Zero Separation (11 page)

“He's a former Navy SEAL, and also the nephew of General Porter, who, as you know sits on the Joint Chiefs of Staff. On an Eco-Watch flight during Hurricane Helena, he suffered broken ribs, a collapsed lung, and some damage to his lower vertebrae. He survived, but he's now behind a desk at the Pentagon. Donovan paid for the finest doctors in the world to treat him, but the lower back injuries, while not debilitating, disqualified him from the rigors of SEAL activities. It's a rather sad story, but Buck has never shown a moment's remorse. He's a remarkable young man.”

“You think he'll be able to watch over Michael?”

“Our friend Buck, while he's not able to swim twenty miles anymore, is still quite lethal. I, for one, will sleep soundly knowing he's in charge of Michael's safety—and you should as well.”

“You know,” Lauren said, “we've talked about the logistics, what we'll do if this goes public. I get all that, but what do you think all of this will do to Donovan?”

“I've been around him most of his life. I'm well aware of his demons. I've often wondered how much he's shared with you about his past. Do you mind if I ask how much he's told you about Meredith Barnes?”

“It's odd you should bring her up. Of course we've talked about her, but I never really felt the need to pry. That period of his life is painful for him, I know that. I'm his wife, I'm here, and she's been dead for twenty years; it would be pointless to try and compete
with a ghost. In the end, he always maintains that it happened so long ago it doesn't really matter.”

“Why is it odd I brought her up?”

“It's not important, forget I said that.”

“Really, I want to know. Have the nightmares gotten worse? Is he drinking?”

Lauren didn't answer. Donovan's nightmares had always been there, but now they were as bad as she'd ever seen them. She'd be awakened by his tossing and turning, and then the murmurs would start. Words she could never quite understand. She'd learned to try and wake him before the screams, the thrashing, and the sobs. He'd shiver in a cold sweat afterward—shaken and distant. Lately, he'd been going downstairs, and in the morning she'd find a cocktail glass in the sink. It never occurred to her that perhaps he'd been having more than one drink, or that it might be part of a bigger problem.

“When did his bad dreams start?” Lauren asked.

“Shortly after his parents died,” William replied. “He was fourteen.”

“He rarely talks about them, but watching your parents drown would give anyone nightmares.”

“It was the first tragedy in his life. There, of course, have been others, and I've always believed that our life experiences, both good and bad, are cumulative. As hard as we try to get past certain events, they work on us in ways we can't begin to completely understand.”

“Is that what you think is going on with him now?”

“You tell me, I can't believe I'm the only one who's noticed the change in his behavior over the last few months.”

“No, you're not the only one.” Lauren shook her head. “Tell me what you know about the documentary about Meredith Barnes. I found a copy at the house.”

William's shock and disbelief were evident. “He has it? I can't believe he didn't tell me. I declined to be a part of it, and it's not scheduled to be released for months.”

“He didn't tell me either. I accidently ran across it. So far I've only seen bits and pieces. It's hard to watch.”

“Do you think it's troublesome enough to have an effect on Donovan?”

Lauren nodded and explained what she'd seen and the manner in which it had been shown.

“Those bastards.” William shook his head in anger.

“The film talks about some things I never knew about.”

“Like what?”

“Were there real threats against Meredith? Did Donovan delay in getting the ransom money together? Did he talk to her just before she was killed?”

William thought for a moment, and then in a reverential voice just barely above a whisper, began. “Yes, there were vague threats. Never anything credible. As far as the money issue, that part was a nightmare. What few people know is how intensely we fought with the bureaucrats from Costa Rica and the United States, who, of course, refused to deal with the kidnappers, calling them terrorists. Against all of the advice from both the State Department and the Central Intelligence Agency, Robert tried to make contact himself, but the authorities did everything they could to block his efforts to pay the ransom. Ten million is a great deal of money and the logistics of getting it together and transporting it to Costa Rica were daunting. Because of the governmental resistance, he was forced to use offshore assets and keep his efforts secret. So, of course, it looked like he did nothing at first. But from the moment the ransom demands were heard, Robert frantically assembled the money.”

