2

 

Sunday afternoon, April 7

Wes Hansen arrived fifteen minutes before the scheduled three o’clock appointment. He’d never met Cole Blackwell, but from the scant bit of information he found on the Internet, the oil man didn’t appear to be a person who abided amateurs.

Cole had picked the Ship Tavern, one of four restaurants in the famed Brown Palace Hotel, in downtown Denver, as the venue for their meeting. Wes usually searched for information about a place he’d never visited to get a feel about what and where, but he’d driven by the Brown a hundred times. He’d heard the place was ritzy, but what he saw when he entered the lobby surprised him. Dainty clinks of porcelain cups. Painted nails and extended pinkie fingers. Rattling saucers and teapots arranged on small square tables littered with scones and finger cakes. Looked like he’d stepped back into the 1920s in time for High Tea.

He didn’t particularly care for tea, hot or cold, so the draw eluded him. The ladies appeared to be in high form.

Wes navigated the lobby and entered the wedge-shaped restaurant, leaving the light piano music and muted female whisperings behind. He scanned the booths along the wall, the four-place tables around the floor, and the long oak bar. Of the forty or so patrons, he picked out three lone men, all bellied up to the bar with empty stools between them. None matched Cole’s description.

A college-aged kid dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie approached. “Good afternoon, sir. A table for one?”

“Two, please.” Wes said. “A business associate will be here soon. I’d like to have the table at the end of the bar, if that’s OK. Looks like the most secluded.”

“It is. I’m Brent.”

“Brent, I’m Wes.”

Brent took his job seriously. The proper butler, direct and formal, but then Wes didn’t run with the likes of the Brown Palace crowd, so maybe he played his part well.

His host led him past the replica of a ship’s mast standing floor-to-ceiling in the middle of the room and then waited for Wes to choose a chair at the table. “Kevin will be your server. Can I start you off with a beverage? Something from the bar?”

“Black coffee will be fine for now. Thanks.”

“Very well.” He gathered up two of the four place settings and returned to his post at the entrance.

A description of Wes’s state of mind rarely included the adjective apprehensive, but he’d never met a billionaire, much less sat down with one for a job interview. He told himself Cole was just a man. As his high school football coach used to say about the opposing teams, “They put their pants on one leg at a time just like we do.”

A man who fit Cole’s description entered the restaurant and looked around. As Brent zeroed in on him, the guy removed his camouflaged ball cap, used it to indicate Wes, and walked to the table. “Wes Hansen, I’m Cole Blackwell.”

Wes stood. “Mr. Blackwell, my pleasure.” Cole’s firm handshake and direct green eyes gave the same message: pure confidence. He obviously knew Wes by sight. The mention of his name wasn’t a question. Cole had either done his homework or made an assumption. Wes didn’t believe Cole made many of the latter.

He smiled. “Call me Cole.” He slid out the opposite chair and sat.

The traits Wes had subconsciously attributed to the man since their first phone conversation two days earlier flew out the window. His six-foot, one-eighty frame sporting Wranglers, khaki shirt and scuffed cowboy boots walked straight out of the backwoods. This was no pinstripe-suited millionaire with a cloud of attentive male aides and doting blond secretaries floating around him everywhere he went.

The waiter approached and placed Wes’s coffee on the table in front of him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Blackwell. Nice to see you again. Could I start you out with something to drink?”

“Good to see you, Kevin. Water, with a twist of lemon, please.”

“Something from the grill?” Kevin looked between them.

“Nothing for me. Wes?” Cole said.

Wes held up his cup. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine with coffee, if you don’t mind topping this off when the time comes.”

“Yes, sir.” The waiter left.

Cole watched the young man as he made his way along the bar. He placed the Bass-Pro Shops cap on the seat of the chair to his right. A tinge of gray singed the edges of his light brown hair. Wes knew the man was fifty-five, but he looked ten years younger.

Cole focused on Wes. “As you heard, I’m here often enough to be on a first name basis with the hotel’s staff. I’m in Denver a couple times a month on business. I love this place. You know, several presidents have stayed here, Teddy Roosevelt for one, and the Beatles, the ‘Unsinkable’ Molly Brown, no relation to the builder, a Mr. Henry Brown. Quite a history going back into the 1890s.”

