War Hawk: A Tucker Wayne Novel (15 page)

Tucker felt as though he had slipped backward into the depression era.

“Kane, I say we cross this place off for our next canoe trip.”

The shepherd wagged his tail. Unsurprisingly, Kane remained fixated on the rural scenery, occasionally whining as he saw kids running and laughing, plainly disappointed he was missing out on all the fun.

Eventually the terrain steepened, and the slopes grew heavily wooded with oaks, the foliage already a riot of fall golds and reds.

Tucker slowed as he watched for the occasional road sign, following the directions Frank had given him. Sandy’s mother—Beatrice Conlon—lived some thirty-five miles deeper into the mountains, outside a hamlet called Poplar Grove.

He passed farmhouse after farmhouse, all of them made of clapboard and seemingly held together by layers of peeling white paint. He came upon the occasional church, usually a small saltbox affair with a truncated steeple. After another forty minutes of driving, Tucker finally reached Poplar Grove. The town was little more than a four-way stop, with a hardware store, a diner, a grocer, and a gas station.

“What?” he mumbled as he braked at the intersection. “No Starbucks?”

He continued forward at a snail’s pace until he spotted a faded sign for Davis Road and turned left. After another half mile, the road’s blacktop ended, becoming a dirt-and-gravel tract. He followed to where it dead-ended.

Ahead, past a fencerow and a field of weeds, sat a trim yellow farmhouse with a wraparound porch. A mailbox at the edge of the drive read C
ONLON
.

Tucker patted Kane’s side. “Looks like we’re home.”

As he exited, Kane hopped out next to him, sniffing all around. Tucker shielded his eyes and studied the farmhouse. Aside from the chirping of crickets, it was perfectly quiet.

Frank had warned him this was shoot-first country when it came to trespassing.

Hopefully we’ll at least get a warning shot
.

Tucker cupped his hands around his mouth. “Anybody home?” he shouted.

There was no answer. He tried again, but still got no response.

He headed toward the driveway, which was little more than two ruts through the weeds. Before he could set foot past the fencerow, a female voice yelled at him, “Whatya want?”

Tucker stopped and motioned for Kane to stick beside him. A figure stepped out of the porch’s deeper shadows.

“Ms. Conlon?” Tucker called out.

“Who’s asking?”

“My name is Tucker. I tried calling but—”

“Get on outta here. I’m not buying what you’re selling, mister.” She began to fade back into the shadows.

“No, wait! I’m a friend of Jane Sabatello’s. She asked me to come down to check on—”

The woman moved to the porch rail. “You lookin’ for my Sandy?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Find her yet?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then whatcha here for?”

“If I can learn a bit more about your daughter, it might help me find her.”

After ten long seconds, she finally waved an arm. “Okay, then. Come on over.”

So much for the warm welcome
.

Tucker crossed up the driveway toward some side steps that led up to the porch. The closer he got, the more he appreciated the quaint farmhouse. Despite its age, it looked well maintained. The same couldn’t be said for the yard. By the time he reached the porch, Kane’s fur was covered in thistles and burrs.

“Name’s Bea,” the woman said and nodded to Kane. “There’s a burr brush near the door. Get ’im cleaned up before he comes in.”

She stepped through the screen door and let it clap shut behind her.

Tucker grabbed the brush and spent a few minutes dethistling both Kane’s fur and his own pant legs. Once done, he pulled open the screen door and entered a small living room. The carpet was cream colored, perfectly clean, as was the furniture. A pair of Tiffany-style lamps sat on oak tables to either side of a couch. A wall-mounted television faced the seating area. There was also a prominent crucifix above the screen, and on the table, a rosewood framed photo of the beatific smiling face of Jesus Christ.

“Shut the door, will ya?” Bea called from the kitchen at the back of the house. “Got the AC going.”

“Sure.”

“You like lemonade?”

“Yes, ma’am. Thanks.”

Bea joined him carrying both a bowl and a tray containing two glasses and a pitcher. The woman was in her midfifties, trim and tan, her graying blond hair tucked into a loose bun. She wore khaki pants, work boots, and a plaid long-sleeved shirt.

She placed a bowl of water before Kane. “Belgian shepherd?”

Tucker smiled. “Most people think he’s a
German
shepherd. I think it’s his accent.”

