My nickname was back.

There was a long pause. My heart and breath stopped simultaneously. “Dad, it's me, Claire. I'm okay, Dad. Just do what he says.” Her voice was weaker, but still firm.

Then Cuchillo snarled back into the phone, “You interrupt me again, and you can kiss your baby girl good-bye.”

He went on to explain the next step in the exchange. I was to drive to Rhododendron, park my car off the highway, and walk along the west bank of the Zigzag River to an abandoned shack. I was to arrive alone at three p.m. sharp and await further instructions. He rattled off detailed directions, which matched the route Daina and I had already mapped out. The abandoned shack was the smaller structure we'd seen on the satellite image. It all made sense.

We turned off on Forest Service Road 18 and parked at a trailhead where we could watch the highway for Philip. It was 11:26 a.m. I tried Philip again, then all the numbers Lanie had given me. Nothing. I shuddered through a wave of bitter anger and frustration, struggling to stay focused.

Daina said, “What if Philip doesn't come?”

“Then I'm going in alone. The exchange isn't until three p.m., so the earlier the better to catch them by surprise.”

“You won't call the police?”

“No. There's no time,” I said with finality. “By the time I untangle myself, Claire will be dead.”

At 11:40 I couldn't stand it any longer. “Let's go.”

FS 18 wound through a dense swath of late second-growth Douglas firs, sword ferns, and salal. Four and half miles in I had her stop. “Okay, I'm getting out. Cuchillo's road tees in about a half-mile from here. You go back to the highway and wait for Philip. If he makes it, tell him to come in along the ridge to Cuchillo's cabin. Show him the map. That's the route with the best cover.” I checked my cell phone. I had three signal bars. “It'll take me about forty minutes to reach the cabin. If Philip shows, call me. My phone's on vibrate. I'll wait as long as I can. If he doesn't show, I'll call you when I'm ready to go in. Call 9-1-1, and have them bring the cavalry.”

As I opened the car door to get out, Daina pulled me to her and kissed me lightly on the mouth. Her eyes were open wide, full of hope and strength. “Come back with her, Cal,” was all she said. Her eyes said the rest.

After twenty minutes of tough climbing I was on top of the ridge and advancing along a narrow deer trail toward the cabin. I picked my way through the boulders and trees cautiously, watching for loose rocks that might go crashing down the hillside. My vision was sharp, my hearing acute, and my mind focused—
get Claire out alive or die trying.

It was 12:26 when I caught a first glimpse of the A-frame through the trees. An intense mixture of relief, fear, and anger washed over me. I stopped and crouched down at an outcropping of lichen ridden boulders that gave me a fairly unobstructed view across and down the hillside.

I scanned the scene. A canary yellow Hummer and a dark-colored SUV were parked beside the cabin. I recognized both cars. I couldn't see into the cabin, because the windows, at least the ones facing me, were well covered. Nothing moved in or around the cabin.

The hillside dropped steeply away in front of me, a no-man's land of rotted logs and loose rocks. I moved cautiously toward the cabin at a diagonal, my heart in my mouth. A slip here would send a rock down the hillside like a runaway freight.

I was almost directly above the cabin when the back door opened. I ducked behind the root ball of a fallen tree that lay in shattered pieces below me. A tall, thin man in a black t-shirt and jeans and a pistol in his belt came out, lit up a cigarette, and stretched. El Cuchillo
.
He leaned on the railing and smoked leisurely. My nostrils flared in disgust as the first traces of secondhand smoke reached me, yet I could do nothing but hunker down and watch through a crack between roots radiating out from the trunk of the fallen tree. Finally he went inside.

Still nothing from Daina or Philip.

I moved down another twenty feet and took cover behind a canted section of the fallen tree. The back door of the cabin opened again, and Andrew Streeter came out. He was dressed in full camouflage, including a billed hat and face paint. He looked pudgy, out of shape, and ridiculous. He was obviously going to be the one to hide in the brush and pick me off at the exchange point. I fumed in silence, like a boiler being stoked.

Streeter unbuttoned his pants and urinated off the back porch in an arcing yellow stream. Too lazy to walk to the outhouse. Then he went back into the cabin.

After two more advances, I ducked behind a large tree stump on flat ground within a hundred feet of the cabin. It was 12:34. Still no buzz from Daina or Philip. Even if Philip arrived at the highway now, it would take him at least thirty-five minutes to traverse the ridge. No way I could wait that long. Not when I knew my daughter was inside that cabin with those two cretins.

I had no choice but to go in after her.

I checked the Glock and clicked the safety off. I dug my cell out of my pocket and flipped the lid open.
“Shit!”
No signal bars at all. I tried calling Daina anyway. Nothing. I shook my head. So much for backup.

The last hundred feet to the cabin stretched across open ground. I watched the curtains on the back windows for signs of movement but saw none. I made a dash for it, halting at the steps leading up to the back door. Crouching below the level of the deck, I took a couple of deep breaths and listened. I heard a low, unintelligible murmur of conversation, then a sharp honk of laughter. I pulled the Glock out of my belt. I had no interest in guns, and I didn't even know what kind of marksman I was, so I asked whoever was running the universe to steady my hand and make my aim true.

I was halfway up the steps when, to my left, I heard the distinct sound of chain dragging on deck planks and the rapid thud of heavy paws. I froze as a huge animal barreled around the corner and launched itself at my throat, eyes wide and fangs barred.

Streeter's dog!

I instinctively raised my arm to protect myself, and the collision knocked the Glock out of my hand and sent me sprawling backward. I braced for a mauling, but the brute was at the end of its chain, straining and clawing to get at me. I jumped up and spun around to find my gun, which had landed somewhere behind me.

“Touch that gun and you're a dead man.” The screechy voice again. El Cuchillo was standing on the deck pointing a large caliber pistol at me.

I looked up at him and raised my hands. “I, uh, came a little early.”