Rogue justice, p.8
Rogue Justice, page 8
The man held her gaze but remained quiet.
"Didn't think so. You might try talking to the Japanese whalers, though. The words moral and illegal aren't in their goddamn playbook."
"I appreciate the tip, captain, but that option's already been ruled out. Same goes for the Russians. Now I need an answer."
Zora felt a wave of anger roll through her body.
What part of "no" doesn't this idiot get?
"We're done here," she said, pushing back hard from the table.
The man reached out, grabbed her forearm.
Zora instantly jumped to her feet, yanked her arm free. "Try that again, asshole, and I'll knock you into yesterday." The sudden commotion caught the eye of two bad-boy dart players who seemed ready to pounce on the stranger. Zora waved them off.
"Look," he said, straitening his collar. "I get that you're not for sale, captain. I respect that. I really do. But what about those poor orphans? Are you telling me they don't need the money?"
Zora threw him another fierce look, inched back into her seat. "What did you say?"
He leafed through the file, pulled out a sheet of paper. "It's all right here. Says you went to Nepal in 1998, at which time you met the Dalai Lama. A few years later, one of the villages you visited became overrun by Maoist insurgents. Terrible slaughter, lots of children orphaned. So you returned, befriended a young girl named Nasha. Like many of her friends, the little urchin was living on the streets, scavenging for food. No chance of ever getting an education, of course." The man hiked an eyebrow. "How am I doing so far?"
Zora gave him a cold stare, her heart thundering in her chest. Getting to the Feds was one thing—their hands were always out—but how in hell did he ever find out about her charity work? She'd been told that that information was strictly confidential, kept under lock and key.
"So you vowed to build a children's home, provide all the basic needs—food, clothing, books, healthcare, and the like. The price tag was one hundred fifty grand, enough to cover the architectural, construction, and start-up costs. You had absolutely no idea where the money would come from but then fate intervened. Or, should I say the publisher at Vanity Fair? He agreed to cover all those costs and then some, in exchange for exclusive rights to that high-seas adventure of yours. And the stunning photo spread, of course. Very noble of you, captain."
Zora shook her head, disgusted. She was going to mention that the transaction had been executed anonymously, through a private trust, but figured why waste her breath. He already knew that.
"Everybody came out a winner, right?" he added, seeming to enjoy the moment. "The building got built, and the magazine scored a fabulous scoop."
"You're one sick son of a bitch, you know that?"
The man narrowed his eyes, stiffened his spine. "Look, if you don't want the money, think of what it could do for the kids?"
"We'll manage without the likes of you. Now, I really need to go." Zora stared at the man for a long moment, caught something different in his eyes, something she hadn't noticed before. Disappointment? Resignation? A bit of empathy, maybe? It was hard to say.
"I'm afraid not, captain." He leaned closer and lowered his voice. He then pulled another sheet of paper from the bottom of the stack, slid it across the table like it was a dinner menu.
Zora took one look and was immediately welded to her chair, a stab of terror coursing through her body. "My mother. What the—"
"Don't worry, she's fine, for the time being anyway."
"You fucking bastard!"
"Look," he said, leaning hard on the table. "I don't like this any more than you do, okay? I really don't. Now why don't we go for that walk, work this thing out civilly."
Zora heard the man's words, but they didn't register, not really. Her world had suddenly taken a dizzying, dark turn that felt heavy, suffocating. She sat for a long moment, her eyes on fire. Then she jumped to her feet, grabbed her poncho from the chair, and bolted for the front door. As she left the building, the kilted firefighters launched into a lively rendition of Scotland the Brave.
Chapter 13
29 March, 6:15 PM AKDT
Sitka, Alaska
Zora moved briskly down Katlian Street, the town's main drag, the buttery smell of popcorn wafting up from a rolling food cart parked on the corner. The busy road twisted along the waterfront, a ramshackle collection of shops, canneries, and warehouses that had once been the heart of Sitka's thriving commercial fishing industry. Those heady times were long gone, though at the end of the day, most everyone's attention still turned to the sea, out where the fishing boats finished their work and began the tedious journey home.
A block north of the bar, she stopped in front of a rusted-out old building, its faded metal sign hanging precariously by one hinge. It made an annoying, high-pitched squeaking sound, like fingernails raked over a chalkboard. A few other hardy souls wandered by, braving the heavy drizzle. Otherwise, the sidewalks were empty.
Zora felt dead inside, wasn't exactly sure how to play this. She thought about her mother, how two years earlier, a vibrant, youthful woman of seventy-two began misplacing things. Answers to simple questions could no longer be brushed aside as "senior moments." Over time, Stella Flynn became a helpless prisoner to memories lost, her mind a terrible tangle of confusion, her past a mystery.
A battery of behavioral assessments and cognitive tests had followed.
The diagnosis: "Primary degenerative dementia of the Alzheimer's type."
There was no cure.
