River of No Return : A Jake Trent Novel (9781451698053) (7 page)

12

WASHINGTON, DC. OCTOBER 19.

8:30 A.M. EASTERN STANDARD TIME.

Divya was quietly snoring. More like heavy breathing. Either way, Jake used to find it adorable, sexy somehow. Now it disgusted him. A
satisfied
snore. A reminder of the mistake he'd made the night before.
What the
hell was I thinking?

He got out of bed. Searching the floor for his boxers, he found them camouflaged against the peculiar pattern of the Persian rug. He got on his phone only after leaving the bedroom. Jake wanted to make a quick escape.

He felt like a caged animal, anxious and irritated. He rolled his neck and paced like a tiger on display while the phone rang. It was a dim, cloudy day. Out the hallway window, the fancy cars and brownstones glared back at him, moody fetishes of misguided ambition. Hungry desire. Wealth. The signatures of arrogance.

He gave the airline agent his name. Where he was.

“And where are you headed, sir?”

“Home. Jackson Hole. As soon as possible.”

“No problem.” The clatter of a keyboard sharpened by the amplifier of the phone. “Looks like the next available is 12:15 p.m. Dulles.”

“What's the fare?”

“Let me see . . . $935. It's very last minute.”

Flights to Jackson were always pricey, but $935 was egregious. “First class?”
Dumb question.

“No, sir.”

Jake silently weighed his options. “At least it's not $936.”

“I'm very sorry, sir.”

“Not your fault. Thanks.”

Jake got in the shower. He wanted to wash off all of last night, along with the city and the convoluted arrangement of facts surrounding the GPSN campaign.

Yes, he wanted to help derail the plan to inject a microchip into every man, woman, and child that immigrated to this country. It was against everything he believed in.

What will happen next
if Canart's funding goes through?

Although a mentor once convinced him that making the “slippery slope” argument was a fool's errand, he couldn't stop his mind from wandering down that road. The bow-tie wearing, musty tobacco–smelling old law professor had scolded him in front of the whole class. “Weak!” the curmudgeon had shouted, spit flying and pen pointing. “Every decision in the history of man could lead to unforeseen results. You slippery-slopers would hog-tie our decision makers if you had your way.”

So Jake Trent, the attorney, never uttered the perfunctory phrase in a courtroom, and he was well prepared to argue against it.

* * *

The hot shower left him wanting more. The humidity stuck to his body, even in the air-conditioned town house. He yearned for crisp, thin air. For immaculate white snow and effervescent mountain creeks. It would all rush in when he stepped off the jet and walked down the stairs, where the Tetons stood behind him. To the west.

Maybe give Noelle a ring. Tell her he had been afraid. That he had panicked when things got serious, convinced by his past that if something seemed too good to be true, it probably was. And he would confess to her, tell her how he really felt. That he loved her.

His confidence was coming back. The call from J.P. had put him squarely back in his element. He thought about Esma and how he would find her. That was his first priority.

He hoped J.P. was wrong and that Esma was simply incommunicado, but he knew it was a mistake to treat the situation as such before he could evaluate it. He had to be prepared for the worst.

After last summer's events, he had taken his Glock 30 Mariner Edition out of storage and cleaned it. The 110-lumen Streamlight TLR flashlight and aiming laser was dusty but spot-on. He'd tested it in a canyon a mile from the bed-and-breakfast. Put a cluster of three in a soda can from thirty-five yards.
Not bad for
being out of practice.

The Mariner had been a gift from a Mossad agent in the Philippines. It was waterproof and fired with deadly force after full submersion. He'd verified that. On its barrel was the acronym OSI. The Office of Special Investigations.

In the bathroom, Jake put on deodorant and did thirty quick push-ups to flush the adrenaline that was flowing through him. He hopped to his feet and wrapped a towel around his waist, which
had seemingly become rounder in only a few days in DC. Then he took a deep breath and walked back into the bedroom to face the music.

* * *

“Are you fucking kidding me? Is this because of last night?”

Not a very good start.
“No. My friend is in trouble.”

“The whole country is in trouble, Jake!”

“Not like this.” He was packing his bags.

A quick hug and he was out the door. The luxury rental had a parking ticket on its windshield. $170. Parked too far from the curb.

* * *

At the airport, Jake found a café kiosk and ordered a large coffee. He was beginning to feel normal again, although the acidic brew made his stomach turn. It hadn't seemed to recover from his first-day hangover.

By the time he reached the Dallas/Fort Worth airport, Jake was staggering, too sick to consider boarding his connecting flight. He checked into the airport Hyatt and dialed a doctor. The stomach cramps and nausea made it difficult for him to stand, so he lay in a crumpled ball on top of the bedding. Lights and TV off, he mulled the emergency room. No sleep. There was a physician's office close by, but they couldn't see him until the morning.

