The Panic Zone (24 page)

Rabat, Morocco

I'
ve been sent a package from a dead man.

The thought raced through Jack Gannon's mind as he locked his hotel-room door, then tore open the yellow padded envelope from Adam Corley.

What he found inside was a small camel.

It was a beautiful object a bit larger than Gannon's palm. According to the tag affixed with a gold tassel to its neck, it had been carved from walnut wood by an artist in Essaouira, a town along the Atlantic coast.

Gannon also found a handwritten note in the envelope. “Jack: a gift to help you remember Morocco —Adam C.”

Nothing else.

Gannon sat at the desk, puzzled.

Why did Corley send him this and when? He turned it over, running his fingers along its smooth surface. It was almost blood red with nice, overlapping grain. Its meaning was a mystery that Gannon was pondering when his phone rang. He placed the carving in his computer bag then answered.

“Mr. Gannon, this is the concierge. As you requested, we've looked into flights. You can depart Rabat early tomorrow morning on an Air France flight to Paris's Charles de Gaulle, where you will connect to New York for arrival at JFK late in the evening.”

“I'll take it.”

“Would you like us to confirm it on your credit card, sir?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Very well, we'll slide the ticket under your door later and arrange for a taxi for 6:45 a.m.”

After hanging up, Gannon turned on his laptop. Among his e-mails were several from Oliver Pritchett in London and Melody Lyon in New York. Her most recent one asked, Haven't heard from you—what's happening?

It gave him pause.

How could he begin to answer her?

Well, other than being abducted, stripped and tortured, not bad.

Gannon decided it best to call Melody but when he reached for his phone, he started shaking. He ran his hand over his face.

Somehow the world felt different.

He felt different.

Now he understood why some assault victims refused to talk. The humiliation of the violation was overwhelming and it brought back images of Rio de Janeiro and the drug gang drilling a gun into his mouth, pulling the trigger on an empty chamber.

This sort of thing doesn't happen to guys like me. I'm a blue-collar nobody who grew up in Buffalo. I don't need this crap. Maybe I should find a job at some safe suburban weekly.

Maybe I don't have what it takes.

Shut up! Suck it up. You asked for this, Gannon. You yearned to work for the WPA. Well, you got your wish, pal. Don't forget, Gabriela Rosa and Marcelo Verde paid with their lives for this story. So did Maria Santo, and now Adam Corley. Remember what Melody said—Find the truth, no matter where it leads. This is how we will honor the dead.

Gannon collected himself and started an e-mail to Melody Lyon.

 

A source was murdered before we met. I was questioned by police. I'm now on my way back to NYC with more crucial information. I'm okay. I'll discuss it with you in New York.

* * *

After he sent the e-mail his body shook again.

Maybe if he just talked to somebody, somebody he trusted. He pulled out his wallet for a Buffalo number. It took a few seconds for the overseas connection to go through.

“Clark Investigations. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you.”

In that moment, Gannon pictured his friend Adell Clark, a divorced former FBI agent who ran a one-woman private detective agency out of her modest Parkview home in Lackawanna where she lived with her daughter. A few years back, Clark had been shot in an armored-car heist at a strip mall in Lewiston Heights. He'd profiled her, and they'd become friends and had many heart-to-hearts. Adell knew him better than he knew himself.

Could he bear to tell her what happened?

The message cue beeped.

No. Not now.

He hung up and dragged his hands across his face, then started packing. He was nearly done when his phone rang again.

“Jack, Pritchett in London. Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” he lied.

“You know what happened to Adam?”

“Yes.”

“It's bloody horrible, the British Embassy called his father and he called us. Did you see him before he was killed?”

“No, but I was at his house after it happened. The police questioned me.”

“Do they know who's behind it? Did they arrest anybody?”

“I don't think so.”

“Christ, this has to be linked to the intelligence he was gathering. You have to be careful, Jack. This is terrible.”

Gannon glanced toward his computer bag.

“Oliver, something odd happened. I got a package from Corley at my hotel.”

“What?”

“Obviously he sent it before our meeting. It's a small hand-carved camel.”

“Did he send a note with it?”

“A small one, it said, ‘Jack: a gift to help you remember Morocco —Adam C.' What do you think it means, given we hadn't even met?”

“Knowing Adam, it's more than a gift. I can't tell you what, exactly. Hang on to it. Were there any documents with it, anything like that?”

“No.”

“Adam was supposed to send me a full report on what he'd learned from his sources and from his trip to Libya, but I haven't received anything.”

“Maybe he dropped it in the snail mail to you?”

