Jill Oliver Deception Thrillers Page 4

  Jill eyed the small, vulnerable bird. It chirped, then swiftly flew away as Jill reached past a dirty coffee mug on her desk and picked up the phone.

  Crap—voice-mail. Thank God there was only one.

  “Jill, this is Stan Brown. Can you please call me at this number on my satellite phone? It’s important.” The voice-mail clicked off.

  “What the hell do you want, you piece of shit? Anything you have to say is never important,” Jill thought to herself. Stan was David’s father, but David had forbidden Jill to communicate with him, or any other members of his family for that matter, since their last falling out close to a year ago. It was a nasty fight, most of which Jill had the misfortune of witnessing, before exiting as gracefully as she could and thus missing the finale.

  David had told Jill about many disturbing and sometimes shocking experiences while being raised by Stan, his bullish, narcissistic father and Carol, his trophy-wife mother. Whenever he spoke of them, sadness and anger filled his eyes. But David would never tell her what the final straw was on the fateful day of “the family feud.” Jill’s suspicion was that his family didn't like the fact that he had married a Native American. If that was the case, Jill didn’t care. She had become immune to various forms of racism and snobbery, having experienced them her whole life.

  Funny how things change, she thought as she reflected on David's family and how they had rejected her. People now brag when they have Native American blood in them. But David’s family was stuck in backwoods Texas where the Klu Klux Klan still exists, even today. David hadn't told his family about their wedding until late last year—when it would be too late to voice their protests. And it was around that time that Jill first met them. But after the big bust-up, what ever was left of the frayed relationship was doomed.

  A beep pulled her from her ruminations as the fax machine sputtered to life. It was a note from Jeff, David's editor. The fax screeched as the details of David’s assignment, itinerary, and other information came through.

  Fly to Doha, Qatar

  Meet PRO

  Interview soldiers at command post for the Iraq war

  Location in Doha

  Special clearances

  His assignment seemed simple enough. Next to his itinerary was a list of phone numbers. Jill called the first number on the list, the Le Meridian Hotel in Doha, Qatar.

  She mentally went through what she knew of the destination … Doha, she knew, was the capital of Qatar, a small peninsula off Saudi Arabia in the Arabian Gulf. Doha meant “the big tree” in Arabic. Qatar generated most of its revenues from oil and natural gas, of which it had vast reserves, and some from tourism, as well as banking and commerce. Doha itself was a fairly modern city. Its tribal roots stretched back several hundred years though it had been virtually unknown in the West until the discovery of oil in the neighboring Gulf countries.

  The hotel receptionist spoke broken English with a Southeast Asian accent. It took Jill longer than she would have liked to identify the woman's lilt but she guessed it was from the Philippines, and was surprised by her willingness to freely give private information. No privacy laws in third world countries, Jill thought, and made a mental note to take a refresher course on identifying accents.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the Filipina said sweetly. She was able to tell her that David had checked in on schedule—but checked out the very next day, despite the fact that he had been expected to stay for four nights.

  The phone almost missed the cradle as Jill scrolled the list of numbers, before coming back to the second number at the top—the US command post for the Iraqi war. David was to have met a Major Evens it seemed. As she dialed, she wondered how Time had acquired these numbers. “Special clearance” written after the number answered her thought.

  After a series of transfers, she got to a staff sergeant who replied to her query: he sounded like a New Yorker, Jill thought, already exercising her ear on the accents once again.

  “No, ma’am, we were expecting him ‘bout four days ago but he didn’t show up,” he explained. “Reporters do this from time to time; we’re not concerned, ma’am. I had lined up everyone he wanted to speak to. But they weren't bothered at the no show—it gave them a little unexpected leave.”

  She thanked him and hung up. A ball of dread was beginning to form in the pit of her stomach. Something was clearly wrong. David was very precise—almost anal—about keeping appointments.

