Amnesia (42 page)

Today was no different, with scores of revelers in the water, escaping the heat of the city, spirits high, enjoying the wonder the earth offered them. People who would otherwise be shouting, cursing and honking at each other while sitting in their cars on the pavement greeted each other with smiles and waves while on the water.

One such group approached them just as Drake and Lissa pulled into the current. A group of two teenage boys and their female companions called out a hearty welcome to the passengers in the canoe. Drake answered back as cheerfully as possible, and then pulled ahead, quickly outdistancing the group, using the oar to speed them along their way, not willing to wait for the river to get them to their destination.

Drake hadn’t had the paddle long before he realized that he was familiar with this mode of transport. Somewhere in his head sat memories of comfortable days spent lazily paddling across lakes and rivers. He tried a few maneuvers, getting the feel of the boat and the river, confidence building inside of him as he felt a semblance of control for the first time in days. He had almost convinced himself that he would get them out of there safely, until he heard the shouting behind him.

Spinning around in his seat, Drake felt a new surge of terror as he saw a man, obviously Marcuse, laying into the group on the raft behind them. Holding a gun, the man was shouting and waving wildly trying to commandeer the vessel that had gotten too close to the shore. One of the boys stood up to him, and received a belt with the butt of the pistol to his head, knocking him overboard. His friends quickly dove in after him, realizing the rented rubber raft wasn’t worth their safety. Drake felt relieved that the kids would be alright, but felt fear swelling inside of him as he knew he was again in the sights of the evil man behind him.

“Marcuse is behind us,” he said quietly to Lissa. “Stay down. I don’t think he knows you’re here.” He pulled harder on the oar, trying to pick up speed to escape the demon breathing down his neck.

“You can’t get away Drake,” Marcuse yelled across the water. “I’m in a lot better condition than you, and I know this river.” He laughed loudly at the statement, eager to prove his words.

Up ahead Drake could see whitecaps of water cascading over rocks, and looked for the best way through it. His first impulse was to skirt the rocks, taking the safest route, but then reconsidered. Going straight through would be the quickest, and would allow the faster current to help. Unfortunately the metal skin of the canoe wouldn’t react as nicely as the forgiving rubber of the raft. It was a chance he had to take.

He skillfully steered the boat directly into the middle of the river, watching for the whitewater ahead. Nervously he glanced over his shoulder and saw that Marcuse was gaining on them, true to his claim of skill and fitness. He was pulling hard on the small paddle, pushing the raft to its limit, but was disadvantaged by the shape and material, allowing the canoe a small breadth of a chance.  Just a few more feet, Drake thought, just a little more. He whispered to Lissa to hold on tight and reached down to give her hand a reassuring squeeze, reminding them both of their love and the promises they had made to each other. Then he hit the first rocks.

Drake, sitting in the back, weighed significantly more than Lissa, shifting the center of gravity in the boat, causing a slight lift in the nose of the vessel. As soon as the metal skin passed the first rocks the nose stood out in the air while the bottom in the back ground against the stones below. The momentum of the craft, accompanied by the drag of the current, pushed the canoe past the center of gravity, where the nose tilted back down, sending the boat crashing down into the water, sending a spray into the boat, soaking the passengers.

The sharp bottom of the canoe found itself shallow enough that it listed heavily to the right, threatening to roll over. Drake threw his weight hard to the left to compensate, pulling the boat back upright, but also bringing the nose about, turning it slightly to the left as it found deeper water. He righted himself and pulled hard on the oar to turn the craft around to hit the next set of rocks straight. He didn’t quite make it.

When the small boat hit the next cascade, it was turned slightly to the left, sending the nose into the air at an awkward angle, listing again to the right, coming down off-center, nearly capsizing the canoe. Again throwing his weight to the left, Drake fought to keep the vessel upright and barely succeeded, but again sent the boat turning. Unfortunately, the water here was deeper and there was more momentum from the swirling liquid, rotating them completely around, so when they hit the third and final tier of rocks, they went down backwards.

This time the weight was reversed, with the center of gravity heading down the slope first. The rocks again acted as a fulcrum and sent the tail down sharply into the water, submerging a good part of the metal skin. Water flooded the interior of the craft, while the nose rose high into the air. For a moment it appeared that the canoe would flip over, but the current came to the rescue pulling the bottom of the vessel downstream, allowing gravity to bring the nose back down to the surface, sending the boat scooting down the river safely. Inside, the canoe had taken on much water so was riding much lower, making it much more difficult to maneuver, especially going backwards.

Drake pulled the oar through the water, again turning them around until they were at last facing the right direction. Exhausted from the ordeal, particularly in conjunction with all else that had happened that morning, he pulled the paddle back into the boat, and rested his aching arms. Only then did he notice that Lissa had discarded the coat and now sat up straight, a look of concern on her face as she gazed at her brand new fiancé.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

“A little tired. Just give me a minute,” he responded.

“I don’t think we have one,” she replied, looking over his shoulder.

“I suggest you bank the boat up there under that outcropping of trees,” called a voice off to his left. “You won’t make it much farther.”

“I don’t think so Marcuse,” he called back, his aching shoulders reaching for the paddle.

“Thought you might say something silly like that.” He raised the gun and shot three times in quick succession at the front of the canoe, ripping a gaping hole in the front. Quickly they began to sink, and Drake had to paddle hard just to get to shore. Once there they climbed out, intent on running away, but a quick shout reminded them about the gun, stopping the two immediately.

They had come to rest on a small sandy shore about eight feet wide and three feet deep, bordered by a wide assortment of trees. Marcuse landed right next to them, sending the vacant raft on down the river, then had Drake shove the canoe back out into the river until it promptly sank, leaving no trace that they had ever been there. He motioned them to move beyond the trees, where a small clearing lay, allowing them the privacy he needed.

