Wired Ghost: Vigilante Justice Thriller Series (Paradise Crime Thriller Book 11) Page 13

  “I don’t know if I can.” Sophie shredded the tissue, looking up into Dr. Wilson’s eyes. “I don’t know how I will get through tomorrow, and however long it takes for him to die. Without even being able to see him.”

  “Terrible. Would you like me to try to speak with his relatives on your behalf?”

  Sophie shut her eyes, picturing the hatred in Janice Dunn’s eyes. “No. It won’t help.”

  “And your daughter? What’s going on with Momi?”

  “She’s fine. She’s with Armita and Alika on Kaua`i. They offered to come here to the Big Island, to bring her to me, but I don’t have what it takes right now, much as being with her comforts me. Hopefully, by the end of the month, when it’s my turn, I will be able to be her mother.”

  Dr. Wilson shook her head. “You sell yourself short, Sophie. I know you will meet Momi’s needs, no matter how you feel in the moment. But what about Connor? He rescued you. Does he know about Jake?”

  “I called him. I left a message thanking him, letting him know that Jake was . . . not going to recover. He hasn’t called back.”

  “That seems odd.”

  “I don’t know. He took some inhalation damage too, as did the Thai man with him. Connor told me he keeps the phone charged, but not with him. And as I told you, he couldn’t stay or be admitted to the hospital because his Sheldon Hamilton identity’s legally dead. I was conscious enough to realize he basically had to hijack the helicopter that rescued us.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  “I regained consciousness after they hauled me up from the lava tube and put me on oxygen. I was dazed, but I realized Jake wasn’t waking up.” Sophie squeezed more tears out of her eyes. “I lay beside him on the helicopter. Touching him. Calling him back to me. I didn’t know I was saying goodbye.” Sophie met Dr. Wilson’s eyes. “How do I get through this? Really. I’m asking sincerely.”

  “There’s no shortcut, my dear. This is the ugly truth of living—death is a part of it. And death is often, more often than people want to acknowledge, not clean or simple. At least Jake’s wishes were clear and on record. Wouldn’t it be worse to have his mother waiting, and hoping, and keeping him alive, while his body withered away?”

  “Yes. That would be worse. Patty agrees. His mother does not, but she cannot overturn his directive.” Sophie carefully set the rake down on the side of the sand garden.

  Dr. Wilson reached across the table and took Sophie’s hands in hers. “All I can do is tell you that I’ll be beside you every step of this journey—and reassure you that, though you doubt yourself, you’re stronger than you know.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Raveaux

  Raveaux looked at his reservations back to Oahu on his phone. He’d called Bix and debriefed remotely. He’d gone to the modest South Hilo Police Department station and given an official statement, for the record, of his experience with the operation to capture Lia Ayabe and the meth making gang—thinking of how that sounded, his mouth almost quirked up. “That would have made a unique name for a band,” Gita’s voice said in his mind. She loved finding silly band names . . .

  He was scheduled to leave Hilo.

  But it didn’t feel right.

  The drama unfolding around Jake’s condition was so grave; Sophie might need something, someone. He might be able to help.

  Raveaux paced a bit in the musty smelling room of his motel, walking back and forth past the cheap rattan bed stand, the slippery plumeria print coverlet brushing his trouser-clad legs.

  Yes, it felt wrong to leave her alone with this crisis to get through—but she wasn’t alone. Her friend Marcella had arrived; her father was with her; she was going to therapy with her psychologist, Dr. Wilson, and most clearly: she wanted nothing to do with him.

  He’d done his best to save Jake’s life when he had that opportunity. He’d paid his respects to Jake’s mother and sister; he’d said his own secret goodbye through the window of the ICU to the man who held Sophie’s heart. No, truly, he had no role here. To continue to stay would only accentuate that, and cause people to wonder—as it caused him to wonder.

  Raveaux straightened his shoulders. “Enough,” he said aloud. He sent Sophie a text: “Returning to Oahu. Deeply sorry for all that’s happened. Let me know if I can help in any way.”

