The Alex Cave Series. Books 1, 2, & 3.: Box set Page 2

  The flight took just forty-five minutes, and from there, Alex took a taxi to the Whatcom County Sheriff’s Department. At the front desk, he spoke to a deputy. “I might have some information which could be helpful in your investigation of those men found on Mt. Baker.”

  The deputy studied Alex for a moment. “Oh? And who are you?”

  Alex realized he was only playing a hunch and decided to play it cool for the moment. “First, I’d like to know the name of the man with the Alaska driver’s license.”

  The deputy shook his head again. “I won’t give out that kind of information without the sheriff’s approval.”

  “Fine, then let me talk to the sheriff.”

  The deputy shook his head. “The sheriff’s a busy man. If you have anything to report, it’s your duty to tell me.”

  Alex shrugged. “Fine. Solve it yourself.” He turned and walked toward the door.

  “Shit!” the deputy mumbled. “Wait a minute!” he hollered.

  Alex stopped and turned to stare at the deputy, but didn’t approach the desk.

  “Just hang on a minute. I’ll see if the sheriff can spare a few minutes.”

  The deputy picked up the phone and spoke and, a few moments later, a tall, overweight man appeared behind the counter. “I’m Sheriff Ralston. What can you tell me about the men on Mt. Baker?”

  Alex decided to take a chance on his gut instinct. “I know where they came from.”

  The sheriff studied Alex for a moment, and then nodded. “Come on back to my office.”

  Once in the office, Sheriff Ralston indicated a stiff wooden chair near the desk and sat on his own padded chair on the other side. “What do you know about all this, Mister?”

  “Alex Cave. Have you heard about the oil tanker the Coast Guard brought into Port Angeles?”

  The sheriff nodded. “Read about it in the paper. Why?”

  “What the paper didn’t say was that the crew was missing. If my suspicions are correct, the skiers found them on Mt. Baker.”

  The sheriff stared at Alex for a moment, a skeptical grin forming on his lips. “Mr. Cave, most of those men were young and this is a college town. It was probably some fraternity prank turned sour.”

  “The paper said you found identification on one of the bodies.”

  The sheriff nodded, reached into the file basket on his desk, and grabbed a folder.

  As the sheriff scanned through the first few pages. Alex sat up in tense anticipation.

  “Only one of the bodies had a wallet,” said the Sheriff. “An older man had a driver’s license.”

  “Was his name Joseph Bower?” The look in the sheriff’s eyes said he was right. Alex sighed with relief and leaned back in the chair. “Bower was the skipper of that tanker.”

  The sheriff’s jaw went slack. “You’re shittin’ me.”

  Alex slowly shook his head. “I’m positive the fingerprints will match the ones taken from the ship. There should have been seven bodies. Did you search the area?”

  Sheriff Ralston nodded. “The ski patrol did. It was odd, though. They said the bodies were found in soft powder snow, but there weren’t any tracks leading in or out of the area. We can’t figure out how they got there.”

  “Have you performed an autopsy yet?”

  “They’re working on it today. The way they were dressed, I figure they died of exposure.”

  “I’d like to see the bodies.”

  The sheriff stared at him for a moment, still a little skeptical. “I don’t have any idea who you are, Mr. Cave. I can’t authorize that.”

  Alex began reaching for his government identification and then remembered he’d left it at home when he went on vacation. He knew he could get a copy of the report later, through Martin Donner, the Director of National Security. He smiled and stood, extending his hand. “Of course.”

  The sheriff stood and accepted the outstretched hand, staring after Alex as he left the office. The sheriff shook his head, wondering who this man was and how he knew the dead men were from the tanker.

  As he left the building, Alex’s mind kept turning over the facts, but nothing made sense. And what happened to the seventh crewmember? Another thought occurred to him, and he decided to try to talk to the coroner. Getting information might be difficult, he thought. And this wasn’t a matter of national security. Still, his curiosity wouldn’t let the matter drop. He had to know what happened and how the crew ended up on a mountaintop.