“I don't know. This whole thing is very bad. Jack, get out of there. It's too dangerous for you. Equal Globe International has lost two people. Your news agency has lost two people. Get out of Morocco before it's too late.”

* * *

The next day Gannon peered at the Atlantic from the starboard window seat of an Air France jetliner.

He had the row to himself and tried to relax as he studied the carved camel in his hands. He turned it over and over, recalling how Pritchett had said that Corley's act of sending him the figure must have a deeper meaning.

Like what?

Caressing its smooth surface, Gannon noticed a tiny square indentation in the camel's belly. He'd missed it at first because it ran along the grain line. Holding the camel closer
for inspection, he noticed the grain line was, in fact, a seam. It ran along the length of the carving, dividing it in half.

He tried wedging his thumbnail into the seam. The indentation was smaller than a grain of rice. No luck. He took stock of his surroundings, then withdrew a pen from his pocket and managed to insert the tip into the tiny slot. After wiggling the pen's tip, the two halves of the carving shifted. With careful, controlled effort, Gannon pulled the camel apart into two equal pieces. They'd been hollowed out and opened to a memory card, hidden inside.

How did the airport scanner miss this?

Gannon shrugged, pulled out his laptop, switched it on and inserted the card. Dozens of file folders appeared on his screen. The first was labeled Note to Jack Gannon.

His pulse quickened when he opened it.

Gannon began surveying Corley's files. It was a long flight, and he would have time to read, but for now he'd scroll through the files quickly and randomly to see what he had.

Here was something on Drake Stinson, the ex-CIA attorney with the Brazilian law firm Worldwide Rio Advogados. Here was something about him in Benghazi at a meeting with some shady-looking types and an American scientist, who used several aliases.

Who was she?

He came to another labeled Extremus Deus.

Never heard of that term—sounds Latin.

As he paged quickly through the files, he caught something that twigged a memory, a reference to LA #181975 to Wyoming847.

Wyoming?

Gannon recalled some reference to Wyoming from files passed to him by Sarah Kirby, Maria Santo's friend from the Human Rights Center in Rio.

Only Corley's file seemed larger and more detailed.

He came to a document labeled Big Cloud, Wyoming—Golden Dawn Fertility Corp.

Big Cloud, Wyoming? What was that about?

Cheyenne, Wyoming

D
r. Allan Pierce gave Emma hope.

He understood her and today he'd promised to explain how he would help her. This morning she saw the words of her file reflected in his glasses as he studied his patient assessment, profile and notes.

Emma had returned to Wyoming feeling defeated and agreed to see Dr. Pierce, who surprised her because he listened.

He actually listened.

The fatal fire and her futile battle with the clinic in California were devastating setbacks in her search for Tyler. The police in Big Cloud were dismissive of her claims of a conspiracy behind Tyler's disappearance. These disasters had thrust her into a pit of self-doubt and despair.

But Dr. Pierce had told her that something extraordinary had happened to her at the crash.

Optimism about Tyler now flickered in the darkest corner of her heart as she sat in Dr. Pierce's office, watching as he reviewed her case.

Pierce had graduated from UCLA and USC and had held the second-highest psychiatric post at Big Sky Memorial Hospital since arriving last year from Los Angeles. In the few sessions Emma had had with him at the hospital, he'd run a number of tests. He was thorough, but more important, he was warm, kind and paid attention to her.

He missed nothing.

What Emma didn't know was that he was still grappling with the toll exacted on him by his former job where he'd been saddled with an impossible caseload and had grown bitter about his life. When his marriage ended in divorce, he'd come to Wyoming.

As he uncapped his pen he concluded Emma Lane had a severe case of post-traumatic stress, coupled with a profound grief reaction. And she had a fixed delusional system going, too.

Treatment orders showed regular blood work, chest X-ray and E.E.G., and neurology showed zip.

Pierce closed her file and pushed his glasses atop his head.

“Emma, what you're experiencing is an acute case of grief reaction. It's early in the process, so there's no way to predict when it will wane, but it will. However, your case is somewhat unusual, given the circumstances and the intensity of your reaction. And you have other things at work.”

Emma was listening.

“We'll try to help you understand that, while it is normal to yearn as you are doing, you must accept that you can't bring your family back.”

“No, wait, I told you that I do accept that Joe is gone, but Tyler did not die in the fire. He was rescued and someone has him.”

Pierce nodded.

“We'll get you on a healing track by first helping you forgive yourself.”

“Forgive myself?”

“You are showing signs of survivor's guilt among other symptoms.”

“I don't understand.”