Kevin brought Cole’s water and a carafe of coffee.

The information surprised Wes, the part about the hotel’s name in particular. He thought the title derived from the color of the stone exterior. “I used to live not far from here, but this is my first time in the hotel. I was shocked when I walked in. I never dreamed the place was like this. Impressive. Gives you a rare glimpse back, but I suppose the reality of back then was less nostalgic than it is now.”

Cole took a long drink and set the glass on the table. “Wes, I appreciate you making time for me today.”

The man didn’t dally getting to the point of their meeting. “Mr. Blackwell, Cole, you had my attention when you mentioned Bubba. He and I go way back.” Not like anyone needed to know, but he’d be off his rocker not to make time for a billionaire.

“You served together in Iraq.”

Again, it wasn’t a question. “We did.”

“He said you’re an excellent investigator. I’m counting on it. In the oil business, we drill what we call tight-holes. Are you familiar with the term?”

“No, sir, I’m not.”

“We keep ’em secret. The information and what’s discovered, if anything. Bidding against the competition for adjacent properties or leases can cost millions, so we guard the information we obtain. We call such projects a ‘tight-hole.’ I’ll wager you didn’t find much about my personal life in your Internet search.” He raised an eyebrow.

Wes nodded, which confirmed he’d found nothing and had done a search.

“I like it that way. Tight-hole anyone asking questions.” Cole slid two business cards from his shirt pocket and placed one of them on the table. “I received that in the mail two weeks ago.”

Wes picked up the white card. Printed in bold, large caps was the name or acronym MESHACH, evenly spaced over a bare eyeball. The eye was black with no lashes, lids or brows. On the back, printed in pencil, was You’ll pay. “One of the three guys in the fiery furnace.”

Cole shook his head. “One of the four. The Lord joined the first three if you’ll remember.”

“Yeah, you’re right, and it’s not a name I’ve ever heard in reference to anyone otherwise.”

Cole tapped the second card on the table. “Look, since the Deepwater Horizon burned and sank in the Gulf of Mexico, I get a threat a week on average. Or I should say my company does. That card is the first threat I’ve received at my home.”

“You’ve been to the police?”

“So many times I’m like the boy who cried wolf. Most of the threats are rambling manifestos and don’t name me directly. No individuals or organizations take the credit, so there’s nowhere to look. The envelope the card came in bore a fictitious address and a few prints, but none matched previously booked individuals. Then there’s this one.” Cole slid the second card across the table.

Wes examined a card identical to the first one, but with I’m watching you written on the back, again in pencil, in the same block letters. “By mail too?”

Cole’s jaw set. His green eyes suddenly held a look Wes had seen many times in some very dangerous men. Call it determination, resolve, the will to inflict grievous bodily harm to another human being. “My daughter, Bethany,”—he paused then finished through clenched teeth—“found it in her purse.”

Now that was personal.

“She’s twenty-two, going to college at Texas Tech, in Lubbock. Her boyfriend, Matt, got worried about her when she didn’t answer his calls. He found her Friday morning bound and gagged on the kitchen floor of her house.” Cole sat back and took another long drink of water then continued, “The man got into her rental house somehow. No forced entry. No prints. No witnesses.”

“Your daughter?”

“Fine, physically. Uninjured in every respect, including what goes through everyone’s mind when a reprobate assaults a woman. He used duct tape on her hands, feet, even her mouth and eyes. She’s missing a number of lashes and won’t need to pluck her brows for a while. She said he whispered. Never said a word out loud. He told her the boogieman had visited and she was lucky she heard him. He stole her car, but only drove it two blocks.” He took a deep breath and let it out in one strong puff. “Yesterday, Beth found that card in her purse. Now, she’s a wreck.”

Wes had his ideas about the man whispering. Beth would recognize her assailant’s voice if she met him on the street, or in a lineup, and a voice in the night would humanize him. Obviously, the man wasn’t human, at the least, not humane. Who did stuff like that to other people?