  He picked up his travel duffel and swung his old leather messenger bag, carried to hundreds of crime scenes over the years, up onto his shoulder. He stepped out of the motel room and shut the door, inhaling the briny scent of Hilo Bay, feeling the light breeze on his face, the sun on his hair.

  He was alive.

  Jake was no longer so, in any meaningful way. It would never be fair; nothing ever was.

  And yet, he had to find a way to go on, as he had after Gita and Lucie died. Sophie would have to, as well. Maybe she’d be able to, maybe not. But for now, all he could do was keep going, and be there, when and if she ever needed him.

  He called for a rideshare, and soon was on his way to the airport.

  Opening the door of his Waikiki apartment had finally begun to feel a little bit like coming home. The first floor unit with its sliding glass doors that overlooked the concrete trail fronting the hotels and Waikiki beach, was immaculately clean and smelled faintly of disinfectant; his cleaning lady had come while he was gone. The floor-to-ceiling blinds were closed, and the space was cool in the heat of the day, a refuge from the assault of overly cheerful sunshine outside.

  He set his keys and wallet in the vintage glass bowl on the corner of the counter leading into the kitchen; hung his messenger bag on the hook on the back of the door, removing his laptop from it. He carried his valise into the bedroom with its tightly made bed, covered in a plain white cotton spread. He plugged the laptop in to recharge at the desk in the corner. And then he reached in his pocket and took out the stick drive that Ambassador Smithson had given him, still wrapped in a thousand-dollar bill.

  The money, he understood—a gesture of thanks for helping his daughter. That he’d wrapped the drive in a vintage, out of circulation bill that might be valuable beyond its face value, seemed a classy touch. Raveaux wasn’t insulted; he’d have done something similar if a colleague had gone above and beyond to help his child—in fact, no price would have been too great.

  These were the moments he was glad he’d had Lucie—to have been a father was an incredible, indescribable human experience that had deepened his joy, his appreciation of the human condition, his wisdom regarding his fellow man. Even if the deepest lesson, in the end, was the depth of pain the loss of a child could cause.

  But what was on the stick drive?

  Raveaux turned the plain metal plug-in drive over in his hands, feeling a tug of apprehension. There was something here that the Ambassador had wanted him to know, and Sophie not to know.

  It was bound to be a sticky wicket, as the Brits said.

  Raveaux set the memory stick down on his desk. He returned to the kitchen, fixing himself a snack of slightly stale baguette that reheated nicely in the toaster oven with several slices of a good Gouda and salami. He prepared his favorite Perrier with ice and lime.

  Raveaux retracted the blinds, unlocked the slider, and stepped outside onto his sunny lanai. He cranked up the fabric umbrella, and seated himself to enjoy his view of the condo’s bit of lawn and the bright white sand and aqua sea of Waikiki Beach. With the sound of gentle waves and laughing children in his ears, he ate his snack and opened his latest paperback.

  He was working his way through the Jack Reacher novels by Lee Child, enjoying the spare style of writing, the inferences, the twists and turns. Reacher’s stubbornly closed heart continued to seem an unnecessary tragedy—but he understood it all too well.

  Finished with his food and his chapter, Raveaux brushed a few crumbs aside for the sparrows. He looked up at the waving palms—who knew that his life would have taken such a turn that this was where he lived, alone?

  Ten years ago, he would never even have been a
ble to imagine it. And yet, so it was.

  Raveaux lowered the umbrella in case of wind and went back inside. It was too quiet, after the sound of the outdoors. Maybe he should get a small dog or a cat for company—but they weren’t allowed in these apartments. He’d have to move.

  And maybe, just maybe—he was ready for that.

  He went back to the office with the glass of Perrier, sat down, and plugged the stick drive into his computer.

  It was encrypted. “Merde.” Why would the ambassador give him something that he couldn’t open? He didn’t have the man’s number to call and ask.

  Maybe it was obvious. He could try a few things, like Sophie’s birthday, the name of her dog . . . He cracked his knuckles and went to work.

