Sea of Crises Read online

  “Peter, unless they’re invisible, I don’t think anyone is following us.”

  For the first time since he’d gotten into the car, Peter turned to face forward and sat back in his seat. After a moment, he let out a deep breath and gave a rueful laugh. “You must think I’m nuts.”

  “You did have me going there.” Nate shrugged. “Now, do you want to tell me what’s up? Let’s start with why you were in Minneapolis.”

  “I flew out there to see Mason Gale’s sister and mother.”

  “For your research?”

  Peter nodded.

  “Gale’s mother is still alive? She must be ancient.”

  “She’s ninety-three, but she still gets around. Her daughter lives with her and helps take care of her.”

  “So, did you see them?”

  “I did,” Peter said. “But only for a couple of minutes.”

  “You flew all the way out there, and you only saw them for a couple of minutes? That seems a little silly.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve been trying to talk to them for a few weeks now, and they’ve been giving me the cold shoulder. I figured, if I show up in person, what are they going to do? Tell me to get lost?”

  “So, what did they do?”

  “They told me to get lost.”

  “Seriously?”

  “In so many words, yes.” Peter turned to face him. “Nate, they’re afraid of something. They were afraid to talk to me.” Slowly, he said, “I have never in my entire life seen anyone as terrified as those two women. They couldn’t get me off their property fast enough. I thought they were going to come after me with brooms.”

  Nate thought about that. Finally, he asked, “Do you have any idea why?”

  “Not exactly,” Peter said. He slid his computer out of the case and turned it on. “But let me show you something. Maybe it has nothing to do with their reaction. Then again, maybe it does. I’ll let you be the judge. You need to see this anyway,” he added.

  Nate slowed the car and pulled into the deserted parking lot of a low-rise office complex. He parked and turned off the engine.

  “When I decided to write about Apollo 18,” Peter began, “the first thing I did was submit a Freedom of Information request. It took a while, but I got quite a bit of documentation, including a few things that were previously classified. There were some photos.”

  “Photos,” Nate repeated, an ominous chill creeping up his spine.

  “Yeah,” Peter said. “I’ve got to warn you, this is a little tough to take.”

  In the glow of the laptop monitor, Nate saw that Peter’s expression was grim. His brother rotated the computer so Nate could view the screen. At the moment it was a solid blue. Peter touched one of the keys, and the display immediately changed. It took Nate a second to realize what he was looking at. When he did, his stomach constricted.

  The picture had been taken from just outside the capsule. It showed clearly the three bodies within. It was almost as if someone had staged the scene to generate the greatest amount of revulsion. The physical remains of the three astronauts were still seated on the wide bench, ostensibly strapped in, though the straps, if present, had melted into what was left of the bodies - grotesque caricatures of human forms, black, with bits of white bone and teeth here and there.

  Nate knew that the body seated in the left hand commander’s position was what had once been Bob Cartwright. He closed his eyes. This was not how he wanted to remember his father.

  “Damnit Peter. Shut it off.”

  “Wait,” said Peter. “You haven’t seen it yet.”

  Reluctantly, Nate opened his eyes as Peter set his cursor at a spot in the picture near the bottom of the hatch opening. Then he drew that spot out into a rectangular box about an inch high. He tapped the keypad, and, for a moment, the display was a blur. Then it came into focus, and the screen was filled with the portion of the original picture that had been inside the small box.

  “I had this photo digitally enhanced,” Peter said. “If you look closely at the lip where the hatch door seats when it’s closed, you’ll see initials and three numbers.”

  Nate leaned closer. He saw the notation “CSM-116” stamped into the metal.

  “Each command service module was assigned a serial number,” Peter explained. “On the Apollo 17 mission, CSM-114 was used. The module for Apollo 18 was CSM-115, not 116. The module designated CSM-116 was supposed to be used on the Apollo 19 mission, which, as you know, was cancelled.”

