I scanned the search results on my screen. The phrase “in quiet lagoons, devils dwell” was the Russian equivalent of “still waters run deep,” but with a more ominous overtone. Beware of a person who speaks little and schemes a lot. An old Russian saying, which likely explained who was here on the Eastern Shore trying to steal the plans for the Remora Shadow.
I glanced toward the people in the gallery. The spectators were milling about, preparing to leave the courtroom for the hour-long lunch recess. I stood up for a better view. Most of the onlookers were still there. Glenn Bernthal, Steve Gunther. Hailey Ramirez. Sheriff Tompkins. FBI Agent Wolanski. But Jennifer Rybak was gone.
Still on silent mode, my phone vibrated in my hand when a text arrived. A message appeared on the screen.
“call me right away,” Jennifer had written.
I texted back, “can’t. still in court.”
She replied, “please, URGENT. IN DANGER.”
I texted her back, but received no response. I left the courtroom to call her from the privacy of a small conference room in the hallway. Inside, I hesitated for a few seconds. Photographs of gray-haired judges from the 1800s hung in dusty frames along the beige walls. Wooden chairs with dowel backings surrounded an antique oak table. A few slender cigarette burns marred the tabletop and told of a bygone era when lawyers could smoke in these side rooms. Eventually, I decided to call Jennifer.
She answered on the first ring. “Oh, Bryce. Thank goodness.”
“Jennifer, where are you?”
“My car. Almost to Black Marsh Nature Preserve. We’ve got to talk.”
“All right, go ahead.”
“No,” she said with a trembling voice. “Not on the phone. It’s not safe. They might be listening in.”
“Who?”
Jennifer paused and then said, “We can’t do this over the phone. In person.”
My stomach tightened and sank as the small hairs on the back of my neck bristled. “I have to stay here for court. Sorry, Jen, but I’ve got to stick around.”
She pleaded, “It’s only a ten minute drive. You’ll make it back when the trial starts up again. Look, I’m leaving the Eastern Shore as fast as possible. I’ve learned what really happened, and it’s bigger than I ever imagined. Bryce, it’s close to me. Too close.”
Yulian, I thought. Her supposed cameraman.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Bryce, you’ve figured out more than you should’ve. I have, too. You’re in danger. So am I.”
“You’re not making any sense, Jennifer. What are you talking about?”
“I’ll explain when you get here,” she said with hushed urgency. “I know what really happened. Everything that you were looking for in this case, but I can’t say on the phone. Just meet me, okay? I’ve got to leave, but I must see you. Black Marsh Nature Preserve. The Visitor Center. Just ten minutes away and open to the public. Lots of people. You’ll make it back in time for court.”
Every crawling nerve in my back and shoulders told me not to go, but if Jennifer was telling the truth, I could learn the underlying facts I needed to win Marisa’s lawsuit. Besides, Jennifer said that she and I were in danger. I did not completely believe her, but somehow part of me did.
“Please,” Jennifer implored softly and genuinely. “You have to know, and I want you to be safe. I’ve just arrived.”
I heard her motor switch off and a car door open. The cons outweighed the pros, and I was not going to be duped. “Look, Jen, I can’t right now. Later this afternoon, but …”
“Please, Bryce. You don’t understand. We’re both in …” The phone line cut off, slicing her sentence midway with a dull click.
If Jennifer truly was in peril, I could not just abandon her. Black Marsh Nature Preserve was only a short drive out of town. Going there to a public place would be more of a risk than I should have taken, but I was so close to solving this case. Pressing through the conference room door, I saw Sheriff Tompkins and Special Agent Wolanski waiting for me in the hallway.
Wolanski stood behind the sheriff, crossed his arms, and said nothing.
Tompkins raised a hand from her hip and pointed a thick index finger toward the conference room. “Back in there.”
Wolanski shut the door when we were all inside.
With doleful regret in her voice, Sheriff Tompkins said, “So you’ve lied to me, Mr. Seagraves? Seems like you’ve had that thing all along. You know what that means, don’t you? I warned you. Don’t get too involved. When this hearing is over, you’re coming down to the station and …”
“Hold on, Sheriff,” I said. “It’s not what it seems. I never had the KEL drive and didn’t know what was on it, but I do now. Nothing real. When I posed that question to Oscar Yoshida, I wasn’t sure how he’d answer. There’s no way I’d violate the judge’s order or access those files. Besides, a KEL drive can’t be used without a special port, which I didn’t have. The password, either.”
Tompkins put her hands back on her hips and, to my relief, did not unfasten her handcuffs from her duty belt. She would wait until the judge had finished with me. She asked, “What exactly is going on, Mr. Seagraves?”
I gripped the back of a chair at the conference table and leaned forward. “My question to Mr. Yoshida was the only way I could make wrap my head around all this. And you both heard how he answered in open court. The files on that drive are fakes. The Remora Shadow does not exist. Isn’t that right, Special Agent Wolanski?”
Unmoved, Wolanski stared at me with hardening eyes, but he did not utter a word.
I continued, “I think I’m about to figure out everything that happened. The death of Richard Kostas, the stolen KEL drive, everything … but I need your help. Sheriff, do you still have my phone number?”
“Yeah, office or cell?” she asked.
“Cellphone. Give it to Special Agent Wolanski. You both might need it.
