Final Call, page 27
‘He said he had the instant message between you and Bill.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No. That was enough, though. If that had got out it would have caused no end of problems.’
‘And had he told anyone else?’
‘His wife, maybe.’
Stearns folded her arms. ‘If he’s dead in an accident it’ll raise questions if something happens to her as well.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Ramos said. ‘As long as there’s no trail. We can arrange something. And we’ll need to do it soon. Before she finds out what happened to her husband.’
‘So maybe tonight.’
‘Maybe tonight.’
‘And Sharon?’ Stearns said. ‘It was her who gave him the message, correct?’
‘Correct. She’ll be dealt with tomorrow.’
‘OK.’ Stearns held his gaze. ‘So with Evanston, Miller, his wife and Sharon dead, there’s no one else?’
Ramos smiled. ‘Not a soul.’
‘Could someone else find the message Miller found? It must still be there. And how did he get it? Someone must have helped him.’
‘If they went looking, maybe. But I’ll get it sorted tomorrow. It’ll be gone for good.’
She nodded. ‘Do it.’
He gestured at the lights in the valley. ‘I’ll call and ask what it is. Confirm it’s Miller and the woman.’
‘Before you do, there’s one other thing.’
‘Which is?’
‘Standish. Where’s he now?’
‘In Florida. Spending the generous early retirement package we gave him.’
‘He knows, too.’
‘He also knows what will happen if he tells anyone. To his retirement funds, yes, but also to his daughter. She’s a very attractive girl. At the time I explained to him how it would be a real shame if a group of men decided to give her more’ – he paused – ‘attention then she would like. He understood what I meant.’
‘Still,’ Stearns said. ‘He’s a loose end. And I’m sick of loose ends.’
Ramos sipped his whiskey. ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not sure that’s necessary.’
‘Really?’ Stearns said. ‘That’s nice to hear, Jeff. But forgive me if I’m rude when I say I don’t give a fuck what you think. I just give a fuck that you do what I tell you. Is that clear?’
‘Yes,’ Ramos said. ‘It’s clear.’
‘Then get it done.’
He raised his glass in a sarcastic toast, then put his glass down and dialed a number on his phone. It was answered immediately.
‘Chief Fleming.’
‘Chief Fleming,’ he said. ‘This is Jeff Ramos.’
‘Jeff. Can I call you back? I’m a bit tied up.’
‘Anything to do with the emergency vehicles I can see down in the valley?’
‘Yeah, it is. Nasty accident. Someone ran off the road and went down into the river.’
‘It’s steep there. And a long way down.’
‘Sure is.’
‘I hate to ask, Chief, but are we talking a fatal accident?’
‘We are,’ the police chief said. ‘It’s a hell of a fall. We sent a guy down to look. There were no survivors.’
‘Did you recover the bodies?’
‘Body,’ Fleming said. ‘We recovered the body.’
‘Body? There was only one?’
‘That’s right. There was one occupant.’
Jeff paused. He glanced at Stearns. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Hundred percent. Just the one. A guy. Varun Miller. He was in a rental car. Probably not used to these kind of roads. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason,’ Jeff said, his stomach tightening. He took a large sip of the Talisker. ‘Truly tragic. If I can be of any help, you know where to find me.’
‘Thanks. I’ll let you know.’
The line went dead. Stearns stared at him. ‘What is it?’
‘There was only one body,’ he said.
‘Miller? Or the woman?’
‘Miller.’
‘So where is she?’
‘I don’t know,’ Ramos said. ‘I really don’t know.’
Stearns rubbed her temples.
‘That fucking woman,’ she said. ‘She just won’t go away.’
Stacy Evanston
She had to move quickly.
She accepted that this was the worst case scenario: Ramos knew about the accident because he had caused it, and he knew by now that she was not in the car. He was also aware that she had his address, because he had given it to her in Portland. So he would assume she was coming.
What he didn’t know was why she wasn’t in the car or where she was.
So whatever she did, she had to do it quickly.
She started the Ranger, and with the lights off, headed up the road. She kept an eye out for other cars approaching from behind or from the other direction. She would either pull off and wait for them to pass, or, if that was impossible, turn on her lights for just as long as it took for them to go by.
No one came, and in a few minutes she was at the turn for the bridge.
She parked, the tires crunching on the snow, and opened the door. She wrapped her coat tight around her and pulled her wool hat low over her face.
It was freezing, a bitter wind whistling up the valley. Snow swirled in her face.
She moved quickly up the road, trying to keep warm. When the house came into view she left the road and skirted the edge of the property. As soon as she was about a hundred feet from the house, she ducked into the shade of a maple tree.
Like the one in her yard in Barrow.
She pushed the thought away. She needed a clear head.
It was a large, wood-cabin-style lodge. To the rear was a shed; to the front were views over the valley. There were two cars parked in the driveway.
Two. So Ramos had guests.