  Nate was still processing what his brother had just told him when Peter gave him a direct look and said, quietly, “Nate, that capsule was not our father’s capsule. And that body we buried thirty-six years ago was not our father.”

  2

  Raen and his men moved with a practiced grace, making no unnecessary noise. They’d long ago mastered the art of invisibility, whether they were in a noisy crowd or, as now, in a quiet, deserted setting. They knew and could anticipate each other’s movements. They were well-trained. And they were the best at what they did.

  At the door to the condominium unit Raen halted. His two colleagues quietly assumed positions against the wall to either side, statuary to a casual observer.

  From a pocket, Raen retrieved a narrow metallic device and slid it into the deadbolt slot above the door handle. With a paucity of motion, he manipulated the tumblers and shot back the bolt. The door handle itself had a lock. He again deployed the picking device. Identical to the mechanism above, this lock took but a second to spring.

  Displaying an agility that would have impressed the most sophisticated of magicians performing up-close sleight-of-hand, Raen produced a pistol in place of the pick. The weapon was small, its size dominated by the silencer screwed into the barrel. In his hands, though, it was as deadly as a .357 magnum.

  He crouched, and Dacoff silently swung the spotlight, mounted on a telescoping rod, into position above him. They’d already doused the lights in the corridor.

  Anyone waiting inside when Raen opened the door would see only a blinding glare. Gunfire would likely be directed at the light. Of course, Raen couldn’t completely discount the possibility that another professional waited on the other side of the door, in which case he’d be exposed and probably killed. But that, he knew, was the nature of their business, and one of the reasons he was paid so well.

  He did not hesitate. He swung the door open quickly, extending his gun hand and sweeping the interior with his eyes.

  Ten feet inside the door, brightly illuminated by the spotlight, stood a squat dog with a big head. His mouth was open, and a long tongue extended nearly to the floor. As Raen performed his visual reconnaissance, the dog licked his own snout and swallowed. Then he again dropped his jaw, allowing his tongue to flop back out, and he stood panting, his rear end gyrating back and forth. There was no other movement inside the dwelling.

  Raen entered, still crouched, ignoring the dog, which he knew was no threat. Ozaki came after him, a silenced machine pistol at the ready. When they’d cleared the doorway, Dacoff followed, examining the doorframe as he did for signs of an entry detection device.

  Once he and Ozaki had confirmed that the other rooms were empty, Raen returned to the kitchen. Dacoff, holding a small electronic transceiver, was methodically sweeping the dwelling for listening devices. He signaled silently that he’d completed his inspection for motion sensors. With a dog roaming free, they hadn’t expected to find any, but, as with everything else, they took no chances. Raen collected the bag Dacoff had dropped by the front door and, from a side pocket, began removing a series of sharp implements, placing them on the kitchen counter. Ozaki picked up the dog and gave Raen an inquiring look. Raen nodded solemnly.

  #

  When the elevator doors opened, Nate was surprised to find the hallway in complete darkness.

  “Someone forget to pay the electric bill?” Peter asked.

  Nate shrugged. “Maybe there’s a circuit out,” he said, stepping into the gloom.

  The el
evator doors slid shut behind them, and they were plunged into a Stygian blackness. Perhaps it was because of their earlier conversation, but Nate was suddenly struck with a deep sense of unease.

  He reached out and cautiously stepped forward, feeling for the far wall. When his fingers made contact, he set down Peter’s computer bag and ran his hand up the surface, searching for the light fixture he remembered was affixed at a point immediately across from the elevators. His fingertips brushed against the metal base, and he reached up with his other hand, cupping the glass sconce and feeling for the light bulb. He touched it, and it jiggled slightly. Gripping the bulb between thumb and middle finger, he gave it a slight clockwise turn.

  The light came on.

  He looked back at Peter. The expression he’d seen on his brother’s face earlier had returned.

  Nate gave a quick dismissive wave of his hand. “Just kids,” he said. “They think they’re being funny.”

