The Last Day

THIRTY-SEVEN

When Ward opened the front door, Todd was parking his Denali. Leslie Wilde drove in behind him. He waited for her to join him and kissed her on the cheek, and they came to the door together.

“I tried to call,” Leslie said, holding up her cell phone. “My battery is dead and I don't have my car charger. I thought I could run errands or whatever you need done. I'm going to take a personal day.”

“You don't have to do that, Leslie,” Ward said.

“I know, but I really want to help. Cheryl is covering your phone for the day. If it's okay?”

“We both appreciate what you've already done, more than you know. Come on in,” Ward said, holding the door open.

“The media vultures are still up there,” Leslie said. “It's the same thing over and over on the news. I guess they don't have anything better to put on. It dominated the Today show this morning. It's international news. The virus is still spreading, but they've been warning people about not opening the e-mail with the subject ‘You have to see this.’ ”

Ward led them into the den, where Natasha greeted them with a bright smile.

“Todd, what's your good news?” Ward asked.

Todd looked at Leslie. “Maybe we should talk in private,” he said.

“No problem. I'll give you guys a few minutes,” Leslie said.

Todd said, “It's about the prototype.”

“Leslie can hear it,” Ward said. “She knows all about it.”

“You're the client,” Todd told him, smiling at Leslie.

Todd took a tape player from his briefcase and placed it on the table. “I wired myself before I spoke to her.”

He pressed down on the play button and the quartet listened to the meeting on the campus of UNCC.

After the conversation played Todd clicked off the machine.

“Ward told me she looks young,” Natasha said.

“Yes, she does,” Todd replied. “She could pass for twelve.”

“And by now she's seen the news, and even before that she was insinuating that she thought Ward made overtures toward her. What if she thinks she can shake him down?” Leslie asked.

“I think we're past that,” Todd said.

“Christ,” Ward said.

“She's a disturbed young lady with a need for attention,” Natasha said. “This could get her some.”

Ward asked Todd, “How do we handle it?”

“She was in the middle seat, so I got the name of the man seated beside her on the aisle. His name is Albert Gaines, and he lives down in Rock Hill. I'll talk to him-I'd bet he saw the car when you showed it to her and that he was away from the seat only while you were. And he'll know whether or not you seemed to be coming on to Alice. Sitting that close he'd have to have seen or heard everything that went on.”

“Okay,” Ward said. “I'm sure you're right. He was right there.”

“I spoke to Alice Palmer late last night. She and her boyfriend tried extortion-asking for ten thousand. I told her I'd talked to witness Gaines, and said you'd go two and I wouldn't have them put in jail. Everybody gets what they want. We're going to pay to get the car back. Eight tonight at Concord Mills food court.”

“Let's just hope she doesn't decide to call the police anyway,” Natasha said. “Maybe she doesn't need the money as much as she needs attention.”

“That's possible,” Todd said, “but I'm sure her boyfriend just wants a payday.”

“By the way, I have someone looking into Trey Dibble, and I'm trying to find out if Lander Electric has an investigator they use locally or one their lawyers use. You know which law firm they've retained?”

“I forget the name. Gene's been dealing with them. They're a big firm with offices around the country and two- hundred- plus lawyers. Their North Carolina office is in Durham.”

“If you don't mind, I'll call him for that information.”

Ward wrote down Gene's phone numbers for Todd.

“This could get expensive,” Todd said.

Natasha said, “Whatever it takes, Todd. We'll handle it. Let's just get it fixed as quickly as possible.”

Todd nodded, but he didn't seem to be listening. He was looking out through the window at something near the trees. He turned to look at Ward. “I want everybody to just keep talking like you are now. And don't look outside.” He reached into his pocket for a walkie- talkie and, holding it in his lap, keyed it.

“Number two,” Todd said, as though he was talking to Ward, “circle the house. Slow and quiet. I saw a light flare in the trees, up on the back ridge, ninety degrees out from the living room. Might be a camera.”

“Everyone just keep talking, and don't look out the window.” Todd looked back toward the kitchen, stood and walked toward the door, turned, and sprinted for the front.

Ward, Natasha, and Leslie sat frozen, as Todd had instructed, until Ward heard him yell out, and he turned to see the investigator running gazelle- like among the trees along the ridge, gun in his hand. Ward also saw the man Todd had called, working his way among the trees on the ridge, coming in from the left side.

Standing, Ward saw Todd signal the other man before sprinting deep into the woods. Five minutes later the two men came walking back, their guns holstered. Todd was wiping dirt from his pants and his jacket.

Ward walked out through the kitchen door and onto the patio in front of the covered pool, Natasha and Leslie following. He saw the two men looking down at the ground. Todd had disappeared below his waist. From a distance, he looked half buried. He reached down and came up with something that looked like a blanket with a man- size hole in the middle.

“Wait here,” Ward told the women. He walked swiftly down the grassy slope and up the rise, approaching the two men.

“He got away,” Todd said, reaching down into a hole that was about four by six feet wide and a good three feet deep. He lifted out a pair of armored binoculars by the strap and inspected them gently. What Ward had thought was a blanket was actually fine netting stretched across a wood frame with dead leaves attached to the material.

“Mr. McCarty I'm Bixby Nolan. I work for Mr. Hartman.” The other man turned to Ward and nodded.

“Nice to meet you,” Ward said absently.

Nolan, wearing black jeans and a T-shirt under a lightweight jacket, was five six, and he looked like a prizefighter. He had a thin scar across his forehead, just above the dark sunglasses, and his blond hair was gathered into a ponytail.

“I didn't see anybody,” Nolan said.

“I saw a reflection from these glasses,” Todd said. “He ran from the hide when I broke around the house. He was wearing black jeans and shirt and ball cap. Maybe six feet tall with wide shoulders. He vanished into thin air.”

Todd reached back into the hole and took out a small, rectangular, flat, dull orange object, which he studied for a moment before he set it on the ground beside the binoculars.

“What's that?” Ward asked.

“See the writing. ‘Fine India Made in the USA’ stone. For sharpening a survival knife,” Todd said. “Stones just like this one come with Randall fighting and survival knives. It fits in a little pocket on the holster.”

“That's an expensive knife,” Bixby said.

“I doubt the guy was a reporter,” Todd said, reaching down and feeling something in the front wall of the hole. He straightened and, climbing out, moved to the backside of the hole and kneeled to look in.

“How do you know that?” Ward asked.

“He's been here for a lot longer than just since yesterday, when the virus hit.”

When Ward came around and knelt beside Todd he saw, carved in the clay walls, scores of carefully crafted letters stretched out in long straight lines, stacked to fill the space like a lesson painstakingly chalked on a blackboard. At the base of that wall was a pile of small bits of dry clay, lying where they'd fallen during the carving. Ward realized that the words were, in fact, one word written over and over, and, although they were run together without any spacing, the word was immediately readable because of the capital G every fifth letter. Whoever had been here had time and patience.

Nolan Bixby asked, “What the hell does ‘Gizmo’ mean?”

“Nothing good,” Todd said, with perfect certainty.