Lost Lake

CHAPTER FIVE

The line went dead. Victor Hobson hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. When he was younger, his cold gray eyes and craggy features had made him seem dangerous. Now, in his early sixties, he was still a hard-looking man, but his gray hair was thinning, he had developed a paunch, and he took pills to control high blood pressure. With bank robberies, drugs, and all his other federal criminal concerns he really didn’t need the additional stress of having Carl Rice reappear; but Lost Lake was one of the more curious occurrences in a very eventful life, and Vanessa was a seriously disturbed woman, who was either a murderer or the key to a mystery.

Hobson ordered an agent to pick up Sam Cutler and bring him downtown. He did not believe that Cutler was in any danger, but Vanessa’s friend might know where she was going. As soon as the agent was on her way, Hobson swiveled his chair until his back was to his desk. It was a sunny morning in Washington. From his window in the FBI building he watched the hustle and bustle on the street as he thought back to the last time he had spoken to Vanessa. It had been in the late 1980s, more than a year after she had been discovered wandering in a daze outside the summer home of Eric Glass and three months after she had been released from Serenity Manor, the private sanatorium where she had been living since her father, General Morris Wingate, had spirited her away from the hospital at Lost Lake. Hobson had not known it at the time, but he now believed that his assignment to investigate the murder of Congressman Glass had been the turning point in his career.

The Shenandoah apartments in Chevy Chase, Maryland, were expensive and secure. The three buildings were set back from the street. A buffer of manicured lawn separated them from the spear-tipped wrought-iron fence that surrounded the property.Entry was gained only by satisfying the guard at the sentry box that you had business with the United States senators, federal judges, movie stars, and other members of the elite who resided in the gated complex.

Serenity Manor had refused to give Victor Hobson Vanessa’s address without a subpoena. General Morris Wingate had toldHobson that he did not want his daughter disturbed. He also said that Vanessa had serious mental problems and would not be a reliable witness. It had taken a favor from a friend at the telephone company to run down Vanessa’s location and his FBI credentials, plus a not too subtle threat, to get by the doorman and the security guard at the reception desk in the wood-paneled lobby. As he rode the elevator to the twentieth floor, Hobson wondered what the Wingates were hiding. Their actions had always been suspicious, if explainable. Vanessa’s father had taken her out of the hospital in Lost Lake by the time Hobson had arrived in town, supposedly to give her the superior care that Serenity Manor provided. All requests for interviews at the psychiatric hospital had been denied, allegedly for the protection of the patient. It would be too traumatic for such a fragile individual to have to relive the horrors of Lost Lake, he had been told.

“Who is it?” Vanessa asked nervously moments after Hobson rang her doorbell. He had come up unannounced. The doorman and the security guard knew that there would be consequences if they called ahead.

“Federal Agent Victor Hobson,” he answered, holding his identification up to the peephole. “May I come in, Miss Wingate?”

“What is this about?”

“I’d rather not say out here in the hall where the neighbors can hear us.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

Hobson played his trump card. “Carl Rice has killed again, Miss Wingate. I don’t want him to hurt anyone else, including you.”

There was no sound on the other side of the door. Hobson wondered if Vanessa was still standing there. Then locks snapped, chains rattled, the door opened, and Vanessa Wingate eyed him warily as she stepped aside to let him in.

Hobson thought General Wingate’s daughter looked hyper-alert and scared. She was pale and drawn. Her clothes hung from her. The dark circles under her eyes told him that she did not sleep easily.

“Thank you for letting me in, Miss Wingate.”

“It’s Kohler,” she said. “I no longer use my father’s name.”

Hobson remembered that Charlotte Kohler was Vanessa’s mother. She had died in a car accident when her daughter was in middle school.

Vanessa shut the door and turned her back to Hobson as she led him into a spacious living room. A cigarette was smoldering in an ashtray on a polished mahogany end table. Vanessa sat on the sofa and picked up the cigarette. She hunched her shoulders as if it was cold, but there was a fire blazing in a marble fireplace and the temperature in the apartment must have been in the seventies.

“I had a hard time finding you,” Hobson said. “I thought you’d be staying at your home in California, but your father said you moved out.”

“I want nothing to do with him,” Vanessa answered, her anger boiling up. “I don’t communicate with him. He had me locked up.”

“I was told that you needed psychiatric care because you were traumatized by your experience at Lost Lake.”

Vanessa smiled coldly. “That’s the party line, and the quacks at Serenity Manor were paid a lot of money to spout it.”

“I tried to talk to you while you were in the hospital. The doctors wouldn’t let me see you.”

“I wouldn’t have been much use to you,” she answered quietly. “They kept me drugged most of the time. The whole year is a blur.”

“Do you remember what happened at the lake?” Hobson asked softly. He could see how skittish she was, and he was afraid of spooking her. Vanessa did not answer right away. She took a drag on her cigarette and stared into the distance.