  A woman with two teenage boys had recently moved in one floor below. Nate had seen the boys a few days earlier, riding their skateboards in the breezeway between his building and the one next door, just beneath the sign that read “No skateboarding.” It had annoyed him, until he realized he’d have done the same thing at their age.

  “Really, Peter, it’s just kids being kids.”

  After a moment, Peter nodded. Adjusting the shoulder strap on his suitcase, he said, “Let’s get inside.”

  As they made their way down the hall, Nate paused at two other light fixtures and tightened the bulbs. He did likewise with the lamp just outside the door to his condo. He made a mental note to say something to the building manager. It was one thing for the kids to engage in activities where they could be hurt. It was another to create dangerous conditions for the rest of the residents.

  He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and was again met with darkness. That’s odd, he thought. He was sure he’d left the light on in the den. He stepped inside, and his senses prickled.

  A strange odor permeated the air. A musky scent, with a metallic tinge to it. He felt for the switch beside the door, found it, and clicked on the hall light.

  He saw immediately that the left half of the floor at the end of the hallway was covered with something dark. Light from the overhead fixture shimmered off its surface. Slowly, Nate lowered the computer bag and took a couple of cautious steps forward. Around the corner to his left, the small kitchen island that contained the sink and dishwasher came into view. Above the island was a rack from which normally hung a collection of pots and pans. Instead of the usual kitchenware, however, there dangled a single large object. It was in shadow, and Nate again reached for a switch.

  A series of lights came on, brightly illuminating the kitchen. The sight that greeted Nate caused him to gag, and he stepped back involuntarily, his shoulder striking the frame of the bedroom door.

  “Oh my God,” Peter said from behind. His eyes were wide, and he’d put a hand up to his mouth.

  Nate’s eyes darted from his brother back to the horrible tableau.

  Suspended above the kitchen island was the mutilated body of a small animal, impaled on a metal hook, the point of which had been driven into the lower abdomen between the hind legs, its sharp tip poking out near the stubby tail. Drenched in dark crimson, strips of flesh dangled off the body in grotesque random patterns. The poor creature appeared to have been decapitated. Blood in copious amounts had poured out, collecting on the counter below, the overflow running down the front of the dishwasher and pooling on the floor in a mass of congealed maroon, almost black.

  In the puddle on the counter below the hideous thing lay a dog collar. A green tag with the name “Buster” in florid script lay half-submerged in the coagulating mess.

  Lightheaded, knees weak, Nate’s heart pounded in his chest; his stomach heaved. He shook his head, slowly at first, but then with vehemence as anger welled up through the revulsion. Breathing heavily, he looked back up at the gruesome remains, opening his mouth to vent his rage.

  Then he stopped. He frowned, studying the corpse. Something about it was wrong.

  He looked at Peter. There were tears in his brother’s eyes. Peter pulled away the hand that had been covering his mouth and said in a choked voice, “Buster.”

  “No,” Nate said.

  His brother started to say something else, but Nate held up a hand, cocking his head and listening intently. From behind came a faint scratching sound. Barely audible.

  Nate whirled and stepped quickly into the bedroom. At the far side, the door to the master bathroom was closed. In rapid strides, Nate covered the distance, gripped the handle and pushed the door open. He stared for a moment at the floor tile. Then, to his immense relief, Buster poked his head around the door. His tail end jerking back and forth with excitement, the little dog emerged and did a quick figure eight through Nate’s legs before Nate was able to reach down and pick him up. Hugging him with relief, Nate carried Buster back to the front hallway, the dog wriggling in his arms and licking his face with unabashed gusto.

  When Peter saw them, he blurted, “Thank God.”

  The phone rang.

  Peter froze and stared at Nate.

