Falling Star (27 page)

With a start, Clark thought he heard a sound in the back of the office.  That's strange, he thought, didn't everybody go home?  Thinking that someone had come back to pick up something, Clark turned toward his office door and called out, "Anyone here?"

Silence.  He shrugged and went back to checking Julie's records.  For a new account executive, Julie had really worked the telephone.  There must have been a thousand records in her file.  Too bad, thought Clark, Julie would have made one hell of a stockbroker.

Another noise.

Clark put down his papers.  A worried look crossed his face.  Maybe it's just my imagination, he thought, but I'd better check.

Clark got out of his seat and carefully walked to his office door.  Opening the door completely and looking out, Clark noticed the light in the back of the corridor.  Funny, he thought, someone left their light on.

Clark walked quietly toward the light, which he now recognized as Julie Davenport's old office.  Mrs. Lutsen must have left it on, he thought.

Clark reached the doorway and saw the craggy, blond-haired man about forty-five years of age sitting in Julie's chair.  He was rummaging through her desk and the box of personal possessions.

"Who the hell are you?" Clark said.  "What are you doing here?"

With deliberate slowness, the blond man, dressed in a pink polo shirt and stone-washed dungarees, looked up at the door.  Clark stared at the silent intruder and looked into his pale blue eyes.  He was startled.  The eyes of the intruder fixed on him, but for the life of him Clark could see no acknowledgment, no surprise, no fear, no anger.  All that Clark saw were pale blue eyes that bore right through him.

The intruder said nothing.  He raised his Colt .45 caliber combat commander auto pistol with the new silencer he had just obtained and took aim at the interloper.  He squeezed off one shot.  There was no report, just a soft sound.

The round hit Clark in the forehead.  The impact of the .45 caliber slug threw his lifeless body against the filing cabinets opposite the door to Julie Davenport's office.  Clark's body then slid silently and limply to the floor.  The intruder got up out of his seat and slowly walked over to the slumped body of the former Steven Clark.

Dispassionately, Walsh squeezed two more silent rounds into the slumped lifeless body.  Rivers of blood ran down the cabinets and soaked into the light tan carpet.

Walsh placed the pistol into the belt of his dungarees, took some papers and the stuffed animal that he had once given Julie.  He turned off the lights in the office and casually walked out the back door.

Closing the door carefully, Walsh walked into the parking lot, got into his Jeep, and drove out of the parking lot on to Grand Avenue going east.  At the junction of Grand Avenue and Route 65, Walsh turned north and quickly connected to Interstate 235 which became Interstate 35 to Minneapolis.  Walsh looked at the clock on the dashboard.  It was 8:00 p.m.  If he pushed the speed limit, he could be home by 11:30 p.m.

0900 Hours: Tuesday, June 15, 1993: Minneapolis, Minnesota

After checking out of the Thunderbird Hotel, Mildred got into the rented Ford Taurus and drove out of the motel parking lot and back on to Interstate 494 headed east.  Her route would take her around the Minneapolis Airport and on to Route 5 and then Route 62.  On Route 62, Mildred headed west until she turned right heading north on Interstate 35.  At the Lake Street exit, Mildred turned off and headed east on the busy commercial street.

After passing Engelbretsen's, a favorite Scandinavian meat and gift shop, Mildred slowed down to find Walsh Auto Repair.  As soon as Mildred drove past Walsh Auto Repair, she turned off on to a side street and got out of her car.  She took the plastic cup of tap water she filled in her motel room and carefully balanced in the Ford Taurus' cup holder, opened the gas tank and poured the tap water into the tank.  Mildred then put the empty plastic cup into the glove compartment of the car.  She turned on the ignition and started to drive the car around.  Pretty soon, the car was choking and wheezing from the water in the gasoline.

Despite the laboring of the engine, Mildred was able to get the rental car to the entrance of Walsh Auto Repair.  With a final wheeze, the car died and refused to start.  Mildred got out and with a greatly concerned look, went up to the entrance of Walsh Auto Repair.

The building contained only a garage.  There was no separate office.  In the dimly lit automobile repair bay, Mildred saw a man in blue coveralls working on a Toyota Celica.  The mechanic was hanging down inside the engine well of the Toyota, a single incandescent bulb hanging by a cord lighting his work.  Mildred could not see the man's face, only the pale blue smoke of a cigarette, which rose lazily from the engine well.