His attempt at humor fell on deaf ears.

“I watch a lot of dog shows,” she said. “Westminster and such. He’s handsome. And smart, too, I’ll bet.”

Tucker’s smile grew larger, prouder. “He is that.”

She waved him to a recliner next to the sofa, then poured him a glass of lemonade. “Sorry about the unfriendliness out there. Kinda bred into us, I guess.”

“No problem. I’ve learned over the years that a healthy suspicion of strangers is often warranted.” He patted Kane’s side as the shepherd settled next to him. “Give me a dog over a person any day of the week.”

Bea offered a small smile as she sank down to the sofa, but he also noted the knot of worry between her eyes. “So you were a friend of Sandy’s?” she asked.

“We knew each other at Fort Benning, but I haven’t talked to her in years. It was Jane who called me. Thought I could help.”

Bea nodded. “Jane’s a good girl.” That knot grew tighter as the woman’s gaze returned to Tucker. “Do you think you can help find Sandy?”

“I’m going to try.”

“I believe you, but I’m worried. She always calls. No more than a few days goes by without her phoning me. Plus she was acting oddly for the past couple months.”

“How so?”

The woman rubbed her palms together, plainly worried. “She’s been kinda drawn into herself, which ain’t like her. Sandy’s always been a pip. And the last time she was up here, about three weeks ago, she asked if anybody’d been up here asking about her.”

“Had there been?”

“Not here. And if anyone had been in town, I woulda heard about it.”

He leaned back, trying to get a complete picture of Sandy’s life. “Do you know what she was doing at Redstone, what project she was working on?”

Bea shook her head. “Secret stuff, I’m sure. She never said, and I knew better than to ask. I assumed it was related to computers, math, and such. She was always a smart kid.”

Tucker nodded. “Did she ever mention any names, any friends she worked with?”

“Only one. A gal named Nora Frakes. Sandy liked her. She even brought her to dinner here a few times. Nice gal. A little saucy, but nice all the same.”

Tucker heard a flutter in the woman’s voice, a flicker of unease in her eyes as she glanced toward a window. Nora Frakes was likely closer than a
friend
to Sandy, but Bea wasn’t about to admit that to a relative stranger in her house.

Tucker decided to switch the subject to safer ground. “Tell me about Sandy. How did she get interested in math and computers?”

Bea’s smile reappeared. “Like I said, she was a smart kid. But elementary school didn’t spark her. Neither did middle school. But when she hit ninth grade she had a math teacher who took a shine to her. Next thing you know, she’s doing algebra, calculus, trigonometry, computer science. It was like she just bloomed—honor roll, valedictorian, got a full scholarship to MIT from the air force, which she joined after she graduated.”

“It sounds like she certainly found her niche.”

“You could say that. If not for that math teacher, she’d probably be waitressing with a baby on her hip. Instead, she spent six years with the air force. When she got out, she did some stuff in Washington—I think with Jane.”

Tucker nodded, remembering Jane telling him that the two women had worked alongside each other in DC.

“Then Sandy found this job at Redstone,” Bea continued. “I think mainly to be close to me. It’s been heaven having her around.”

“And the last time you saw her was a little over three weeks ago.”

“That’s right.”

Tucker read some vacillation in the woman, some hesitation or reluctance about that last visit.

She’s not telling me something
.

He remembered Frank’s comment about these mountain folks keeping their secrets, about their innate distrust of outsiders. He needed to break through that wall.

While reaching into his pocket, Tucker quietly signaled Kane.

M
AKE
FRIENDS
.

Kane rose and crossed over to the sofa and rested his chin beside Bea’s left knee. She smiled down and gave him a scratch behind the ear, which set Kane’s tail to swishing more vigorously, eventually involving his whole hindquarters. Tucker knew Kane wasn’t playacting. Tucker could read the shepherd’s body language like a book. The shepherd instinctively liked Bea, who from her fixation with dog shows clearly returned that affection.

She patted the couch cushion.

Kane jumped up and curled into a ball next to her.

“He’s a delight,” she murmured.

“And he has good sense about people.” Tucker leaned forward and slipped over the photograph that Jane had given him. It showed the three of them arm in arm, grinning like fools. “So did Sandy.”

Bea took the photo and ran a finger over her daughter’s features. “She was so much younger here.”