“Your preoccupation with finding and recovering your dead son is normal. And, Emma, this sense of presence you're experiencing does occur as part of the grieving pro
cess. The hallucination of seeing Tyler rescued, the phone call, things that are even characteristic of spiritual or metaphysical phenomenon—the profound conviction that Tyler is alive in another time and space—this is all part of the grieving process.”

“It is? Is someone calling you to tell you your son is alive part of the grieving process?”

Pierce let a long silent moment pass.

“Emma, your leaving home to search for Tyler at the clinic in California, the symbolic place of his origin, is extreme, but it is still part of the mourning process. As is your anxiety, your disbelief, even your self-recrimination. As you said, you were the one who suggested the picnic, which resulted in the drive and accident. You said that had you not gone on that drive the tragedy never would have happened. This is survivor's guilt. Essentially all of these symptoms have converged to form your yearning, and at the same time, deceive you into believing Tyler is alive. It's a protective mechanism.”

“Wait!” Emma held up her hands. “I don't understand.”

“I know it's difficult to absorb what I've identified.”

“No. Not that. I thought you believed that Tyler was alive, that the phone call, the information I obtained from Polly Larenski—who admitted she sold Tyler's files, admitted someone somewhere has Tyler—all pointed to the fact that there is some sort of plan, plot or conspiracy going on.”

“No, Emma, I'm sorry if I gave you that impression.”

“I thought with you being from L.A., that you had contacts with police, authorities, that you were going to help me follow up on Polly's information. It was all very real. I did not hallucinate any of that.”

“Emma, I understand—” he cleared his throat “—but I also agree with the earlier observation by Dr. Kendrix that you were hearing and searching out what you needed to hear to counter your disbelief. You need to be assured that Tyler did not suffer in the fire while you lay a few feet away unable to go to him.”

“No!” She clenched her hands into fists. “You are my only hope.”

Pierce said nothing as a long awkward silence passed.

“Emma. I understand that you believe deeply that what you've experienced is reality, that it has in fact happened. I promised at the last session that once I had your test results, I would explain how I would help you confront what is real. And that's what I've done.”

All the blood drained from Emma's face as he reached for a pad.

“I'm going to give you a strong prescription and I want you to follow it.”

As his pen scraped across the pad, Emma shut her eyes.

Her faint light of hope had gone out.

Pierce tore the page from his pad. It was the sound of betrayal as Emma felt the last measure of hope being ripped from her heart.

Pierce was like all the others.

He didn't believe her.

No one believed her.

She sat motionless in the chair as Pierce went around his desk and opened his office door to where Emma's aunt Marsha and uncle Ned had been waiting.

“She'll need this prescription.” Pierce gave it to Emma's aunt. “You can get it filled at the hospital pharmacy on your way out. Emma—” Pierce put his hand on her shoulder “—I'll see you Friday at the same time?”

She said nothing.

“We'll have her here,” Uncle Ned said.

“Thank you, Doctor,” said Aunt Marsha.

* * *

No one spoke in the car. Emma sat with Aunt Marsha in the back. Uncle Ned drove and fiddled with the radio, finding a classical music station. He kept the sound low.

Emma loved them. Their devotion to her was unyielding, never giving way to their own pain. She could not have sur
vived this far without them. They were halfway across town, stopped at a red light, when Emma made a decision.

“Can you please take me to the cemetery?”

Uncle Ned looked in the rearview mirror where he found Aunt Marsha's face and the answer.

“Of course, dear,” Emma's aunt said.

When they reached the entrance to the Sun View Park Cemetery, Emma asked her uncle to stop.

“I'd like to go the rest of the way alone. I'll walk home later.”

“But, dear?” Aunt Marsha was worried.

“I need some time alone out here, a long time.”

“We can wait, or come back,” Uncle Ned said.

“I'll be fine. I'll walk home. I just need to be alone, to think.”

The anxiety in her aunt's eyes was clear.

“Don't worry, Aunt Marsha.”

“Try telling the rain not to fall.”

Both women released a laugh.

“What happened is nobody's fault,” her aunt said.

“I know.”

“We love you, Emma,” her aunt said.

* * *

They drove off, leaving Emma alone to walk along the high prairie that disappeared into the mountains. She made her way around the headstones to the gravesite that was marked by a white wooden cross and a mound of dark earth.

The stone wasn't ready yet.

The small plate affixed to the cross read Joseph Lane and Tyler Lane.

Emma sat on the grass.

No one else was in the cemetery.

Birds twittered.

Am I wrong? Is everyone else right? Have I lost you forever?

She was so tired. She didn't know what to do.

I want to be with you. I need to be with you.