The night lasted an eternity. It was hellacious. Every object offended Jake: the blinking colon between the alarm's numbers, the surface of the bedspread. Even the small crack of light shining under the door from the hallway.

In the morning, he mustered up the strength to get into the
shower and brush his teeth so that the doctor wouldn't have to deal with the smell.

Downstairs, he hailed a cabbie, who told him he didn't look so hot.

No shit. Pick up the pace.

The nurse didn't finish her preexam before calling in the doctor.

“You're a tough son of a bitch,” he commented, upon looking Jake over. “You're badly dehydrated. We need to put an IV in, then consider a visit to the emergency room, okay? I've got an anti-nausea drug that will help for a short time.”

“What is it?” Jake mustered.

“Probably just stomach flu. A nasty one.”

The medicine, along with the peace of mind that a doctor was nearby, allowed Jake to find sleep right there on the exam table. He woke to a jostling, not knowing how much later it might be.

“Sorry. We're gonna get you transported over to the hospital so you can recover. Nothing serious. But you'll be more comfortable over there.”

Jake was too foggy to ask any questions. He drifted in and out of sleep during the ride to the hospital.

13

JACKSON HOLE AIRPORT. OCTOBER 19.

9:30 P.M. MOUNTAIN STANDARD TIME.

J.P. was crawling out of his skin. Jake had texted him in the morning, asking for a ride home from the airport at 7:30 p.m. That flight, United 721, had come and gone on time. Two hours later, J.P. was still sitting in the terminal.

He glanced at the flat-screen, which sat above the bronze relief of the Snake River, with its perplexing weave of meanders and side channels. No news of plane crashes or bad weather. J.P. tried Jake's phone again, but there was no answer.
Shit.

J.P. stood and headed to the parking lot, unsure what to do next.
Where the
hell is he?
It wasn't like Jake to no-show without calling ahead. Without Jake, he had no real hope of finding Esma. He tried her cell this time. No answer.

Coyotes howled as J.P. walked to his truck, fretting about the
imminent arrival of the high-country winter. When the snow covered the ground, the scavengers could only wander aimlessly, praying for a scent of field mice, pika, an elk carcass. They were hopeless but for luck. Like J.P. felt now.

Some would survive the ordeal. Many wouldn't.

14

DALLAS, TEXAS. OCTOBER 20.

2:45 P.M. MOUNTAIN STANDARD TIME.

Jake cleared his throat and opened his eyes. A blurry white room. No one around, at least not on his side of the curtain. Beyond it, he could hear the pained moans of another patient.

His stomach still ached, but he didn't feel as nauseated. At least he'd gotten some rest. The hit-by-a-truck feeling would pass soon enough. He closed his eyes again, imagining being home, the Indian summer sun on his skin. When he opened them, the fluorescent lights pierced through his brain.
A headache too.

He sat up and cracked his neck. It was day outside, but not sunny. Thunderheads moved across the flat Texas landscape. The clouds could almost be mistaken for towering mountains.

He was dressed in the hospital's light-blue gown with rubber-grippy socks, and an IV was in his arm. Jake checked his own chart, but it was illegible. Doctors were no better than lawyers. He
didn't seem to be on any medication at this point, so he carefully pulled the tube from his arm and stuck the medical tape over the hole. Then he dropped the gown and grabbed his clothes from the white plastic bag with his initials on it.

After dressing, Jake pulled the curtain aside and headed toward the door. The man he'd heard earlier looked up at him briefly, his face a disturbing yellow, and then vomited into a bedpan. Jake hustled out.

He was booting up his cell phone when he heard his name from behind.

“Mr. Trent! Please!”

A tall, handsome Indian man strode toward Jake.

“Back to the room, please.”

Jake turned. “I'd rather not.”

From the room, they could hear the other patient retching. The doctor looked enervated. “Fine. Follow me.”

He led Jake into an exam room, quickly washed his hands, and then sat on a padded stool. Jake stayed standing. On the wall, a wide-eyed golden retriever puppy stood in front of a fireplace. Next to it was a poster about sexually transmitted diseases.

“Somewhere to be?” The doc was sharp. And not interested in hearing any bullshit.

“Stomach flu, right? I'll get over it,” Jake said.

The doctor shook his head in frustration. Then he spoke, contradicting his gesture.

“Yes, stomach flu. You'll be fine, Mr. Trent. You had a norovirus, we suspect, and dehydration.”

“And?” Jake paused and reconsidered his tone. “I'm not trying to cause any problems. I just need to go home. I have a friend who needs me.”

