Last Fairytale, The (15 page)

“This is Gen Delacourt.”

“Hi my lovely, this is Oliver.”

“What’s the news, Liv? Do I detect a little tension in your voice? Don’t tell me your friend’s dog died.”

“No, not the dog. But you’re right, I’m nervous.” He hesitated. “Have you talked to Bree?”

Gen saved the file she was working on, then powered off her laptop and stretched. A glance at the clock informed her it was later than she’d thought.

“We spoke earlier,” she replied. “But I turned off my cell to catch up on paperwork and lost track of time.”

“Do you know where she is? I have a bad feeling.”

“What happened? She was going to Elergene. She might have called. Let me check.” She walked across the room with the handset to her ear and pulled the mobile from her bag, then turned it on.

“Genny, I know your phone is off. I left five messages before I gave up and dug around in Bree’s stuff to find your card. That’s why I’m calling your land line.”

“I’m looking at the message log now. She called a few hours ago. Let me see what she says.” Gen was silent for five beats. When she spoke again, her tone had changed from confident to concerned.

“Liv, she says she thinks Vonnegon is up to something. She said she was going to follow him and she’d call me later. That was about five-thirty. It’s eight o’clock now. I don’t like it.”

“Then you’re really not going to like this. I caught her live a while ago. She was whispering, said she was in Sausalito sneaking around, then she cut me off. That’s what she said, sneaking around.”

“Have you called her again?”

“Every fifteen minutes. Her cell is on, but she hasn’t picked up. She always takes my calls.”

By then, Gen was wearing a path in the carpet from her desk to the front door. She was about to turn away from the windows when the street lights illuminated a familiar face.

“Hold on. Garcia is outside. Maybe he was here to drop her off. I’ll flag him down and call you back. Hopefully this can all be explained.”

She threw open the front door. “Garcia!”

The detective pivoted on the sidewalk, took one look at Gen’s face, and hurried back. “What?”

“Tell me you just dropped Bree off at her condo.”

“No. What makes you think that?”

“Clutching at straws.” She ushered him inside and closed the door. “Bree is missing.”

“Define missing.”

“She was with Vonnegon. Apparently she heard him say something suspicious and decided to follow him. That was about five-thirty. Our neighbor, Oliver, just told me he called her about an hour ago. She was whispering. Told him she couldn’t talk because she was sneaking around Sausalito. She hasn’t answered her phone since. Oliver and I both have a bad feeling about this.”

“Didn’t I make it clear she was to stay out of it?”

“She wants to write a feature story about Ducane’s death.” Gen gestured toward the back office and Garcia followed her in. “She didn’t want to tell you, thought you’d frown on it. Which you do, I can see it on your face.”

“I understand your concern.” Garcia looked at his watch, then shoved his hands into his pockets and played with his loose change. “She’ll turn up. She’s probably just out with Vonnegon. Sounds like they’re getting cozy.”

“She’s not playing footsies with Taylor Vonnegon, not from the sound of the message she left. She said she was following him in her own car.”

“Does she have friends in North Bay? Is it typical for her not to pick up every call? Could she have been pulling your leg, just telling you a story about following someone to get you riled up?”

“Her close friends are here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Ninety-nine point nine percent sure.”

“Is her cell still on?”

Gen picked up the land line handset. “Let’s find out.” She keyed in Bree’s number and held the receiver to her ear. Six unanswered rings sent her call to voice mail.

“Bree, this is Gen. Call me the minute you hear this message. I mean it, call me immediately.” She clicked the line off, returned the handset to its base, and sat down on the couch. “What do we do now?”

“Let me think.” He went out to the lobby.

Gen closed up the office and picked up her purse, then turned off the lights. They walked out the front door and she locked up behind them.

“Let’s visit Vonnegon,” Garcia said. “If he’s not home and we still can’t reach either of them, we’ll track her phone.”

“Let’s go.”

Garcia’s unmarked Tahoe was parked at the curb a block north. Gen trailed him as his long stride covered the distance. She swung into the passenger seat and buckled up. Seconds later, he hurtled into traffic.

“What were you doing down this way?”

“Pardon?” He kept his eyes on the street.

“At our building. What were you doing there?”

