Echoes From the Moon (The Token Book One), page 8
“Silas, good to hear from you,” he said.
Silas was quickly comforted by the sound of his father. “Dad, you doing okay?”
“Me? I’m fine. We’re finishing up the arrangements for the funeral. It’s next Friday at Campbelltown.” He spoke with little emotion. “Apparently, the old man already had most of it set up, and he’d paid for the plot beside Grandma Gunn.”
Next Friday. Could Silas stay here another week alone? With that… thing in the other room? “Dad, did Grandpa ever mention…”
“Mention what?”
“An object?”
“Son, what are you talking about?”
Silas thought better. “Never mind. When are you coming?”
“Thursday. Your mother and sister will be joining me. Clare’s bringing the kids. You need anything? A suit?”
“Sure, please.”
There was a brief pause. “Silas, did you find what you were hoping for?”
Silas didn’t know how to respond. “Not really.”
“That’s because the man was a vacant shell. You’re staying until the funeral?”
This was it: his opportunity to leave. His dad would get his assistant to book him a flight out today if he wanted, and he could be at his apartment by dark. The phone buzzed, and he checked to see Leigh’s number. “Dad, I gotta run. I’ll be here. Love you.”
“Love you too.” It ended, and Silas answered the second call.
“Leigh!”
“Hey, Silas.” She sounded scared.
“You haven’t answered…”
“I’ve been working all day,” she said. “And… I didn’t sleep well.”
“Can we get together?” He looked outside, desperate for some fresh air, then exited the front door. Silas went to the porch, feeling a hint of the sun breaking through the canopy of trees above the property. Silas kept on to the pier, the heat rising with each step.
“Sure. Hey, there’s a guy in town wearing a suit. Looks like a G-man.”
“G-man?” Silas asked.
“Government agent. CIA, FBI…”
“Gotcha.”
“I think we should talk to him. He met with the sheriff earlier. I asked Carrie about it, and she said they were discussing your grandfather’s case after breakfast. They stayed for a couple of hours and left around eleven. He might come to see you,” Leigh said.
“What do we tell him? About the… thing.”
Silas grew protective, knowing that his grandfather had gone to lengths to keep it hidden. Was that why he’d been killed? For a stick of metal that makes you sick? “Let’s meet up first. Discuss the options.”
“Okay,” she conceded. “I’m off at two. Should I come over?”
“I’ll make the hike. I have to get out of the lake house,” he said.
“Meet me at the bar. I don’t need my mom seeing you again. I already heard about it last night when I got home.”
Silas wanted to tell her she was twenty-five and could make her own decisions, but refrained. He didn’t know enough about their family dynamic to form an opinion. “Be there in forty minutes.” He clicked END and wandered to the edge of the pier, glancing at his grandfather’s chair. “What were you doing with that thing? And where did you find it?” he whispered, receiving an answer from a pair of ducks floating by. His grandfather had always been the same: calm on the surface, but moving a mile a minute below the water.
Silas examined his reflection back at the house and straightened his hair. He wore another of the old man’s shirts, this one a short-sleeved button up that, no matter how many times he washed it, still smelled like a stranger. He checked the safe, ensuring the item was in its hiding place, and locked the doors.
The area was serene, the breeze barely offering any reprieve, and he listened to the leaves rattling a song you rarely heard in the city. The longer Silas stayed at the lake house, the more he understood why Peter Gunn and his wife had chosen to escape the hustle and bustle of a metropolis. They were retired and could spend their days together in peace.
Silas took his time, deciding to use almost all of the forty minutes to walk the two miles. He paused as the road peaked and took in the view from this perch. People were out in droves, some waterskiing behind expensive boats; others basked in party pontoons, drinking in the sunlight. Silas hadn’t had fun like that in ages, not since he’d taken on the responsibility of CFO at his father’s company. The sounds of summer echoed over the lake, and he inhaled the scent of a bonfire. Country music carried from a speaker nearby, and a girl screamed loudly before diving off a pier by the beach.
Silas closed his eyes and saw only darkness. A hole. His chest burned, his temples feeling pressure. When he opened them, the sensation had passed, and the scene in front of him focused into clarity.
He shook it off and strode into town twenty minutes later, the strange moment a distant memory. Silas didn’t know where the bar was, but Gull Creek wasn’t a large place. He spied it a little after two, the wooden building painted brown. It was peeling from the sun, and the sign labeled it as Dawn’s Lakeside Bar and Grill, though there was no lake in sight. The Gremlin was in the parking lot, one of three cars occupying the large gravel space.
He pressed through the doors, and someone glanced up from the bar, his eyes narrowing at the sudden infusion of natural light. When the entrance closed, he turned back, hands wrapped around his beer.
“Over here!” Leigh called, and he found her in a corner booth.
The joint smelled like every hole-in-the-wall dive Silas had ever set foot in, right down to the musty scent of beer on the creaky wooden plank floor. He glanced at the seat and brushed aside a few crumbs before sitting across from her.
Leigh was half covered by shadows in the dim room, her eyes black. “No issues finding the place?”
Silas shook his head and peered at the plate of untouched fries.
