The Cyclops Conspiracy (23 page)

Examining the DVD for the second time, Jason wondered again what—if anything—was so important that Pettigrew would include it in his collection of evidence. Every other item was a piece in the puzzle creating a picture of fraud. The video did not fit, and seemed to serve no purpose. But Jason, understanding the anal nature of his former teacher, knew it was in there for a reason. He just had to find it.
What was he missing?
Thirty minutes into fast-forwarding through the twelve hours of recording, he stopped the playback and moved to the kitchen table.

Jason’s thoughts drifted back to the meeting with the detective. Waterhouse had thrown them under the bus, as far as Jason was concerned. Sure, their case was weak, but Waterhouse could have sided with
Jason. Jason had blasted Waterhouse as they walked to their cars. Peter had moved between the two men, afraid that it would come to blows.

He was jarred out of his reverie when the telephone rang. Jason answered. He didn’t recognize the voice. The caller spoke again and he realized it was Jasmine.

“Let’s have lunch today. Do you like Italian?” she asked.

“I won’t have time,” he responded. Jasmine persisted, but Jason held firm.

“Well then, perhaps I’ll stop by the pharmacy,” she said. “Or better yet—your place.”

“We’ll talk
very
soon, Jasmine. I promise you. But the time’s not right.”

“Someone’s grumpy,” she teased.

“I’ve got to go,” he snapped.

After he ended the call, he walked to the small black box sitting on the kitchen table. He stood there for a moment shaking his head.
She’s still after something
, he thought. Whatever it was, Jason was determined not to give it to her. He desperately wanted to confront her about the phony prescriptions. But Lily had cautioned him to keep Jasmine in the dark about their knowledge of the phony prescriptions. Jason would bide his time. When the moment was right she, would have her comeuppance.

Jason picked up the handheld device Waterhouse had found in Pettigrew’s collection and turned it over in his hand. A GPS. The private eye said Thomas had followed Fairing to the Lions Bridge. Flipping on the power, he saw this was not one of those everyday GPS devices sold for use in the family car. This was designed to track vehicles remotely. Businesses used them, police forces, anyone who wanted to know where a vehicle was or had been.

A menu listed the different vehicles tracked. There was only one entry: “Fairing Lexus.” Jason clicked on it, and the menu showed trips tracked for that car. There was only a single entry. He had only used the device once, on September 15.

The same night Pettigrew died. The same night he recorded the video Jason was now watching. The tracking on the GPS was time-stamped. It began around nine fifteen and ended just before ten that same evening.

He didn’t know why, but it suddenly occurred to Jason that Thomas had probably watched the action in the Colonial’s pharmacy department live while he was recording it. Maybe he saw something that disturbed him and raced from his home office to follow Sam Fairing the night he died. Sometime before that night, he’d planted a tracking beacon on Fairing’s Lexus.

Jason pressed enter, and the small computer thought for a minute, then switched to a map of Newport News. Jason zoomed in several magnifications, bringing the street names into view. A thin red line snaked southward along Jefferson Avenue, turned right at J. Clyde Morris Boulevard, and hit Warwick. The line turned left and headed south. Before reaching the Hilton Village area, it turned right again on Cedar Lane. A half-mile later, the path indicator bore right where Cedar Lane ended and merged with Museum Drive. The line followed Museum Drive and crossed over Lake Maury at the Lions Bridge, where Fairing had evidently stopped for several minutes, as indicated by the timer on the screen. The line circled back across the bridge, returned up Museum Drive, and backtracked down Cedar to a point farther south.

An urge struck him. Jason grabbed his rental car keys and the crumpled prescription bag, and headed out the door.

As soon as he opened the front door, Doug Winstead knew his house had been violated again. They’d been inside. As usual, there was no damage. Nothing had been disturbed. No doors had been kicked in, no windows broken. Whoever they were, they were real professionals. They’d snuck in, left their calling card, and left as quickly and silently as they had entered.

The old, worn bills were bound with a thick rubber band. Five stacks, lined neatly in a row, sat on the kitchen table under the glare of the overhead lamp. A photograph and a handwritten note lay next to them.