He glanced at her as if he’d just remembered something, then swung his eyes back to the surrounding cars. “I wanted to see if I could catch Bree–” he hesitated. “Miss Butler at home. I had a question.”

“What?”

Gen could sense Garcia’s scowl despite the darkness. Sure enough, when they passed under a street light his expression clearly revealed his annoyance. She pressed him anyway.

“Come on.”

“Ducane’s tox screens came in a few days back. I needed to ask Miss Butler to look at photos of the crime scene and describe it to me again. I was curious if she might have seen something she didn’t think was significant at the time.”

“Like what?”

“If I knew what, I would’ve just called and asked her if she saw it.”

“Come on, Garcia.”

“I don’t want to plant any ideas in anyone’s head, I just wanted to ask a witness to describe what she saw in the room.”

Gen tried another approach. “What did the tox screens show?”

“We don’t want to release it to the public.”

“I’m not the public, detective.”

When cut his eyes to her again, Gen saw his resolve weakening. “I can’t have this getting out.”

“You think I’m going to post it on Facebook?”

Garcia sighed and gave in. “Ducane died from acute mycetism.”

“Sounds like some kind of crazy disease.”

“Mycetism refers to the harmful effects brought on by the ingestion of substances present in certain types of mushrooms.”

Gen’s eyes went wide. “He was poisoned?”

“Apparently he ate or drank something derived from toxic mushrooms. There was no actual mushroom tissue found in his stomach or intestines, and the compound itself isn’t anything the poison or drug people have seen.”

“Does that point to Elergene?”

“When we questioned Vonnegon yesterday, he blamed Ducane’s personal research. He says the kid was out to distill a psychoactive chemical on the sly, and the company had no knowledge of it until the break-in brought it to light.”

“Do we believe him?”

“Why would he risk his business and a lucrative government contract? It doesn’t make sense. A big company wouldn’t take a chance on creating a hallucinogenic drug that at best would have limited interest on the black market. I think we can chalk it up to personal dabbling on Ducane’s part. It wouldn’t be the first time a company geek got curious.”

“You have a point.” Gen shifted in her seat. “Garcia, there’s something I have to tell you.”

“Go on.”

“When we gave you the tip about Catherine Robeson’s last address? We’d already been there. We found an active grow room in the garage.”

Garcia jerked his head to look at her and the wheel mimicked his motion. The car swerved. Gen grabbed the edge of her seat. Garcia blew out an expletive and yanked them back into the lane.

“Maybe I should have mentioned this sooner.”

“Yeah.” His voice was grim. “Tell me the rest.”

“Someone was growing mushrooms in that room off the garage. In a big way.”

He struck the wheel with the flat of his hand.

“It was a sophisticated set-up,” she continued. You saw the rolling stock. It was filled with some kind of mulchy soil. The place was cool. Kind of humid. Looks like they knew what they were doing.”

“Damn straight he knew what he was doing. Ducane was on the team that created the system at Elergene.”

“Did Vonnegon tell you exactly what Elergene’s research was all about?”

“No, just that it’s a classified government-related operation.”

“Well, it looks like Ducane took a deep interest in his work. How were we to know his partners would clean the place out? I’m still wondering how anyone knew we were there.”

“Somebody’s been one step ahead of us all along. I’m getting tired of it. I want Russell Yates and Catherine Robeson. I want answers.”

“I want to know where Bree is.”

“As far as we know, Vonnegon was the last one to see her. So that’s where we start.”

When they passed Huntington Park, Garcia slowed and began to search for a parking place in the ritzy Nob Hill neighborhood. He jockeyed the SUV into a spot hardly longer than the vehicle itself, and they were both out of the car and on the sidewalk.

“Over here.”

Garcia led her across the street to an upscale, remodeled Victorian. They climbed the front steps.

“I’ll do the talking.”

Gen nodded and hung back while Garcia pummeled the bell. A maid answered. He spoke to her in Spanish and she opened the door, then led them to the living room.

Vonnegon was reading in a silk-upholstered wing chair. “It’s late for a social call.” He put down the newspaper and stood, then raised his eyebrows at the maid. She left the room.

Garcia skipped the small talk. “You were with Cambria Butler this afternoon. Do you have any idea where she is now?”