A breeze rolled down from the Rockies and lifted her hair, tugging her down a river of memories as moments of their lives together rained upon her like falling stars.

I feel your hand, Joe. I really do. I feel that shirt, that stupid faded denim shirt, softened by a thousand washings. I feel your skin. I smell you. I taste your cheek on my lips.

Oh, Tyler, Mommy sees you laughing in the sun.

I see you, Mom and Dad.

I see the fires that took you all.

I see you together.

Don't leave me here.

Can you hear me?

Please, take me with you.

I want to be with you…. I can't bear to be alone.

I can't be without you. I can't. I can't live without you.

I can't fight anymore.

Was I wrong about it all?

Was the phone call really about Dr. Durbin's letter? Was Polly Larenski crazy with grief, too? Was she not in her right mind when she called me and said Tyler was alive?

Help me!

Joe, help me! Tell me what to do. Tell me what is real because I don't know anymore. Send me a sign, show me the way, please. It hurts so much.

Time slipped away as Emma struggled with half-dreamed fears, listening and searching. But no one spoke to her and no signs emerged.

Reality descended upon her with the sinking sun.

She was alone.

Defeated.

She had come to another decision.

As she walked home from the cemetery, the truth emerged at every turn and every corner where she was met by the ghosts of her happiness.

There was the Wagon Wheel Diner where she first saw
Joe. And there was the Branding Bar where she met him again a month later. And there were two houses that Joe and his crew built. And down the way, in the distance, she saw her school and, near it, the hospital where she had Tyler. There was the park where he liked to play.

I can't live without you.

Reality had arrived with the night, and the truth was as dark as the starless sky. She walked into Yancy's Drugs, went to the cold remedy aisle and snatched a large bottle of extra-strong sleeping pills.

The store was deserted.

Mindy, the teenaged clerk, picked up the bottle from the counter. She hesitated to slide it over the scanner next to the cash, giving Emma a look that telegraphed her knowledge. Like when boys bought condoms or Mindy's girlfriends paid for birth control or Rudy, the furniture salesman, bought hair dye. If you wanted to know what was really going on in Big Cloud, talk to the checkout girl at Yancy's Drugs.

“How are you doing, Emma?” Mindy turned the bottle to find the barcode.

“I'm having trouble sleeping, Mindy. How's your mom?”

“Good. We're so sorry about what happened and everything.”

The scanner beeped.

“Will that be cash or charge?”

Emma set a ten on the counter then gathered up her change, her pills and left. When she put the bottle in her purse, it sounded like a baby's rattle.

Aunt Marsha was relieved when Emma arrived home. Uncle Ned woke from napping in front of the TV and an old John Wayne movie.

The Searchers.
Joe's favorite. Was that a sign?

“Do you want something to eat, dear?” Aunt Marsha asked. “I can fix you a chicken sandwich and we have potato salad.”

“No. I'm not hungry. I'm going to bed. I'm very tired.”

“Oh, before I forget, I have your new prescription in my purse and Dr. Pierce said you were to take two pills before bed. I'll get them.”

After Emma swallowed the pills with a glass of water, she hugged her aunt, a bone-cracking, passionate hug that lasted more than a moment.

“Goodness, dear!”

Then Emma hugged her uncle the same way.

“Thank you both for everything. I love you.”

“We love you, too, Em.” Uncle Ned, rubbed his eyes. “Sleep well.”

“Emma?” her aunt asked. “Is there anything you want to talk about?”

Emma stopped, swallowed, blinked back a few tears and forced a weak smile before shaking her head.

“I'm just tired.”

Alone in her bedroom she shut the door.

She got a cup of cold water from her bathroom and set it and the bottle on her nightstand under the glow of the reading lamp.

In the dim light, she undressed and wrapped herself in one of Joe's old flannel shirts. She pulled out Tyler's stuffed teddy bear from her bag as well as her wallet, which held a worn snapshot of the three of them at the park.

She loved this picture.

I want to be with you. When I sleep, I dream. In my dreams we are together. I need to be with you.

She could hear crickets in the night. See the darkness from her window.

Warm joy flowed through her heart, carrying her to every tender memory, every sweet second of their lives together.

Help me find my way back to you.

Please.

It hurts.

The bottle rattled slightly when she reached for it.

It was hard to see because of her tears, but she managed to read a few words on the label: One hundred extra-strength capsules. The recommended dosage for adults was two before bed.

She unscrewed the cap, stared at the foil seal.

She caught her breath, then using her thumbnail, punctured the foil.

She peeled it back, removed the cotton and peered inside.