  Chapter Thirty

  Raveaux

  Raveaux began with the obvious things he knew about Sophie: her name. Her birthday, which he’d gleaned off a glimpse of her license. Momi’s name and birthday.

  The drive opened for Armita, the name of Momi’s nanny.

  “Not too secure,” Raveaux muttered. “But also, not something just anyone would know. He meant for me to be able to access it.”

  Raveaux clicked on the folder icon that was the only content listed on the stick drive.

  Inside were several sub-folders. He clicked on the one labeled News, and scanned copies of articles detailing the bombing death of Todd Remarkian, the Australian co-owner of Security Solutions, a handsome blond in his mid-thirties who bore a distinct resemblance to Connor, the man who’d hijacked the helicopter to rescue Sophie and Jake.

  The back of Raveaux’s neck prickled. Remarkian was supposed to have died in an explosion!

  One of the articles implied that Sheldon Hamilton, the Aussie man’s partner and founder of Security Solutions, was wanted for questioning in the incident, but was “overseas indefinitely.”

  He opened another folder, marked FBI Case File.

  Atop the case file was a publicity-type portrait of Sheldon Hamilton, a good-looking brunet man who wore a suit well. Hamilton had dark eyes, wore stylish glasses, and sported a small, tidy goatee. As he skimmed the case notes, it appeared that Hamilton was suspected of being an online cyber vigilante whose signature was using tech to pit criminals against one another, usually with lethal results.

  More documents dealt with a Security Solutions case gone badly wrong in Thailand. Six men had been killed in an attempt to rescue Sophie Smithson’s newborn baby from an inland stronghold run by an organization called the Yām Khûmkạn. Though Sheldon Hamilton’s remains had not been recovered, this incident was the last time the Security Solutions owner and CEO had been seen alive.

  Pictures of rough jungle graves, one hole containing decomposing bodies and the other containing skulls, attested to death by decapitation.

  The photos were watermarked CIA.

  A bill of lading—the bodies had been recovered by CIA operatives and shipped back to the United States at Security Solutions’ expense.

  The families had been paid handsomely from an insurance policy.

  An application to have Sheldon Hamilton declared legally dead was the last document in the file—signed by Sophie.

  How had the ambassador gotten hold of these documents? And why had he given them to Raveaux? He was definitely going to have to have a conversation with Sophie’s father.

  Raveaux had to get up and go refresh his Perrier and lime. He paced around the small apartment in agitation, swirling ice cubes in his cut crystal glass.

  Since he’d been working for Security Solutions, Sophie had been President and CEO of the company, with Kendall Bix as President of Operations. He’d had no idea there’d been some kind of management shakeup beforehand. How had she ended up where she was? What did he really know about Sophie Smithson?

  He sat down and resumed his perusal of the files, this time clicking on a sub-file marked Internal Security Solutions Docs.

  A copy of a business memo internal document for Security Solutions declared Sophie Smithson owner, President and CEO of the company. It was signed by Sheldon Hamilton.

  “So, he appointed her himself,” Raveaux said aloud. “But who tried to take Sophie’s baby, and why? And how did she get the infant back?” He flipped the pages detailing the retrieval of the bodies from the jungle. “Someone, somewhere, made a deal. The CIA doesn’t randomly help out security firms whose operations go wrong.” But there was no further information on the baby’s recovery, or Sophie’s role in it.

  Raveaux had made his way through all of the documents in the file, and he was way too agitated to sleep. What he needed was a good long swim. He could think about all of this while he did laps.

  Raveaux discharged the stick drive after saving its contents to his secure cloud storage account. He crushed the drive using a meat hammer, and then ran the chip for a moment in the garbage disposal for good measure.

  He then changed into a sleek European swim suit paired with a long-sleeved nylon shirt. The water off Waikiki was warm, even at night, but Raveaux was lean, and quickly got chilled in the cool evening air. He picked up his goggles and towel and slipped outside, closing and locking the slider behind him.

  The area in front of the hotels and condos was well-lit as usual. Tourists walked along the concrete aisle, talking and laughing. Couples holding hands meandered by. Families, yelling at tired kids, made their way back to their accommodations after restaurant dinners. The air smelled of grilling meat, sunscreen and flowers.

