Dark Sky, page 16
part #21 of Joe Pickett Series
But Kirby simply glared back at the man. Joannides, Earl thought, seemed to finally realize what a precarious situation he was in. Almost unconsciously, he slipped the phone he’d been holding into his coat pocket.
Earl said, “You were aware of us because we contacted your company. You wouldn’t have known about what happened to my angel any other way.”
Joannides said, “You’re forgetting I’m on your side. We all want to see Steve-2 pay.”
“You know,” Kirby said, “we’re kind of confused. You know why we want Steve-2. We want justice, after all. But why do you want him gone? That’s something we just don’t understand.”
Earl thought Kirby’s tone was just right. Reasonable and soft.
“There are a bunch of things,” Joannides said. “The guy is brilliant, but he’s also a sick fuck without any loyalty to anyone. He’ll screw over his friends and he’s ruthless to his enemies. He wasn’t always like that, but he’s completely changed. All his success has gone to his head.”
“What did he do to you, anyway?” Kirby asked.
“He personally fucked me out of billions of dollars,” Joannides said. “Billions. See, we developed this app together. Fifty-one/forty-nine. I was the forty-nine percent. But rather than introduce it to the market and take the time that was necessary to build the brand, Steve-2 shopped it around behind my back and found a buyer. It was practically a done deal by the time he even told me about it. I didn’t want to sell, but he was the majority owner and he could outvote me. Then he bought me out for what I thought was a good price. I later learned that it should have been a hundred times as much.”
Joannides looked to Kirby with indignation, and Kirby clucked with sympathy. He didn’t seem as wary of them as he’d been earlier, Earl thought.
“I helped build Aloft,” Joannides continued. “I was there when we had to pool our money to afford a case of ramen noodles to eat in our dorm room so we could spend every minute writing code and dreaming. But when I came back to the company, he pretended all that never happened. He made me his lackey. It’s humiliating. People in tech think I’m washed up—that I’m only there because Steve-2 feels sorry for me. Like I’m his charity case. But I’m no one’s charity case. I know my own truth, and I know he fucked me. I swore I’d get revenge when the right opportunity came around.
“When we find him,” Joannides said, “remember to make it look like a hunting accident. That’s our deal. If I get back and play my cards right, the board may vote to have me assume the role of CEO. I’m the logical successor, after all, since I cofounded the company. I was with Steve-2 at the beginning . . . and at the end. That’s how I’ll play it.”
Earl looked from Kirby to Brad and back to Joannides.
“So you’re saying our tragedy is your opportunity,” Earl said.
“You’re twisting my words.”
“Am I?”
“Guess who he sold our app to?” Joannides asked Earl.
Earl shrugged.
“The PRC.”
“Huh?”
“The People’s Republic of China,” Joannides said, his eyes bulging. “The Chinese Communist Party—the CCP. They use it to track their own people. They use it to keep an eye on dissidents or anyone else they think might be a threat to them.”
“I do hate the Chi-Coms,” Earl conceded.
“Not Steve-2,” Joannides said, sensing he’d found an angle Earl could get behind. “He claims he has no idea what they do with the software, that it isn’t his business. No, Steve-2 is a fucking heartless tycoon.”
“I can’t figure out if you’re mad at him because of the Chinese or because he screwed you out of money,” Earl said.
“Either one,” Joannides said. “Either. Both. But that’s why we’re here today. We’re working together to take him down,” he said with triumph.
“Are we, now?” Earl asked.
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
Earl rubbed his chin through his beard. “Because I’ve been thinking about something. You knew about my complaints. You knew about my daughter and the situation she was in. But you didn’t tell Price. Instead, you sat on it until it was too late. Then you reached out to us. Do I have that right?”
Joannides’s face went white. He seemed to finally realize what Earl was driving at.
Rather than accept it, he said, “It wouldn’t have mattered if I told him, Earl. It wouldn’t have made a bit of difference, believe me. Steve-2 doesn’t think of people as people. He thinks of them as his users. Steve-2 refuses to accept any responsibility at all for what happens because of his technology. He didn’t care how the Chinese government was using our app. He just wanted it to work right and have no glitches. There’s a complete disconnect in his brain between tech and the real world where people live.”
“We’re not talking about Price right now,” Earl said. “We’re talking about you.”
“I couldn’t stop what happened to your daughter,” Joannides said.
“Did you try?”
Joannides turned to Kirby and dropped to his knees with his hands out, palms up. “Please,” he said. “Tell your dad we’re on the same side here.”
Instead, Kirby handed the reins of his horse to Earl and approached Joannides.
“What’s Price’s password?”
Joannides sighed. “It’s LISA2. All caps.”
“Spell it.”
“L-I-S-A and the number two.”
“What’s it mean?” Kirby asked.
“It’s a Steve Jobs thing,” Joannides said. “Steve-2 worships the man. Jobs named a computer after his daughter Lisa.”
Kirby took the satellite phone from Joannides and clipped it on his belt.
Joannides used the opportunity to lean forward and whisper, “Help me here, will you? Talk to your dad. We’re all on the same team. Tell him. There’s a lot of money in it for you if you do. I swear it.”