Leaving the card in her purse had an eerie twist. “The card is an aftershock. He knew she’d find it sooner or later, and his intrusion would become real again. If she’d found it next week, or the week after, she wouldn’t know how long it had been there, since the first assault or ten minutes. And every man she sees walking the street could be him.”

“He opened and drank a wine cooler too.” Cole sat up in the chair and glanced around. The wish-I-could-get-my-hands-on-him look returned. “Lubbock P.D. is investigating. They’re checking for DNA on the bottle, but I don’t think he’s that dumb. I believe he’s long gone. It’s obvious he took her car to get back to his car. A man walking the streets after midnight would attract a cop.”

“Yes, he would. That gets me to wondering how he entered the house. Anyway, I believe he’s after you,” Wes said.

“You think?”

Wes nodded. “There’s no easier way to upset a family man than by going after his family, his wife or his kids. He had your daughter but didn’t hurt her, at least not physically. He likes control. He feels he’s in control. He relishes the thought of your reaction and distress.”

“Well, he knew where to kick me, and he holds all the cards because I haven’t got the first clue as to whom or why or where to even begin looking. Disgruntled ex-employee,” Cole scanned the ceiling, “or I don’t know. I’m lost.”

“Or someone who doesn’t like what you do for a living.”

Cole nodded and fingered his empty glass. Wes waved at Kevin who refilled the glass and took his leave.

“There’s something else.” Cole tapped the tabletop with his index finger. “He’s been stalking Bethany for a while. He tried to engage her, friend her, on a social media site a month ago. It’s not like you can forget the name Meshach. Not if you’re a Christian and have heard his story.”

“Did she accept, remember a profile, see a picture, or notice anything we can use?”

“Nope. Not that I’m aware of. I’ve warned her about the social media stuff. I have to say she’s been good about what she shares with her friends. I still don’t like it.”

“That’s a place to start. I have a guy who’ll be all over it.” Wes pulled out his cellphone, took pictures of the front and back of both cards and returned them to Cole. “I’ll get you a proposal together today.”

Cole shook his head and thumbed a third card from his shirt pocket. “I don’t need a proposal. Get on him. Get him. Do what you need to do. I don’t care what it costs. Take this.” He handed over his business card—Cole Blackwell Jr., Deepwater Energy. “I have two aircraft. My personal pilot and plane are at your disposal. His cell number is on the back. Brooks, Jordan Brooks. He’s in Salt Lake City, and he’s expecting your call. He’ll take care of you.”

“Cole, I don’t think—”

“Wes, a man always wonders if he would be able to pull the trigger on another human being to protect his family. I’m in a situation I’ve never been in. Now, I know I could hunt this guy down and shoot him on sight.”

“Yes, sir, and they call that murder, not self-defense.”

Cole took the saltshaker and shook out a portion onto the table. Then, he slowly, methodically, used the bottom of the shaker to grind the salt into a fine powder, one white crystal at a time.

Wes knew the feeling, the helplessness and frustration of not being able to put a face or name to an enemy. Every grain of salt had Meshach written all over it.

Cole’s nostrils flared as he thumped down the shaker and swept away the salt with his balled fist. “Exactly! Right now, I’d take the Lord’s vengeance and make it mine. Find him.” Cole grabbed his cap and slapped it on his head. “OK, I have to fly to Texas and pick up a dog.”

He finished what he had to say as abruptly as he’d started. “A dog?” Wes said.

“Yeah. Matt said the thing was sitting on the porch when he arrived to check on Bethany. He had on a collar with a leash attached, but no ID. He’s the ugliest creature walking on four legs I’ve ever seen. So homely he’s cute. His tail wags him, not the other way around. I told my daughter she has to advertise. Someone lost him. She knows I’m right, but she’s latched on to him anyway.”

So a witness to Meshach’s entry into Bethany’s house existed. Too bad dogs couldn’t talk. He didn’t want to say it, but he’d just acquired his first lead. He had a good feeling she’d be able to keep the dog. No use in telling Cole his thoughts. Might ruin his daughter’s relationship with her new pet if she discovered who the previous owner had been.