Abductors Conspiracy Read online




  ABDUCTORS CONSPIRACY

  by JONATHAN FRAKES

  PROLOGUE

  When fate's got it in for you there's no limit to what you may have to put up with.

  ——GEORGETTE HEYER

  FROM A BLUNT INSTRUMENT

  JUNE 18.

  SALMON RIVER PRIMITIVE AREA

  The campfire crackled, sending golden sparks drifting up a few feet into the air before they went black and disappeared as if they had never existed. For a moment the small fire seemed calm. Then a log moved, the fire crackled, and golden sparks again drifted upward and vanished.

  A thousand feet overhead, far higher than the smoke from the fire would ever reach, the last of the sunset tinted the tops of the high mountain ridges with a faint red. Above the ridges a few stars fought and won against the last of the day. It was a battle that was fought every night, over and over.

  The stars always won.

  Nineteen-year-old Jerry Rodale leaned back, his head resting on his rolled-up sleeping bag as he stared up through the tall pine trees at the emerging constellations. He pulled his light jacket tight around his chest and stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets. It would be a clear, crisp night in the Idaho mountains. A beautiful night for stargazing.

  Around him the dull roar of water rushing over rocks filled the steep-walled mountain valley. The Middle Fork of the Salmon River started twenty miles above this point and ninety miles away ended in the main Salmon River, flowing into the "River of No Return" canyon. Eventually the water passing by now would reach the Pacific Ocean near the beautiful city of Portland, Oregon. But in this valley tonight, fifty miles from the nearest town and twenty miles from the nearest road, there were no sounds of civilization. Only the chirp of insects and the running of water.

  Watched over by the silent stars.

  Jerry loved it in the mountains more than anything. He had just finished his first year of college in Denver and was planning on spending most of the summer camping and hiking in the Idaho wilderness. Every year since his fifth birthday he had gone camping with his family during the summer. Now he was an experienced backpacker and the wilderness didn't worry him. He thrived out here in the wilds. To him the mountains were always a safer place than any city.

  Thirty yards from the campfire his girlfriend, nineteen-year-old Tina Harris, finished dipping a small pan of water out of the river. She pulled on her cotton gloves to keep warm and turned to move up the bank toward the fire. Her small flashlight sent a beam cutting through the dark at the trail ahead as she picked her way over the rocks and tree roots toward the glow of the fire.

  She stood five six, with short brown hair and large brown eyes. She was usually called cute and had hated that until last year, when it dawned on her she wouldn't be cute for too much longer. She had also just finished her first year of college in Denver and, like Jerry, was looking forward to the summer. She loved camping, but not with the passion Jerry had. She hoped later in the summer, when the mountains got really hot, to talk him into just staying at home around her parents' swimming pool in Portland, Oregon. But, on this third night into the Idaho mountains, she was happy right where she was. Tomorrow they'd reach the first hot springs and, if she knew Jerry, they'd camp there for a few days while he fished. She didn't mind. For her there was nothing like sitting in a natural hot spring under a sky full of stars.

  As she neared their camp, and the light from their fire lit the trail, she shut off the flashlight. Tonight their small camp filled a flat area between a half dozen tall pine trees on a rock shelf twenty feet over the river.. They had set up their tent between two of the trees and had laid out mats near the fire in an open area so they could stare at the sky.

  "Problems?" Jerry asked without turning to look at her.

  "Nope," she said. She set her pan of water off to one side and dropped down beside Jerry. Above her the stars now almost filled the sky. Later, when the campfire died down and the last of the sunset had vanished from the tops of the ridges, she knew the stars would paint the heavens almost pure silver.

  She slipped her hand into Jerry's hand and neither of them said a word as they lay watching the sky and listening to the river. A peaceful night in the mountains, miles away from any college exams. At that moment, for both of them, life was about as good as it could get. They were young, had their health, and both had rich enough parents that they didn't have to work in the summer.

