“Yes, she’s here but she’s on another call.”
Never mind tenacious, that woman was stubborn, infuriating. Rex felt the small muscle in his jaw begin to pulse. “Georgette, put me through to Al Brashear then, please.”
“My pleasure.”
Al’s voice was as rough as Georgette’s was pleasant. “Yes, Hannah’s here.”
“I’m Rex, a friend of Hannah’s and I—”
“I know who you are. She’ll be fine.”
“Look, Al, I’m not sure what Hannah has told you, but she needs to stay inside the office until I come and collect her this afternoon. No going out for lunch, nothing. And I need your help.”
“Yeah?”
“Call me at this number if anything strange happens. Anything.”
Rex gave Al his cell number. Hannah should be okay as long as she stayed with her colleagues inside the newspaper office. It would give him time to pay Mitchell a visit and to see if he could wangle his way into the spa.
* * *
Hannah, receiver cradled between ear and shoulder, listened to her mother’s voice.
“So, we thought we’d come up a day early, dear. Danny said he didn’t want to miss the circus in the village.”
Hannah’s mind reeled. Rex. Danny. Home today. Early. She felt dizzy. Words failed her.
“Hannah, are you there?”
“Uh…yes, Mom. That’s great. So, uh, what time do you think you’ll be arriving?”
“Don’t fuss or anything. We should be in White River around four or five this afternoon. I’ve still got the key to your house. We’ll be there when you get home from work, sweetheart. I’ll fix dinner. We’re bringing up some groceries.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Hannah placed the receiver back into the cradle, numb. She felt as if she was in another time zone. This afternoon. Danny would be home this afternoon.
“You okay, Hannah?”
Al was watching her, blue eyes peering over his thick half-moon reading glasses.
“Yeah. Thanks, Al. Been a crazy few days.” She rubbed her temples.
“That Rex guy?”
“It’s that obvious?”
Al pulled up a chair. “Hannah, this ‘friend’ of yours, where’d you meet him?”
She tried to shrug off his question. “Long time ago. Another place. Another life. So, you ready to edit this piece or what?”
Al didn’t take the bait. He leaned forward. “He’s the one who followed you from the Black Diamond the other day, isn’t he?”
She looked into his eyes. “Yeah. He’s the one.”
“Hannah, if you’re in trouble—”
“Al, I’m fine.”
He nodded. “So how come he’s helping us with Amy?”
She swallowed against the tension in her throat. “Al, I really don’t want to have secrets from you. I just can’t talk about it right now. Can you understand?”
He reached out and patted her arm. “Sure, hon. But tell me, what’s this guy’s last name?”
She paused. Trapped. “Logan.”
“I see.” Al pushed his chair back, stood, looked down at her. “Want some tea?”
* * *
“Sorry, sir.” The clerk smiled up at him. “Mr. Bamfield checked out early this morning.”
Damn. Mitchell had left the Fireside Lodge. What was he up to?
Rex walked out of the lodge into a sheet of drenching cold rain. The storm had settled in. He pulled his jacket up over his head and made for the hotel. The wind had died but thunder still reverberated in the peaks.
He would need to break in to the spa tonight, take a look around. But first he’d need backup, someone to watch over Hannah.
He had missed lunch. Once in his hotel room he ordered a late-afternoon snack, coffee and a chicken salad sandwich, and punched in Scott’s cell number.
“Hey, any news?”
“Good timing.”
“What’ve you got?”
“First off, Dr. Gunter Schmidt checks out. So does his partner Dr. Gregor Vasilev. Schmidt’s records show he grew up and trained in Switzerland and worked most recently at an exclusive surgical clinic in Berlin. Vasilev did his training in Russia, where he apparently developed some ground-breaking cosmetic surgery techniques at a spa in Odessa where he worked on top Soviet brass, among others.”
“Russia, huh? What brought the two of them to White River?”
“That’s where it gets interesting. The White River Spa has been held for at least a decade by a shell company. The assets of that shell company are in turn controlled by a Russian and East German-based consortium, Die Waffenbruder. Loosely translated that means brothers or comrades-in-arms. It’s never been proven, but Die Waffenbruder is suspected to have links to the Russian mafia and, more ominously, to money laundering and the financial backing of some key terrorist organizations.”
Rex whistled through his teeth.
“It appears Die Waffenbruder brought Schmidt and Vasilev out to head up the spa about five years ago.”
“Sweet Jesus. I’m going to need backup here.”
“One step ahead of you. I’m heading up from Vancouver as we speak.”