“Miss Kohler?” he said, remembering to use her new name.

“I heard you. I’m just not sure I want to talk about that.”

“It’s important. Especially now that someone else is dead.”

That got her attention. “Who did Carl…?”

“General Peter Rivera.”

Vanessa’s brow furrowed. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“He’s a short man, stocky, with a dark complexion and a scar on his forehead.”

She shook her head. “No. What makes you think that Carl killed him?”

“He was tortured and murdered in much the same way as Congressman Glass.” Vanessa blanched. “And there’s other evidence connecting him to the scene.”

Vanessa smoked quietly. Hobson let her think.

“I was asleep in the guest room,” Vanessa said without preliminaries. She was staring at the fire, not looking at Hobson at all. “It was on the second floor. I woke up and heard voices. That surprised me. I thought that we were alone in the house.”

“Just you and the congressman?” Hobson asked.

She turned toward him. “It’s not what you think. He’d been to the mansion in California to meet with my father. Eric was on the intelligence committee and my father was the head of the Agency for Intelligence Data Coordination. I had lunch with them once and dinner another time. When I started graduate school I interviewed for a job.”

“He was your employer?”

She nodded. “We were just friends.”

“Then why were you there, alone, at his house?”

Vanessa looked down. “It’s personal. I don’t want to discuss it.” She sounded frightened. Hobson decided not to push.

“So you heard voices and…”

“Eric said something. I couldn’t hear what he said but it sounded odd.”

“Odd?”

“Like a gasp. He sounded as if he was hurt. I went downstairs to investigate. There was a light on in his office. I looked in.” She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Are you okay?”

Vanessa did not answer Hobson’s question. She just continued talking as if he had never asked it.

“Carl was standing with his back to me. He was all in black. I had no idea who he was at first. Then he turned around and I gasped. My hand actually went to my mouth. I remember that. I said, ‘Carl,’ and then I saw the congressman and…and I saw the knife. Carl was holding it and it was covered with blood. I ran. I think I screamed.”

“Did he try to catch you?”

“No. I’ve thought about that. Carl was very athletic. If he’d wanted to catch me he could have, easily.”

“But he didn’t go after you?”

“I didn’t look back. I just ran. But I’m pretty sure he didn’t come after me. I ran into the woods. Then I heard a boat going across the lake, fast. Then the deputy found me.”

“You’ve known Rice for some time, I understand.”

“We dated in high school. Then he was drafted and we lost touch. I met him again in D.C. a few months before…Lost Lake.”

“Do you know why Carl killed the congressman?”

Vanessa looked away. “No,” she said. Hobson was certain that she was lying.

“Your father thinks Rice was jealous of Congressman Glass.”

“I told you, there was nothing between us. We were just friends. I worked for him.”

“When you renewed your acquaintance here, did Rice eversay anything that made you think that he had a grudge against the military?”

“No,” she said too quickly. Hobson debated confronting her but decided to leave on a friendly note. He would talk to her again when he had more to work with.

“What are your plans?”

“I don’t know. I was in graduate school when all this happened. Maybe I’ll finish my degree,” Vanessa answered, but it didn’t sound as if that would happen anytime soon.

“And you’re staying in D.C.?”

Vanessa flashed a sardonic smile. “Is that question a polite version of ‘Don’t try to leave town’?”

Hobson smiled back. “No. You’re perfectly free to go wherever you want.”

He stood up and held out his card. “Thank you for talking to me, Miss Kohler. If you think of anything more, give me a call.”

Vanessa took the card and put it on the end table without looking at it. She followed him to the door. When he was in the hall Hobson heard the locks snap back into place.

On the way to his car, Hobson thought about their conversation. He was certain that Vanessa was concealing information. Did General Wingate know what it was? Had the General rushed his daughter to Serenity Manor so that she would be unavailable to the authorities for questioning? As he neared his car something else occurred to him.

“Agent Hobson?”

Hobson turned. A black chauffeured limousine was parked at the curb. An elegantly dressed man with crystal-blue eyes and hair so blond it was almost white was holding open the rear door.

“Would you mind getting in?” he asked.

“Yeah, I would. Who are you?”

The man held out a laminated card that identified him as Charles Jennings, an agent with the CIA.

“Ride with me a bit,” Jennings said when Hobson was done examining his credentials. “I’ll get you back to your car after we’ve talked.”

“About what?”

“Please get in. This is too conspicuous.”

Hobson hesitated. Then curiosity got the best of him and he climbed into the back of the car. It was spacious, with a wet bar, television, and telephone.

“Okay, what’s this about?” Hobson asked as the car pulled away from the curb.

“Your investigation into the murders of Congressman Eric Glass and General Peter Rivera.”

“Why is the CIA interested in those cases?”

