Authors: Lance Horton
Shadow Dragon (11 page)
Denver
An errant strand of hair fell across Carrie’s face, which she blew out of her eyes with a quick puff, but the damage had already been done. Her concentration broken, she leaned back from the pile of documents before her and stretched. She looked at her watch and was amazed to find that it was already 12:45. She couldn’t believe she had been at it all morning and most of the way through lunch without taking a break. On the other hand, it was good to be busy. It helped to keep her mind off Bret. After the latest round of threats from him, she had finally gone to the police only to be told there wasn’t much they could do unless he actually assaulted her.
She was currently working on a story Allan had assigned to her. Four years ago, the State of Colorado had ordered an investigation into the underutilization of minority contractors on government projects. After the commission’s findings were released, the state had instigated several new procedures in order to correct the situation. In a follow-up report issued last month, the commission indicated that the new procedures had been a great success and the state had actually exceeded its goals for minority participation. This immediately sent up a red flag with Allan. As he put it, “Anytime the government says things are bad, they’re twice as bad. And if they say things are good, then they’re either lying or hiding something.”
So, for the past week, Carrie had been digging through the last three years’ worth of public bid records for the State of Colorado. And while she hadn’t found anything earth-shattering yet, she had noticed that a large percentage of the minority contracts awarded had all gone to the same contractor. She was beginning to see a pattern developing and thought she might be on to something, but she needed some more detailed information to confirm her suspicions. And when it came to detailed information, there was only one person to go to—Charlie Weisman.
Charlie was the resident computer geek/genius who worked at the
Inquirer
. Charlie could ferret out more information from the Web and other more dubious information services than anyone else could
ever
dig up. Allan had strictly forbidden Charlie to use the
Inquirer’s
computers to do any illegal hacking, but strangely enough, even with his relatively moderate salary, Charlie somehow managed to have a computer setup at his home that would rival the home systems of Bill Gates and Steve Jobs.
With the information she had gathered this morning, Carrie thought she had enough to turn Charlie loose.
She grabbed the notes she had scribbled down in the raggedy notebook she always carried with her and stuffed it into her satchel. These days, most reporters carried laptop computers at which they pecked away, filing information away in categorized databases for easy retrieval at a later date, but Carrie preferred to take her own notes by hand. It was slower, but it gave her time to think about the information while she was writing it down, time to ponder what deeper issues might lie beneath the surface of an ocean of facts. She felt it made her a better reporter.
Back in her car, she pulled the notebook and her cell phone from her satchel, punched the speed dial number for the office, and hit the
send
button.
Charlie, who wore a wireless headset linked to his computer like a PBX operator, was suddenly on the line without the usual rattling that accompanied the lifting of a handset. “Hey, Carrie, what’s up?”
“Wise Man,” Carrie said and smiled. Charlie was in his midtwenties, but he still looked like a teenager, complete with curly brown hair, acne, and thick glasses that were constantly sliding down to the end of his nose. Most of the people at the paper called Charlie “the Mole” because of his looks and his special expertise at digging up information, but Carrie preferred to call him “Wise Man.” To her, the Mole was too condescending a nickname, even though Charlie didn’t seem to mind it too much. Wise Man was a more complimentary, respectful nickname. And Carrie was respectful of what Charlie was able to accomplish. In her mind, he was a modern-day technological prodigy, a virtuoso of the Internet who deserved more recognition than he got.
“I need some info,” she said.
“You came to the right place.”
“Of course I did,” she said. It never hurt to stroke someone’s ego a little, especially when you wanted something from him.
“Whatcha need?”
“I’ve got a list of companies I need you to look into. Pull up all you can on them, especially things like who the shareholders are, board members, annual revenue, preferred subcontractors, uh … pending litigation, and who they typically use to represent them in legal matters, things like that.”
“Got it. What are the companies?”
“Ramirez Excavation Services, Inc., Johnson-Dealy Construction, and Bell Electric, Inc. And I also need you to pull up the same information for the top ten general contractors in the state. You should be able to find that out from the
Denver Business Journal’s
list.”
“Got it. You coming in anytime soon?”
“Yeah, I was just going to stop and grab lunch, and then I’ll be in. You eaten anything yet?”
“No, you mind picking up something for me?”
“It’s the least I could do. What do you want?”
“Bring me a double cheeseburger, large onion rings, and a strawberry milkshake—if they have strawberry. If not, just get me vanilla.”
Carrie smiled as she jotted down the order in her spiral.
No wonder he still seems like a teenager
, she thought.
He still eats like one.
“No problem, I’ll be there in a few.”
*
Stepping within the confines of Charlie’s cubicle was like stepping into the silicon equivalent of
The Twilight Zone
. Posters of hideous monsters and exotic spacecraft amid explosive battles for the fate of the galaxy shared wall space with unnaturally buxom, computer-animated, adventurous females. The only non-computer-related item hanging on the gray, cloth-covered partitions was his diploma from Cal Tech. His major, of course, had been computer science.
His glasses dangling perilously on the end of his nose, Charlie peered at one of the three twenty-seven-inch flat screen monitors in front of him. A rubber figurine of a three-eyed ogre holding a spiked club perched atop the center monitor.
“Any luck?” Carrie asked.
“Yeah, I think so,” he nodded, still focused on the monitors. Then, with a snap, he turned toward the food as he took a big whiff. “Onion rings!” he smiled as he grabbed for the greasy cardboard container.
“They didn’t have strawberry, so I got you vanilla,” Carrie said as she handed him his shake.