“You are free to go. Stay hydrated and take it easy.”

“Is that all?”

“You were hospitalized because your symptoms were so severe that the general practitioner was concerned. You're in the clear now; the virus has run its course.”

“And my roommate?”

“I'm sorry?” The doctor looked up from his pad.

“The other person in the room with me. Norovirus too?”

“Yes. He'll be fine. There are many strains of norovirus, and they are always changing. Evolving. This one was formidable. Possibly a new strain. They come from all over and spread like wildfire.”

“Is it a concern?”

“Probably not. You came through it fine.”

Jake nodded, being careful not to wobble on his feet.

* * *

On the cab ride from the hospital to DFW, Jake arranged for a flight to Jackson. He explained his illness to the agent, who with some cajoling made an exception to the fare-change fee. Then he phoned J.P.

“Where the hell have you been?” It was afternoon, but it sounded as if J.P. had just woken up.

“I got sick on the way home. Had to stop for a night. I'm on my way.”

J.P.'s tenor changed to sympathetic. “Oh. Got ya. I get nervous on flights if I don't hit the airport bar first.”

Jake let it slide. “Right. Anyway, I get in at 5:45. Can you be there?”

“No worries.”

Jake ended the call.

At the airport, Jake checked in and found the gate. He sat down and finally made the call he was dreading.

“Human Rights and Special Prosecutions.” The Office had changed its name, but Jake recognized the voice.

* * *

In the main house of the Fin and Feather, J.P. was brewing coffee. There were no guests, which allowed J.P. free rein, but also made him lonely. And gave him time to obsess about Esma.

He fed Chayote, who'd been waiting by the food cabinet, probably since J.P. went to bed. When the coffee was done, he poured himself an oversize cup and walked over to the brown leather couch in the great room. To his right was the breakfast area, unused since the last guests in late September.

Through the big wood-framed picture window, J.P. could see out across Trout Run to the expansive ranch that bordered the far side. He felt lost. Looking for Esma was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Worse yet, he had no clue where to start without Jake.

He dragged out the laptop from the office and sat watching TV and reading through old emails from her, more to reminisce than to find a trace of her.

When he clicked on his own user name to sign out, he noticed it.

No way.

There, between his own name and Jake's, was Esma's email account. He clicked on her name. The password must have been saved, because a moment later J.P. was looking at her inbox.

* * *

Jake had paused too long.

“Identification number, please? Hello? You must have the wrong number.”

Here we go.

“Nancy, it's Jake Trent.” He was surprised to hear her voice, what with all the moaning she used to do about the Office. She'd stuck it out anyway. Her happiness was a sacrifice to superior government benefits and job security.

“Jake? How are you? Are you back in? What's your project ID number?” Enthusiastic, for her, but still a tinge of annoyance in her voice, like it was all so inconvenient. She preferred to talk about her children rather than her work.

“No, not back in. No ID number. I just need some help.” Nancy was a ballbuster, but she liked Jake a lot more than she liked most guys at the Office. Over the intercom, the woman at the gate announced boarding for first class and premier members. Jake glanced at his boarding pass.

Boarding Group five. That's what $935
gets you.

“You know there's no way I can direct you without that number, Jake. Surely you remember.”

“I do. And I'm sorry to ask this of you, but I need you to put me through to Schue without an ID. And before I forget, how are the kids?”

“All grown now. Do you believe it? And Ralph's wife is pregnant.”

“Congrats.” Jake couldn't honestly say he remembered which one Ralph was.

The phone went silent for a second.

“
Now boarding Group One, please.
”
The well-dressed passengers were all but boarded now, leaving a ragtag group in their seats.

“Well, anyway, no harm in running into his office and see if he'll take the call. What should I tell him it's about?”

“Just remind him of California.”

“Okay.”

The phone clicked back on.

“What the fuck, Jake? You can't just throw around ‘California'! Unlike you, I still wanna work here.” He was half-kidding.

Same
old Schue.

“Figured it would get your attention.”

“Whaddya want?” It was getting late in the day on the East Coast, almost after business hours.

“I need to locate a mobile. GPS if you can. Otherwise multilateration.”

“Fuck. Does the phone even have GPS?”

“I don't know.”

“Gonna take a few hours. Gimme the number.”

“Thanks.” Jake read the number to Schue, made small talk for a short moment, and hung up.

When boarding for Group Five was called, he headed to the gate. He finished his large bottle of water and took another one out of his pack as he headed down the Jetway.

* * *

J.P. searched through Esma's sent mail and found what he was looking for: an email back home to her mother. He copied the text and ran it through an online translator to English.

It had been sent from her phone four days earlier.