Rex laughed. He could always trust Scott. “I’m at the White River Presidential, room 641. Looking forward to seeing you. Any luck with the lab reports?”
“Yeah, they gave it top priority. The stuff in the vial was liquid GHB, gamma hydroxybutyrate. Where’d you find it?”
“Up in a cabin on Powder Mountain. I suspect it was used in the death of both the reporter, Amy Barnes, and her friend Grady Fisher.”
“You been able to link them?”
“Only circumstantially. Mitchell is a common denominator but I haven’t been able to find him. I need to get into that spa tonight. If there’s something there, they could have it all cleaned out in no time if they get wind we’re on to them.”
“Gotcha. I should be up there some time this evening.”
Rex hung up and punched in the Gazette phone number. Hannah would probably be knocking off work by now. He could leave her in Scott’s care while he checked out the spa under the cover of the storm.
“Gazette, how may I help you?”
“Georgette, Rex here.”
“Sorry, Rex, Hannah’s not taking calls right now.”
So she was playing games. He felt anger start to prickle. Things were coming to a head and he didn’t have time to waste.
“I need to know when I can pick her up.”
“She says she’ll be working late this evening.”
“Get her to call me.”
“I will.”
Damn Hannah. He’d give her an hour and then he’d march over there and drag her back himself. He kicked off his shoes and flopped back onto the hotel bed. He lay there, mentally sifting through Scott’s findings, trying to join the dots.
* * *
Hannah was about to wrap up for the day when she saw Georgette standing wide-eyed at the door of the newsroom. The receptionist was speechless; her jaw hung slack.
Hannah jumped up from her desk. “Georgie?”
Georgette swayed and reached out for the doorjamb, as if to steady herself. “It’s, it’s…oh, God, Hannah…it’s…it’s your mom—”
Hannah stormed forward, grabbed Georgette by the shoulders. “What? What’s happened, Georgie?”
Hannah could feel Al’s hand on her shoulder, restraining her.
“She’s…she’s on the phone. Line one.”
Hannah dived for the receiver. “Mom!”
“Oh, God, Hannah, I’m so sorry. Hannah, I’m so so sorry.”
Fear dug talons in around Hannah’s throat. She couldn’t breathe. Danny. She knew. As if by sixth sense, she just knew.
“Where’s Danny?” She could hear the hysterical shrill of her own voice. “My God, Mom, where’s Danny?” Her hand strangled the receiver. “Tell me!”
“They got him, Hannah. He took him.”
“Who?” She screamed down the line now. “Who took him?” Her body was trembling. She could feel Al’s hand on her shoulder.
“The man. He was waiting at your house. He—” Her mother broke down into racking sobs.
The sound of her mother crying tempered Hannah. “Where are you, Mom, is someone with you?”
“I’m at the health care center. The police are here. They’ve just shut down the highway. No one can get in or out of White River. They will find him, Hannah.”
Her legs buckled under her. She crumpled into her office chair. “Are you okay, Mom, have you been hurt?”
“No, no. Oh my God, I’m so sorry—”
“Mom, put one of the cops on the line.”
The officer took the phone immediately. “Corporal Van Kleef here. Miss McGuire, I am sorry you had to find out this way. We do have an officer on his way over to your office.”
“What in hell happened? Where’s my son?”
“Your mother and son were confronted at your home by a male suspect. Your mother was knocked to the ground and your son was kidnapped. Your mother says she did not recognize the perpetrator.”
She had no time for laborious cop-speak. “For God’s sake, just tell me what he looked like!”
The corporal cleared his throat. “Big, tall. He wore a gray hooded sweatshirt, baggy pants, a bandanna over his face. He had dark glasses on.”
“Oh my God.” Hannah covered her mouth with her hand. He fit the description of the man who had tried to kill her. What did he want? Her tongue felt thick, too big for her dry mouth.
“Miss McGuire, we’ve closed the highway. He won’t get out of White River with your son.”
Al took the phone from Hannah, and Georgette rushed to fill a glass of water.
“Rex…I…I have to call Rex.” Her words came hoarse from her throat. Dazed, she moved to pick up the receiver just as a bright shock of orange hair in the doorway snagged her attention.
A clown.
The ridiculous creature stood where Georgette had stood seconds ago. Mocking. Surreal.
“Hannah McGuire?” He didn’t sound like a clown, but then she didn’t suppose she knew what a clown should sound like. Hannah felt like she’d slipped through the looking glass into a bizarre landscape, the numbness of shock laying claim to her body. “I’m Hannah,” she told the clown.