  He walked down the street to the coroner’s building, entered, and stopped at the front desk. A middle-aged woman sat on the other side, and he took note of her nameplate. “I’d like to talk to the coroner, Mrs. Bayer.”

  The woman smiled. “Do you have an appointment, Mister . . .?”

  “Alex Cave. No, I’ve been tied up with Sheriff Ralston about the men found on Mt. Baker, and didn’t have time to call.”

  “Oh, I see. Just a moment,” she told him and picked up the phone. “There’s a Mr. Cave to see you, Mr. Walton. He’s from the sheriff’s office. Yes, sir. I’ll tell him.” She hung up and smiled at Alex. “He’ll be out in a few moments.”

  “Thanks,” Alex said and smiled in return as he walked to a large map of Washington State hanging on the wall. From the scale at the bottom, he estimated it was about one-hundred and fifty miles from where he found the Scorpio to the top of Mt. Baker. How could the crew turn up so far away? He wondered.

  Alex heard footsteps from the hall and turned as a short, nearly bald man with thick glasses approached. Alex smiled and extended his hand. “Nice to meet you at last, Mr. Walton. I’ve heard so many good things about you.”

  Walton accepted Alex’s hand and beamed with pride. “Why, thank you, Mr. Cave. I don’t recall seeing you at the sheriff’s department.”

  “Oh, I don’t normally work here in Whatcom County. I’m here strictly to inquire about the men found on Mt. Baker.”

  “Oh, well that explains it then. I usually don’t forget a face. Now then, what can I do for you?”

  “First, I’d like to take a look at the bodies.”

  “Fine. Follow me.”

  It bothered Alex he had let Walton assume he worked for the Sheriff’s department, but he hadn’t lied. It was something he was tired of doing while working for the government.

  A strong antiseptic smell assaulted Alex’s nostrils as they passed through a double door and walked along the hallway.

  “I’ve been waiting for the results of the fingerprints to come back from the FBI,” Walton told him as they passed through a stainless steel double door and entered a large refrigerated room.

  There were a dozen small stainless steel doors along one wall, and Walton opened one of the doors to pull out the table. A naked man lay on top, feet first, with a tag tied to his big toe. “This is the only one with identification,” Walton began. “Preliminary examination indicates he died of exposure. He was wearing a flannel shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes. Couldn’t live very long up on Mt. Baker dressed like that, I’ll tell you.”

  “Mr. Walton, it’s critical we verify if he was alive or dead when he first reached the snow.”

  Walton looked at him quizzically. “Of course they were alive. How else could they have gotten there?” When Alex looked him sternly in the eye, Walton shrugged and nodded assent. “Fine by me. I’ll draw some blood and send it to the lab. They should be able to tell us one way or the other.”

  “Did you notice any bruises or abrasions when you examined the bodies?” Alex asked while Walton stretched on a pair of surgical gloves and inserted a needle into Bower’s arm.

  “A few,” Walton replied as he inserted a small glass tube to draw a sample. “Nothing that . . . Hmm.” He removed the empty tube and inserted a new one, but nothing was drawn from Bower’s arm. “What the hell?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not sure.” Walton grabbed a scalpel, and slit open the skin and vein just above the needle. A dry brown powder fell out of the opening. “Oh my God
! This couldn’t happen from freezing!”

  Alex watched Walton make a few more slices in different parts of Bower’s body, including his buttocks. All the blood had turned to powder. Walton grabbed a large syringe and drew some of the powder into it. “This is really strange. Normally, after death occurs the blood will settle to the lowest part of the body, but it appears the blood was dehydrated, either before or during death. Come on,” Walton told him. “I want a closer look at this blood.”

  Walton led him to a small laboratory, dumped the powdered blood into a petri dish, and then put it under a microscope and focused the lens as he peered into it. A moment later, he looked at Alex and shook his head. “The blood cells are dehydrated.”

  “Like it was cooked?” Alex asked.

  Walton shook his head. “No. All the moisture has evaporated, but there’s no sign it was caused by heat.”

  “Any idea how?”

  Walton shook his head as he thought about it. “Not a clue, I’ve never seen this before.”

