Devil's Run (7 page)

Bedford, Vermont was
simply too precious for words. Picture postcard streets lined with antique shops,
candle stores, and a village green with a gazebo. Exactly the sort of place
many a key-jingling husband has his first vision of Hell.

The Gaia Bookstore did
not look out of place with its neat brick storefront and discreet sign that
included the legend “Established 1975”. A brass bell jingled as I stepped
inside. To the left was a coffee bar promising only “environmentally friendly
Costa Rican blends” harvested by “well-paid union workers”. The rest of the
store was devoted to books, posters, and videos, all on environmental topics. A
faded poster guaranteed that all publications were on recycled paper using
vegetable dye inks. Good, I was worried about that.

A pretty young woman in
jeans and a hemp blouse approached me. Her thick, dark hair hung in Pocahontas
braids. “I’m Miranda. May I help you?”

“Yes, please. I’d like
to see Mr. Epstein.”

Her smile faded a
little. “I’m sorry, he’s busy.”

She figured me as a cop.
It had always been a problem for me, something about the haircut, the grim
expression, and the aviator sunglasses.

“It’s unofficial. I’ll
only take a few minutes of his time.”

“He’s quite busy.” She
tilted her head and pointed her chin at me, as if offering it for a punch.
“Maybe you should come back.”

“Well, if I come back it
will be official. I’m sure it will be much more inconvenient for him if a
subpoena required him to come to Boston.” I pulled a folded piece of paper half
out of my inside jacket pocket.

She thought for a
moment. “Wait here.” She turned and flounced away.

A couple of would-be
radicals sipping herb tea gave me suspicious looks. I slipped the folded
MapQuest directions back into my pocket and gave them a broad smile that was
not returned.

Miranda returned. “He’ll
see you,” she said.

I followed her behind
the counter into a narrow, dimly lit corridor. The old wooden floor creaked and
popped. The air felt electrically charged. Miranda stopped in front of an open
door and knocked lightly.

“Send him in,” said a
man’s voice.

Jack Epstein sat behind
an antique desk, looking a lot older than his website photo. He had both a Mac
and a PC. The man was bi-technical.

He glanced up briefly.
“Thanks, Miranda. Better go mind the customers.”

She nodded and left. I
could hear her creaking down the hall.

“Makes it hard for
someone to sneak up on you,” I said.

“I’ve been
meaning to get that fixed. Although, as you may know, the Japanese have used
the
uguisu-bari
or nightingale floor as a security measure for
centuries.”

Oh goody, I thought, a
pompous ass. “Learn something new every day.”

“A reason in itself for
living.” He settled back in his chair. “Miranda is under the impression you are
FBI.”

“And you?”

“I doubt it. They travel
in pairs, wear suits, and have much neater hair.”

I smiled. “They’re
better paid, too.”

“However,” he said,
sighing, “you are obviously some sort of cop.” He leaned forward, folding his
hands on the desk. “You are wasting your time.”

“It’s mine to waste.”

“Mine is not. I am a
busy man. If you do not really have a warrant or a subpoena, I must ask you to
leave.”

I walked in and tossed
my business card onto his keyboard. While he picked it up and read it, I sat
down in one of the two antique chairs that fronted the desk.

“Look, Mr. Epstein, my
name is Nick Craig. And your nose has not failed you. I used to be a cop. I’m a
private investigator now. Your name came up in a missing persons case I’m
working.”

He snorted. “That’s
ridiculous.”

“Maybe so, but you’re my
only lead so far.”

“Please explain how my
name came up.”

I took the Seattle
pamphlets from my pocket.

“I’m looking for two
teenagers who disappeared in Seattle a couple of months back. The boy was
attending the University of Washington. His girlfriend was a green movement
activist. Her name is Julie Nesbitt and his is Kenneth Boyd.” There was a
fleeting reaction in Epstein’s eyes. “That name mean anything to you?”

“No.” He had covered his
reaction quickly. I couldn’t even be sure it wasn’t wishful thinking on my
part.

“Julie encouraged Ken to
become an activist.” I unfolded the campus flyers and handed them across to
him. “Julie had a long standing connection with another man, who seems to be a
leader in the movement, first name Roger, no last name. Tall, good-looking
young man, long blonde hair.” I touched a finger to my neck. “Scar on his neck,
heroically obtained, I understand, from the Seattle PD.”

“And you expect me to
know these people simply because I support environmental causes?”

“Julie had books
published by your company, and I’ve determined she made a phone call to this
area, probably to this Roger, shortly before her disappearance.”

“Again, what has that to
do with me?”

“It doesn’t take much of
a Google or Lexus Nexus search to turn up articles linking you to radical
environmentalists” I said. “Your own website contains communiqués from these
people, and is supportive of what is euphemistically called direct action.”

“That’s FBI propaganda,
Mr. Craig. They can’t seem to get a handle on the movement, so they made me a
convenient whipping boy. I do support the efforts of those who defend the
Earth, but that doesn’t mean I know them, much less direct their activities. I
have spent nearly forty years of my life advocating better treatment of our
environment. I write articles that are published worldwide. I attend
conventions and speak at colleges and universities. I am a well-known figure.
People send me things anonymously. I, in fact, make an effort to not know these
people.” He spread his hands. “So you see, I cannot help you.”

