the man had used to tie her hands was not giving in the least. The same for her feet: They were lashed together tightly. She stopped struggling against her bonds as her captor returned to the car. His pace was impossibly slow, as though he was resigned to some unpalatable conclusion. He reached the car and gave her a hint of a smile.
“I’m sorry. I don’t believe you.”
The last thing she saw was his hand coming toward her face. And she smelled chloroform again.
44
Gordon paid up front for three days: pilot, copilot, and the Lear 31A. They departed Helena under a low cloud cover at eight minutes to six, MDT. Just before eight o’clock in Richmond. The Lear 31A was engineered to cruise at 533 mph at 45,000 feet, and the pilots had the plane up to cruising speed and altitude eighteen minutes after takeoff. Gordon dimmed the lights, stretched out on one of the seats, and pulled a blanket over himself. Sleep would be good.
But it never came. His mind was alive with what could be happening in Richmond. Jennifer having lunch with Bruce Andrews was not a good thing. Andrews must have been prodding her for information. She hadn’t seen it like that, but maybe Andrews was that good and she had inadvertently given him what he needed. The man was dangerous, Gordon was convinced of that. Who else stood to gain from protecting Triaxcion? It was Andrews who zeroed in on Jennifer two days after they secured the data that would eventually give him the edge in court. And once his case was in the books, precedent would have been set. Litigation would be coming at Veritas from every conceivable angle. From the legitimate claims where a death was directly attributable to Triaxcion to a litany of ambulance chasers with sleazy clients looking for an easy buck.
Right now he represented a huge liability to Veritas, and therefore to Bruce Andrews.
But it wasn’t his own personal safety that concerned him. It was Jennifer’s. The memory of that moment in the airport came back to him, vivid and wonderful. Their lips were an inch apart, their bodies tight to each other. It was one of those defining moments when you knew things were right. When both man and woman wanted each other so much. He had been severely tempted to walk away from his flight, drive back to Jennifer’s house, take her in his arms, and kiss her. But that would have been folly. The evidence he had so desperately sought was in his pocket. And until his lawyer had it in her possession, he was vulnerable. Logic had superseded passion. He had gotten on the plane and flown back to Montana. But now he was wondering if he had made the right decision.
Jennifer was scared. The lunch with Bruce Andrews had shaken her very being. For her to ask him to pack up and leave immediately for Richmond was totally out of character and showed how worried she really was about her safety. And she was probably right. Andrews was not someone to mess with. He had shown that by removing Rousseau and Bakcsi from the equation. He wished there were a quicker way to get from Butte to Richmond, but looking about the private jet, he knew he had taken the fastest route possible. He closed his eyes and finally drifted off.
He awoke with one of the pilots hovering over him. “We’ll be landing in ten minutes, Mr. Buchanan,” he said. “You should use the washroom if you have to, then get seated with your lap belt on.”
“Thanks,” Gordon said. He was groggy but waking up quickly. By the time the plane was on the ground, he was fully awake. He had both pilots’ cell phone numbers and assured them he’d call at least three hours before he needed to fly. They required that time to get the plane ready and file a flight plan. The pilots headed for a nearby hotel and Gordon gave the cabdriver Jennifer’s address. It was almost three in the morning, and although he wanted to phone her residence, he didn’t want to wake her until he arrived. He sat in the backseat, staring blankly at the deserted city.
The cab pulled up to a dark house and he paid the tab, grabbed his overnight bag, and hustled up to the front door. He rang the doorbell, scanning both sides of the road for her vehicle. He couldn’t see the Mazda RX-8 anywhere. He rang the bell again. Nothing. The house remained dark. He tried the door handle and it turned. A slight push and the door opened. His stomach was instantly in his throat, his adrenaline pumping through his body as he stepped gingerly into the foyer. He quietly closed the door behind him and stood unmoving in the darkness, waiting for his pupils to dilate. After a minute or two, he could see fairly well. He started through the main floor of the house, past the piano and the couches, and into the kitchen. The counters were clean and everything in order. He retreated back through the living room and up the stairs to the second level.
There were four doors off the upper hallway, all of them closed. He opened each door slowly, scanning the room intently before moving on to the next one. The last room he reached was the master bedroom. There was a slight creaking sound as he opened the door and he moved into Jennifer’s bedroom. Her bed was still made, no signs of anyone having slept in it. He switched on the light and looked about. Everything was neat and orderly, just as she would have left it before heading for work in the morning. He retreated back to the main floor, switching on lights as he went, looking for clues as to what might have happened.
Nothing.
Gordon paced through the house time and time again, his eyes searching for even the slightest clue that would tell him what had happened to Jennifer. He left the house, walking quickly up and down the road and looking for her car. It wasn’t there. He returned to the house, breathing a little easier as a logical idea came to him. Jennifer had probably stayed the
night with a friend rather than come home. That would account for her car not being anywhere in sight. But other details still nagged at him. Why was the front door unlocked? Even if she had left the house open for when he arrived, surely she would have left a note somewhere in the house at least telling him that she was okay. Nothing was making sense.
Then the phone rang, shattering the ominous silence.
Gordon checked his watch. Three-thirty-five. Who the hell would be calling at this hour? Unless it was Jennifer calling to tell him where she was. He grabbed the phone and said hello.
“Who is this?” a man’s voice asked. He sounded surprised.
“Never mind who
“I didn’t expect to get a real person,” Evan Ziegler said thoughtfully. “Thought I’d get voice mail.”
“Well, you didn’t. You got me. Now, what do you want?”
“Let me think.” There was a pause. Ziegler said, “You must be Gordon.”
That the man knew his name took Gordon by surprise. “Perhaps. Please tell me who you are and where Jennifer is.”
“Yes, well, that’s why I called. To leave a voice mail as to where you can find Jennifer.”
Gordon’s hand tightened on the phone, almost crushing it. He struggled to keep his breathing normal. “Where is she?”
“Well, she had a bit of an accident in her car. I don’t think she’s going to make it.”
“You son of a bitch. Where is she?”
Ziegler’s tone changed; a cold edge crept into his voice. “Careful what you say, Gordon, or you may never find her body.”
Buchanan wanted to scream. “I’d like to know where she is,” he said calmly, ready to explode.
“That’s better. You should get a pen and a piece of paper, because unless you know this area really well it’s going to be a little confusing.”
Gordon found a pencil and grabbed a flyer with a picture of
a vacuum cleaner on one side. He flipped it over and said, “All right. Give me the directions.”
“Write quickly. Miss a turn, you miss the crash site. Go west through Charlottesville and head up into the Shenandoah Mountains. At Waynesboro, you turn north. Go seven miles, then turn right onto the forestry road. It’s a bit of a goat path, so don’t miss it. If you hit Grottoes, you’ve gone too far. Once you’re on the forestry road, go two miles, then veer right along the ridge. Watch for the gap in the trees and shrubs where a vehicle recently went over the edge. And be careful-the cliff is very steep and slippery.”
Gordon finished writing the directions. “If she’s dead, I’ll hunt you down and kill you.”
“Somehow I don’t think so,” Ziegler said, then ended the call.
Gordon was shaking so badly he could hardly dial a cab. He gave the dispatcher Jennifer’s address, then called the Alamo booth at the Richmond airport. They were open twenty-four hours and he confirmed that they had