Lissa went first into clearing, glancing over her shoulder hoping to see any witnesses, but was disappointed to find no one in sight. Carefully she pushed through the trees, and stepped into the clearing Marcuse had indicated. It was completely surrounded by trees and bushes, with a blackened ring of rocks at one end, the scarring of a midnight campfire. There was a great deal of rubbish around the area, beer cans, broken beer bottles, empty potato chip bags and so forth, evidence of a season full of late night parties. Next to the campfire ring laid a stack of branches, ready for the next outing, possibly tonight. She wondered for a moment if the midnight partiers would find her and Drake’s bodies waiting for them there when they returned.

Marcuse shoved Drake through the last of the trees, causing him to stumble and fall face first into the sand in front of him, snagging his arm on the tree as he fell, ripping a gaping hole in his shirt and skin. The vicious man then stepped over the fallen man and removed his soaking backpack, placing it at his feet, opening it and checking his supplies inside.

Lissa glared at her smiling captor, and then stooped down to help Drake up, checking the severity of the bleeding wound, saying nothing. Her eyes flashed with fury not fear as she and Drake stepped into the center of the clearing, watching Marcuse closely. “Why am I not surprised?” she said finally, receiving only a laugh in return.

Drake looked over at Lissa, then back to Marcuse. “Aren’t you…?” he started.

Marcuse laughed again. “Who else? Having a good week?”

Lissa glared back in return, biting off the words she wanted to say, only to hear him laugh again.

“I don’t understand. Aren’t you that doctor from the hospital…?” Drake started again. This time the laughter was louder, almost uncontrollable.

“Yes, Drake, this is him,” Lissa responded. “Drake meet the good Doctor Darrion Stanton.”

Finally Marcuse, whose real name was Darrion Stanton, got himself back under control, and simply said, “Hello little brother.”

*
             
             
*
             
             
*

Bill glanced over at Officer Roger Putnam, the man set upon by Scardoni while guarding Marconi, and his partner Officer Della Ransen, and nodded to them, receiving the same in return. He then turned to Jack and asked, “Ready boss?”

“Never more ready,” he responded. The anger had dissipated slightly, especially since his call to Gregg Windham, but was still darkly determined. He stepped up to the door and rang the doorbell of the Stanton mansion, rocking back and forth while waiting for the maid to answer. He didn’t have long to wait.

“Buenos Dias,”
Bill greeted. “
Mi nombre es Bill Lowell y éste es Jack McConnell del departamento del policía de Boise,”
he introduced
. “Tenemos una autorización de la búsqueda,”
he explained while holding up a folded piece of paper allowing them access.

“The owner, he is not here,”
Maritza
responded. She had nearly finished for the day, and was eager to get on her way. This was a very unwelcome distraction, and one that could possibly cost her a great deal of time and extra work.

Jack looked over the short Hispanic lady for a moment, noting that she was in her mid-forties, slightly dumpy looking, and obviously rather unhappy. He decided that pacifying her was not something he wanted, or needed, to do right then.

“What’s your name?” he asked, waiting for Bill to translate.

“
Maritza
Maldanado,” she replied, somewhat warily.

“I assure you that no harm will come to you,” he said, pushing past her, followed by the three other police officers. “Putnam, you and Lowell come with me. We’ll start in the basement. Ransen, you stay with Se
ñ
ora Maldanado. Tell her that we need her help but she has to stay out of our way.” He didn’t wait for Bill to translate before he headed down the hall toward the stairs, the other four trailing him.

“You speak Spanish?” Roger asked Bill quietly as they traipsed through the long hall.

“Went to Venezuela on my mission. Comes in handy every now and again.”

“I bet. I picked up some in East L.A. myself, but mostly only the dirty words.” They laughed quietly, noting the somber mood of the moment.

They headed down the
same stairwell Marcuse had us
ed earlier and entered the large game room. The group looked around taking in the outlay of the room, before Jack called
Maritza
forward.

“Where do all of these lead?”

“Those halls lead to storage rooms,” Bill interpreted for the maid. “That door to the garage, and that one to the furnace room.”

“Putnam, you check out the furnace room, Ransen, you and the maid stay here. Bill you come with me.” He headed through the door to the garage.

“You check out the shop area here, while I check out that room,” he instructed, heading toward the small apartment.

Jack stepped into the front room of the living quarters and saw immediately what he wanted. Right in the center of the main floor stood an old table with a single chair pulled up to it. Sitting on the table were several blocks wrapped in rice paper, a few assorted chemical jars, and a box filled with a myriad of wires, electronic parts and batteries. A set of plans, a cold soldering iron and multimeter also sat on the table awaiting the owner’s return. Attached to the table was a magnifying lamp—a ring of fluorescent light surrounding a magnifying lens, attached to a moveable arm.

Jack walked up to the table looking closely at the objects without touching them. The blocks were all marked as military grade C-4 explosives, enough to blow up half a city block. It appeared that one of the bricks had been cut, judging by the ribbons of paper laying in a small heap to one side of the other blocks, into about six pieces. If one of those was used to destroy his car that means Marcuse probably has the other five with him.

Next he studied the bottles. He had taken a three day long FBI course on bomb making, and thought he recognized the components of making tetryl, the means of detonating the C-4: nitric acid, sulfuric acid,
and dimethylaniline. So he had the composition, the detonator, and from the look of the electronic parts in the box, the trigger. The plans must be for constructing the bomb. He pulled out his cell phone to call for the bomb squad. This was a lot bigger than he had expected.