Earl couldn’t make out what Joannides said to his son. All he could tell, whatever it was, it caused Kirby to hesitate.
“Tell him,” Joannides urged.
Kirby thrust the bowie knife beneath Joannides’s chin and used both of his hands on the grip of it to jam it upward until the hilt pressed against the man’s lower jawbone. Joannides’s bloody body flopped over to the side in the snowy grass and convulsed. Kirby pulled the knife out and wiped both sides of the blade on Joannides’s high-tech parka.
“He was a snake until the end,” Kirby said to Earl. “Tried to offer me money to save his miserable life.”
Brad stepped forward with his shotgun over the body and aimed it at Joannides’s temple.
“No,” Earl commanded. “No gunshots. We don’t know how close we are to Price and Joe. I don’t want them to hear us.”
“She was my sister, too,” Brad said to Earl with an adolescent whine.
“Then go get your ax,” Earl said. “But hurry. Bring a shovel, too. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover before it gets dark on us.”
SIXTEEN
The tiny one-room log cabin was located deep in the heart of a lodgepole stand that fronted a steep granite wall. The last rays of the sun lit up the face of the rock formation and threw dark shadows into its folds and cracks. A single raven hugged the rim of the wall and flew in lazy, ever-widening circles.
The snow had stopped and the storm clouds had moved on, opening up the sky at dusk. Joe could already see a few stars winking through the dark purple. He could feel the temperature drop as he followed Boedecker across a bench and into the lodgepoles. Cold crept up his pant legs and down the collar of his parka. His knees stiffened, as had the carcasses of the pine grouse he carried, which had been warm and soft when he gathered them up.
“Not much farther,” Boedecker said over his shoulder.
“I see it,” Joe responded. The cabin was a black square within the spindly trunks of the trees. Next to the cabin was a sagging lean-to.
“It had to be a poacher’s cabin at one time,” Boedecker said. “My dad told me about it a few years ago, but I wasn’t sure where it was. It’s too hidden away for a line shack and too far up for lumberjacks.”
Joe grunted his agreement. Over the years, he’d stumbled upon dozens of shelters constructed within the national forest he patrolled that weren’t supposed to be there. He was always curious who had built them and what they were used for. When he found them, he notified the ranger’s office and gave the coordinates. He doubted anything was ever done about them.
“It’s sure as hell not much,” Boedecker said, “but it’ll get us out of the weather for tonight. It’s going to be a cold one. When it snows and the clouds go away like that—watch out.”
“Yup.”
“I’m already freezing,” Price grumbled from behind Joe. “I don’t know why you people even live here.”
“This is where the elk are and the people aren’t,” Joe said.
“Believe me, I’m done with hunting elk,” Price said. “I just want to go home.”
“We all do,” Joe said.
“Back to your mega-mansion overlooking the Pacific?” Boedecker said to Price. “Yeah, I bet that’s nice.”
“Let’s worry about our mega-mansion for now,” Joe said.
To Boedecker: “Have you been inside?”
“Just long enough to stick my head in. Like I said, it isn’t much. No water, no electricity, no generator. Pretty much a one-man cabin. And not exactly built by a craftsman, either.”
“Are there three beds inside?” Price asked.
Boedecker just laughed. He seemed to revel in causing Price deprivation, Joe thought.
* * *
—
Joe placed the two grouse he’d killed on top of a three-foot-high stack of cut and split wood protected by the roof of the lean-to, while Boedecker and Price went inside. The firewood was pine, and it had been there for so long the exposed outsides of the lengths had turned dark gray. Probably twenty to thirty years, Joe guessed. But it was firewood, nonetheless, and dry.
He could tell by the nails in the wall at the back of the lean-to that the structure had once been used to stretch hides and pelts. Several rusty leg traps hung from the wall, and the floor was littered with bleached coyote, fox, and beaver skulls. The skulls had been exposed so long they looked paper-thin, like they’d crumble into powder if touched.
He turned to see Price coming back outside from the cabin, followed by Boedecker. The look on Price’s face told Joe what to expect inside.
“It’s a dump,” Price said.
“But it’s our dump,” Joe replied.
He shouldered around them and stepped inside. It was even colder than it had been out in the trees and he could see his breath.
The interior was simple and crude. There was a small rusty potbellied stove supporting a dented galvanized metal chimney pipe in the middle of the room, a metal washtub on a crude counter near the left wall, a rough table and two chairs, and a single bed with an iron frame covered by a ratty army surplus blanket. In the rear corner was a chest-high pile of garbage and parts: two-by-fours, T-posts, squat steel cylinders, broken chairs, a saddle so worn through the wooden frame stuck out from beneath the leather like exposed ribs. An ancient kerosene lantern hung from a nail over the counter with the tub, and Joe brought it down. There was no fuel in the well and he couldn’t see a tin of it anywhere. Although the cardboard corners had been gnawed by rodents, there was a half-full box of wooden matches.