  Tina squeezed Jerry's hand lightly, then suddenly sat up straight. Something was moving above them. "Jerry? Did you see—"

  "Yeah," he said. He was already sitting, staring up between the trees. "Must have been an owl."

  "If that was an owl, it was huge," Tina said.

  Like a fast-moving cloud, a blackness crossed overhead, blocking out the stars and seeming to dull even the light from the campfire.

  "Is that a storm?" Jerry asked. "I didn't hear any thunder in the valley."

  "Neither did I," Tina said.

  Both teenagers scrambled to their feet, never taking their eyes off the sky above them. The sound of the river faded into the distance, and the fire didn't crackle. There was no shape to the blackness and neither of them heard a sound. Just suddenly the stars and the tops of the mountains around them were blocked out as if someone had tossed a dark blanket over the trees.

  Jerry turned and grabbed his flashlight from where he'd placed it on a rock. He clicked it on and pointed it into the sky, but the beam seemed to be sucked into the blackness.

  "What's happening?" Jerry asked.

  Tina shook her head. His voice sounded deadened, as though he was talking through a blanket. Her throat felt too dry to answer. This wasn't possible. Stars just didn't disappear from the sky.

  "Let's get out of here," Jerry said. Pulling on Tina's arm he shined the light between the trees and started back toward the main trail that led up the river. Without packs they'd have a long, cold night and an even longer day tomorrow before they reached a ranger station, but Tina knew they'd make it. At the moment that was the least of her worries. What was above them was the problem.

  They had only gone a few steps when the blackness of night turned to the brightness of day as an intense white light covered them, freezing them into position.

  "What—" Jerry managed to say before he could say nothing more.

  The last thing Tina felt was a numbing, tingling sensation, as if a dentist had given her too much Novocain. Something unseen was holding her in a standing position. She wanted to drop to the ground as the trees around her spun, but she couldn't. She fought the trapped feeling for the seconds before she passed out.

  Unconscious, Jerry and Tina floated into the sky, as had the embers from their fire. As they cleared the tops of the tall pine trees the artificial day vanished from the forest floor. Moments later the stars returned to their normal place above the mountains as the blackness moved up and away.

  After a few minutes the crickets started chirping again and everything seemed back to normal.

  A few hours later Jerry and Tina's campfire spit its last ember into the air and cooled down to faded golden coals. By morning it was cold and dead.

  Chapter One

  A bad forgery's the ultimate insult.

  —-JONATHAN GASH

  FROM THE VATICAN RIP

  JUNE 21.

  PORTLAND, OREGON

  The lobby of the Sundown Hotel smelled like stale cigarettes. Grime covered the front window, and yellow water stains formed patterns on the high ceiling and walls. A fan squeaked like a ticking clock as it turned slowly over the center of the room, vainly trying to move the air.

  Two faded overstuffed couches faced each other across the tiny lobby beside a caged-in front desk. Two elderly men sat on the co
uches, saying nothing, looking at nothing. Both had long since vanished inside their own memories, returning to the present only when forced to eat or move upstairs to their tiny rooms.

  Inside the wire cage a fat man smoked a short cigarette and studied the sports page of the morning paper. He wore a stained white T-shirt with a Harley insignia on the back. The few residents who could still smell called him onion man because he always smelled of onions.

  The front door swung open, crashing backward into the wall, letting in the sounds of trucks and passing traffic. An elderly man with a stooped back and thinning white hair shuffled through the door pulling a worn old leather suitcase strapped onto an aluminum carrier with small wheels. Obviously the suitcase weighed more than he was able to handle, but he didn't seem to notice. He just pulled it inside as though it was a dead body, then moved slowly to close the front door.

  He pulled the suitcase over to the cage, leaving a scrape mark across the dirty floor. "Room for two weeks," he said. His voice was dull, almost automatic sounding. His eyes were a flat gray and his skin seemed pasty and moist.

  The onion man inside the cage dropped his paper. "Eighty bucks per week in advance."

