director’s chuckle rippled through the line.
“So you’ve taken up mind reading now, too?”
Jack grinned wryly. “Truthfully, sir, when was the last time you called just to chat?”
“Point taken,” the director said. “What I need is for you to pack for an undetermined stay in Montana. You will receive a packet tomorrow morning, including a plane ticket to a small town called Braden.”
Everything went through Jack’s mind, from militia-based groups to terrorists.
“Yes, sir. What am I facing?”
“Oh…I’d say at least a week, maybe more, at a fine old hotel called Abbott House. The air is clean. There aren’t any golf courses or rivers in which to fish, but I hear the scenery is great.”
“Sir?”
The director chuckled again. “Not what you expected, is it?”
“No, sir, but I’m certain you’re about to fill me in.”
The director sighed. “Yes, well…as Paul Harvey always says…‘now for the rest of the story.’ Two days ago, a set of prints from a dead man came through NCIC that didn’t match up with any we had on file.”
“I don’t get it,” Jack said. “Surely you aren’t wanting me to establish an identity? That’s a job for a homicide detective.”
“Let me finish,” the director said.
“Sorry,” Jack said.
“Yes, well, this is where it gets weird. The body was discovered in Brighton Beach.”
“Isn’t that the place they call Little Russia?”
“Some do, I believe,” the director said. “At any rate, I understand that because of the large number of immigrants in that area of Brooklyn, that from time to time when a situation warrants, the police also send prints through Interpol as a means of speeding up identification.”
A puddle had formed on the floor where Jack was standing, so he dropped the towel from around his waist, put his foot in the middle of the towel and began swiping at the water while he continued to listen.
“Yes, sir, but I still don’t—”
“I’m getting there,” the director said. “The thing is…the prints rang a bell at Interpol. A really big bell.”
Suddenly, the hair stood on the back of Jack’s neck.
“How big?”
“The prints belong to a Russian scientist named Vaclav Waller.”
“And?”
“Vaclav Waller died in a plane crash off the coast of Florida over thirty years ago.”
Jack kicked aside the wet towel and headed for the back of the house to get some clothes.
“But he’s dead now, right?”
“Oh yes, he’s dead, all right. I sent a man directly to Brighton Beach as soon as the prints were flagged. Trouble is…they’d already identified the man as Frank Walton of Braden, Montana. Had a credit card number and everything from the hotel where he’d been staying.”
Jack took a pair of sweats from the dresser and pulled them on with one hand as his boss continued.
“But…” the director added “…when my man ran a background check on the card owner, guess what he found?”
Jack dropped to the side of the bed.
“What?”
“The social security number the dead man was using belonged to a man named Frank Walton, only that Frank Walton died in 1955 at the age of twenty-four.”
“So we’ve got a dead Russian pretending to be a dead American who’s just died. Is that about it?”
The director’s appreciation for the humor of the situation was suddenly missing.
“That’s it, Jack, and I want to know what the hell is going on. The man who called himself Frank Walton has been living at a place called Abbott House for years. I want you in that hotel, and I want some answers to what the hell that man was up to. Considering Waller’s background, there could have been a lot more to his disappearance than just defecting. However, I don’t want you showing up there as FBI. For all intents and purposes, you are a man on vacation.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep me updated on what you learn.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh…and Jack.”
“Sir?”
“You could send me a postcard.”
Jack grinned as the line went dead.
3
It was fifteen minutes after two in the afternoon when Jack pulled his rental car into the parking lot of Abbott House. He parked and got out, stretching as he stood. A twinge of pain rippled across his belly from his still healing ribs, but the cool, rain-washed air felt good on his face. He got out his bag and headed for the door, noting absently that the place looked deserted, but when he walked inside, a short, middle-aged woman looked up from behind the desk and smiled.
“Welcome to Abbott House.”
Jack nodded as he dropped his bag and pulled out his wallet.
“I’d like a room please.”
“For two?” she asked, looking past him toward the door.
“No, just me,” Jack answered and wondered why the woman looked surprised.
“Yes, sir, and how long will you be staying?”
“A week, maybe more,” Jack said. “I’m doing some research in the area.”
“Research?” the woman asked.
“For a book.”
“Oooh, a writer, how interesting,” she said. “Most of our guests are here because of the clinic, you know.”
“What kind of clinic would that be?”
“White Mountain Clinic. It’s a fertility clinic for women.”
“I see.” Then he gestured toward the parking lot. “Doesn’t look like there’s much business today. I thought the place was closed when I drove up.”
The clerk’s face fell. “Oh…that’s because everyone is at the funeral. So sad.”
Jack’s interest kicked in. “Someone local, I assume.”
She blinked back tears. “Yes, one of our residents, Franklin Walton. He’d lived here for many, many years, and his death was so unexpected.” She leaned across the counter and lowered her voice. “He was murdered.” Then she added, “But not here, of course. Braden is a quiet little town. Nothing like that ever happens here, thank God. The tragedy is that it’s so soon after Dr. Abbott’s passing. Isabella is distraught, as we all are.”
Jack knew the name Franklin Walton. The man was the reason he was here. But he didn’t know who Isabella was, and the Abbott name meant nothing to him other than the name of the hotel.
“Dr. Abbott? Was he the owner of this hotel?”
She nodded. “Yes, but he and Dr. Schultz and Dr. Arnold also founded White Mountain Fertility Clinic. Most of the people who come to the clinic for help also stay here at Abbott House.”
“I see,” Jack said.
“I’ll need to see a credit card, sir.”
Jack pulled one out of his wallet and laid it on