Joe slipped his pack off and dumped it on the table and glanced around the interior. There was only one door to the place and it opened to the side mouth of the lean-to, where Price and Boedecker stood stamping their feet to keep warm. There was a boarded-up window next to the front door and a window on each wall of the cabin. All were covered by pieces of plywood from the inside.
The rafters were exposed above him and he could see cracks of light through the planking on the roof.
The cabin was in miserable condition and it had been neglected for years. But Joe was thrilled they’d found it.
Boedecker stuck his head around the open doorframe. “I’ll clean those birds and get ’em ready to roast if you’ll get this place in order,” he said.
“Are we sure we want to fire up the stove?” Joe said.
“How else are we going to cook them?”
“I’m worried about making woodsmoke,” Joe said. “The Thomases probably know we ditched them by now.”
“We need to eat something. And we need to warm this place up or we’ll freeze to death.”
Joe knew it wasn’t wise. But he was cold, hungry, and exhausted.
“Okay,” Joe said after a long pause.
“What should I do?” Price asked from outside.
“Have you ever plucked a chicken?” Boedecker asked.
“No, but I’ve seen it done. My chef does it.”
“My chef does it,” Boedecker mocked.
* * *
—
Joe ignored them while he removed the covers from the windows to let in the last remaining light of the day. The cabin was even dirtier than he’d thought at first glance. His boots left distinct tracks in the half inch of dust on the floor and his movement caused dust motes to roll across it like miniature tumbleweeds.
He cranked open the flue on the chimney pipe, and when he did a shower of pine needles and a couple of atrophied bird carcasses dropped into the belly of the stove. There were several copies of the Saddlestring Roundup from 1983 in a bucket near the stove that he crumpled up and used to light kindling. He watched in anticipation as the first curls of smoke got sucked upward and he was grateful the chimney pipe wasn’t blocked by nests or debris. He waited until the flames launched into a full roar and added several lengths of wood from a stack. Then he closed the stove doors and stepped back. As the metal heated, it ticked furiously. But within a few minutes, he could feel heat start to emanate from the stove.
Outside, Boedecker and Price bickered as they prepared the grouse.
“If it wasn’t for you, we’d all be home having a cold beer and watching the game on television,” Boedecker said.
Price said, “And if you’d raised your hand early to what was going down, we could have avoided it all.”
“It’s not like you didn’t fucking deserve it.”
“I have no clue what you or those hillbillies are talking about.”
“The hell you don’t . . .”
Joe closed the door on them.
* * *
—
He was heartened to find that within the pile of junk in the corner, the metal cylinder he’d noted was actually a propane tank. He lifted it out and by its weight guessed it was a quarter full. He rooted around in the pile and located a round dented metal dish with a heating coil inside. It was designed to screw onto the valve of the tank. If they could get it lit, they’d have sustained heat inside the cabin. And with no woodsmoke giving away their location.
He attached the heater to the tank, opened the valve, and could hear the hiss of gas. After three attempts with the wooden matches, the coil caught with a whoosh and quickly turned bright red. He adjusted the valve to keep it low and positioned the heater dish toward the center of the room.
Next, Joe peeled back the army blanket on the bed, and when he did, a half dozen mice shot out like sparks and skittered across the floor. The mice had nested in gnawed-out holes of a rolled-up mattress at the foot of the frame. There were still some in there, he thought. The bedroll quivered with them.
It answered the question of who would get the bed that night. Anybody but me, Joe thought.
That’s when he noticed a long bulge running lengthwise down the middle of the ancient box spring. He lifted it.
Between the frame and the box spring, on top of several cross slats, was a small-caliber rifle. It was old and the stock was rubbed clean of varnish.
He picked it up and walked over to the nearest window to see it better. It was a single-shot .22 bolt-action. The stamp on the barrel identified it as a J. C. Higgins Sears and Roebuck Model 41. There was a knob on the back of the receiver that was used to cock it. He tested the action and the spring still had tension. He guessed the gun was likely sixty years old and it had probably been used for plinking or to rid the place of rodents. It was the kind of rifle once given to twelve-year-old boys as their first gun. Joe had had a similar model, but it hadn’t been given to him by his dad. His dad never gave him anything like that. Joe and his brother had found the rifle beneath the floorboards of the rental house his parents lived in. They’d taken it out to kill rabbits, and the single-shot capability made him always cognizant of the importance of not taking foolish shots and of placing each round. The .22 wasn’t good for much else. It was too cheap and underpowered for game larger than a rabbit or a bird.
Then he noticed a box of cartridges on a shelf next to the door. The brass of the small rounds were mottled with age and the lead seemed so soft he could crease each round with his thumbnail.
Would they fire? He had no idea. Would the rifle still operate? Again, no idea.
Would he share the news of his discovery with Price or especially Boedecker?
He answered his own question as he turned back with the rifle to the battered mattress on the bed. He unrolled it and more mice scattered. The mattress itself was so damaged as to be useless. Joe placed the weapon on the end of the thin cushion and rolled it back up with the box of cartridges. He checked to make sure the butt of the stock couldn’t be seen by Boedecker from the outside.