Zora arranged for live-in help, even moved in with her mother for a while. Some days, Stella would tease with a twinkle and a wry comeback, but mostly she remained a complete stranger. The disease eventually progressed beyond the moderate stage with no way to avoid the inevitable—an assisted living residence. Tranquility Manor was pleasant enough, the staff compassionate and professional. The location, in central Utah, was similar to the scenic mountainous terrain of Stella's beloved Idaho. And that was fine too. Yet for Zora, the picture that had formed in her mind was dark and absent all hope. Burning with shame and guilt, she had sobbed for hours after leaving her bewildered mother behind at the home. It was the final stop on a tortured journey.
All that came back to her now as the man approached.
Zora turned to him with fire in her eyes. "Okay, what do you want?"
"Is that question really necessary, captain? What I want is an answer."
Zora clenched her teeth, shot daggers into his eyes. She felt a flash of rage unlike anything she'd ever experienced before. Something deep inside her seemed to snap like a piano wire. "Listen, you hurt my mother in any way and I swear it's the last goddamn thing you'll ever do. I'm telling you—" She caught herself, refusing to give in to her anger, or fear.
"I can assure you, captain, no harm will come to your mother. Certainly not if you agree to our proposal."
There was that look again, not exactly an apology but something that seemed close. She wasn't sure what to make of it.
The man continued. "Listen, I read about the facility where your mother is living. From what I can tell, it seems like a rather pleasant little community."
"It's not a community, it's a home," Zora said, toning down her anger a bit. "And Mother's in the assisted living program." She flashed to better times, on the wonderful stories her mother used to tell about her younger days, back when her name was Stella Featherstone, long before her name became Flynn, long before she became mom. Then reality slammed that door shut. "Living hell, if you ask me."
"Yes, terrible disease, that Alzheimer's," the man noted. "She's quite a lady, your mother, at least she was in her younger days, anyway."
Zora began moving again, quickening the pace. The man hustled to keep up. "Yeah, I'm sure you know all about her, too."
He shifted a bit uncomfortably. "Yes, captain, I do my homework." Then he proceeded to tell just how well he'd done it. "Her name is Stella. She's a retired English teacher, seventy-four years old. Quite the athlete at one time, wasn't she? Among her many accomplishments, she was one of the first women to navigate the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon." He hesitated as if undecided about what to say next. "Your father was no slouch either. His name was Zach, a gentleman farmer and Idaho river runner."
Zora closed her eyes, felt a suffocating pressure, like she was being sucked into a black hole. She wanted to cut the man's throat, bit her lower lip instead.
The man continued. "You came along rather late in the game, excelled at everything you did. Life was good in the Idaho hills, a nice little slice of Norman Rockwell. Then one day, Zach left and never came back, tore the family apart, broke your heart. You were eight at the time, as I recall. He moved to some hick town in Missouri, not the end of the world but close, found himself another woman."
Zora was vibrating now, her face red with fury. She remembered hearing the news, remembered that day like it was yesterday. And every birthday, every holiday after that, she would run down to the mail box, hoping her father had sent a card, maybe even a gift. He never did. She kept reaching out to him anyway, hoping things would change. When she was eleven, she saved up all her allowance and bought him an expensive cardigan sweater for Christmas, wrapped it up nice and neat. She found his address in Mother's appointment book, rode into town, and sent it first-class mail. It came back ten days later, unopened. A year later, he shot himself in the chest.
The man took a deep breath and spread his hands, palms up. "Curious how most of this got left out of the Vanity Fair story, isn't it? Same goes for the unfortunate accident with your young friend, must have been terrible watching her and her horse disappear into that ravine."
"Give it a fucking rest, already," Zora snapped. "And leave my father out of this. He's burning in some dark corner of hell, which is exactly where he belongs." She tugged on the hood of her yellow poncho, took a deep breath. Just then, two bald eagles swooped down, soared above a broken-down old building, and disappeared over the harbor. Looking up she wished she could sprout wings and fly, too, get as far away as possible from this man and this nightmare.
A contrite look came over his face. He nodded and said, "You know what? I hear you. My old man's not exactly a candidate for sainthood either. He, uh, well he—"
Zora shot him a give-me-a-break look. "Remind me to bring my violin next time."
"Listen," the man said. "I've got no ax to grind here. I really don't. Personally, I hope your mother lives to be a hundred and nine. But there's something you need to understand, captain. The people in this game do not play by the rules. They are the rules. Think of the nastiest thing imaginable, the most despicable thing one human being can do to another, and they are capable of it. As cold and as cruel as all this must sound, I'm just trying to be honest with you."
Zora felt sick to her stomach, trapped in a dark tunnel with no way out. She stared at him in fury, then after a long pause, said, "Okay, so why me? I don't know a damn thing about killer whales. I catch fish for a living."
"Asked and answered. Other options were considered and ruled out, as I said before. I have no doubt you'll get the job done. Can't be any worse than playing Russian roulette with a man-eating shark, right?"
Zora ignored the reference. "Okay, let's say I do manage to pull this off somehow. What proof do I have that you'll leave my mother and me alone?"
"You don't. You'll have to take it on faith, captain. It's the best you're gonna do."
Zora threw him a cold stare. She was in complete free-fall now. "Fuck you and the horse you rode in on."
They stood toe-to-toe for several long moments, staring one another down.