He always left the house dark. Never waste anything, including electricity. The first time he’d come home and seen the lamp burning, he’d freaked. Now, the infrequent, but lucrative, visits were a disturbing reminder of what was at stake.

Winstead put the photo under his nose, smelling it. He didn’t know why he did it. Somehow it made him feel closer to his daughter. The memory of the first night he was abducted and given instructions
unfolded in his mind, as it did every time he saw the cluster of green-backs. He put the photo down and picked up the note.

Last one, Douglas. Another installment upon completion.

Winstead breathed a nervous sigh of relief. Was it almost over? Like a disease finally cured, would this ordeal finally be coming to an end? Would it ever really end? Would he ever stop looking over his shoulder?

He cradled the five stacks of bills with both hands and carried them to the living room. He shoved a chair aside, knelt, and peeled back one corner of the area rug. He pushed down on two slats of the hardwood flooring, revealing a hole. Most of the cash was stashed here. To date, he’d earned seventy thousand. He spent some on a few luxuries, including the new Harley in the garage, leaving him with fifty-five thousand. Tonight’s payment made it sixty-five, with another ten after he delivered the last prescription. He would end up with seventy-five grand.
Not bad
, he thought.
Not bad at all
.

He’d give it all back in a flash, though, to know Charlie was safe. As soon as it was over, he told himself, he was getting the hell out of here. He would find Charlie and keep her close. Very close.

* * *

Why had Pettigrew followed Fairing here?

Jason watched the activity in and around the area from his position on the hill just above the Lions Bridge. Joggers and walkers completed their treks around the Noland Trail, and automobiles moved up and down the shoreline of the James River along Museum Drive. The bridge sat atop a berm, a short roadway over an earthen dam, bottling up waters flowing into the James River and creating Lake Maury. Its signature feature was four eight-foot stone lions perched regally on each parapet, globes resting between their paws.

He stood on the knoll beside a mammoth sculpture,
Conquering the Wild
. A man grasped the rope bridle of a rearing steed, straining to contain the beast on a fifteen-foot pedestal guarded by four naked
men sitting in the style of Rodin’s
Thinker.
He and Jenny had taken Michael for walks in his three-wheeled stroller around the Noland Trail, years before the divorce. Jason came here often to relax, and was intimately familiar with the area.

The northern entrance of the trail disappeared around a bend, past a granite marker engraved with the trail’s name. He walked the thirty yards to it. Beyond the marker, a small clearing opened to the right. A break in the thickly wooded forest led to the edge of Lake Maury. He descended the path. A large, fallen tree lay to one side. He rotated 360 degrees, looking for a clue, a sign of what had happened here the night Pettigrew died.

He noticed a small depression had been dug out in the claylike earth under the dead tree. Jason remembered the dirty, crumpled prescription bag among Thomas’s files. He pulled it from his pocket and unfolded it. Some dirt had managed to trickle inside the bag. Kneeling, Jason dumped the specks of red earth from the bag into his hand. He compared it to the dirt under the rotting log. The two samples consisted of identical red clay. The earth here always clung to the bottom of his shoes. It wasn’t a scientific analysis, but it was good enough for Jason. This bag had been here, or somewhere close by, the night Pettigrew was murdered.

Thomas had followed Fairing here. Had Fairing been meeting with someone, the “patient” Winstead? Or was he delivering something, a payment perhaps?

Searching the entire trail for clues would be a gross exercise in futility. It was five miles long and cut through dense forest; a team of a hundred men combing the area for days stood little chance of finding anything. Worse yet, he didn’t even know what he was looking for.

Jason dialed the number to the Colonial. Kevin Mitchell, the technician, answered. “Kevin, this is Jason. Can I speak with Sam, please?”

“Sam left about two hours ago. Billy’s here.”

Perfect
, he thought. He didn’t want to speak with him anyway. “Really? I’ll speak with Billy, then. Is he keeping up?” asked Jason.

“He’s a real pro,” Kevin replied. “We don’t have to worry about him. Hold on, he’s on the line with a patient.”

“Okay. While I’m waiting, would you please get me Sam’s home phone number.”

Bryant placed him on hold, then recited the number. Jason memorized it.

“Billy’s done now. Here he is.”

Parks came on the line a moment later. “How’s your day going?” Jason asked his new pharmacist.