She looked around. Walking in snow was hard, but worse, it was noisy. To her left there was a trail some animal had made, heading around the back of the shed. From the shed to the house someone had made a path with a snowblower; if she could get there it would be much easier.
She followed the animal trail, placing her feet carefully in the animal’s footprints, until she was by the shed, hidden in the pitch darkness of the night.
The house was well lit. Under the corner soffits she could see exterior lights. She wanted to get closer to see who was in there, but the lights were more than likely motion sensitive, so she would have to keep away from them.
She studied the house. She could see into the kitchen, but there was no one there.
And then she saw him.
Ramos walked to the sink and turned on the faucet. He filled a glass of water and drank it down in one. He turned, as though speaking to someone, then took another glass and filled it and held it out, offering it to someone.
The recipient came and took it. Stacy stifled a gasp.
It was Stearns.
Now it really was all clear. Varun had called Ramos and confided in him, thinking he was an ally, but Ramos had betrayed them to Jill Stearns.
She’d told him what to do. Get them up here, and kill them. Maybe she’d given him the name of someone who would run them off the road, or maybe he already had it.
They had brought them here to kill them and put an end to anyone who knew about the message. Which included Varun’s wife. Would they kill her, too?
She knew the answer. They’d kill her, and leave Varun’s son an orphan.
No. She could not let that happen.
The past fell away. The future was yet to come.
None of that mattered. All that mattered was that she was here. And they were here.
And she was going to end this, once and for all.
She slid along the front of the shed, her back to the door. She tried the handle. Would people up here bother locking a wood shed? There was unlikely to be much crime, other than the stuff Ramos brought himself.
She tried the handle. It turned, and the door opened.
2
The shed contained the usual detritus. Shovels, gardening tools, a lawn mower, a snow blower. A gas grill, and a box containing the grilling implements: scraper, tongs, lighter.
Two gas cans.
Two large green jerry cans. She picked them up to assess how much was in there.
They were both empty. There may have been some gas in the machines, but they didn’t hold a great deal. Certainly not enough to cause much damage.
But there was plenty in the truck. Just a bit less than fifty dollars’ worth. Over ten gallons of gas.
She knew what else she needed now. She put the flashlight on her phone and shaded the beam with her hand. She scanned the shed.
There it was. A garden hose, hanging in a coil on a nail. She tugged one end until she had a short length, then picked up a pair of shears and snipped it off.
She picked up the jerry cans and the lighter and headed back to the truck. She had never siphoned gas from a tank before, but she knew the theory: you put the hose in until it was in the liquid then sucked until it started flowing. The pressure of the gas was greater at the tank end and it forced the liquid to keep flowing, until you pulled the hose out.
She unscrewed the gas cap and slid the hose down into the tank. Then she opened the first jerry can and put her mouth over the hose and started to suck.
It took a few seconds for the gas to reach her mouth. It was disgusting, a fierce, acid taste. She spat it onto the ground, then shoved the hose in the mouth of the jerry can. It made a rushing sound as it filled the can.
When it was full she moved the hose to the other can. She estimated they were roughly five gallons each, so when the second one was about half full, she pulled the hose from the gas tank. She needed some left in the truck.
She put the cans in the passenger seat and climbed behind the wheel.
3
Stacy started the engine and drove slowly up the road. The Ranger’s engine knocked and rattled so she kept it as quiet as she could, but she was aware that anyone listening would hear her well before she got to the house.
It was not a stealth truck. There was no way to make a surprise approach to the house. If they were listening, they would hear her well before she arrived, and then they could react.
She needed them to have no time to react,
Very well, then: make a virtue out of a necessity.
If she couldn’t approach slowly, she would approach fast.
Very fast. She pressed the pedal and the old truck started to gather speed.
She turned into the driveway, the wheels skidding on the packed snow. She backed off a little on the throttle; there was no point crashing into a gatepost now.
She straightened up. The house was about two hundred feet away at the end of a long driveway. She sped up, the hood of the truck aimed at the front door.
The Ranger ate up the distance and slammed into the front door.
Wood splintered around her and the truck jarred to a halt. She was thrown against the seat belt, her head slaloming back and forth. She shook the dizziness from her mind, and focused.
Gasoline sloshed from the jerry cans onto the seat; she grabbed them and opened the door, then jumped onto the snow.
She poured gasoline to the left of the front door, then sprinted along the wall of the house, pouring gas against the log walls as she ran. She turned the corner, the jerry can getting lighter and lighter. When it was empty, she threw it away and started to pour gasoline from the second can.
She moved now with a grim determination. She paused at the back door and poured gas all around the frame, then carried on to the far side of the house, where there was a large propane tank.
Perfect.
She emptied the last of the gasoline onto the propane tank, then pulled the lighter from her pocket. She felt in her pocket for something to light; she pulled out the receipt for the gasoline.
She lit it, waited until it was fully aflame, then dropped it onto the tank.