“That’s something I can’t explain right now.”

“Then I guess I won’t be able to discuss the investigations.”

Jennings smiled. “I thought you might say something like that.”

“I’m a serious person, Jennings. Even as a kid, I never liked playing games.”

“Oh, this is no game, Agent Hobson. This is a matter of national security.”

“And I’m supposed to take your word for that?”

Jennings’s smile widened. “Everyone says you’re a tough guy.”

“I’m not tough. I’m just going by the book. I don’t discuss my cases with anyone who asks. Quite frankly, Mr. Jennings, credentials like the one you showed me can be forged by enterprising reporters hot after a story.”

“You see the telephone? Call the director and ask him if it’s okay to talk to me.”

“The FBI director?”

Jennings rattled off the number of the director’s inside line, which Hobson knew to be correct. He dialed without taking his eyes off the CIA man.

“I know why you’re calling, Agent Hobson,” the director said as soon as Hobson identified himself. “You are to cooperate completely with Mr. Jennings in this matter.”

“Does that mean…?”

“It means what I said. Complete, one hundred percent cooperation.”

The director broke the connection. Hobson held the receiver for a moment before hanging up. Jennings was leaning back in his seat, at ease, in command.

“What do you want to know?” Hobson asked.

“I want to know everything you’ve found out about Carl Rice.”

Hobson told him what he knew.

“What have you concluded?” Jennings asked when Hobson was through.

“That Rice is a disgruntled ex-soldier with a crush on Vanessa Wingate. He’s probably responsible for the murders of Congressman Glass and General Rivera.”

“Probably?”

Hobson hesitated.

“The director instructed you to cooperate fully, did he not?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Then please answer my question. Do you have any reservations about your conclusion that Rice is responsible for these murders?”

Hobson felt uncomfortable. “There was no physical evidence connecting Carl Rice to the murder at Lost Lake. Everyone is looking for Rice because Vanessa Wingate said he killed the congressman.”

“Go on.”

“No one saw Rice at the lake, except Vanessa. There are no fingerprints or other physical evidence connecting him to the murder scene. If Vanessa Wingate hadn’t given us his name he wouldn’t be a suspect.”

“I’m not following you,” Jennings said, though it was obvious that he did and just wanted Hobson to commit himself.

“The Lost Lake police decided that Vanessa didn’t murder the congressman because the murder weapon couldn’t be found and Vanessa had no blood on her. But what if she got rid of the knife and whatever she was wearing? Maybe she was naked when she killed him. She could have dumped the knife in the lake and showered.”

Hobson’s theory clearly intrigued Jennings. “What’s led you down this path?”

Hobson shook his head. He looked troubled. “Why did General Wingate rush his daughter into a private sanatorium before I could question her? Why wouldn’t the doctors at Serenity Manor let me talk to her? Maybe they were just being protective; maybe reliving what happened at the lake would have damaged her psychologically. But I get the impression that the General and his daughter are hiding something. Only I have no proof that they are and no idea what it might be, unless she killed Glass.”

“What about General Rivera?” Jennings asked.

“There’s nothing connecting Vanessa to his murder.”

“And Rice?”

“The MO is the same as the Lost Lake murder; there were cuts on his chest and damage to his face, throat slit. Rice’s hair and blood was found at the scene…”

“Were there signs of a struggle?”

“No.”

“Interesting. If there was no struggle, where did the blood come from?”

Hobson shrugged.

Jennings asked Hobson to send him copies of the files of both cases. Then he ordered the driver to return Hobson to his car. They rode in silence until the limousine stopped.

“You have my card. I want to know any new developments as soon as they happen,” Jennings said. “Most important, I want to be notified the minute Carl Rice is located, captured, or killed, day or night. That’s a major priority.”

Just before Hobson got out, Jennings said, “You’ll be doing your career a favor by giving me your complete cooperation. I’m not the only person interested in these cases. There are very important people who want to know the truth about Lost Lake.”

Hobson had sent a copy of the case files to CIA headquarters, but there had been no new developments. Carl Rice had disappeared as if he had never existed. As far as Hobson could tell, Vanessa and Rice never made contact after Lost Lake.

Hobson had kept tabs on Vanessa. He learned that she was living on a hefty trust fund that had been established by her mother and that she’d broken off all contact with her father. During the year and a half after her discharge from Serenity Manor Vanessa lived like a hermit. A move to her current, less expensive digs had followed her hiring by Exposed after attempts at employment at more reputable newspapers and magazines had all failed.

After their conversation in the black limousine, Hobson had not talked with Charles Jennings again, but that wasn’t the last he heard of Jennings. A few years after their brief meeting, Jennings was appointed director of the CIA. When the administration changed, Jennings returned to Pennsylvania and served two terms as a United States senator. Four years ago, Charles Jennings had been elected to the presidency of the United States.