“I believe you can.” He
calmly raised his hands and opened his mouth to protest, but I stopped him.
“Yes, yes, you do a great job confounding them. Your trade craft is excellent.
You’re a genius, and I am sure half the reason you do what you do is the
enormous kick you get out of watching the FBI chase their tails. I don’t give a
shit. To me, this is about missing kids.”

“You are wrong. They are
wrong. I have nothing to do with these so-called attacks.”

“Yet, shortly after the
recent fire, you took down all your articles about The Retreat at Diablo
Canyon.”

He went stone-faced.
“What articles?”

“I noticed you didn't
say ‘what fire?’.” I pointed at his computers. “Net savvy guy like you doesn't
know about archive.org?” I took out a sheaf of folded papers and tossed them on
his desk, where they dramatically unfolded. “Kenneth Boyd's father is deeply
involved in The Retreat at Diablo Canyon. And he had an axe to grind with his
dad.”

“Who doesn't?” Epstein
had recovered his smug expression. “It's not my problem.”

“Look, no one has seen
either of these kids for nearly two months. The girl’s parents are frantic. I
am not here to pry into your little empire or do the FBI’s work for them. I
just want to find these kids. Whatever they got mixed up in, courtesy of this
Roger character, may have gotten them in a load of trouble. I just need a lead.”

“Who are you working
for?”

“That’s privileged.”

“Really? It has to be
one of the parents and you are New York based from your accent. So you must be
working for Jeffrey Boyd.”

“You can speculate.
Interesting that you know that name.”

“Not at all. I am aware
of everyone involved in these so-called resorts.” He pointed at the papers I’d
brought. “And knowing that you work for Boyd makes me even less inclined to
help you.”

“I’m looking for the
boy. Nothing else.”

We stared at each other
for a couple of minutes. Finally he said, “I don’t believe I can help you.”

I sighed, and sat back.
He didn’t move.

“Look,” I said, after a
moment, “this can’t be a particularly large operation. If you could let me look
at a list of your subscribers, perhaps I can track down this Roger.”

He looked at me as if I
were a lunatic. “Do you seriously think I would allow you to sift through my
customer records like a one man Patriot Act?”

“God, can we lose the
political crap for one minute?”

“No, we cannot. At least
I cannot.” He relented a little. “The only way to survive, Mr. Craig, is by
never making exceptions to the rules that protect you. If your request is
legitimate, I am truly sorry, but I cannot help you.” He leaned forward. “Did
it ever occur to you that they may not want to be found? If they are, as you’ve
implied, involved in some sort of direct action, then perhaps they’ve dropped
out of sight?”

“Yes, it has, but the
fire is officially accidental. And this kid Boyd was new to it all. It sounds
like the girl roped him in as a money man. She herself was in the thrall of
this Roger character.” Again, I thought I saw something briefly in his eyes. “I
hardly think either of them have the tradecraft to go missing for so long on
their own, leaving their parents worried to death.”

He settled back in his
chair. “You’d be surprised,” he said, “how quickly a person can become
passionate, once they know how the facts affect them personally. If you’ve done
your research, as it appears you have, you’ll know that these people often
choose to sever all family ties and go underground.”

He stood up.

“I’ll see you out, Mr.
Craig.”

He ushered me into the
creaking hallway. He had my business card in his hand.

“Must be fascinating
work. Private detective, I mean.”

“Yeah, no frustrations
at all.”

He laughed shortly. We
passed through the door into the store. He put my business card in his vest
pocket. “Are you staying the night in our little town?”

“Yes. Already spent the
day on the road”

“Yes, quite a drive from
New York this time of year. Do you have a hotel, yet? I can recommend some good
ones.”

“The Winston House.”

“Good choice. Not my
number one, but comfortable.”

“Rooms are tough this
time of year.”

“Yes, I suppose they
are.” He walked me to the door and led me out onto the steps. “Have a good trip
back, Mr. Craig.”

He turned and went back
towards his office

The Winston House did
look comfortable. Hell, it had a bed and I was exhausted. I made sure the do
not disturb sign was on the door, kicked off my shoes and stretched out on the
bed fully clothed. The TV was on low, Fox News droning in the background.

The next thing I knew, I
was awakened by a knock on the door. A glance at the clock radio told me it was
1:30, but since the sun was still shining, it was the wrong 1:30. I sat up and
rubbed my face. The banging was louder this time.

“Can't you read,” I
yelled, which only prompted more banging.

I got up and went over
to the door. Standing to the side, I said in a falsetto voice, “Who is it?”

“FBI,” said a male
voice.

“We didn’t order any.”

“Don’t be a wiseass.
Just open the door.”

I slipped the latch on
and opened the door a crack.

“Let’s see some I.D.”