“They never do,” he grumbled. “But thanks.”
While they ate, Charlie informed Carrie what he had been able to find out so far.
“Here’s the list of the top ten general contractors in the state along with their annual gross revenue and name of their president,” he said around a mouthful of cheeseburger as he pointed to the monitor on the left.
“Great,” Carrie said as she leaned over his shoulder. “Can you print that out for me?”
“Sure,” he replied. “Curly,” he said into the microphone of his headset. “Print display to network printer five.” Charlie had three processors dedicated solely to his use integrated into the office network system, and being the typical computer geek, he had named them Moe, Larry, and Curly. He had set up each of the computers to recognize voice commands, but it still amazed Carrie every time she watched him do it. It was like watching a great magician performing his tricks and not knowing how they did it.
“Moe,” he commanded the other computer. “Pull up directory ‘Carrie.’ Pull up file ‘Ramirez.’” A page of text appeared on the center monitor.
“Okay,” Charlie said to Carrie. “Ramirez Excavation and Johnson-Dealy Construction both opened for business four years ago. Bell Electric’s been around for eighteen years and is owned by Dorothy Bell, who took over the company after her husband died eight years ago. It’ll take a little more digging to find out who actually owns the first two. I may have to do a little work from my house, but I’ll find out.”
“That’s great. What about—” Carrie stopped as she heard her name being called overhead. There was a phone call holding for her at her desk.
She picked up the phone on Charlie’s desk and answered the call. “This is Carrie.” There was a short pause while she listened to the person on the other end.
“Oh, God,” she whispered, her bottom lip beginning to tremble.
“I … I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Without saying goodbye, she hung up the phone. “I … I’ve got to go,” she stammered. Her voice quivered as she spoke and tears began brimming in her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Charlie asked.
Unable to hold back any longer, she burst into tears. “My grandparents were killed last night,” she sobbed. After she grabbed her purse, she raced from the cubicle, her half-eaten burger left to go cold.
Montana
It was late afternoon by the time they had finished gathering and photographing all of the evidence at the Joneses’ cabin. The sun was beginning to dip behind the mountains to the west, casting ever-deepening shadows across the valley. George Greyhawk nodded at Deputy Johnson as he backed around to head back into town, taking the FBI agents with him.
During the day, George had sent Clayton back into town to a hardware store to purchase three sheets of plywood, a hammer, and a box of nails to board up the missing window.
Clayton and the FBI agents had all offered to stay and help, but George had sent them on their way, telling them that they had had a long day and that he could handle it without their assistance. Actually, he had his own reason for staying behind alone, one that he didn’t care to try to explain to them.
After he boarded up the window, George stored the hammer and nails in the back of his Yukon and then lifted a Remington 870 shotgun from the rack along the side window. Using one of the keys on his key ring, he unlocked the padlock and opened the lid on a metal storage box bolted to the floor of the truck against the backseat. Inside were several removable trays of differing size that contained road flares, flashlights, batteries, and several boxes of ammunition of varying calibers.
The shotgun had an extended magazine. He pulled out eight shells from one of the trays and loaded them into the breach. He pumped the barrel and chambered the first shell. He then pulled out a large, black Maglite and closed the storage box.
After he shut the back gate of the Yukon, he returned to the front porch of the cabin, where he sat down in one of the wooden rockers and waited for true night to fall.
*
It was just after midnight when George first sensed it. He was sitting perfectly still—as he had been for the last four hours—listening to the wind as it soughed through the trees and scanning the darkness for any signs of movement. The moon was almost full, its silvery light quivering and dancing on the surface of the lake as the gentle waves lapped at the ice-crusted shore. In spite of the light from the moon, it was still impossible to see into the dark recesses of the forest, but that didn’t matter to George. He knew something was out there. He could sense it.
Thoughts of his grandmother and the legend of the coyote filled his mind, but he quickly pushed them away.
He rose from the chair with such slow deliberation that it remained perfectly silent in spite of its tendency to creak and groan at the slightest disturbance. The floorboards remained quiet as he moved across the porch to the railing. His breath steamed in the frigid night air, momentarily disturbing his vision as the moonlight turned the vapor into a luminous, silvery cloud. Eyes narrowing, he scanned the darkness searching for the source of the disturbance.
Nothing moved except for a few dead leaves and pine needles blowing across the ground.
Remaining perfectly still, he closed his eyes. He could just sense it out there—something incredibly powerful and dangerous. It was not one with the forest. It did not belong, and thus, George was able to sense the uneasiness within the forest itself. The night had fallen silent. There were no ghostly calls ringing out as lonely owls hooted to one another, no rustling of limbs or scraping of claws against bark as tree squirrels scurried about. Nothing. Just the faint
shooshing
of the breeze passing through the treetops.
George was as still as the trees themselves, waiting for the thing to make its move. He could sense it out there just beyond the edge of his perception, as if it were sizing him up.
George pumped the shotgun, cracking the silence of the night.
He had hoped the sudden noise and movement and the threat it implied might startle the thing into action, but the night remained quiet.
Then suddenly, it was gone. To George, it felt as if he had been in the pressurized cabin of an airplane and one of the emergency exit doors had been suddenly opened, allowing the strange sensations to evaporate into thin air.
Knowing the encounter was over, George walked to the truck and got in. He laid the shotgun across the passenger seat within easy reach. It wasn’t until he started the engine and looked in the rearview mirror that he noticed the beads of sweat on his forehead.