Over the years, Hobson had risen steadily through the ranks until his recent appointment as executive assistant director for law enforcement services. There were others as deserving of promotion, some more deserving. Hobson always wondered how important to his career the short car ride from Vanessa Wingate’s apartment house had been.

The intercom buzzed, and Hobson’s secretary informed him that Sam Cutler was in his reception area. After the agent brought the photographer into his office he dismissed her. Cutler looked around warily. Hobson smiled to put him at ease.

“Sit down, Mr. Cutler. You’re not in any trouble, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Then why am I here?” Cutler demanded.

“Vanessa Kohler thinks you’re in danger.”

Cutler’s shoulders sagged. “You’re kidding? This is because of Vanessa?”

“She asked me to have you picked up and offered protective custody.”

Cutler looked furious. “I don’t believe this. Don’t you know Vanessa is nuts? I just went through this with the D.C. police. She called 911 last night and said I was being murdered.” Cutler tapped his temple angrily with his index finger. “She’s crazy.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“I’ll tell you what it is, it’s embarrassing. First, there were the cops last night. I have no idea what our neighbors think. Then an FBI agent drags me out of my office.”

“I apologize, but Vanessa has gone somewhere and I need to know where she went. I was hoping you could help me. Believe me, it is important.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with her father, does it? She’s not making threats against him, is she? She went ballistic when he announced that he was running for president. That’s what set off this recent round of insanity. She was fine before that.”

“She hasn’t made any threats against General Wingate.”

Cutler looked as if he was at his wit’s end. “I like Vanessa. I do, and I’ve tried very hard to deal with her problems, but it’s getting to be too much. She’s a brilliant woman, a terrific reporter. If it weren’t for her mental problems she’d be going for the Pulitzer. But she has trouble separating reality and fantasy, and it’s getting worse instead of better. What I don’t understand is why the FBI is talking to her, much less giving credence to anything she says.”

“I can’t explain, but it is in connection with a case.”

“Is she in trouble?”

“Not from us. Tell me, Mr. Cutler, has she ever mentioned a man named Carl Rice to you?”

“That sounds familiar.” Cutler snapped his fingers. “He’s in the book. Aw, no. Don’t tell me it’s about her book. I mean that’s a total fantasy. I’ve read it. She doesn’t have a shred of evidence to back up anything she says.”

“What book is that?” Hobson asked, although he had read a copy that had been made from a manuscript that had been surreptitiously copied by an employee at a publishing house who was paid under the table by the FBI.

“She’s written this expose of her father. She claims that he ran a secret army unit during Vietnam that committed all sorts of crimes. Only she doesn’t have a shred of proof.”

“What does she say about Rice?”

“He was supposed to be one of Wingate’s assassins.”

Cutler took a deep breath. “You can’t put any stock in these wild accusations, Mr. Hobson. When Vanessa was in her twenties she saw a very gruesome torture murder. She was staying at a congressman’s house in California. I think that’s what started her problems, because she was hospitalized for a year after that at some private sanatorium for the shock of seeing this guy killed. She says this old boyfriend of hers, Carl Rice, killed the congressman to get evidence he had about this army thing her father was supposed to be running. But you can’t believe anything she says about General Wingate. She hates him. I mean, really hates him. Vanessa blames him for everything that’s gone wrong in her life: her mother’s death; being in that psychiatric hospital. She even thinks that he was involved in the Kennedy assassination.”

“What?”

“She claims her father was the second gunman on the grassy knoll. Then she claims that she was never crazy and that he put her in a sanatorium to keep her from telling what she knows.” He shook his head.

“You don’t believe what’s in the book?” Hobson asked.

“Hell, no. And I know where she got that stuff, too. She has a huge collection of books and articles about real clandestine government operations, like Phoenix, and a ton more about Roswell, Kennedy assassination conspiracy theories, and that sort of crap. Her book is a mishmash of the real stuff and what the conspiracy nuts believe.”

“Do you have any idea where she went?”

“No. I talked to her last night, right after she called the cops, but she didn’t tell me where she was. And this is the first I’ve heard that she was going anywhere.”

“If she calls you, will you let me know where she is?”

Sam looked uncomfortable. “You swear that you’re not going to arrest her, that she’s not a suspect in anything?”

“You have my word. I’m concerned that she might find Carl Rice and he might hurt her.”

“Then this Rice is real?”

“Yes. She did go out with him in high school, and she met him again right around the time that Congressman Glass was murdered. She told the police that Rice killed the congressman.”

“So, she’d be in danger if she ran into this guy?”

“She might be.”

Sam took a deep breath. “If she calls, I’ll try to find out where she is.”

“For the record, I promised Vanessa that I’d offer you protective custody.”

Sam shook his head. “Just have someone drive me back to the paper, and promise you’ll vouch for me if my boss asks any questions.”