  She began to read the draft that David’s office had faxed to her of the story he was working on, “Lives of Soldiers Fighting in Iraq;” he had started writing it on his first trip to Doha. The content was fairly predictable: Don’t like fighting, doing it for my country, miss my family … God bless America. Yada yada yada. Nothing unusual jumped out at her.

  As Jill’s anxiety grew, she became restless. She needed to move to think properly. She sprung out of her chair grabbed the draft of David's piece, and made her way through the house. The glow of the sunset danced on the painted walls, changing from a deep red to okra to a mellow green as she walked past the kitchen, into the living room, and headed towards the bar.

  The bar was the centerpiece of the room, with a six-foot green gecko mosaic outlined by red tiles.

  Talisker, a single malt whiskey from Scotland, was her current favorite brand—and on this day a good friend. Jill's hand shook slightly as she lifted Scotch-filled carafe from one of the shelves below the bar, and set it on the top. “This will take the edge off,” she said out loud.

  The ice machine churned as cubes rattled into a highball glass, to which she then added a healthy measure of Talisker. She reached for the glass now filled with ice that had rattled out of the ice machine. She downed it like a cowboy in an old western film. Jill didn’t like to spoil the taste by adding mix. Tasting and drinking—scotch is an art form, and Jill had treated her palate to a fair number of premium single malt whiskeys. There were over thirty primary smells of good single malt. Talisker was sweet yet smoky when it's aroma met the nose. She recharged her glass, this time with about half a measure, raised it to her lips, and sipped the Scotch, allowing herself to fully enjoy its sweet and subtly salty taste.

  Fortified, she traded the glass of the amber liquid for David’s draft article, almost at once her stance stiffened. In the comments section at the end of the article were the words “keep identity anonymous.” Then the name “Hamrain.”

  It’s a unique name, at least in North America, she thought.

  Then Jill recalled seeing it somewhere before, and it had been recently, she was sure of that. “But where?” she said to herself. Armed with what was left with her soothing Scotch, she walked briskly down the hall, and stepped into David's office. She stopped abruptly once over the threshold.

  Jill was always impressed at how immaculate David kept his office—it was so unlike hers. Everything was in its place, no coffee cup stains from late-night edits, no slips of paper scattered Willy-nilly on his desk. A photograph on the wall, taken when they first met, displayed the grand colors of the Colorado River banks. The water was gin clear. It was framed in black and matched the over-sized southwestern-style desk David had built himself for his office.

  The dustless desk offered no signs of Hamrain, or any other useful information, for that matter. To Jill this was odd. She distinctly remembered David having several files on his desk, he always did when he was working on a story. He liked to keep things organized and easy to reference. Where were all his files? He must have taken the folders with him, but why? That would be unusual. She needed to know what the hell was going on.

  She glanced down at David’s desktop computer. He always kept everything on his laptop and he was very possessive over his Mac Book. But he had told Jill that he always backed it up onto his desktop. “Just in case,” he would say. She reached over and turned it on, thanking the powers that be that—David rarely changed his password. She logged on without a hitch. David was equally organized on his desktop computer, even though he loathed Windows.
Needing structure was a little quirk of his. Well, more than a quirk—more like a compulsion. He enjoyed teasing Jill because her e-mail in-box was full of opened, undiscarded e-mail.

  When she tried to access his most recently viewed documents, however, she got one error message after the other. It looked like they had all been deleted. Why would he delete his documents … his history? That was unlike him.

  Jill moved the mouse to the recycle bin. Empty. “Well well.” The chair squeaked as she leaned back and stared at the screen. A couple more sips, and she continued her search. She started with the next logical command, and that was to show all his hidden files—something a person could easily do in the control panel. A few 'restores' in advanced settings led her to a backup of one folder. Strange. Inside, she discovered a file called Hamrain. As she read the more detailed electronic 'post it' notes, which included David’s comments to himself, she absently sipped the Scotch and felt its slight nutty, spicy finish before it traveled down to her stomach.

  Most of the notes were straightforward references to the story, but one was rather cryptic. “Al Binood … Doha. LSA.,” it read. The last three letters, LSA, were bold and underlined.