He took a clumsy step forward with his long red polka dotted shoe, held out an envelope. “This is for you.”
Hannah stood, reached forward with her trembling hand and took the envelope. She didn’t want to know what was inside.
“Where’d you get this?”
“Someone slipped me a wad of cash to drop it off.”
“No!” She grabbed him as he turned to go. “Who paid you?”
“Some dude in a big gray sweatshirt. I didn’t ask questions. Hey, it’s raining cats and dogs out there. I wasn’t going to make any other cash on the streets today. Gotta go. Got another delivery.”
Hannah hardly noticed the clown leave as she fumbled at the envelope, dropping it in her haste. Al bent forward, picked it up off the floor, opened it for her. He held out a piece of plain white paper. She took it from him, read the black block-printed letters: “Come up to Grizzly Hut at once. Talk to no one or your kid dies a most horrible painful death.”
Hannah crumpled the paper into a ball in her fist and made mechanically for the door. Like a zombie she reached for her rain jacket, a peaked cap and her ski pass.
“Hannah, where are you going?”
She ignored Al, pushed past Georgette and walked on wooden legs from the newsroom, out of the Gazette door, down the steps and into the solid shining sheet of gray-black rain.
* * *
Rex turned the facts over and over in his brain. He knew Dr. Gunter Schmidt from somewhere, but he still couldn’t place him. His cell phone rang, jolting him.
“Rex, here.”
“Rex…Hannah, she’s gone. Her son has been kidnapped.”
“Al?”
“She’s left the office.”
“What son?”
“Hurry.” Panic laced the publisher’s voice.
“I’m on my way.”
Rex tied his boots, lunged for his jacket and pulled open the door. What did he mean “Hannah’s son”?
A clown with a bright shock of orange hair stood, hand raised to knock. He stumbled back in surprise as Rex burst out of the room.
“Uh, are you Rex Logan?”
“What you want?”
The clown handed him an envelope and turned to run in clumsy strides down the hallway. Rex tore open the white envelope, read the black block-printed letters on the plain white sheet of paper. As he absorbed the words he flashed back six years to the plain piece of white paper with black block lettering he’d received in Marumba.
The writing was identical.
He’d never forget it.
It was etched into his brain. The words were almost identical: “We have her. Grizzly Hut. Come or your loved one will die a most horrible painful death.”
Your loved one will die a most horrible painful death. The exact same words. He was here in White River. He had to be. The Plague Doctor was here.
Rex shoved the note into his pocket and raced down the corridor to where the clown waited nervously for the elevator. Rex grabbed him by his big bow tie. “Where’d you get that letter?”
Perspiration shone through his white pancake makeup, his red nose askew. “Hey, man. Chill out. A guy paid me, like I told the woman. He gave me cash. He told me the times I must make the deliveries. He said the first letter was to go to the woman at 5 p.m. at the Gazette office. Then I was to bring this one here, to you.”
The elevator doors opened. Rex grabbed the oversize lapels and shoved the clown up against the wall. “Don’t go anywhere, Bozo. The cops will be wanting to talk to you.”
The elevator wasn’t fast enough. His usual methods of staying calm were not working. Rage clouded his vision.
Rex found Al and Georgette huddled in the newsroom with an RCMP officer. He motioned to Al from the door, behind the officer’s back. He didn’t need to attract attention to himself just yet. He had to see what he could do before the cops started poking about.
Al excused himself and joined Rex in the reception area.
“What happened?”
“Hannah’s son was kidnapped. She got a note from a clown and ran off.”
Al’s words hit Rex sideways, like a mallet to the head. “Hannah has a son?”
Al sighed, took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I guess she didn’t tell you.”
Rex grabbed the front of Al’s shirt. “Tell me what?”
“She has a boy. Daniel.” Al reached up to remove Rex’s hand from where he’d balled his shirt fabric into a fist. “Do you mind.”
Rex dropped his hand. He was losing it. For Hannah’s sake he had to stay in control. “How old is Daniel?”
“Five, going on six. He’ll be six in October.”
“His father?”
Al positioned his glasses back on his nose. Rex could see he was struggling with the information.
“Where in hell is the boy’s father?”
Al looked Rex directly in the eye. “The boy’s name is Logan…Daniel Logan McGuire.”
Rex felt his stomach slide, as if he had swallowed a heavy, cold stone. His words came out a harsh whisper. “Logan? His middle name is Logan?”
“As in Rex Logan.”
“My son?”
“He looks like you. I’m sorry it had to come out this way.”