Tucker matched her sad smile. “We all were. Even my dog, Kane, there.”

Bea squinted at the pair of war dogs squatted at their feet in the photo. “That’s Kane?”

“When he was—”

Bea sat up straighter, staring at Tucker with wider eyes. “You’re the soldier with the
two
dogs.”

Tucker was taken aback by her reaction.

“I remember Sandy telling me about you, but I must’ve forgotten your name. Still, I remember Sandy’s stories. About you, about Kane, and the other dog . . .”

“Abel,” Tucker said, his voice cracking.

Kane lifted his head at the mention of his littermate’s name. A small whine escaped him. Bea’s hand dropped to reassure the dog.

“That’s right. Kane and Abel.” She glanced over to the crucifix above the television. “Like from the Bible.”

He nodded, momentarily unable to talk.

She reached out and touched his knee. “I know what you lost. Sandy told me about that, too. I’m so sorry.”

Tucker swallowed, struggling not to let those dark memories overwhelm him.

Have to stay on point here
.

“Th . . . thank you,” he mumbled, then cleared his throat. “Listen, Ms. Conlon—”

“Please just call me Bea.”

He nodded. “Bea, if there was anything Sandy might have left here, something that might point to what happened to her or what she was working on, I need to know.”

Bea didn’t hesitate. She simply stood up and said, “Wait here.”

She disappeared up a set of stairs and returned a minute later. She held out a USB flash drive. It was stainless steel and about the size of Tucker’s thumb—larger than most he’d seen. There was no label or markings of any kind.

“Sandy said if anything ever happened to her that I was to give it to someone I trusted.” She handed it to Tucker. “My daughter loved you all. I could tell whenever she talked about you.”

Tucker accepted the drive, momentarily speechless.

Bea continued. “Sandy also said to warn whoever I gave this to that her coworkers could be in danger, too.”

Her coworkers? That had to be the other members of The Odisha Group
.

“Even with that big brain of hers, Sandy always had a bigger heart,” Bea said. “She’d step in front of a train to rescue a puppy. Whatever got her into trouble, I don’t think she ever wanted to put her friends at risk.”

Was that why she had been so secretive?

Tucker squeezed the drive in his palm, sensing its importance. “Thank you.”

“I hope it helps,” she said. “But promise me one thing, Tucker.”

“Name it.”

“If somebody did something to my daughter, you’ll set it right.”

Tucker nodded. “Count on it.”

2:02
P
.
M
.

I’m going to get lost
.

By midafternoon, Tucker and Kane had said their good-byes to Bea, but only after she insisted on making him a lunch of fried bologna sandwiches. They were now headed down the mountains—but not the same way they came up this morning. Tucker had asked Bea about the route by which Sandy usually headed back to Huntsville. As he suspected, the locals knew a more scenic shortcut out of the Appalachians.

He was now driving along Skyline Road, where the forests were notably thicker, mostly pines, so densely packed he could barely see a few feet past the tree line. He shifted the Dodge into a lower gear as the road crested a ridge and swept down the next hill in a series of steep switchbacks.

As he rounded a bend, a sharp-edged ravine appeared on his left. There was no guardrail or fence. Beyond the shoulder he caught glimpses of bright green water far below. He passed a red warning sign that read:

HIGHLY ALKALINE WATER
NO TRESPASSING BY ORDER OF
THE UNITED STATES ENVIRONMENTAL
PROTECTION AGENCY

Tucker slowed down, studying the lake below.

Must be a flooded quarry
.

Tucker felt a deep unease as the road circled the toxic body of water. According to Bea, Sandy had left the farmhouse well after sunset. At that time, Skyline Road would’ve been pitch-dark. He pictured another dark and lonely road, another drowned industrial area. He and Kane had been waylaid where it would have been easy to hide their bodies.

Could the enemy have chosen a similar spot to ambush Sandy?

Fearing the worst, he slowed the Dodge and pulled over to a wider section of the shoulder. He exited with his backpack—and as an extra precaution, from under a blanket he pulled out the MP-5 assault rifle he had confiscated two nights ago and slung it over his shoulder. With Kane at his side, he began walking along the roadside closest to the quarry’s edge. He eventually found a section of disturbed gravel on the shoulder. Beyond this patch, the weeds had been flattened in a telltale double stripe, headed toward the quarry.