  Walton looked through the microscope again. “I’ll send a sample to the University,” he said without looking up. “I’ll let you know what they find out.”

  Alex glanced at his watch. 2:00 P.M. local time, 5:00 P.M. in Washington D.C. He looked at his cellphone, but there was no service available inside the building. “Can I use your phone?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Walton told him, still concentrating on the sample under the microscope. “Use the one in my office.”

  Alex dialed long distance and a woman answered, telling him he had reached the Office of the Director of National Security. “Hello, Margaret, Alex here. Let me speak to director Donner, please.” He was put on hold for a moment.

  “Hello, Alex,” Donner said warmly. “What can I do for you?”

  Alex gave Donner a brief account of everything that had happened and everything he knew. “The whole situation is crazy and I haven’t a clue as to how the bodies turned up a hundred and fifty miles away. The coroner doesn’t know what killed them either.”

  “Listen, Alex, I’ve just learned another tanker ran aground in Brownsville, Texas. It was also empty and abandoned.”

  What the hell’s going on? Alex thought. “Do me a favor, Martin, make this official, so I’ll get some cooperation, and tell the authorities in Houston I’ll be down to investigate.”

  “I’ll call right away. Let me know what you find out.”

  “Also, I’ll have the coroner send you the fingerprints of the crew. See if you can match them with the names and identify the missing men.”

  “I’ll do that. Call me from Houston.”

  “I will.”

  Alex called the Seattle, Tacoma (SEATAC) International Airport and booked the next flight to Houston, which wouldn’t leave Seattle until 8:00 AM the next morning. With so much time to kill, he decided to rent a car and drive to Seattle, get a room, and take the tour of the underground city in Pioneer Square.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON:

  Harold Woolly stepped on the brake to stop his little Geo Metro station wagon as the red tail lights of the car in front of him flashed. He looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror, unconsciously pulling his thin brown hair over the bald area in the center of his forehead. He reached down, turned up the volume on the radio, and hummed off key with the gospel singers. The brake lights in front of him flashed off, and Harold got a break when a trucker was late to respond. Harold stomped on the accelerator and darted into the right lane, receiving a loud blast from the trucker’s horn. It was like a warzone on the freeway, he thought. Everyone’s in a hurry, and as inconsiderate as possible. Even the air was deadly while stuck on the freeways.

  Twenty minutes later, he eased onto the exit ramp, down James Street, and into the parking lot beneath the Citicorp Bank Building. The elevator took him to the 38th floor, and as he rushed past the receptionist, she announced that his boss wanted to see him, first thing. “This is not good!” Harold mumbled as he tossed his briefcase onto his desk and hurried to the manager’s office. Harold drew a deep breath and stepped through the doorway.

  “You’re late again, Woolly!”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Stuckford,” Harold said meekly to the pompous man in a tailored suit sitting behind the desk. “It’s the traffic, sir. It’s getting worse every day and . . .”

  “That’s no excuse! I don’t have a problem getting here on time.”

  Harold stared at the desktop. He knew better than to say he couldn’t afford a nice big house on Lake Union like his boss. As it was, he had to leave two hours early to make it on time, and add another two hours to his workday just to get home. “Yes, sir, I’ll do that.”

  “Good. What’s the status on the Whidbey Island Bank merger?”

  Harold told Stuckford he was having a hard time convincing the stockholders of Whidbey Island Bank to sell out to Citicorp Bank. “They think their stock will double by next year.”

  Stuckford glared at Harold. “You’re not aggressive enough, Woolly!” he yelled. “Now either you start threatening them, or I’ll get someone else to handle the merger and you’ll be looking for another job. Is that clear?”

  Harold looked down at the desk and nodded. He returned to his desk and spent the better part of the day, including his lunch break, on the phone. When he finally left the office, he wished all the other cars on the highway would run out of gas so he could be the only car on the interstate.

  By the time he finished the commute home, Harold was mentally exhausted, as he retrieved his briefcase from the backseat and entered his three-bedroom, house. “I’m home, Calli,” he hollered toward the kitchen.