“The phone call?”

“That's something he's never talked about to me, or anyone else for that matter. He had the money and finally convinced the Costa Rican police to allow him to make contact and set up the exchange. He demanded proof of life, he needed to be positive Meredith was still alive. The call came in the middle of the night. It should have been recorded by the police but wasn't. I don't know what was said, but her body was found early the next morning. The
medical examiner said she probably died within an hour of that phone call.”

“Why? They were on the verge of getting the money.”

“There was speculation that they panicked, that law enforcement was closing in on them. We'll never know why. Robert was devastated. He blamed everyone and refused to cooperate any further with the investigation. It was all so horrible.”

Lauren could hear the emotion in William's voice as he spoke. She hadn't expected this to be difficult for him.

“We flew her body home to California and were met with fierce protests. The threats to Robert and acts of violence were round the clock, finally forcing him to leave Monterey. Robert wasn't able to attend her funeral out of fear of reprisal, that someone, maybe even members of her own family, could be hurt due to his presence. To this day, I'm not sure he's ever visited her grave. Then those pictures came out, the ones on the beach with the young woman. Though taken long before he met Meredith, they were portrayed as being recent. He received death threats on an almost daily basis. Huntington Oil was boycotted, bombs were found—it was complete chaos.

“Robert was shattered. I stayed with him as much as I could. He went to live in the old family house on the estate outside Aldie, Virginia. As you know, it was and still is, one of his favorite places. He became a recluse, he drank to shut himself down, hell, we both did. He started taking drugs. There were pills to go to sleep. Different pills to get him through the day. He cut himself off from the outside world and spiraled out of control.”

“I had no inkling of any of this.”

“Did he ever tell you his boyhood hero was Howard Hughes? Howard was a good friend of Robert's father, back then everyone in the oil business knew Howard. When Robert was just a little boy, Howard would entertain him with stories about his record-setting flights, making movies, building and flying the now famous
Spruce Goose
. Howard actually hated that nickname—instead he referred to it as his ‘flying boat.' Robert's passion for flying can easily be traced back to Howard.”

“One night we were up late, drinking. I listened as Robert starting talking about Howard, this was long after Howard's bizarre final years and ultimate death, but Robert told me that he understood how easy it would be to completely withdraw from the world. We talked about Howard's tortured life, and Robert promised me he'd never end up like that—he'd kill himself first. I asked him point-blank if he'd thought about ending his life. He was honest, told me he had—and I believed him.”

Lauren was horrified; it was as if she were hearing about someone she'd never known. “What did you do?”

“I asked him when he wanted to start? In the weeks it took us to plan the transition, he sobered up. We orchestrated it down to the smallest detail. Robert Huntington died when the plane he was flying crashed into the ocean off the California coast. He parachuted from that plane in the middle of the night. When he landed outside Modesto, California, he became Donovan Nash. I was with him afterward in Europe as he endured the surgeries. It was a difficult time, but to this day, I believe the only part of his past he misses is Meredith.”

Lauren nodded—she had to look away. William was teetering on the edge of tears. He'd clearly been close to Meredith, and his obvious pain at the memories threatened to undo her as well. After all this time, she really had no idea how Donovan felt about Meredith's death. Perhaps it was her fault for not pushing harder. Did her husband harbor some kind of deep-seated guilt at having survived the attack when Meredith didn't? Did that explain his years of reckless behavior flying in the Third World? Lauren could rattle off any number of situations where Donovan rushed to the rescue—including saving her life twice. Was he the brave, capable man she'd always thought, or was there a death wish involved, or other mechanism not nearly so healthy that motivated him? Did she really understand her husband at all?

“I hope I haven't said too much. I know it's a lot to absorb,” William said.