  The old man pulled out a roll of bills and handed it to the man. "Two weeks."

  "Heard ya the first time." The onion man spent a moment counting the money, then nodded and slid a key through the opening in the cage. "First door at the top of the stairs. No maids. No parties." With a chopped-off laugh at his own joke, the onion man slipped the money into the drawer under the counter and picked up his newspaper.

  The old man didn't even nod. He simply picked up the key, turned, grabbed the handle on the heavy suitcase carrier, and started toward the wooden stairs. Ten minutes later he had managed to bump the heavy suitcase up the stairs and into the room. After a moment he had the door locked behind him.

  He left the suitcase in the middle of the room and sat down on the bed. His main job was now done.

  He focused his gaze on the old leather suitcase. He must now guard the luggage. No one was to touch it. No one. He was to die stopping any attempt.

  For the next six days he was to sit on the bed and stare at the suitcase without moving.

  Chapter Two

  We're all not quite as sane as we pretend to be.

  —ROBERT BLOCK

  FROM PSYCHO

  11:05 A.M. JUNE 22.

  PORTLAND, OREGON

  Ex-cop turned private investigator Richard McCallum was having one of "those" days.

  He crouched behind his big oak desk, his ears still ringing from the gunshot. His office smelled of sulfur and there was now a fairly large round hole in the new oak paneling beside his bookshelf. He kept staring up at the hole and the more he stared, the madder he got. It had cost him over fifteen thousand hard-earned bucks to remodel this office and now Evan Toole was punching holes in it.

  And too damn close to his books for comfort.

  "You still back there, McCallum?" Evan asked from where he stood in McCallum's office door, his voice clearly shaking from the excitement of firing that first shot.

  "Where else would I go?" McCallum said. "You think I got a tunnel back here?"

  Evan laughed. "Don't you wish."

  Yeah, McCallum wished he did have an escape tunnel right at that moment. He glanced at the gun in his right hand. He could put a slug in Evan easily enough, but the paperwork downtown would be hell if he did. And if he accidentally killed the guy, the paperwork and court time would keep him jammed for months. It wasn't worth it. But he didn't put the gun down. He hated paperwork, but he wasn't stupid.

  Another explosion filled the office and a second hole appeared in the wall beside the first, slightly closer to the books.

  "Damn it, Evan!" McCallum shouted. "You put a hole in my books and you're dead." McCallum had spent the last ten years collecting those books. All of them were mysteries, all signed by the authors. Mysteries were his passion in life and had been since he was a kid. Mysteries had been the reason he'd become a cop and the reason he'd gone on to be a private investigator.

  Evan only laughed.

  McCallum's ears rang from the gunfire in the small space. He adjusted his weight to keep his legs from going to sleep. McCallum was a moderately tall man, standing just over six feet. He had a well-groomed beard and mustache. At thirty-eight he was still trim and in top physical shape from running and working out in the neighborhood gym. But staying crouched behind a desk would put anyone's legs to sleep. He didn't want that to happen just in case he had to move fast. He shifted his weight again and could feel the warm sensation of blood flowing to cramped areas.

  "Come on, Evan," McCallum said after the sound of the shot quit echoing around the office. "You're not doing yourself or my new office any good at all."

  "Just like you didn't do me any good, McCallum," Evan said from his position in the doorway. Two more shots punched holes in the new oak paneling, sending splinters and dust through the air. "I'm just paying you back is all."

  Outside the window the sounds of sirens filled the streets. McCallum clutched his own gun and forced himself to stay calm, no matter how bad the ruined oak panel looked. Shooting Evan still wasn't worth the paperwork. He'd quit the police force and become a private investigator because he hated doing paperwork. As an investigator he could have his secretary do the paperwork. No point in going back to a drawerful of it now.

  One more shot cut through the air and opened another hole in his oak wall, dangerously close to the books. Then McCallum heard a click as a hammer fell on an empty chamber. McCallum poked his head over the edge of the desk.