  Calli Woolly wiped her hands on a dishtowel as she stepped around the wall from the kitchen and smiled at her husband. “Hi, Dear,” she said. “Dinner is almost ready. Why don’t you change clothes now, so we’ll be ready to go to choir practice as soon as we’re through eating?”

  Harold sighed deeply. “I really don’t feel like choir practice tonight, Calli.”

  Calli’s normally soft hazel eyes hardened into fierce orbs in a scowling face. “It’s only two weeks until the concert, Harold!”

  “But Calli, I can’t even carry a tune. You’ve told me enough times. I get tired of just mouthing the words.”

  “Well if you don’t practice, you’ll embarrass me by mouthing the wrong words!”

  Harold released a frustrated sigh. “You go ahead without me. I’ll go next week.”

  Calli flashed him a savage look and stormed back into the kitchen. Harold dejectedly walked down the hallway, pausing at the open door of his daughter’s room. Pamela Woolly sat at her desk, schoolbooks strewn in front of her as she worked on her homework. Harold beamed with pride. Pamela was an `A’ student. She’d need all the advantages she could get, he thought. Although he loved her dearly, he admitted to himself, she would have a tough time finding a man to support her. She had inherited not only his high intelligence, but unfortunately, also his somewhat beaky nose, giving her a very homely appearance. Her bedroom didn’t resemble a typical seventeen-year-old girl’s. There were no posters of young boy idols on the walls, and no dolls or feminine knick-knacks. In fact, Pamela was not very feminine at all, preferring baseball and soccer to home economics and cheerleading. Pamela didn’t notice him standing in the doorway, and Harold continued down the hall.

  His son’s bedroom door was also open, and the interior could have belonged to Rambo, for all the war posters on the walls and camouflage clothing scattered on the floor. One wall was studded with wooden pegs, each supporting a different type of toy gun, all phenomenally realistic-looking. Mark Woolly longed to be a professional soldier, spending most of his time playing war games with his friends instead of studying, as reflected by the `C’s and `D’s on his report card. Harold remembered Mark’s last birthday, when his son asked him to sign a waiver so he could join the army at age fifteen. Harold had never had any desire to join the military, and wond
ered where the boy’s desire came from. Mark had his mother’s good looks and seemed to have her same need to be dominant.

  Harold continued to his bedroom and changed clothes. When he returned to the kitchen, Calli was standing silently at the stove with her back to him. “Did we get any mail?” he asked, hoping she might have calmed down.

  “It’s on the counter,” she said curtly without turning.

  Harold grabbed the small stack of envelopes and sat at the table. Bills, bills, and more bills, he saw. They never seemed to stop coming. At the bottom was an official looking envelope addressed to Mark, with no return address, only the letters, A.O.S. printed in the upper left corner. He thought about opening it, but knew his son would probably enjoy opening it himself.

  The back door suddenly burst open and Mark Woolly rushed through, slamming it closed and peering out the window. A bright yellow substance was splattered on the left shoulder of his camouflage shirt, and he held a long barreled paint gun in his right hand. He glanced over his shoulder at Harold. “I’m all right, Dad. Just a shoulder wound,” he said seriously.

  “Go wash up for dinner,” Calli told him.

  Mark spun around and looked devastated, as though about to be executed. “But Mom!” he whined. “Brian is hiding behind the fence and I can sneak out the front door and nail him!”

  “You can nail him tomorrow,” Calli said tersely. “Now, go wash up for dinner!”

  Mark looked dejected as he shuffled across the kitchen and disappeared around the corner. Calli set plates and silverware on the counter. “Help yourself,” she said coldly to Harold as she walked past him and left the kitchen.

  So it was going to be one of those nights, Harold realized. Pamela would come in and fill her plate, then disappear into her bedroom. Calli would take her plate into the living room and sit in front of the television, and Mark would join him at the table. A moment later, Pamela appeared.

  “Hi, Dad,” she said as she walked to the stove and piled stroganoff onto her plate. “You upset Mom again, didn’t you?” she said as she walked past and disappeared from the kitchen without waiting for a response.