  The phone rang a second time, sound reverberating throughout the otherwise quiet condominium from multiple extensions. Nate looked at the nearest one, which was mounted on the kitchen wall near the hallway. Unlike the hands-free devices in the den and bedroom, this was an older unit, the handset attached to its base by a long cord that dangled almost to the floor. There was no digital readout to indicate the source of the call. Not that it really mattered. Nate knew with a cold certainty that the person on the other end of the line had been in his home earlier, and he knew there would be nothing to learn from any such readout.

  He handed the squirming Buster to Peter and stepped forward, lifting the handset and cutting short a third ring. He held the phone up to his ear, but said nothing.

  There was silence on the other end. Nate waited. After a long moment, a man’s voice, deep and gravely, said, “Did we get your attention?”

  Nate bit back a retort.

  “That’s ok,” the man said. He spoke in a flat tone, with no accent and almost no inflection. “I’ll do the talking. You do the listening.”

  “You didn’t need to do that,” Nate said quietly.

  “Sure I did. You wouldn’t have taken me seriously otherwise. You see,” the man continued, and his voice took on a hard edge, “you need to know what kind of person you’re dealing with.”

  Forcing a calm on himself that he didn’t feel, Nate reached his free hand up to the bottom of the handset, pinched the tab on the jack and slid the end of the cord out, severing the connection to the base of the phone. Holding it an inch away from the handset, he said, “Who are you?” and then he immediately slid the jack back in place.

  “Who I am is not important.” The man seemed to hesitate halfway through the last word. There was a long silence. When his voice came again, it had, if possible, an even harder edge to it. It also, Nate realized, had a very distinct southern accent. “Don’t get cute with me, Cartwright.”

  There was another pause. Then, returning to the same flat intonation, the man said, “Believe me, if it were my call, you wouldn’t even get this one warning. If I were you, I’d heed it. Because, if you don’t, I’ll be back. And this time it’ll really be your dog. And then it’ll be you and your brother. You’ll be last. I’ll make you watch the first two.

  “Now,” he continued, “here’s your warning: Forget about Apollo 18. No more questions. No more investigation. It’s over. Done. Follow that advice, and you’ll live a nice, long life. Don’t, and I’ll be coming for you.”

  The line went dead.

  #

  They took down the carcass, hook and all, and put it in a trash bag, which they then placed into yet another bag. The blood they mopped up with several towels, and those went into a separate trash bag. They wiped down the counter and cabinets, using copious amounts
of disinfectant.

  They worked in grim silence. After Nate had hung up the phone, he’d looked at Peter, tapped his ear and swung a finger around, indicating that there were listening devices. It was the only way the man on the phone could have heard him after he’d disconnected the phone jack. Peter had nodded his acknowledgement.

  Through his shock, Nate had realized belatedly that the body hanging in his kitchen wasn’t a dog, but a pig. The person who set up the macabre scene had mutilated the ends of the legs, but the vestiges of hoofed toes were still visible. Nate hoped the animal was one that had been acquired from a butcher and not one killed in his home. There was no sign of the head, and he didn’t think the noise a squealing pig would have made could possibly have gone undetected by the rest of the building, so he felt reasonably certain it had to have already been dead before being brought in. He also doubted that the amount of blood deposited in his kitchen could have come from just the one animal, so he assumed whoever had staged the scene had brought the blood in a separate container.

  Nate carried the two large bags to the trash chute in the small room next to the elevator. Then he packed an overnight bag. He’d carefully cleaned the collar, put it back on Buster and attached the leash they used for their walks. The little dog was delighted with the attention, his animation a stark contrast with the gloomy mood of the two brothers.

  When they left the condo, Peter took a step toward the elevator, but Nate reached out, lightly touched his brother’s shoulder, and nodded his head in the other direction. He led Peter to the stairway, picked up Buster, and they wordlessly descended.

  When they were three flights down, Nate stopped and whispered, “I don’t trust the elevator. For that matter, I don’t trust any place we’d be expected to go.”

  Peter nodded. “What now?”

  “I’m working on it. Better not talk in the car though.”