“It's fine. Thank you.” She wished she'd heard this version of
history from Donovan. Lauren felt betrayed, like she was left on the periphery of major parts of her husband's life. The pragmatic scientist in her rarely broke down in a puddle of insecurity, but she'd asked herself several relevant questions with no ready answers. She couldn't explain to William that she suddenly felt like one of her husband's carefully constructed compartments, that she felt marginalized in ways that made her feel enormously vulnerable.

William handed her the folder on Special Agent Montero. “You need to read this. It's fairly detailed. I'll be interested in your thoughts.”

Lauren looked at the title page and saw the name: Veronica “Ronnie” Montero. “What's the source?”

“It came to us from one of the top law firms in Florida, gathered by a private investigator. I'm told that a criminal defense attorney put this together not long ago in preparation for a trial involving Montero and a rather well-placed drug dealer.”

“Did you read it?”

“Not yet, but I did get a quick briefing from my friend at the firm. I'll review it later and maybe initiate an investigation of our own.”

She looked at the folder and did her best to clear her mind. Years ago, when she was working on her Ph.D. at MIT, she taught herself how to digest detailed, complex data with her logical left brain, while keeping her right brain in neutral, poised for suggestion and intuition. It was a discipline that had served her well, and right this moment she needed the diversion. The report was less than thirty pages, it would be a quick read. Most importantly, it would provide a focal point for her growing anger.

Donovan sped through a yellow light, braked hard, and then made a left onto a residential street. Montero directed another series of turns until they pulled into the driveway of a modest ranch-style house in a nice neighborhood. The door to the double garage slowly receded, and he pulled forward and stopped next to a mountain of cardboard boxes. It was a tight squeeze. Montero got out of the car, hit the button to close the door, then entered the code for her security system. Without saying a word, she went into the house leaving the door open behind her.

Donovan followed. From the garage, a short hallway led into the kitchen, which was almost too neat, as if it were never used. Just past a countertop that served as the eating area was a high-ceilinged great room; a fan turned slowly to keep the air circulating. The décor was modern, simple yet tasteful. Except for books, the room was devoid of personal touches.

“I know what you're thinking.” Montero slipped out of her blazer, tossed it on the back of a chair, then tweaked the thermostat. “The answer is yes, I live here. I only moved in a month or so ago. It's still a work in progress. Stay off the landline and don't even think about using your cell phone. I have no idea what the FBI is doing, and I don't want to have to try and explain a bunch of calls I know nothing about.”

“Tell them your hostage did it—they'll understand.”

“You're funny,” Montero called over her shoulder as she disappeared into the back of the house.

Donovan walked to a sliding glass door that led out to the back yard. The lot was small and there was no landscaping, just neglected
Bermuda grass. A weathered privacy fence guarded an empty cement patio. He turned his attention back inside and was drawn to the bookcase situated against the wall. It didn't take him long to recognize a familiar title.

He carefully slid the hardcover volume off the shelf and held it reverently in both hands.
One Earth
, by Meredith Barnes. He cracked it open, thumbed to the title page, and read the inscription. It was personalized to Veronica. The soft flowing curves of Meredith's familiar signature seemed to speak to him, as if she was somehow nearby and he could talk to her. He flipped to her picture on the dust jacket. It was a great photo, her eyes radiated her fierce intelligence, but her impish smile, combined with her freckles, softened the image, giving her an almost angelic quality. The slight ocean breeze blew her wild mane of reddish hair just enough to give her the look of the free spirit she most certainly was. He felt the years melt away, like he'd see her soon, and the sensation unnerved him. It had been years since he'd seen this particular picture of her and he couldn't look away. He was pulled in by her eyes, remembering how awestruck he'd been by her. From the day he met her, she'd been a whirling mass of energy and passion, and that was maybe what he missed most. He felt the usual twinge at losing her and the familiar guilt of having failed her and then going on without her.