EIGHTEEN
THERE WAS AN “INCIDENT” AT WILLIAM HARRINGTON’S apartment.
Gil had made a phone call to a Mr. Cross, the manager of the building, and with a little charm and a bit of bullying was able to get Sophie inside Harrington’s home.
Mr. Cross was waiting for them in the lobby. Fortunately, the thug masquerading as a security guard/receptionist wasn’t on duty. She didn’t think she would be able to get past him even with Mr. Cross attached to her elbow.
“We’ll miss Mr. Harrington,” Cross said as he followed them into the elevator. “He was the ideal tenant. Paid his dues on time, kept to himself, didn’t cause any problems, and he rarely had late-night visitors.
“I’m afraid you’re going to run into Mr. Harrington’s second cousin in the apartment. He’s been coming and going all week. He isn’t anything like Mr. Harrington. Quite the opposite,” he whispered. “A tad uncouth, if you ask me.”
Uncouth? Mr. Cross was being kind. Dwayne Wicker was stunningly crude. Sophie wasn’t one to make rash judgments about anyone, for first impressions were often deceiving, but she made an exception with Dwayne. While Mr. Cross was making the introductions, Dwayne felt the need to adjust the crotch of his pants. Couldn’t get much more uncouth than that.
A toothpick dangled from the corner of Dwayne’s mouth. “What do you want? What are you doing here?” The toothpick bobbed with each word he spoke.
“I need to go through Mr. Harrington’s papers,” Sophie told him.
He squinted at her. “Why? Were you like his secretary or something?”
“You could say so.”
“Oh, then that’s okay. I don’t care about his papers. I already know where his cash and investments are,” he said.
“You hit the lottery, didn’t you?” Gil asked.
“Sure did.”
“How well did you know William?”
“Didn’t know him well at all. He didn’t have much use for me. He loaned me money a few times, but then he stopped. Bet he’s burning you-know-where for that. He had more money than he knew what to do with, and I was just scraping by. It wasn’t my fault I couldn’t hold down a job. I’ve got back problems. Being blood relation, he should have shared. Right?”
Neither Sophie nor Gil said a word. Dwayne took their silence to mean they fully agreed.
“He was stingy is what he was, but he couldn’t take it with him, could he? Now I get it all.”
Dwayne was making Sophie sick to her stomach. “Where are William’s papers?”
“They’re all in a pile on the floor in the dining room. I already sold the table and chairs, so you’ll have to sit on the floor while you sort through it.”
“Isn’t it premature to be selling his things so soon after his death?” Gil asked.
“Nope,” Wicker answered. “I figure the minute the police confirmed that William was dead, all this was mine. I’m the closest relative he had. I could have gotten to this sooner if the police hadn’t insisted on absolute proof. They sent hair out of a brush up to Anchorage so they could run DNA tests. I’m sure it’s William.” He pointed to the dining room. “You’d better hurry up. I got movers coming any minute now, and a Realtor to tell me how much I can get for the place.”
Harrington’s apartment had been quite elegant at one time: high ceilings with beautiful, deep crown moldings, spacious rooms with lots of light. It now looked like Dwayne was getting it ready for a garage sale.
The pile of papers turned out to be a gold mine. Sophie found phone bills, letters from Harrington’s physicians, medical test results, his address book, and credit card bills, all filed in manila folders. She collected a huge stack and stuffed it into her oversized tote. She would have taken more if Dwayne hadn’t strolled in to see what she was up to.
“How come you’re so interested in his papers?”
“I just am,” she answered.
Dwayne was suddenly suspicious of her motives. “Are you looking for something in particular? Hey, wait a minute. What’s going on here?” Before she could answer, he asked, “Were you and William together? You know what I mean. Were you giving it to him?”
“Giving what, Mr. Wicker?”
The disgust in her voice set him off. “Screwing him,” he snapped. “You were, weren’t you?”
He squatted next to her, saw the letter from a law firm in her hand, and tried to snatch it. “I know what you’re up to. You think my cousin left you some money, and that’s why you’re going through his papers. I’ve got news for you, sweetheart. You’re not getting a dime.”