“Want some?” she asked.
Silas realized he hadn’t eaten today, and took one. “We should talk …”
“Where did you find it?” she interjected.
He finished the fry and told her about the safe, along with the secret compartment on the bottom.
Light poured in, and two men entered. Their gazes drifted across the floor, casually observing the handful of patrons, and they took a seat at a booth on the far edge. Silas returned his attention to Leigh. “We can’t tell anyone.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“I think that’s what got my grandfather killed,” he said. “If whoever broke in was searching for it…”
“Let’s say it was a targeted attack—and that might be pushing it—then wouldn’t they be gone? They killed Peter Gunn and left empty-handed. You said the entire place was ransacked. They’d probably think he didn’t have it. And what kind of killer hangs out in town after murdering someone?” Leigh asked.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “What do you think it was?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” She finally tried the food.
“It has to be poisonous. Like radioactive or whatever. Why else would we have seen things?”
“I didn’t just see them. I felt it.”
“Same here,” he whispered. “Maybe it has lead in it. Or uranium. I didn’t do well in chemistry.”
“Me neither,” she admitted. “I still say we talk to the FBI agent.”
“I’m not sure that’s a great idea.” Silas ordered a water, to the chagrin of the haggard server, but she brought it without complaint. “The funeral is next Friday.”
She watched him. “You’re staying?”
“Yeah.”
This brought a smile to her face. “Good.” Silas warmed at the reaction. “I figured you’d be on the first train outta here.”
“What about you? The way you escaped last night, leaving me to the wolves,” he joked, but her grin faltered.
“I was scared.”
“Me too,” he said.
“What if they discovered it on the Moon?”
Silas let the remark sink in, recalling Colin Swanson’s comment from the interview. We found something and promised to take it to the grave. Me, Fred, and Pete. “If they all knew about it, why did my grandfather keep it?”
“He was the commander in charge of the mission. He pulled rank,” Leigh suggested.
“Could be. Or…”
“You don’t think there are more, do you?”
“I saw a shape when I touched it.”
“So did I.”
“A triangle. It might have been made of three tokens like the one in his safe,” Silas said.
“Someone broke into the museum in DC and stole containers from the Helios 15 mission.” Leigh dropped her French fry. “That has to be related.”
“There was Fred Trell too. But we haven’t heard anything about him.” Silas brought his phone out and did a quick search of the man. “He never married. Lived in Oregon. Died there eight years ago.”
They hadn’t paid their respects at that funeral, with Silas’ father claiming not even Peter Gunn talked to Trell any longer. Colin had been Silas’ dad’s godfather, but Fred Trell never fit the mold, and Silas had only seen him at the reunion years earlier when he was a kid.
“If he had one of those...where would it be?” Leigh asked. “What about the guy from the interview?”
“I know the family,” Silas said. “They have a girl close to my age. She’s an author.” Silas owned a copy of Rory Valentine’s hit release, but he hadn’t read it. He’d heard enough about the space program over the course of his life, and didn’t need to read a fictional account of it.
“You should contact them and subtly ask if they know anything.”
The guy at the bar slid a bill to the bartender and left. The pair sitting in the other booth were gone, and Silas hadn’t seen them slip out. They weren’t familiar, but he was new to town, and had really only met Leigh and Gabriel, the landscaper that had given him a lift yesterday. And Carol, the neighbor.
Silas checked the various social media apps on his phone and found Rory’s name listed on an older one. He noticed a page for her pen name, but skipped that, and sent Rory Swanson a friend request.
“Now we wait.”
“Want to go to the beach instead?” Leigh seemed lighter, her dark mood subsiding as they made an effort at solving their riddle.
“I’d love to.” Silas paid, and they went to the car, Leigh revving the engine before speeding down the road toward the public beach access.
Leigh smiled at him as they parked in a busy lot. Silas kicked off his shoes and socks, like Leigh did, putting them in the trunk, and they strolled to the sandy cove, his mind on something other than the mystery his grandfather left behind.
12
“I appreciate all the details, Detective Desjardins, but I’d like to see the house now,” Waylen said for the second time.
“Sure, sure.” Desjardins seemed competent, but he’d obviously never worked with anyone from the FBI before. It was as though he was seeking to impress Waylen, when that wasn’t necessary.
The sheriff had left the room an hour ago, and Waylen thought he heard snores emanating from the office down the hall. Desjardins rolled his eyes and closed the file folder. “Most of these small towns are the same thing. I worked in Kentucky for a spell, and it was no different there. Old timers with no ambition, hoping nothing happens on their watch.”
Waylen couldn’t fully disagree, but he’d seen enough capable sheriffs and police chiefs throughout the country to shake his head. “They aren’t all like this.”
The detective blinked and pointed at the exit. “Shall we?”
Martina hadn’t responded yet, and Waylen quickly sent another text.
They’d gone in after lunch, and it was getting later than he’d wanted. All he knew was the man who’d killed Peter Gunn had an accomplice, but there was no lead on either of them.
“No one saw anything suspicious in town?” he asked in the parking lot.
“Where?”
“Gull Creek,” Waylen said.