Mildred stood at the entrance to the garage, wringing her hands in concern and helplessness.

In a tiny voice, Mildred said, "Sir, can you help me?"

No response.

In a louder voice, but still extremely polite, Mildred again said, "Sir, can you please help me?"

The fortyish, blond-haired automobile mechanic untangled himself from the Toyota engine and looked toward the pleasant looking older woman, who obviously was distraught about something.  Wiping his hands on an oily rag, he calmly put his cigarette out in an ashtray and walked over with a measured cadence to where Mildred stood.

Tim Walsh's pale blue eyes fixed on Mildred.  He had yet to say a word.

Mildred said, "Hi, I'm Mildred Lutsen from Milwaukee.  I came to Minneapolis to see my daughter, but my car started acting up just now.  I just don't know what to do."

"Let me see your car, Mrs. Lutsen."  His pale blue eyes remained fixed.  Mildred felt his eyes boring into her.  It was quite uncomfortable.

Walsh followed Mildred out to the stranded automobile.  He got into the car and tried to get it started.  The starter ground, but the car would not start.  Walsh got out of the car and went over to Mildred.

"How long have you had this problem?"

"I don't know, I rented this car from Avis last night.  It started acting up just after I turned on to Lake Street."

"Have you called them?"

"No, I was hoping that you could do something.  I'm in such a hurry."

Walsh just stared at Mildred with those pale blue eyes.  Mildred couldn't discern any emotion, just the two pale blue eyes that bore right through her.

"Is there anything you can do to help me?" said Mildred in her most sincere grandmotherly fashion.

"Let me try one more time."

Walsh once again got into the Ford Taurus, placed the key into the ignition and started the car.  The car hesitated and the starter whined, then the car coughed and started with a heavy knocking sound.  Walsh drove the car into the empty automobile bay and pulled it over the lift.  After stopping the car, he pulled the hood latch and got out of the car.  He then lifted up the hood and hung the mechanic's lamp on the raised hood.

Mildred continued to stand at the doorway to the automobile bay, generally looking concerned and worried.  When Walsh disappeared into the engine compartment of her car, Mildred took the opportunity to visually inspect the garage.  It was a typical garage, nothing to give a hint as to the relationship between Julie Davenport and Walsh Auto Repair.  Mildred decided this was a dead end.

Walsh tried a few things with the ignition and the carburetor settings.  After working at this for about ten minutes, Walsh emerged from the engine compartment and walked over to Mildred.  His pale blue eyes fixed once again on Mildred's eyes.  Mildred found this to be particularly upsetting and avoided his glaze.

Finally, Walsh spoke.  "As far as I can tell, you probably have some bad gas.  Have you filled the tank at all?  What we'll do is put some gas conditioner in the tank and run it for a few minutes.  That should clear up the problem."

"Oh, thank you so much, Mr. ...eh?" said Mildred.

"Walsh, Tim Walsh."

"How long will this take, Mr. Walsh?"

"About twenty minutes, Mrs. Lutsen.  Would you care to sit down?"  He directed Mildred to the only seats in the garage, which were in front of a small gray metal desk at the front of the store.

Mildred took a seat and as she was sitting down, Walsh pushed the papers on top of the desk into the top middle drawer.  As the papers disappeared from view, Mildred saw one sheet of paper from a memo pad with some pencil markings on it.  The printed logo on the memo sheet said, "Reedy Securities."

Mildred immediately averted her eyes, and then she saw the little white stuffed bear.  It was sitting on a shelf, behind the desk.

Walsh finished clearing off his desk and then went back to working on the Toyota Celica.

After a short while, the engine of the Ford Taurus was running smoothly.  Walsh detached the mechanic's light and closed the hood with a solid metallic thud.

"She's ready now, Mrs. Lutsen."

"How much is it, Mr. Walsh?"

"That'll be twenty dollars, including the gas conditioner," said Walsh.  "You were very fortunate to have the engine act up right outside my door.  A tow would've cost you another fifty dollars."

"Uffda," said Mildred.  "Boy, am I glad you were here.  Thank you, very much."