“No.” Vonnegon looked concerned. “Has something happened?” He glanced at a clock on the side table. “I dropped Bree at her car hours ago.”

Gen had pegged him early on for caring about Bree. Now she prayed she was right.

“We can’t locate her,” Garcia replied. “She’s not answering her phone.”

“This is troubling.” Vonnegon returned to his chair. “Please take a seat, I find it difficult to have you two glaring at me. Do you think I’ve done something to her?”

“We’re here because we believe you were the last one to see her today. It’s the obvious place to start.”

“Miss Butler and I spent a lovely hour and a half at the Fairmont. She came to see me at my office, and I invited her to accompany me there.”

“Why did she come to your office?”

“She had questions about Andrew Ducane.”

Garcia’s eyes slid to Gen, and he sounded irritated when he spoke again. “Did she drive to the hotel?”

“We took my car and left hers in the Elergene garage. I had a matter to deal with afterward, so I dropped her back there around dusk. I would say it was after five.”

“And where did you go when you left her?”

“To Sausalito.”

“Why?”

Vonnegon blinked. “Detective, do you suspect me of doing her harm?”

“Should we?”

“Of course not. I’m quite fond of her. She was happy and healthy when we parted. We–” He hesitated but did not look away. “We kissed. We made a dinner date for this weekend.”

At that, Garcia looked decidedly grim. “What were you doing in Sausalito?”

“I had a discussion with tenants who rent a house my mother owns there. Trash is piling up in the yard, and the neighbors are complaining. She’s talked to them about it, but the message seems to be falling on deaf ears. So I went to tell them they had fifteen days to rectify the situation, or they’d be served eviction papers.”

“Do you always handle tenant situations in person?”

“Never. This was a first.”

“Why this time?”

“They upset my mother. There’s often hell to pay when someone upsets my mother.”

Bree dreamed she was swimming to the surface of a deep, dark pool. When she opened her eyes, an unfamiliar room shimmered into view. It was dark but for a prick of light from a dim bulb on the opposite wall. Where was she?

For one sweet moment she was unafraid. Then she searched her memory, and what happened in the hills above Sausalito came back with a rush. She recalled the sweet smell and arms holding her captive. The rag on her mouth and nose must have been saturated with a drug.

Everything after that was a blank.

Until now.

Her mouth was covered with tape. She was lying on a bunk. The layout of the room and the drone of machinery somewhere aboard told her she was in the cabin of a boat. She sat up too fast and struck the bulkhead.

When she raised her arm, she discovered her hands were bound. Fear rushed through her. She felt gut-shot with adrenaline. She struggled upright and looked at her feet.

Duct tape.

Bree panicked, and cohesive thought unraveled like a thread from a well-knit sweater. She rose to her feet, screaming behind the tape, then crashed to the floor to writhe and weep until the initial surge of terror began to pass.

She sucked deep breaths through her nose and thought. She needed a plan. A cool head was the only thing that would get her out alive, because one thing was clear: no one would go to all this trouble just to let her go.

Bolstered by a flood of will, Bree fought to right herself, then sat on the bunk and breathed steadily.

Her hands were bound, palms together.

She opened her mouth wide and pushed her tongue against the tape, then picked at the silver edges with her nails. The strip across her face began to pull away; she stopped. She was sure she could remove it.

Now she needed to sever the strips on her hands and legs. There was no way to know how much time was left, and freeing her hands was the only way she could escape.

She pushed herself upright against the bunk, then swung over and clung to the cabinetry opposite the bed. She scooted her feet across the aisle, grasped the handle of the top drawer, and pulled it open.

Paper. All she could see was paper.

She shuffled the documents aside and felt beneath them. A pen, paperclips. She was trying to think of a way these everyday things could help when she hit pay dirt. On its side in the back of the drawer was an old-fashioned paper holder made from a thin, sharp metal rod on a wooden base.

She stood it up and eased her hands over it. The spike punched up and down, forming a line of tiny perforations in the bindings around her wrists.

When she heard footsteps approach, she shoved the drawer closed and fell on the bunk, then crabbed back into the far corner just as the cabin door was flung open. Two men descended the stairs. One wore a dry suit hood, the other a ski mask.

They made directly for her.