  What is Al Binood? Jill wondered. She knew the word Al meant “the” in Arabic, and Binood sounded like it might be part of a last name. LSA didn’t hold any meaning whatsoever for her, and yet it seemed vaguely familiar. Additional searching and reading uncovered little else of interest other than the names of soldiers from his interviews, and others to whom she might potentially speak. She hovered the mouse and clicked. Print.

  Jill had to stand and lean over the immense pine desk that filled Davids office to reach the phone. She dialed Karine.

  Jill had worked with Karine Lucas for more than three years. She was one of those rare people you meet that you just know instantly you will be lifelong friends no matter what “happened at the office.” After all, being Jill’s research assistant could be challenging at times. Karine was the one Jill turned to when she needed to substantiate a hunch or her intuition, a process that could take hours, even days, and often frustratingly lead to dead ends. If this bothered Karine, she never mentioned it. She always dressed quirky, kind of a 1970s bohemian type, with red curly hair that she tamed by tying back into a ponytail. Her breasts strained against her shirt most days, the cleavage often distracting admirers from the dried Navajo choker Jill had given her for her birthday, and which she adored.

  She came over to the house sometimes when David was away. Though neither gossiped with others, they enjoyed doing so between themselves, and could easily spend an evening of making fun of their workmates over a bottle of wine—particularly Tom and his feeble advances toward Karine.

  After a brief exchange of greetings, Karine quickly picked up on Jill’s stress. “You’re not really worried, are you? You know David is fine … right? Doha is in the Middle East, right?”

  “I don’t know.” She sighed heavily and then continued, “I'm a bit concerned so I’m going to take some time off to see if I can figure out what’s going on. I couldn’t find much on David’s computer except for a reference to Hamrain, a name called Al Binood, and a reference to LSA.”

  “Got it, I’ll see what I can find out about these names and give you a call back.”

  After hanging up the phone, Jill took a breather to clear her head. She stared out the window. The red rock hoodoos gazed majestically back at her. She had seen the rock take on many colors depending on the time of day. The mountains in the distance always inspired her. One giant rock had sheltered their wedding ceremony—David and Jill at sunset in the mountains on a private ledge, with a few friends, Karine, Eric, and a Justice of the Peace as their witnesses.

  Her hand lifted to touch the cold mobile phone in her top shirt pocket. Had it rung? Or vibrated? Had she missed a call or message? She flipped it open. No missed calls, no SMS, nothing. Well, there was no point wasting time as she waited to hear back from Karine … She turned back to face the computer, and began typing. First on her list was to find a flight to Doha as soon as possible, for as little as possible. But the normally low-cost Web reservation systems were not kind to her today. The only flight she could find to Doha was through Washington, and the only seat available was in first class. Ouch! She paid the $11,000 dollar fare by credit card, thankful that she was diligent in keeping the balance near zero, even though her limit was nearly double that... She was wondering if she should have tried harder for something cheaper, when the sound of the phone startled her. She answered it before the second ring.

  “Oliver.”

  Karine was subdued as she explained that she couldn't find any information on LSA or what it might mean. “I’ll keep looking,” she promised. “Al Binood is either a person’s name or a restaurant in Doha,” she added. “I’d go with the restaurant, as the system isn't coming up with any people by that name. I've sent you a map and satellite photos of the command post; they’re in your VPN,” she finished.

  “I’m going to Doha, Karine, today. I feel like it’s something—”

  “You need to do. I figured as much. You'd better keep me posted, and, oh, Jill … be safe.” She always seemed to finish Jill’s sentences, though Jill hadn't yet decided if that was something she liked or not.

  “I will,” Jill said softly and hung up. She didn’t bother to check for the map and photos. She had to pack and leave for the airport to catch the flight. To access her VPN would require a secure computer, which David’s was not.

