Lethal Expedition

12

Just after eleven P.M., Hallie tipped over the correct flowerpot in Kurt Ely’s backyard. She saw no alarm wires or junction boxes and let herself in, locking the door behind herself. She pulled down shades, closed curtains, and put on her caving headlamp. Its tight circular spot wouldn’t be visible outside. She hoped.

Ely’s bedroom closet held dress shirts and pants, a sport jacket. Scuffed shoes on the floor, sweaters tossed onto shelves. Nothing unusual in dresser drawers, under the bed. The bathroom medicine cabinet contained rubbing alcohol, shaving cream, disposable razors. Two more sparsely furnished bedrooms yielded nothing of interest.

In the basement, a dusty workbench sat against one wall. Old suitcases leaned against another. Unpacked moving cartons were stacked almost to the ceiling at the basement’s far end. She looked and poked but found nothing of interest.

What would be of interest? She couldn’t say exactly. But something had not felt right since her conversation with Maddy Taylor. So now she stood in Ely’s basement, wanting to go but reluctant to leave without … what?

A door opened and closed upstairs. She almost called Maddy Taylor’s name, then shut her mouth. She killed her light and knelt behind the stacked cartons. Someone walked around upstairs, heavy-footed, purposeful. The basement lights came on.

She took small, silent breaths and did not move. The newcomer walked to the workbench. She heard the ripping sound of tape being pulled loose, nothing for several seconds, then the soft beeps of a cell phone’s keypad. A man’s voice:

“It’s me. I got the gift. Yes. Tomorrow. At the cathedral. After, I will confirm.”

The click of a ballpoint pen. “Go ahead.” Silence. “Wait, let me repeat that. Five-two-nine-nine-seven-five-four-four-one-six-eight-two.”

She heard a cell phone snapping shut. The man walked upstairs and left through the back door. She crouched for five minutes, her eyes closed, brow furrowed. Then she turned on her light and searched the basement frantically. She took the stairs two at a time, rummaged through the kitchen, finally found on a counter half of what she needed: a pen. She thought, The hell with paper, and wrote on her palm the numbers she had been repeating silently since the man had spoken them.

That was a relief. But something else was not. Down in the basement, she had heard a voice from the grave.

Back home, her first thought was to call Agent Luciano, despite the hour, to tell him that Kurt Ely might be alive. But then she would have to admit to breaking into Ely’s house. The fact that she had used a key wouldn’t matter to the police. And she had no proof, so Luciano would immediately assume she was trying to shift suspicion away from herself. She hadn’t even actually seen Ely. Calling Luciano would have to wait. But she had the numbers Ely, or whoever it was, had repeated. She could work with them right now.

In her kitchen, with coffee and a laptop, Hallie Googled the numbers.

She wrote the numbers on a legal pad. Wrote them again, bigger, with more space between each digit. Assigned letters to the numbers: CEIIGEDDAFHB.

That was no help. It was too long to be a Social Security number or a safe’s combination. A serial number? Or an amount of money: $529,975,441,682?

That didn’t seem likely. She was pouring a fresh cup of coffee when the old, wall-hung telephone rang. “Hello?”

“Answered that pretty quick. What’re you doin’ up so late? Got yourself a new boyfriend already?”

“Stephen. Why are you calling at this hour? It’s after three.”

“Little rich white boy, I bet. Don’ waste time, do you?” He was drunk, his tone ugly. She thought about hanging up, but that would have been running, and she never ran from things that scared her.

“There’s no one here, Stephen. You sound drunk. What do you want?”

“Wanna go to church tomorrow?”

“What?”

“Me, I’m goin’ to church. Big church. Easter Sunday an’ all.”

“Stephen, I’m hanging up.”

“Wait. My key. I want my key.”

“You called me at three in the morning to tell me that? Where are you?”

A moment of silence. Then: “I’m right on your goddamn front porch. Got your gun handy?”

Jesus, she thought. Had she locked the door when she came in? She couldn’t remember. She dropped the phone, found the door locked securely. There was no peephole, but she put her ear to the door and listened. Nothing. Back in the kitchen, she picked up the dangling phone.

“Hello? Stephen?”

The line was dead.

Got your gun handy? Was that some kind of threat? A warning? Or was he just infuriated and trying to scare her? Hard to tell. But suddenly she realized what the numbers were. Redhorse’s call had done it. Now when she looked, the digits divided neatly into a telephone number: 52 997 544 1682. She knew the first two well: 52 was Mexico’s international country code.

She punched buttons on the wall phone and waited through three rings. Scratchy international connection, rough male voice. “Sí?”

“This is Hallie Leland calling. I’m a friend of Kurt Ely’s. Can I speak to him, please?”

She heard a hand cover the phone, Spanish shouts. Seconds passed, and then the connection broke. She dialed the number twice more but got only busy signals.

Ten minutes later, she was getting ready for bed when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

No one spoke, but she heard someone breathing on the other end. “Stephen, is this you? Talk to me.”

Several seconds later, the caller hung up. She dialed *69. A recording said, “We’re sorry. That number is private.”