Bree bent her knees and kicked out wildly, but they easily overpowered her. One man hoisted her by the arms. The other grabbed her feet. They dragged her from the cubby, then carried her upstairs like a slab of meat.

Upstairs, they tossed her carelessly onto a bench and her breath was knocked out by the blow. Bree grunted with pain and sucked in noisy nosefuls of air to re-fill her lungs.

As one man dimmed the light illuminating the upper deck, Bree sat up and tucked her legs beneath her. She pushed back against the rail and looked over her shoulder. The boat was moving slowly through the water. The endless ocean spilled around the hull.

Her eyes slid back to the men.

Ski mask was facing her. When she saw the gun, she drew in one last breath and rocked forward on her knees, then drove her body up with every ounce of strength she had.

It was enough. Momentum carried her over the rail. She arched her back and dove into the sea.

Muffled shouts sounded as Bree hit the water. The boat slid by. A volley of shots rang out, pinging into the ocean around her.

Boomboomboomboomboom
.

* * *

Garcia and Gen hurried back to the Tahoe and climbed in.

“What now?” Gen heard the ragged edge to her words and steadied her voice before she spoke again. “It sounds like Bree overreacted.”

“Sounds like it.” Garcia was already a block away, winding his way among a mob of vehicles. “Maybe we are, too. Call the neighbor and ask him to pound on her door and see if she’s back yet. If she doesn’t answer, tell him to check the garage and see if her car is there.”

Gen pulled out her phone. “Where are we going?”

“To trace her cell, if it’s still on.”

“So you don’t expect her to be home.”

“Just covering all the bases.” Garcia flicked on his signal and slowed for a turn. “If she’s there, I’ll take you back and we’ll go up and have a beer and laugh about it.”

She thumbed the number pad and waited.

“Her voice mail is picking up.” She jabbed at the phone and entered another number. “Oliver, it’s Gen. Have you heard anything?”

She looked at Garcia and shook her head.

“Liv, use your key. Maybe she’s there and doesn’t want to answer the door.” She covered the phone. “He says of course he’s been in her condo.”

Garcia scowled.

“Have you checked the garage for her vee-dub?”

She sighed, then looked over and nodded. “He checked the garage fifteen minutes ago. Bree’s car isn’t in her spot. He says he even checked the street. And the pool. She’s not anywhere.”

Garcia’s knuckles tightened on the wheel. He rocked his eyes to Gen, then back to the road. “We’ll find her.”

“And she’ll be all right.”

It was Garcia’s turn to nod.

“Should you send someone up to Sausalito?”

“It’d be a wild goose chase unless GPS locates her and we know where to look. For now, we’ll notify the local uniforms to watch for her car.”

Garcia and Gen fell silent. The street lamps created a light show in the cab, strobing overhead as the Tahoe jetted down the street. Gen bet they were both cycling through potential outcomes to the evening.

She shunned the scenarios that were too frightening to consider. Bree’s cell had to have been lost, left behind, or stolen, and her car had broken down somewhere and she couldn’t get to a phone.

Anything else was unthinkable.

She straightened and clenched her jaw. Now was the time to think clearly. To ferret out any possible sign of where Bree might be. To figure out where she was holed up.

To find her.

Now was the time to focus on solutions.

“Let’s get her back safe, Garcia.”

* * *

The unexpected chill knocked the breath from her lungs again. Bree’s heart beat like a drum in her chest. She fought panic, resisting the urge to claw to the surface. If they saw her face, they’d use it for target practice.

This time they wouldn’t miss.

She battled a suffocating need for air until she heard the whisper of her swim coach’s voice.

Her decades-old water survival training kicked in.

Take charge of your mind. Control your body. Eliminate self-defeating thoughts. Focus on saving yourself.

You can do it, Bree.

She let her weight carry her down.

She tore at the tape on her face, again using her nails to rip at the ragged upper edge.

Within thirty seconds it was gone.

Then she worked on the tape on her wrists, tearing at it violently with her teeth until her hands were free. Her feet were still bound, but it didn’t matter. She’d deal with them later.

Now it was time to fight.

The boat’s speed had carried it beyond her position, but the kidnappers had dialed up the light to its full intensity and started back around.