Then the man slowly backed away. Glancing at his watch, he remaining maddeningly composed. "I'm sorry you feel that way." He pulled a card from his coat pocket and handed it to Zora. There was a number on it, nothing else. "This is a private number, untraceable. You have until midnight to call me with an answer. That's less than six hours from now. If I don't hear from you, or you decide not to accept our generous offer, then you'll just have to live with the consequences. Oh, and don't even think about calling the cops. We'll know before you hang up the phone. Good-bye, captain, and good luck."
Seconds later, the man vanished into the night mist.
Zora watched after him, her heart cold and heavy. She walked on another block to a wooden landing that looked out over the gloomy, wind-swept harbor. In the amber light of a streetlamp, a lone gull swooped in looking for scraps, found none, and flew off. She sat down on a stone bench, boiling mad, her mind racing. Not even tough Zora, the one she relied on, the one her crew relied on, could hold it together now. She felt achingly alone, a loneliness that settled on her like a second skin. She leaned forward, cradling her head in her hands, searching for answers.
None came.
But the tears did, pouring out so hard, her whole body shook.
What should I do, Mom, what the hell should I do?
Chapter 14
30 March, 10:30 AM PDT
Kingdom of the Sea Oceanarium,
Seattle, Washington
Colby freeman paced back and forth in his office like a caged animal, all dark circles and nervous energy. A smoldering headache pressed hard on his temples. He'd already popped four ibuprofens to dull the pain, but so far the pills hadn't kicked in. Nearly two hours had now passed since he'd learned of Samson's death. The news was hardly unexpected, yet still it hit with dizzying force.
Freeman thought about the steps he'd taken in the past twenty-four hours to contain the inevitable, satisfied that his actions had been quick and decisive. After moving Samson to a heavily-guarded sea-pen sealed off from the rest of the property, he'd then temporarily reassigned the entire orca team, except for Leanne and Big Boy. This was no small task. It took nearly three dozen pros alone, most working behind the scenes, to keep the whales healthy and the popular exhibit humming. And every one of them knew Samson was the glue that held the entire operation together, the gift that kept on giving.
Finally, he'd issued a carefully crafted press release, touting more safety measures in the wake of the Osaka incident. Employees around the world were fed essentially the same message, a message entirely consistent with CGE's unwritten policy. Known simply as "The Chandler Way," it said without saying that the company's position on employees discussing business matters with outsiders was one of zero tolerance. Those who disregarded the mandate quickly found themselves in the unemployment line, a place nobody wanted to be, especially in these tough times. The global outreach was no small task either. The KOS empire employed thousands of people divided into dozens of departments filled with specialists, from traffic flow engineers to designers to animal behaviorists to guest relations.
But Freeman had not pulled any punches with the two colleagues standing a few feet from him now, talking in hushed tones. Samson's death had changed everything and he told them so. Savannah Sokolov had flown in earlier that morning aboard a CGE corporate jet, and she too seemed taken aback by the news. On Savannah's right stood Darnell Atwater, managing partner at Black Stallion. He'd taken a commercial flight the night before from his headquarters in Denver. A former Army Ranger, Atwater was gym-rat fit with hard-boiled eyes, a poker face, and a nose that had been broken one too many times. His birth certificate put him at fifty-nine. He looked at least ten years younger.
They were staring at a photo.
Savannah turned to Freeman. "Okay, so you're telling us that, as of late yesterday afternoon, Dr. Kincaid here gave us forty-eight hours to notify the Feds, right?"
Freeman nodded.
Atwater said, "By Feds, you mean the National Marine Fisheries Service?"
Freeman nodded again.
NMFS was a division of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, the government agency responsible for carrying out more than three dozen federal statutes designed to protect fish stocks from depletion and marine mammals from extinction.
"She'll want a necropsy done too," Freeman added. "To understand how and why Samson contracted this fatal disease. And a proper burial, of course."
Savannah set the photo down on Freeman's desk, her displeasure with the entire affair written all over her face. "Yeah, well, given this plan Mitchell's cooked up, we need to persuade her otherwise, don't we?" She glanced at her watch. "And there's no time to waste. We've got less than thirty hours left, not nearly enough to get done what needs to get done."
Freeman stared at his feet. "I'm just saying ..."
Atwater spoke up. "So, who else knows about the whale's death, Colby?"
"Our senior vet and Samson's head trainer, Leanne. That's it."
"And they're not talking, right?"
"Not a chance," Freeman said. "The vet's actually an ex-marine buddy of Mitchell's. Long story short, let's just say I inherited old Big Boy and leave it at that. He's as loyal as a sheepdog though, so no worries there. Now Leanne, she—"
"She's a friend of Dr. Kincaid's," Savannah interrupted, her voice icy cold. "Which means they talked. It's what girls do. They love to talk. Unlike you men who sit around shooting the shit... and saying nothing."
Freeman jumped in, ignoring the dig. "Actually, I've already spoken with Leanne. She gave me her word she wouldn't tell a soul, including the doc."
"And you believe her?"
"Yes. Her daughter's ill and the treatments cost a fortune. No way she can possibly afford them without good health coverage."
"I can appreciate that," Savannah replied. "Even so, we're running out of time."