Gil sat on the window seat watching. He spoke before he thought about the consequences and inadvertently threw gasoline on the budding fire. “Unless he wrote a new will and left his sweetheart every dime.”
The possibility sent Dwayne into a tailspin. He nearly swallowed his toothpick. “The hell he did. Give me those papers and get out of here.”
Sophie paused only long enough to stand and glare at Gil. “Seriously…?”
A tug-of-war immediately ensued. Dwayne was no longer calling her “sweetheart.” “Bitch” was her new name as he tried to pull the tote out of her hands. Each time he tugged at her bag, she pulled it away. He had a few other crude names for her, but Sophie wasn’t bothered until he stepped over the line and slapped her.
She was so shocked by the attack, she froze. So did Dwayne, and then a smug smile began to spread across his face. Before Gil could bound across the room, Sophie curled her hand into a fist and, quick as a snake, struck, splitting Dwayne’s lip and snapping his toothpick. She might have broken his nose, too, but she couldn’t be sure.
After firmly locking the straps of her tote in her hands, she shook her head at Dwayne and said, “Shame on you, hitting a girl.”
Retreat seemed the logical move before Dwayne regained his senses and his temper.
“Lovely to meet you,” she said as she walked ahead of Gil out the door. “You have yourself a nice day now.”
JOURNAL ENTRY 422
ARCTIC CAMP
The foundation has given us the green light to finish our original study with the wolves. The old gang is back together again. We’ve made a few updates to the facility here in the frozen north, but for the most part things have remained the same. While we were back in Chicago, Eric and I set up our own lab. We begged and borrowed and managed without assistance. I am now an equal partner, and we aren’t owned or controlled by any pharmaceutical company or government agency. Our testing will remain secret while we gather data.
Amazing. The tracking device is still working. We couldn’t believe our eyes when we found Ricky. He’s at least nine years old now but looks as vigorous and young as the day we first spotted him. In fact, he is once again the leader of his own pack. He hasn’t lost one iota of his virility. This warrants a study of its own.
While Brandon and Kirk identified and tagged each of the members of the new pack, Eric and I took blood and tissue samples from Ricky. It was not an easy task to sedate him, but we managed. Up close his coat doesn’t have the same luster, but the blood work tells a different story. Ricky has a hormonal balance unlike anything we’ve seen before, plus we still see traces of K-74.
Ricky will get another dose of the drug soon. Once we see how he reacts, we plan to inject the others.
We won’t be putting our findings in any official report. What we’re attempting isn’t within the parameters of our mission here and could get us thrown out of the program, but we’re banking on the reward being worth the risks.
NINETEEN
SOPHIE SAT ON THE FLOOR OF HER APARTMENT WITH MANILA folders spread out in front of her. She had spent the afternoon combing through William Harrington’s files looking for some thing that would explain his sudden disappearance and his untimely death. So far, all she could be certain of was that Harrington was obsessed with his health. The thickest folder was stuffed with medical reports and test results, and from what she could decipher from them, he was as fit as he claimed to be.
The latest examination report was on the top. Knowing that she would probably be rejected, she decided to try her luck anyway. She found the number of the clinic on the first page and dialed it. Sophie cheerfully introduced herself to the receptionist who answered the phone, and then she laid out her case. She told the woman that she was a reporter and that she wanted to write an article about one of the clinic’s clients who had recently met an untimely death. She did her best to convince the woman that the article was to be a tribute and not an exposé, but the receptionist cut her off in midsentence, explaining rather forcefully that neither she nor anyone else at the clinic could divulge information about their patients. The answer was exactly what Sophie had expected, but she felt it was worth a try. She hung up the phone discouraged but not deterred. She’d have to keep looking.
Next she picked up Harrington’s address book. There were very few entries, and most of them were professional contacts: the law firm, a couple of doctors, a hair salon, several restaurants. None of them appeared to be friends, making Sophie wonder if Harrington had any. If he did, he probably kept their contact information on his cell phone or PDA, and since she didn’t have either, there was no way she could check. However, there was another solution: the cell phone bill. Sometimes the bills listed the numbers of incoming calls. She shuffled through the folders but couldn’t find the one she wanted. It was probably still in Harrington’s apartment. She had stuffed only half the files in her tote bag when Dwayne Wicker had intervened, and considering her last encounter with him, she doubted he’d welcome her with open arms if she visited the apartment again.