After handing Walsh twenty dollars, Mildred got into the rented Ford Taurus, backed it out of the garage repair bay and turned back on to Lake Street.  Through the window, she waved to Walsh.  He did not return the wave, he merely looked at her with his pale blue eyes, turned around, and walked slowly back to the Toyota Celica.

0800 Hours: Wednesday, June 16, 1993: Bethesda, Maryland

Mildred picked up the house telephone in the lobby of the Hyatt Regency Hotel in Bethesda, Maryland.  "Mike?"

"Mildred, how are you doing?"

"I need to talk to you, are you busy?"

"Why don't you come up to my room?" he said.

"Be right there."

The knock on the door coincided with Mike just having finished pulling the coverlet over his bed and pulling on a pants and tee shirt.  He opened the door and Mildred walked in.

"Been busy, eh?" he said.

"You bet -- you're bleeding!"

"Mildred, do you know how hard it is to commit suicide with a safety razor?  Next to impossible," said Mike, smiling.

"Yeah, it just doesn't work," said Mildred knowingly.

Mike stopped smiling.

"So what do you have on our Julie Davenport?" said Mike.

"A real mystery.  Her life in Des Moines was as sterile as can be. No friends, no life, just puzzles.  For example, I think she had some kind of relationship with an auto mechanic in Minneapolis, named Tim Walsh.  Strange man, doesn't say much, just stares through you with his pale blue eyes.  One thing that is puzzling.  He either has the same white stuffed bear that I saw in Davenport's personal effects in Des Moines or has an exact duplicate for some reason.  He also had a sheet of paper with Reedy Securities printed on it.  What troubles me is how he might have obtained the stuffed toy right after I saw it the day before in Julie Davenport's office."

"Adams is having Davenport's birth certificate checked.  I wouldn't be surprised to find out she's an impostor like Jerry Mitchell."

"I wouldn't either.  What do you think we have here, Mike?"

"I see two problems.  First, how do these people know when we're traveling?  Two, who are these people?  Despite what George thinks, there has to be a connection, because the attacks on our people have always involved travel.  Let's find out how travel arrangements are made.  I think we have to wait until Adams finds out more about some of these names, including Davenport and Trent."

"Who's Trent?" said Mildred.

"Apparently, this guy Trent arranged survivalist training sessions in which Mitchell participated.  His full name is John Trent.  He has also disappeared," answered Mike.

The telephone rang and Mike walked across the room to pick it up.

"Hello."

"Mike?  This is Herb.  We have a new mystery.  According to InfoNet, Julie Davenport's manager at Reedy Securities, Steven Clark, was killed last night.  Looks like a robbery, but given the weird things that have happened recently, I just don't know."

"That is weird.  Say, Herb, can you do me a favor?"

"Sure."

"Can you find out how travel arrangements are made or approved for CSAC agents?  I'm particularly interested in any people who had access to information on all of our travel arrangements."

"Say, that's a good thought.  I'll get my ace, Martha Thomas, on that right away.  Oh, if she's to be effective, I'm going to have to bring her in."

"I'll speak to the old man," Mike said.  "I'm sure there won't be any trouble."

Martha Thomas was one of the new breed of FBI special agents.  In the past, agents tended to be white males with degrees in either law or accounting.  As the seventies and eighties unfolded, the agency came under tremendous pressure to modify its hiring practices to include a wider cross-section of Americans.  Like all institutions, its ability to change depended on its needs.  During the eighties, the explosive growth of computerized information systems forced the FBI to start developing expertise in this area and with that change came people of all colors and both sexes.

Martha, a graduate of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Cambridge, Massachusetts, never thought her computer science degree would lead her on this path.  Twenty-six, slim, and athletic in build, Martha had been once described by her M.I.T. classmates as the most beautiful nerd in the world.  The proud possessor of a tremendous mane of strawberry blond hair that hung in natural curls, she had light hazel eyes and beautiful skin.  Martha wore horn rimmed glasses to give herself a business-like look.

Martha had been bitten by the computer bug as a freshman in high school in the early Eighties, where she was inspired by her teacher, the avuncular Arthur Morrison, who had made it his life's work to bring the new technology of computer science to young school children.  Morrison was particularly fond of Martha, who quickly became one of his first star pupils; an affection that was returned by Martha.  She worshiped him like a father.