  Anticipation competed with dread as she looked around her dark bedroom. David had painted the high vaulted ceiling dark brown, and as she walked through the over-sized Mexican double doors, she stopped in awe, as she always did, at the king-sized Mexican bed David had built her for her birthday. The thick solid legs overpowered the room, even with the tall vaulted ceiling. David had selected the hand-painted tile that was embedded into the headboard because it reminded him of her. He would often say, “Simply beautiful.” The thought increased Jill’s anguish as she made her way through their large bright bathroom and into the walk-in closet.

  David's clothes were neatly folded in the checker box cupboard next to which hung his shirts and his only suit. He didn’t wear suits often—only for special occasions, a nice dinner out, or a work function. To the right was an array of Jill’s clothes stuffed on different shelves; smaller items spilled over the edges. Clothes drooped haphazardly on hangers.

  Jill turned back to David’s side of the closet—though closet was an understatement, for it was bigger than most bedrooms. She rifled through David’s shirt pockets, pausing only for a moment to inhale his smell from one that he had worn , and not yet laundered.

  How she loved to smell the crook of his neck after they lay in bed, content and pleasured. The pang in her heart brought her back; determination overpowered despair, and she hung the shirt back up on the peg from which she had taken it. Pulling herself back to the present, Jill rummaged through the rest of his shirts and then finally his suit, the breast pocket of which yielded a business card. DR. GLEN BELL, FORENSIC DNA SPECIALIST, MD.

  Jill made her way to the floor lamp next to the huge east-facing picture window to take a closer look. But before she flicked on the light her eyes were drawn to the winding road leading to her driveway. A vehicle, almost too dark to make out in the dusk, was parked on the edge of the jagged rock. A split second later she would have missed its headlights being flicked off.

  David, Jill thought. Her heart leapt a little, then she came to her senses. David wouldn't stop mysteriously on the road like that, and he certainly wouldn't turn his lights off if there were a problem. Jill reached into her uniform shirt pocket for her mobile, and while staring in the direction of the vehicle, she hit speed dial one for David’s mobile.

  “I’m sorry, the mobile customer you are trying to reach is either switched off or is out of the service area.” Jill snapped the phone shut and slipped it back into her pocket.

  The car was about a mi
le away as the crow flies, longer by the winding road that hugged the mountainside. “Now who are you?” she said snidely. There was no movement around the vehicle. A minute or so passed before Jill became impatient and marched over to the bedside table, opened the drawer, and pulled out her snub-nosed revolver. "Screw you, Matthew McGregor!" Jill barked as she rolled the chamber and stuffed it into the back of her fatigues. This was no McGregor, but she had sworn to herself the day he almost killed her, this maniac would never terrorize her again.

  'Riding the rail,' is what her doctor had labeled McGregor's form of torture. That’s what they called it, he said. Or at least they did back in the Civil War era. It was mostly about humiliation, pain, and then more humiliation. Jill could endure the pain; it was the humiliation that brought her to her next thought.

  As she had done ever since finishing her therapy sessions for post-traumatic stress disorder, she took her doctor’s advice, and used the tragic part of her past to overcome adversity. This was one of those times. “Screw you, McGregor,” she whispered, almost hissed, again to herself. Then she moved. Fast. She snatched her car keys off the table and ran out the door, full speed towards the garage. She skidded in the gravel when she saw the garage door was open. Did I leave the door open? Jill could not recall.

  She looked around. The only thing she heard were the tree frogs croaking. She stared in the direction of the stopped vehicle, then back at her own car. “Screw it,” she barked as she jumped into the car, turned the key, and heard the growl of the engine.

  She crawled the car out of the driveway, lights off and guided by moonlight reflecting off the cliffs to her left. She edged slowly along their dark and jagged facade, aware of the treacherous mountain drop on her right. She'd gone maybe a quarter of a mile when and animal skittered across the road.

  “Shit!” she swore, simultaneously stepping hard on the brake. They’ll see my brake lights light up the cliffs, dammit! Sure enough, the black SUV headlights came on in a flash while it reversed and spun around, splattering gravel and dust as it started to race back down the winding road.