Sophie was contemplating her next step when the phone rang. Paul Larson was calling from Alaska.
“I was just wondering if you’d reconsidered my invitation.”
Sophie laughed. She couldn’t fault the man for his persistence.
“Actually, I’m thinking about it,” she said.
“Great!” he said enthusiastically. “I’m excited to meet you.” He hastened to add, “And it’s not because I’m starved for female company.”
“If I come, it will be for business only. I’ve been doing some research on William Harrington, and there are a few things here that I want to check out first.”
“That’s the other reason I’m calling,” he said. “I’ve got news. I heard about two guys who talked to Harrington.”
“When did they talk to him? What did Harrington say?”
“Slow down,” Paul said with a chuckle, “and let me explain. You might not know this, but we’ve got trucks coming up and down the Dalton Highway pretty much all year long. The rigs come from Fairbanks with equipment and supplies.
“One of the drivers is a real nice guy named Sam Jackson. He told me he was giving two brothers a ride back up to Deadhorse. Their last name’s Coben, and they’re trappers,” he explained. “According to Sam, they’re kind of strange, but not scary. I think he means the brothers don’t know how to be social. They’re maybe awkward but still friendly and don’t mean any harm.
“Anyway, to pass the time, Sam told them about Barry killing a man, and when he mentioned where it happened, one of the brothers asked him if the man’s name was William. They had met a William who was all alone out on the flats. Neither brother could remember the man’s last name, but they both recalled that William told them not to call him Bill. Odd thing to remember, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” she agreed. “What else did the brothers say?” she asked, trying to hurry him along.
“At the time, Sam didn’t know William Harrington’s name, but he was sure the brothers were talking about the same guy, though one of them told him that this William was setting up camp in a remote area, and he looked like he was going to be settling in for a long spell. They also told Sam that they talked to him for quite a while and offered to help him put some of his equipment together, but William wouldn’t let them help.”
“Did Harrington tell them what he was doing there?”
“Sam didn’t say, but he did tell me the brothers spent several hours with him.”
“I’d love to talk to them.”
“Sam’s already on his way back to Fairbanks,” Paul said. “But I could dig up his phone number for you or have him call you.”
“No, I mean the brothers. I want to talk to them.”
“That’s going to be a problem. Sam said they were picking up supplies and then heading toward Umiat.”
“Could I get their cell phone number?”
Her question gave him a good laugh. “Sophie, they’re trappers. They don’t carry cell phones. They’ve probably never used one. They live in the wilderness and don’t have any need for cell phones.”
“What happens if they get into trouble?”
“They have rifles and guns and hatchets and—”
“Got it. Wilderness men,” she said. “Live in log cabins in the mountains.”
“More like prefabricated trailers,” he said. “And cell phones couldn’t get signals where they are anyway. If you get up here fast, you can probably catch them before they head back to their camp.”
She tallied up the work she needed to do for the newspaper. “It might take a couple of days.”
“The sooner you get here, the more likely you are to find the Coben brothers,” he cautioned.
“I’ll make my reservations today.”
“Let me know your arrival time, and I’ll make sure I’m there to greet you.”
“Yes, I will.”
“How about I go ahead and reserve some rooms for you at the hotel. How many do you think you’ll need?”
“Just one.”
“You’re traveling alone?”
“Yes, I am. Is that going to be a problem?”
“No, of course not. You’ll be perfectly safe here. Probably safer than in Chicago.”
Based on the fact that she’d recently been shot, she had to agree with Paul. Prudhoe Bay had to be safer.
“I’m not worried,” she said.
“The accommodations in Deadhorse are a bit unusual. You can either get a room but share a bathroom, or share a dorm room with a bunch of guys. I’m guessing you’ll want a private room.”
“You guessed right.”