  "Clip jammed, I'll bet," McCallum said. "You want me to help?"

  Evan, sweating and cussing, tried to slip a new clip into his gun without much luck. His fat hands were shaking too much. His huge body filled the office door. Evan had to be at least three hundred pounds, and at the moment he was sweating like a fountain. Huge dark rings had formed on his shirt and drops of water covered his face. He clearly hadn't shaved in a few days, and even through the smell of gunpowder McCallum caught a whiff of stale garlic. It was no wonder Evan's wife had left him. The guy was a pig.

  Behind Evan, in the outer office, McCallum could see the youngest of his four assistant investigators, Arthur, trying to creep up behind the big man. McCallum shook his head in disgust. That's what he got for hiring someone by the name of Arthur. The kid had guts, but no brains. He had most likely seen far too many movies. Arthur didn't weigh much more than one hundred and thirty pounds and had more freckles than Howdy Doody. What did he think he could do to a man the size of Evan? Not even a professional cowboy with a rope and spurs could wrestle that much bulk to the ground.

  McCallum tried to wave Arthur back, but the kid was so intensely focused on Evan's back that he didn't see the warning. Finally McCallum stood up completely and yelled, "Arthur, you idiot. You move one more step and you're fired."

  That froze the kid in his tracks just long enough for Evan to glance around, swinging his gun in Arthur's direction as he did. McCallum laughed as the kid's face went a shade of sickly white and he dove behind a secretary's desk. McCallum's yell had probably saved the kid's stupid life.

  "Smart thinking," Evan said, turning back to face McCallum.

  "Unlike what you're doing now," McCallum said, still standing even though Evan's gun was now pointed at him. "You think plugging holes all over my walls is going to bring your wife back to you? I told you I never take divorce cases and this," McCallum said, pointing at the ruined oak wall, "is one good reason why. Do you know how much these new oak walls cost me?"

  Evan looked as if he might cry for a moment as he waved the gun around. McCallum kept behind his desk, ready to duck for cover just in case Evan had gotten the new clip in right.

  "If you'd have just taken my case," Evan said, his voice a pathetic whine, "it might have saved my marriage."

  "Evan," McCallum said softly, putting as much understanding behind his words as he
could, considering the circumstances. "Doris had already moved in with a golf pro down at Columbia Edgewater Country Club. She wasn't coming back. It didn't take a detective to know that."

  McCallum managed not to add that a few more showers and losing about one hundred pounds might have helped get Evan's wife back, too. As W. Somerset Maugham said of his main character in his book The British Agent: "It was Ashenden's principle to tell as much of the truth as he conveniently could."

  McCallum used that principle often.

  Evan looked for a moment as if he was going to start firing again, then his arm went limp at his side, the gun pointing downward at the empty shells littering the carpet. "I'm so damn stupid."

  McCallum nodded his agreement, but didn't say it out loud. He had a lot of basic principles and one of them was never calling a man with a gun stupid, even if the guy had said it first.

  McCallum moved slowly around from behind his desk and took the pistol from Evan's hand. He patted the large man on his soft, damp shoulder as the front door to the office opened and the police stormed in. McCallum handed the lead officer Evan's gun, moved back to his desk and put his own gun away.

  "Just in the nick of time, as always, I see," Detective Henry Greer said, smiling at McCallum as he squeezed past Evan and into the office. Henry and McCallum had gone through the police academy together and had been partners for ten years before McCallum left the force. Henry stood all of five six, weighed fifty pounds more than McCallum, and hated paperwork almost as much as McCallum.

  Henry's passion in life was doughnuts, and he planned someday to quit police work and start his own doughnut shop. Henry had three kids and an almost perfectly round wife while McCallum had no kids and was divorced. They had been best friends for years and almost always had lunch together.

  Henry motioned for a uniformed officer to take the now-handcuffed Evan away, then turned back to McCallum, who turned around to stare at the holes in his wall. Way too close to his autographed books. Way too close.