The Panic Zone Part 39

"No, but I was at his house after it happened. The police questioned me."

"Do they know who's behind it? Did they arrest anybody?"

"I don't think so."

"Christ, this has to be linked to the intelligence he was gathering. You have to be careful, Jack. This is terrible."

Gannon glanced toward his computer bag.

"Oliver, something odd happened. I got a package from Corley at my hotel."

"What?"

"Obviously he sent it before our meeting. It's a small hand-carved camel."

"Did he send a note with it?"

"A small one, it said, 'Jack: a gift to help you remember Morocco --Adam C.' What do you think it means, given we hadn't even met?"

"Knowing Adam, it's more than a gift. I can't tell you what, exactly. Hang on to it. Were there any doc.u.ments with it, anything like that?"

"No."

"Adam was supposed to send me a full report on what he'd learned from his sources and from his trip to Libya, but I haven't received anything."

"Maybe he dropped it in the snail mail to you?"

"I don't know. This whole thing is very bad. Jack, get out of there. It's too dangerous for you. Equal Globe International has lost two people. Your news agency has lost two people. Get out of Morocco before it's too late."

The next day Gannon peered at the Atlantic from the starboard window seat of an Air France jetliner.

He had the row to himself and tried to relax as he studied the carved camel in his hands. He turned it over and over, recalling how Pritchett had said that Corley's act of sending him the figure must have a deeper meaning.

Like what?

Caressing its smooth surface, Gannon noticed a tiny square indentation in the camel's belly. He'd missed it at first because it ran along the grain line. Holding the camel closer for inspection, he noticed the grain line was, in fact, a seam. It ran along the length of the carving, dividing it in half.

He tried wedging his thumbnail into the seam. The indentation was smaller than a grain of rice. No luck. He took stock of his surroundings, then withdrew a pen from his pocket and managed to insert the tip into the tiny slot. After wiggling the pen's tip, the two halves of the carving s.h.i.+fted. With careful, controlled effort, Gannon pulled the camel apart into two equal pieces. They'd been hollowed out and opened to a memory card, hidden inside.

How did the airport scanner miss this?

Gannon shrugged, pulled out his laptop, switched it on and inserted the card. Dozens of file folders appeared on his screen. The first was labeled Note to Jack Gannon.

His pulse quickened when he opened it.

Jack: This is rushed. I hope to see you soon but wanted to get this down first. Since my return from Benghazi I have obtained significant new data that relates to what Maria Santo discovered in Brazil and to your investigation. However, since I don't trust everyone in the intelligence community, I've pa.s.sed this to you. I know I am being watched by people connected to this operation. Now, they could be watching you, too. I don't know who they are or how far this goes. I therefore have taken precautions to give you a copy of all my files, all the intelligence I have gathered. I include my notes for the report I am drafting on our investigation into a worldwide child-stealing operation that involves illegal adoptions. We've discovered that this operation seems to involve more than child stealing and illegal adoptions. An objective or purpose is emerging. No one knows, or has, what you now have. I've made arrangements for a local messenger boy I trust to deliver my "gift" to your hotel, as a precaution should something untoward happen before our meeting.

If you're reading this, he has succeeded.

The problem is, if we have not met, you will not have the benefit of my explaining what I've provided and the context. But one thing is certain: Some sort of operation, an attack of some sort, appears to be imminent. Read through this material, see where it fits.

Good luck, Jack.

Adam Corley Gannon began surveying Corley's files. It was a long flight, and he would have time to read, but for now he'd scroll through the files quickly and randomly to see what he had.

Here was something on Drake Stinson, the ex-CIA attorney with the Brazilian law firm Worldwide Rio Advogados. Here was something about him in Benghazi at a meeting with some shady-looking types and an American scientist, who used several aliases.

Who was she?

He came to another labeled Extremus Deus.

Never heard of that term--sounds Latin.

As he paged quickly through the files, he caught something that twigged a memory, a reference to LA #181975 to Wyoming847.

Wyoming?

Gannon recalled some reference to Wyoming from files pa.s.sed to him by Sarah Kirby, Maria Santo's friend from the Human Rights Center in Rio.

Only Corley's file seemed larger and more detailed.

He came to a doc.u.ment labeled Big Cloud, Wyoming--Golden Dawn Fertility Corp.

Big Cloud, Wyoming? What was that about?

49.

Cheyenne, Wyoming.

Dr. Allan Pierce gave Emma hope.

He understood her and today he'd promised to explain how he would help her. This morning she saw the words of her file reflected in his gla.s.ses as he studied his patient a.s.sessment, profile and notes.

Emma had returned to Wyoming feeling defeated and agreed to see Dr. Pierce, who surprised her because he listened.

He actually listened.

The fatal fire and her futile battle with the clinic in California were devastating setbacks in her search for Tyler. The police in Big Cloud were dismissive of her claims of a conspiracy behind Tyler's disappearance. These disasters had thrust her into a pit of self-doubt and despair.

But Dr. Pierce had told her that something extraordinary had happened to her at the crash.

Optimism about Tyler now flickered in the darkest corner of her heart as she sat in Dr. Pierce's office, watching as he reviewed her case.