Bree used her muscled thighs and a well-honed dolphin kick to surface, grab a monstrous breath, then sink again. She remained parallel to the circling boat, outside the ever-widening loop they would execute in an effort to confine and re-capture her.

Her hair billowed around her like a seaweed headdress. She pulled stroke after brutal stoke with her arms, and used her powerful dolphin kick to propel her body far beyond the sphere of light.

Bree’s confidence grew. She felt a unique satisfaction, despite her situation. She was certain her skill and her dark clothing would win this match.

Her kidnappers didn’t know she could hold her breath like a free diver and swim like a fish. All she had to do was keep her head, outmaneuver the boat, and psych herself into forgetting about the cold.

From there, she’d figure out where she was.

And how to get home.

* * *

Garcia was on the phone arranging to track Bree’s cell long before they reached the station. By the time they parked and hurried inside, Mack had news.

“Her phone is on and we pinged it,” Mack said. “She’s still up north. Are you sure she didn’t want a little time alone?”

“We’re sure,” Garcia replied. “Let’s get somebody up there, see if they can pinpoint the location.”

“Already got it. Staff at the Mountain Home Inn in Mill Valley verified that a white Volkswagen with Miss Butler’s plates is sitting in their parking lot on Panoramic Highway. She hasn’t checked in. Not under her own name, anyway. I’m about to fax her driver’s license photo up to see if anybody recognizes her.”

Gen froze in disbelief.

Garcia continued. “Anyone see the car enter the lot?”

“None of the employees we’ve talked with on the phone. I can canvass guests when I get there.” Mack must have noted the stunned expression on Gen’s face. “Genny?”

“I, uh–”

“Wait, don’t say it.” Garcia was riled again. “There’s something you haven’t told us.”

“I found a blog that mentioned Catherine Robeson. She worked at that motel a while back. Bree and Oliver and I drove up to see if we could find her. That’s how we got her address and found the mushroom farm.”

“Mushroom farm?” Mack looked confused.

“I’ll fill you in later,” Garcia replied. “Genny, if I find out you’re hiding anything else, I will personally arrest you.”

Mack jumped in. “Could be good news.” His drawl was back. “She might be there to ask about Robeson again. I’ll head up now and check around.”

“Thanks Mack.” Gen felt relieved, although she couldn’t imagine why. What was Bree doing back in Muir Woods?

“Miss Delacourt.” Hackett touched the bill of his cap and left.

* * *

Bree surfaced a hundred feet from the boat and pulled in another breath. The men had their backs to her, watching the ocean. Just as she’d thought, they were widening their turns, orbiting the spot where she’d gone in. She could see them clearly in the bright beam cast by the light atop the cabin.

They’d removed their masks.

She shivered, and this time not because of the frigid water. They must expect that she was dead, drowned because her bonds and the tape across her mouth prevented her from saving herself.

That, or they didn’t care if she saw their faces.

They considered her a dead woman either way.

The vessel began its turn. When the pair were about to face her again, she sank below the water and resumed progress in the opposite direction, plotting a trajectory that would carry her away from danger.

A dozen times she repeated the process, keeping the sound of the engine at her back. Surface, check position, sink, swim. It must have been half an hour before they gave up and drove away, leaving her alone.

She floated on her back to rest, then tore at the tape binding her ankles. Too late, Bree realized she should have done this earlier; now her fingers were quivering with cold.

At last, she loosened the sticky mass. Her legs were free. She treaded water and spun slowly.

Where was she?

Twinkling lights looped around her, far in the distance. Not one shoreline appeared closer than another.

She was in the bay.

A string of lights to the right must be the Golden Gate. If so, she was in shipping lanes. Someone might see her in the dark.

Or run her over.

That thought, combined with a ferocious trembling brought on by the cold, prompted her to take action. Which way should she swim?

North to money, south to spirit.

She turned on her face and headed south, forcing her leaden arms into a crawl and taking care to kick just beneath the surface.

Sharks cruised these waters; best to avoid creating any splash. No sense attracting attention by acting like dinner.

* * *

“Mack just checked in,” Garcia said. “The car is locked. The steering wheel, dash, and door were wiped clean. No fingerprints but Bree’s anywhere else. If she didn’t drive it there, whoever did wore gloves. No purse or car keys, but they did find her cell under the seat. No prints but hers on that, either.”