“Smoother than a baby’s ass,” Parks responded.

“Very good. Well, I hope the rest of the night goes well for you. Call me if you have any questions.” Jason was comforted by Park’s proficiency. Jason could chase his demons and not worry about the pharmacy’s state of affairs.

“Thanks. Oh, Jason, by the way, Sam said he really needed to be off Saturday. Said he’s going to Canada for the weekend. I’m gonna cover for him, if that’s okay.”

Jason had completely forgotten about Fairing’s request. Sam had demanded the day off when Jason started as vice president. But for the first time in his professional career, he didn’t give a crap about his responsibilities as supervisor. “Sure, that’s fine, Billy. Thanks for being so flexible.”

He hung up and called Peter’s cell phone. “I need you to do me a quick favor. Can you do a reverse look-up on this phone number and get me an address?” He recited the number Bryant had given him.

Jason heard the muted clicks on the keyboard. “8888 Riverdale Road with an apartment number, Newport News,” said Peter. “It’s Sam Fairing.”

He walked back to the Ford and climbed in. The dark blue sedan was parked a quarter mile up the road, watching him. Jason saw it but pretended not to notice. They, whoever they were, were still following every move he made. He reminded himself to change out the Ford rental for a newer one. He didn’t know if he could keep them off his ass, but he’d certainly try.

The sandstone guardhouse had a flimsy, swing-up gate painted with red-and-white barber-pole striping. A uniformed black man, looking bored, then irritated, pushed open a sliding glass window.

“Can I help you?”

“I was hoping you could help me find an address,” said Jason.

“Yeah, what it is?”

“8888 Riverdale Road.”

“Well you found it,” the guard said dryly, looking at him as if he were a moron.

“This is it?”

“Which number you looking for?”

“17-A. Sam Fairing.”

The guard punched a few keys on his keyboard. “He’s in the south tower. I have to announce you first. Give me a minute.”

“That’s okay. I was just trying to make sure I knew how to get here. It’s late. I’ll catch up with him tomorrow.”

“You sure, man? Ain’t no problem.”

“I’m sure. Thanks anyway.” He backed out of the small driveway and headed home.

Another piece of the puzzle had fallen into place, unlocking another trunkful of questions. The night of September 15, Sam Fairing had left work at the Colonial and driven to the north end of Lions Bridge. With Thomas Pettigrew following, he’d parked and done God knew what with the crumpled prescription bag there. Then Fairing drove home to his condo in the Windsor Towers on Riverdale Road.

And somewhere in the course of the night’s events, Thomas Pettigrew was murdered.

* * *

The guard watched until the Ford Fusion disappeared from view. Fairing had given each guard on all three shifts five hundred dollars and a promise of a thousand more to the man who reported anyone asking for him. A jealous ex-wife might send people looking for him, he’d said. He lifted the handset from the phone and dialed Fairing’s number. No answer. The guard left a message as he thought about where the new big-screen television would fit best.

Jasmine Kader fired a fifth round at the ten-ring target painted in the torso of the silhouetted figure a mile away. Oliver lay next her, calling out the results of her efforts. The cloth target was lit up by a small but powerful infrared laser registered only through the rifle’s scope. The success of their mission depended entirely on the infrared aspects of their weapons.

“Six ring at about five o’clock,” he said, his eyes not leaving the large spotting scope. Jasmine rotated the elevation turret two clicks.

She was having a hard time keeping tabs on Jason. Her trips to the Camp had become more frequent making it practically impossible to monitor the pharmacist. Lily was unaware of the predicament and Jasmine, thinking the matter of minor importance, was content to keep it that way.

Situated deep in the thick woods of northern North Carolina on a fifty-acre tract of land purchased three years ago, the Camp, as it was known, was miles from the nearest town or road. Constructed by a small army of now-deported immigrants, the camouflaged range consisted of an elevated, wooden firing platform and numerous
human-form targets positioned a mile downrange under an equally dense canopy of foliage obscuring the view of passing aircraft and satellites. A short, dirt landing strip carved from the forest flanked them. The wheeled float plane sat pointed for a quick takeoff under netting stretched between thick, rough-hewn logs on the runway.