“We didn’t canvass the town, just Loon Lake,” he said.
Waylen stared at him. “They’re like two miles apart. Where do you believe the killer stayed? At the campsite?”
Desjardins swallowed and wiped his forehead, even though they’d just stepped into the heat. “I’ll ask around.”
“Don’t bother. If anyone saw something suspicious, they’d have come forward,” Waylen said, unsure how true that statement was. “Let’s go. Is the house still taped off?”
“No,” Desjardins said.
“Why not? It’s a crime scene.”
“We took all the samples, ran forensics. Fingerprints. Blood analysis. So we gave the keys to the family.”
“They were here?” he asked. Waylen hadn’t read that part in the paperwork.
“Yeah, Arthur Gunn and his son Silas. From New York.”
Waylen was upset the house hadn’t been kept off-limits. “Bring me there. Did the family stay?”
He shrugged. “I gave them my card, but no one’s called. I assumed they took off right after I did.”
Waylen stewed over the incompetence as they headed to the lake. He followed Desjardins in his rental. They passed the location where the truck had been ditched, and continued to Loon Lake, until he came upon 18 Beachcomber Way. The lot was large, made private by mature trees.
Since he saw no car parked in the gravel driveway, he guessed it was vacant. By law, Waylen couldn’t enter it now, not without the family’s permission, but he could tour the property.
“This is where Commander Gunn spent his retirement.” Waylen took it in, appreciating the man’s choice. Loon Lake was a decent size, but from this spot, they were a distance from the boat paths. The cove kept the pier private, and Waylen went there first, ignoring the comments by the detective.
Waves gently lapped against the shore, the weeds meticulously trimmed to make the water clear. He suspected Gunn had done the work himself, probably to keep busy. He was a widower, and a brilliant man by all accounts. Waylen figured a guy like Peter Gunn needed stimuli to get him through a day.
“No forced entry?” he asked when they reached the porch.
“No. Tea kettle must have been on, because it made a mess in the kitchen.”
Waylen peered through the windows, seeing a record in the player and a cup of coffee on the counter. “You said the place was a mess when you left it?”
“Yep. Ransacked.”
“They’ve cleaned it.” Waylen guessed the coffee cup meant someone was still there, or they’d have washed it too. He glanced at the detective and offered his hand. “Thanks for the help today. I think you can head home. Enjoy the weekend.”
Detective Desjardins hesitated before shaking it. “If you’re sure. What are you going to do?”
He plopped onto the front steps, loosening his tie. “Wait for the family to return.”
“We can put you up in Campbelltown. There’s a nice chain hotel by the river.”
“Thanks, I’d appreciate it.”
Desjardins seemed to hesitate, probably seeing if Waylen might change his mind, then walked to the car. He started the engine and backed up.
The Assistant Director wanted answers, and Waylen was certain there was a connection. It had to be tied with Fred Trell’s storage unit, and the burglary in DC. Someone was making a move. But why now, fifty-plus years since the last Moon landing? Had information been released?
Waylen used his phone, searching news about NASA, and discovered they’d updated the details of the Helios 15 mission to the public, along with countless years of never-before-seen data on their progress with the ISS, but there was nothing Waylen could find pertinent to Gunn’s murder.
After an hour, he finally received a message from Martina, and instead of responding, he called her.
“Hey. Enjoying your vacation?”
“Sipping a Mai Tai as we speak. What about you? What kind of crazy case does Ben have you on?”
“Nothing exciting. A hedge fund operator has been flagged by the SEC, and they want someone to run an analysis on the transactions,” she said.
That was usually his job. “I’m sure you’ll find anything fishy.”
“You know I prefer steak.”
“How could I forget, after you stuck me with that last check at the expensive place in Boise.” He laughed, picturing her enjoying the comment. “So there was no one leaving for DC.”
“Not on a direct flight, and not on any connectors. Whoever did the job is either still there, or they drove away. I ran a check at the five nearest international airports, and no dice.”
Waylen heard an engine and stood, tossing his jacket to the porch before returning to the pier. He ambled down the wooden planks, watching the boat. For a second, he thought the man driving it was staring at him; then he saw the woman appear from the water, clutching a wake board. She climbed onto the boat, and they sped off.
“You there, Brooks?”
She always used his last name on official calls. “Yeah. I’m here. Thanks for the help.”
“Have you found anything?”
“Not enough.”
“Where to next?”
“DC, I guess,” he said, thinking about the other astronaut, Colin Swanson. If the first two had been hit, why not the third? He was dead, but perhaps it would be wise to notify his next of kin in case someone was on the way. No one else was aware of the Fred Trell storage unit incident, which could give him a leg up. If the media caught wind, it would be a different story. “Actually, I might not get to DC yet. I’ll have to make another stop.”
“You keep in touch, and let me know if you need anything else. I better run. These financial reports won’t analyze themselves,” Martina said.
“You’re ready for this,” he told her. “Remember to seek the patterns. If there’s something to be discovered, it will always stand out.”
“Spoken like a true nerd,” she joked.
“A nerd you occasionally have…” He stopped, remembering they were talking on company property. “Lunch with.”