There were two of them, of
course, in cheap, dark overcoats. One was middle aged, average height. The
other taller and about ten years younger. Both apparently bought their ties at
car wash gift shops. The older one had his leather I.D. folder out and open. I
unlatched the door and went back to the bed, sitting down on the corner with my
hands in plain view. They stepped through the door, cautiously, glancing
around. The older man stood in front of me, a comfortable distance away. His
partner checked out the bathroom.

“The hooker went out the
window,” I said.

He ignored me. After
finishing with the bathroom he investigated the hell out of the closet.

“I’m Special Agent
Briggs, this is Special Agent Stanton.” said the older of the two, pointing at
the other guy as if I was going to confuse him with the fifty other special
agents in the room.

Briggs propped himself
on the edge of the desk and sat staring at me. I smiled at him. He shook his
head slightly and glanced at Stanton.

“All clear,” Stanton
told him.

“You didn’t look under
the bed,” I reminded him.

Still no reaction. It
was a tough room. Stanton leaned against the wall near the bathroom door. They
were by the book, these two. I was bracketed, and either one could shoot me
without fear of hitting his partner. Not that I was going to give them any
reason to shoot me.

“Shall I send down for
some snacks?” I said. “I hear the maple bars are great.”

Briggs ignored the
question. “What are you doing messing around in our investigation?”

“What investigation?”

He sighed. “Don’t fuck
with me, Craig. I’m not in the mood.”

“I can imagine. Stuck
here babysitting Abbie Hoffman, Jr.” I grinned at him. “Who did you piss off?”

He didn’t like that, but
he also didn’t rile so easy. “You are involved in an active FBI investigation,”
he said, his voice weary. “As a former government agent and, for the moment,
licensed private investigator, you know better than that.”

“Hey, I’m just here on a
little R&R.”

“You fly across the
country and then drive six hours to Vermont in the middle of the night for relaxation?”
said Stanton.

“I like antiquing.”

He snorted.

Briggs glanced at him
sharply before turning back to me. “I know all about your missing persons
case.”

“Good, can you solve it
for me? I have Giants tickets.”

“I also know Special
Agent Schultz ordered you to back off.”

“Well, to be accurate,
it was more like a suggestion.”

“And I am concerned that
you blew months of surveillance by your visit to Epstein.”

“Oh Christ, you think
he’s not on to you?” I flicked a sleeper out of my eye with my middle finger.
Clever and mature, that's our Nick. “This guy’s been at this almost forty
years. He’s got an anti-eavesdropping cage built right into the walls. Bet you
I got brain cancer just sitting in there for ten minutes. He knows he’s being
watched.”

“That is beside the
point. Sooner or later everyone slips, but he’s not going to get careless if
cops are showing up on his doorstep. You are to back off as of this moment.”

That is when the light
went on in my head.

“Of course, it isn’t
just Epstein, is it?” I said “Boyd is also the target of an investigation.”

Briggs’ face betrayed
nothing. “Speculate all you want, but do it while you relax at home. Back off.
Or you’ll find yourself in a shit storm you won’t believe.”

“I’m really scared now.”
I pulled my legs up and hugged my knees to my chest. “Will you stay here with
me tonight?”

“We can have that
license pulled like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“You can try. I haven’t
done anything wrong, and PI licenses aren’t a federal matter. A New York judge
is going to take a dim view of the Feds horning in, purely out of spite.”

We settled into a
Mexican stare off that was interrupted by the ringing of my cell phone.

“Sorry, boys,” I said,
leaning back to snatch it off the nightstand. “That might be Commissioner
Gordon.”

Unknown number. I
pressed the phone hard against my head, thumbing down the volume so they
couldn’t hear.

“Nick Craig,” I said.

“Do you recognize my
voice?” said Epstein. “Don’t use my name.”

It sounded like he was
in a factory. I could hear machinery clattering in the background.

“Hi, baby,” I said. “I
was hoping you’d call.”

He laughed. “I assume
the FBI is with you. I heard you had visitors.” Quite the little network
Epstein had in quaint, rural Bedford.

“I miss you, too,” I
said as tenderly as I could.

I gave both agents a
series of hand and facial gestures that universally proclaimed ‘you know I have
to take this call.’ They looked at each other in exasperation.

“Let's talk more,” said
Epstein.

“I’d like that,” I said
lasciviously. I gave the FBI guys thumbs up and a regular guy grin of triumph.
I just got disgusted looks in return.

“Ten minutes. The woods
behind your hotel. Leave your phone in your room and don't be followed.” He
hung up.

“Okay, baby. I’ll see
you then.” I broke the connection. “Sorry, boys. You know how it is,” I put a
thoughtful expression on my face. “I forget. Are we through here?”

Briggs heaved himself up
off the desk.

“Remember what I said.”

“Absolutely.” I got up
and walked with them to the door. “Really, do you have to go so soon?” They
ignored me and walked out without looking back. “Oh, well. We must do this
again sometime soon. I'll have tea and those little cucumber sandwiches you
like so much.”

I slammed the door and
flipped the latch. I put on my shoes and grabbed my coat from the closet. There
certainly wasn’t an army of FBI agents in Bedford. They probably did not have
the manpower to stake me out on such short notice, but it wasn’t worth taking
the chance. I was out the rear door while they were still in the lobby
discussing things.