“Well … I really couldn’t tell you. But I’d be happy to look into it.”
“That would be great. We do have a witness who saw a man near the cabin in the days before the blast. I figured if I knew a little more about DeBolt and why he’d been here, there might be some connection to help me identify this other fellow.”
“Do you have a description of the man who was seen?” Lund asked.
LaSalle hesitated. “You think he might have been from Kodiak too?”
Lund knew she wasn’t thinking clearly. “DeBolt was tight with a lot of the guys on station. Maybe someone else here had an aunt or a girlfriend in Washington County.”
“Yeah,” said the detective, “I guess I see your point. The witness is a little girl, so her description is sketchy. She said the guy was maybe on the tall side, light hair.” LaSalle chuckled, and said, “Oh yeah, and he likes to swim.”
“Swim?” she managed.
“Yep. Jumped into the ocean every day and went for miles.”
Lund sat transfixed, the phone clamped to her ear. The next thing she heard was, “Miss Lund? Are you still there?”
“Yeah, sorry. I’ll look into this and get back to you.”
“Thanks. I know it’s a long shot, but I’m spinning my wheels over here.”
“I know the feeling. Tell me one more thing, Detective.”
“What’s that?”
“The owner of the home — what was her name?”
“I’m afraid I can’t release that yet; we haven’t reached her next of kin. I can tell you she was a quiet type, kept to herself. Apparently she was a nurse.”
“That’s it — that’s definitely the car!” said the man driving. They were on their second pass, and he slowed but didn’t stop.
They all looked at the Cadillac, and then the pharmacy. The second in command said, “Do we wait and see if he comes out?”
The commander thought about it. “No. When we first got the signal it was moving, but it’s been parked there for almost an hour.”
“If this car has GPS tracking, why didn’t we get a location sooner?”
“We’re not Delta Force, okay — things like that need approval. Approvals take time.”
“I’m betting he ditched it,” said the driver.
The commander considered it. “Maybe.” He looked all around and saw a bus stop shelter, a restaurant, and a lodge across the street. Plenty of options. He looked at his men. They were tired, none having gotten more than a combat nap in the last twenty-four hours. A tired unit made mistakes. He had made mistakes.
“All right,” he said. “We give it two hours, split up three and two. Let’s cover the area discreetly. Every bar and restaurant and transit point.” He went over the action plan in detail, including contingencies in case they found DeBolt.
“And if we don’t find him?” someone asked.
“Ask me in two hours.”
18
Since taking over the front desk from his wife thirty minutes earlier, Demetri Karounos had found plenty of time to ruminate — the front door of the Calais Lodge had not opened once.
They’d owned the place for two years now, and their dream of running a B&B in a small town — one whose tourist base was heavily seasonal — was fading with each utility bill. They’d done their best to make things right — the rooms had been refurbished, the lobby floor replaced, and they’d even found a Filipina maid who doubled as a cook, filling both squares admirably. Unfortunately, the roof was another matter, as was the crumbling parking lot, and their website was notorious for crashing on anyone who tried to book a room.
So it was, when three men walked in wearing heavy boots and work clothes, Karounos beamed a smile that could not have been more heartfelt. It was after eleven o’clock, the hour at which walk-in traffic normally went dead.
“Good evening!” he said.
“Hi,” said the man in front, a rangy sort with close-cropped hair. “We’re in town for a little survey work — the power company’s relocating some electric lines. Need a place for my crew to stay tonight.”
The other two men wandered into the lobby and gravitated toward the television, which was tuned to a West Coast college football game.
“How many rooms?”
“Only one. We’d prefer the one in front, on the third floor — it might actually help with our survey. How many beds in that room?”
“Well, that unit has two doubles. But I’m sure you’d be more comfortable with two—”
“That’ll be fine. Like I said, we like the view.”
Karounos stared dumbly at the man, then at his two burly compatriots who were glued to the game — they’d each taken an apple from a welcome bowl on the coffee table. The view from 306 was decent, looking out across the river, but nobody had ever asked for it with that in mind.
“Are you sure I can’t—”
“I’m sure,” said the man, this time insistently.
“Of course,” Karounos agreed.
He was sure these men were private contractors — or consultants, or freelancers, or whatever they called themselves these days. Karounos was familiar with the type, and they were not his favorite. They didn’t have the backing of corporate expense accounts, which meant they did everything on the cheap. He was sure all three would show up at the free breakfast — it was advertised on the marquis outside, so he had to provide it — and eat everything in sight.
“There are two other guys who might come later with some equipment,” the front man said.
Here Karounos laid down the law. “Sir, fire regulations do not allow more than four to a room.”
“And we won’t ever have more than three.”
The guest handed over a credit card, and out of ideas, a defeated Karounos took it. While he ran the card, the man asked, “Looks quiet around here. You have any other guests tonight?”
“Only one other room,” Karounos said, trying not to sound embarrassed.
“It’s not a young guy with light hair, is it? We were expecting a power company rep to meet us.”
Karounos repeated what his wife had told him, “I only know it is a young couple.”
The man nodded. “Well, then … that wouldn’t be our rep.”
When the men disappeared minutes later, a resolute Karounos thought, If all five raid the buffet tomorrow, I am going to charge them extra.
DeBolt was awakened by a herd of buffalo. That was what it sounded like, anyway, heavy boots stomping around the room above him. He looked at the bedside clock. 11:21 P.M.
He pulled a pillow over his head.
They began rearranging the furniture.
“You’ve gotta be kidding!” he muttered to no one.
He had an urge to bang on the ceiling. Or he could pick up the phone, call the room, and tell whomever it was that people were trying to sleep. Better yet, he could call the front desk and complain, let them deal with it. Any of that would feel good. But he knew better. The last thing he needed was to get caught up in a shouting match with strangers. Or worse yet, have the night manager, or even a sheriff’s deputy, come knocking on his door.
So DeBolt rolled over.
The noise kept coming.
He distracted himself by imagining less conventional responses. A year ago he’d taken an online class on network systems, an elective overview course for nonmajors. Among the subjects covered was SCADA — supervisory control and data acquisition. SCADA was an operating structure, both software and hardware, used to control complex industrial and commercial systems. As an academic subject it had been dry and tedious, but now, given his new talents, DeBolt saw SCADA in an all new light. It seemed a veritable playground of possibility. Of course, he doubted that a small bed-and-breakfast in Maine would have such a network in place. All the same, he imagined commanding the doors on the room above to lock. Imagined cranking the heater full blast and lighting the gas fireplace. He could turn out the lights … or better yet, cause them to blink on and off at some seizure-inducing hertz.