  Waikiki was an entirely artificial environment in which to dwell, as if he lived in Disneyland as a part of an exhibit. Yet being here, in this artificially happy bubble, had been good. Everyone around him was on vacation, enjoying their lives, making memories. Raveaux was an observer, not a participant, but that didn’t mean that the collective joy of a Hawaiian vacation didn’t somehow rub its glow onto him.

  He lived here. He never had to go home to a cold, ugly apartment in a city somewhere, or wake up to a job he dreaded. He had left everything known and familiar so as not to be reminded of his losses—and he liked his life, his work, this setting, and his routine.

  Even if it was a little lonely now and then.

  The sand was still warm on Raveaux’s feet as he left the strip of lawn and ornamental plantings on the other side of his deck area. He slipped the door key into his suit’s pocket, stowed his towel beside a large white head of coral, and then walked down into the sea.

  The beach was a gentle half-moon of sheltered, calm water. The surf was further out, breaking white on an outside barrier reef. Raveaux had wondered about stingrays or crabs underfoot, but a careful snorkeling pass during the daytime had shown nothing but a soft sandy bottom and an occasional lizardfish, poking its camouflaged head up from the sand in hopes of passing prey. Raveaux walked forward boldly, though the water was inky around his legs.

  The ocean’s surface shifted and gleamed in reflected light from the high-rises, a cool embrace on his skin as he slid on his goggles and sank under. He swam parallel to shore, warming up with a gentle breaststroke, watching the pageantry of the buildings: people on their balconies, people carrying drinks to the beach, people seated on the decks of restaurants and hotels. Everywhere, the mellow sound of Hawaiian music, the chatter of happy voices.

  Raveaux moved into freestyle swim. His arms sliced smoothly through the water; he turned his head to breathe on every other stroke.

  And he mulled over the file.

  Who was the mysterious Connor? Why had he faked his death? And what was his connection to Sheldon Hamilton, the legally dead billionaire CEO of Security Solutions? What was the connection between Connor, and Jake and Sophie? To guess by Nine’s ethnicity and their language usage, he and Connor had some connection to Thailand, and likely this Yām Khûmkạn organization.

  Raveaux could ask Sophie what the connection was—ask her to explain all of this—but then she would know her father had given him the file. Clearly, Frank Smithson hadn’t wanted Sophie to know Raveaux had
received it. Why?

  No. He couldn’t talk to Sophie about it yet. His next step had to be reaching out to the Ambassador, and finding out what the man wanted him to do with the information he’d been given.

  One thing he knew for sure: a blond Australian businessman named Todd Remarkian was not actually dead. That man, using an assumed name, had gone to extreme lengths to help rescue Sophie and Jake: and then, to make sure he didn’t have to account to anyone for doing so.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Connor

  Connor slept heavily on the Learjet back to Thailand, barely waking to eat or drink something that Nine forced upon him. Lying back on his recliner bed after one of these meals, Connor reflected on the events of the last day on the Big Island.

  The mission had been a success. He’d gotten in, gotten Sophie and Jake out, and escaped relatively undetected. He’d even gotten away with hijacking Agno’s chopper—he’d had the man drop him off directly at the private airstrip, where the Lear had been fueled up and ready to go, and as far as he could tell, Agno had kept quiet about the whole operation.

  So why did he feel so drained? His internal resources were depleted to the point that, when he raised a hand to look at it, his energy field, normally a bright glowing gold, had gone a sickly, transparent yellow.

  Perhaps it was that he hated to have to leave Sophie—without a word of goodbye, and Jake so close to death.

  But Raveaux would look out for her. The Frenchman was already halfway in love with her.

  And if the worst happened and Jake died, Connor would bring her to his private island of Phi Ni, which had always been a source of healing and rejuvenation for both of them. She could stay as long as she wanted.

  If only Connor could go to Phi Ni now, instead of back to the Yām Khûmkạn compound—but the Master had had to return to the compound to cover for his trip. He would not take kindly to Connor wasting his time.