Pierce had graduated from UCLA and USC and had held the second-highest psychiatric post at Big Sky Memorial Hospital since arriving last year from Los Angeles. In the few sessions Emma had had with him at the hospital, he'd run a number of tests. He was thorough, but more important, he was warm, kind and paid attention to her.

He missed nothing.

What Emma didn't know was that he was still grappling with the toll exacted on him by his former job where he'd been saddled with an impossible caseload and had grown bitter about his life. When his marriage ended in divorce, he'd come to Wyoming.

As he uncapped his pen he concluded Emma Lane had a severe case of post-traumatic stress, coupled with a profound grief reaction. And she had a fixed delusional system going, too.

Treatment orders showed regular blood work, chest X-ray and E.E.G., and neurology showed zip.

Pierce closed her file and pushed his gla.s.ses atop his head.

"Emma, what you're experiencing is an acute case of grief reaction. It's early in the process, so there's no way to predict when it will wane, but it will. However, your case is somewhat unusual, given the circ.u.mstances and the intensity of your reaction. And you have other things at work."

Emma was listening.

"We'll try to help you understand that, while it is normal to yearn as you are doing, you must accept that you can't bring your family back."

"No, wait, I told you that I do accept that Joe is gone, but Tyler did not die in the fire. He was rescued and someone has him."

Pierce nodded.

"We'll get you on a healing track by first helping you forgive yourself."

"Forgive myself?"

"You are showing signs of survivor's guilt among other symptoms."

"I don't understand."

"Your preoccupation with finding and recovering your dead son is normal. And, Emma, this sense of presence you're experiencing does occur as part of the grieving process. The hallucination of seeing Tyler rescued, the phone call, things that are even characteristic of spiritual or metaphysical phenomenon--the profound conviction that Tyler is alive in another time and s.p.a.ce--this is all part of the grieving process."

"It is? Is someone calling you to tell you your son is alive part of the grieving process?"

Pierce let a long silent moment pa.s.s.

"Emma, your leaving home to search for Tyler at the clinic in California, the symbolic place of his origin, is extreme, but it is still part of the mourning process. As is your anxiety, your disbelief, even your self-recrimination. As you said, you were the one who suggested the picnic, which resulted in the drive and accident. You said that had you not gone on that drive the tragedy never would have happened. This is survivor's guilt. Essentially all of these symptoms have converged to form your yearning, and at the same time, deceive you into believing Tyler is alive. It's a protective mechanism."

"Wait!" Emma held up her hands. "I don't understand."

"I know it's difficult to absorb what I've identified."

"No. Not that. I thought you believed that Tyler was alive, that the phone call, the information I obtained from Polly Larenski--who admitted she sold Tyler's files, admitted someone somewhere has Tyler--all pointed to the fact that there is some sort of plan, plot or conspiracy going on."

"No, Emma, I'm sorry if I gave you that impression."

"I thought with you being from L.A., that you had contacts with police, authorities, that you were going to help me follow up on Polly's information. It was all very real. I did not hallucinate any of that."

"Emma, I understand--" he cleared his throat "--but I also agree with the earlier observation by Dr. Kendrix that you were hearing and searching out what you needed to hear to counter your disbelief. You need to be a.s.sured that Tyler did not suffer in the fire while you lay a few feet away unable to go to him."

"No!" She clenched her hands into fists. "You are my only hope."

Pierce said nothing as a long awkward silence pa.s.sed.

"Emma. I understand that you believe deeply that what you've experienced is reality, that it has in fact happened. I promised at the last session that once I had your test results, I would explain how I would help you confront what is real. And that's what I've done."

All the blood drained from Emma's face as he reached for a pad.

"I'm going to give you a strong prescription and I want you to follow it."

As his pen sc.r.a.ped across the pad, Emma shut her eyes.

Her faint light of hope had gone out.

Pierce tore the page from his pad. It was the sound of betrayal as Emma felt the last measure of hope being ripped from her heart.

Pierce was like all the others.

He didn't believe her.

No one believed her.

She sat motionless in the chair as Pierce went around his desk and opened his office door to where Emma's aunt Marsha and uncle Ned had been waiting.

"She'll need this prescription." Pierce gave it to Emma's aunt. "You can get it filled at the hospital pharmacy on your way out. Emma--" Pierce put his hand on her shoulder "--I'll see you Friday at the same time?"

She said nothing.

"We'll have her here," Uncle Ned said.

"Thank you, Doctor," said Aunt Marsha.

No one spoke in the car. Emma sat with Aunt Marsha in the back. Uncle Ned drove and fiddled with the radio, finding a cla.s.sical music station. He kept the sound low.

Emma loved them. Their devotion to her was unyielding, never giving way to their own pain. She could not have survived this far without them. They were halfway across town, stopped at a red light, when Emma made a decision.

"Can you please take me to the cemetery?"

Uncle Ned looked in the rearview mirror where he found Aunt Marsha's face and the answer.

"Of course, dear," Emma's aunt said.

When they reached the entrance to the Sun View Park Cemetery, Emma asked her uncle to stop.

"I'd like to go the rest of the way alone. I'll walk home later."

"But, dear?" Aunt Marsha was worried.

"I need some time alone out here, a long time."