Mamá,

I am on my way out of New Mexico and toward Wyoming. I am sorry for leaving so abruptly. I will call when I get there.

Love,

Esma

The email meant she was somewhere in the States, and it meant she had indeed come back to see him. At least she hadn't been kidnapped by a cartel. What was disturbing was that she had never made it north to Jackson. And four days was plenty of time.

J.P. pulled up a map online. He magnified the Rocky Mountain West—in particular, the corridor between New Mexico and Wyoming. He hoped to see something, anything, that might give him a lead. Instead, the map only frustrated him, emphasizing the wide expanse of the region.

He looked at his watch. He was antsy to go pick up Jake. It was 3:30. He would just have to wait.

* * *

Jake had eaten at DFW, and the food digested well. Now, a mere four-hundred-some miles and he'd be back home. It would be a relief to be back, but the Esma issue was weighing heavily on him. He hoped her phone had functioning GPS, which would make Schue's job a lot easier.

Multilateration worked, but it would reveal only the general area of the phone. The technology relied on the fact that cell phones constantly check in with multiple cellular towers in the given area. By looking at the relative strength of those signals, it was possible to deduce the rough location of the phone. There was a catch, however: the phone would also have to be turned on and have service. If it was too far away to connect with any tower, there was no hope. But if Schue was successful, it would give Jake and J.P. a starting point.

The high plains surrounding Denver and southern Wyoming gave way to the towering alpine peaks of the Wind River Range. The sun hung on the western horizon. Jake watched the scenery
for the last hundred miles or so into Jackson. There was a dusting of new snow at higher elevations.

As the plane banked hard to approach from the north, the town of Jackson came into view above Snow King, the town's ski hill. The plane bounced hard as it landed because of the short approach and small runway. Its rapid deceleration didn't affect Jake's stomach much. He was feeling almost 100 percent. As the plane taxied, he texted J.P. He looked for a message or missed call from Schue, but there was none.

The ski lodge–esque airport was tiny. Two baggage claims, though there were plans for more. More space for ever more visitors. October wasn't tourist season, so the building would be quiet today. Mostly families waiting to greet kids, brothers, or spouses. The “shoulder seasons” were when the locals traveled.

Jake descended the stairs out of the plane and onto the tarmac. There was a cold breeze, but the arid mountain air felt refreshing. It blew through his clothes, taking the swampiness of travel and overcrowded spaces away from him.

He set his backpack down and fished out his old Costa Del Mar Peninsula sunglasses. The Fin and Feather was a dozen miles to the west, and the setting sun was still bright above the Tetons.

After taking a long look at the Tetons, Jake followed the delineated path toward the terminal. Various animal tracks were painted on the tarmac trail: moose, bear, and wolf—a dash of whimsy for the children.

J.P. was waiting just sixty feet inside the entrance, as close as you could get. Jake smiled at him and gave him a nod. J.P. just stared back. He was nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot.

When Jake approached, he roughly took the backpack from him, eager to get going.

“Did you check a bag?”

“Probably already delivered to the Fin and Feather.” This was one luxury of a small town.

“Perfect.”

J.P. hurried out the front entrance, and Jake followed. J.P. had left his rusty old Ford pickup in the drop-off lane. Airport security was writing him a ticket, and upon seeing J. P., began berating him.

“You can't leave your vehicle here unattended, J.P. See the signs? What the hell? This isn't the brew pub; you have to respect me at work. It's a matter of national security.”

“Fuck off, Mike, it's an emergency. You're a secret agent now? You Instagram pictures of your weed stash, you dumbass.”

“Take the damned ticket.” Mike looked around nervously.

“You stoner!” J.P. was shouting to make a scene.

“All right. Calm down.” Jake walked up to the front of the truck and took the ticket. That made two in three days.

“Thanks, Jake,” Mike said. “He can be a real ass.”

Jake disagreed with that on principle, but didn't want to cause any more trouble.

“Sorry.”

Jake climbed in, and J.P. pulled into the stream of taxi traffic by holding his left hand out of the window and signaling the taxi drivers to stop. They honked.

J.P. frantically recited the details about Esma as soon as they were moving. He explained the email he had read a few hours before.

“I knew she didn't ditch me, man—what we have is real. It's love. I've got to find her, Jake. I have a bad feeling about this.”

“I'm on it. And it's probably nothing. Hopefully we will have some answers soon.” Jake explained how he was trying to track the cell phone. J.P. seemed amazed by the technology.

“You never disappoint,” he said.

They passed a sign:
THANKS FOR VISITING GRAND TETON NATIONAL
PARK.
Jake thought of Noelle.

“I wish that were true.”