4
The first sound was the whoomph as the gasoline ignited.
She sprinted away from the house and dived behind the shed to seek shelter. She watched as the flames ran around the house, following the trail of gasoline she had left.
It was, after only seconds, already an inferno.
And then, it became a hell.
The propane tank exploded, sending flames high into the night. The wall it was against disintegrated, windows shattering as a ball of fire ripped through the house.
Seconds later, there was another deafening explosion from the other side of the house.
The Ranger.
She turned and ran up the hill behind the house, heading for the safety of a stand of pine trees. She looked down at the house.
It was ablaze, a ring of fire encircling it. The flames rose higher and higher up the walls, consuming the old, dry wood frame of the house as though it was kindling. She could feel the heat on her face even from a distance. Up close it would have been unbearable.
Deadly.
She knew just how deadly. She had felt this kind of heat before, heard the sounds of a fire devouring a house, smelled the wood smoke and the pungent odor of melting paint and burning fabric.
The fire was a wall now, an impassable conflagration. There was a loud groan, then a snap as something gave way and the far wall fell in on the rest of the house. The roof followed, exploding as it hit the ground in a shower of sparks.
They were dead, she was sure of that, but still she waited and watched. Watched for anyone leaving, any figure scuttling away, highlighted against the snow.
There was no one. There could be no one. There was no escape from that inferno.
She sat, snow falling, and watched the house burn, half-expecting Ramos or Stearns to come staggering out of the house, coughing and burned, but alive.
No one came.
It was the second time she had witnessed the death of a house. This was revenge for the first, but she felt strangely empty, strangely unmoved.
They were gone. Stearns and Ramos were dead.
But she was still alone.
She got to her feet and began to walk down the valley.
More alone than ever.
5
Stacy sat in the ski condo, the light off, as dawn rose in the valley. She had walked for hours until she arrived at the ski resort, where she looked for an unoccupied condo.
No car outside; no smoke from the chimney. She found a key under the mat by the back door and let herself in.
For a few seconds she had her heart in her mouth as she waited for a voice to call out in the darkness, but there was nothing.
She had grabbed a blanket and huddled on the couch, waiting for the new day.
She read the news on her phone.
TRAGEDY IN CARRABASSETT VALLEY
A fire last night claimed the lives of two people in the Carrabassett Valley. Jeff Ramos, 58, and Jill Stearns, 52, were killed when Mr. Ramos’s house caught fire in what appears to have been an arson attack.
A police spokesperson said there were suspicious circumstances but did not reveal any further details.
Ms. Stearns was CEO of a noted food company, where Mr. Ramos also worked, leading to speculation this is linked to an activist group protesting the use of genetically modified materials in the food supply. A company representative gave no comment.
It was the second fatal incident of the night, after a car left the road and fell into the river, killing its only occupant.
Stacy stopped reading. She had not doubted it, but now she had her proof. Stearns and Ramos were dead. She had one more thing to do, before she ditched her phone for good.
She searched the journalist’s name. Mike Taylor. His email came up and she began to type.
Dear Mr. Taylor
My name is Stacy Evanston. I was a pilot in the US Air Force until 2018, when my husband and daughter were killed in a house fire. It was assumed I too was killed, but this was not the case. I disappeared, as I believed the house fire was arson.
My husband and daughter – along with Dr. Neal Williams – were killed as part of a cover-up of a product developed by the company headed by Jill Stearns. This product was toxic and – accidentally – caused the death of three children: Nathan Carter, Ella Farmer, and Bren Murdoch. It also made my daughter seriously ill.
I tried to expose the cover-up by hijacking the company plane Ms. Stearns was on. You can get details from the Portland Police Department. This attempt failed, but Varun Miller – who died last night in the car accident – found evidence of the cover-up and informed me, and Mr. Ramos. It was Ramos who suggested we come here, and he – or Stearns – who arranged Varun’s accident, in an attempt at another cover-up.
It did not work.
Tragically, Ramos and Stearns suffered an accident of their own. I leave you to decide to what extent this was truly an accident.
Varun’s wife has the details, but I have attached the message linking Stearns to the cover-up.
I trust this is enough for you to run with this story. Sadly, I cannot answer any questions as this email will no longer be active.
Yours,
Stacy Evanston
She would track the story as it emerged; everyone would. The demise of Stearns, Ramos and their company would be the biggest story since COVID.
She put her phone in the sink and turned on the water. After a few minutes she took it out and threw it out of the back door into a snow bank.
It was time to leave. The owners could arrive for a day’s skiing at any moment. She searched the drawers in the main bedroom; fortunately someone who stayed there was a woman of roughly her size, so she had a change of clothes.
The police would link the truck to Rusty in Barrow pretty quickly. It was possible he was telling them at this moment about the woman, Priscilla, who had bought it.
There weren’t that many Priscillas around these days, but it made no difference. They could find all the Priscillas they wanted, but they wouldn’t find her.
