The Book of Turns: Book 7 of the Peacetaker Series

By Edita A. Petrick

A parish priest is found murdered in a small community church in Wyoming, a victim of a cleverly-staged home invasion. The event, while disturbing, is not sensationalistic enough to last in local newspapers longer than a day. A few hours later, further upstate on a shabby dude ranch that's in financial trouble, a guest is found dead in his cabin. The ranch owners take everything the guest had that could be of value, before calling the sheriff. When the death is ruled to be natural causes, and no one steps forward to claim the body, the case all but fades into obscurity.

Two years later, the FBI is frantically searching for Carter and Stella, because the bizarre and tabloid-worthy events that had been happening these past two years, have reached a boiling point. Rivers changing course and campsites relocated clear across the lake could be explained through climate shift and vandalism. A war veteran who lost his leg in the service of his country and then woke up one morning with both legs healthy and functioning as these have not in a long time, can be attributed to questionable experimental procedures.  A woman inheriting a fortune from a phantom relative could be just a great scam—or a hoax. But when several distinguished experts examine a medieval manuscript that has been re-written in modern-techno language, as authentic, the world and its media begin to take notice. And when someone in the National Archives wonders abstractedly what would happen if one day Washington woke up to find the Declaration of Independence re-written in a similar manner, things start hopping and all the security agencies in the country go on high-alert.

It's this last event that brings the FBI Special Agent Saunders to England, to come sit down in a roadside diner across the table from his friend Carter, and insist that he and Stella cut their vacation short because the world is on the brink of global catastrophe. What is happening is simply…not of this world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edita A. Petrick
• Release date: May 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393019060

Edita A. Petrick

I'm a writer. That's all that can be said here. I love writing and I absolutely hate marketing. It just goes to show you where your natural talents lie. Writing comes easy. Marketing...that's something I will be learning until the day I die. All I can say about my books is that they're meant to entertain.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Cayampa Hill, Colorado

September, 2015

He smoothed the black clerical shirt down the man’s chest with two fingers, then rubbed them together. His fingertips remained dry. There was hardly any blood around the wound. Then again, the kraton handle still sat atop the man’s chest. Its blade was buried deep; it was invisible and like most things one could not see coming—deadly. He’d used the double-edged combat knife because he needed a good grip. He only planned to thrust the blade once—straight into the heart. It would be left there too, though it was tempting to pull it out and see the blood seep out of the mortal wound. There wouldn’t be any fingerprints. He’d ‘laminated’ his hands before he got into his SUV to make the drive to northern Colorado. The insanely expensive compound lasted three days, even if he washed his hands…carefully.

He looked down at the man, prone on the paper-strewn floor. He’d remained standing straight for several seconds when the blade pierced his heart. His eyes kept widening. Whether from shock or disbelief, it was hard to tell. When he finally fell, it was backward. His body landed on the floor ramrod straight. Was that a sign of something…?

He shook his head. Enough of reflections. Time to get to work.

The apartment was like the man’s ambitions—small and furnished with stuff that came from yard sales. The rickety book cases were crammed full of books. He’d already ripped pages from a few and tossed them around. The impression of home invasion had to be stamped into the crime scene. The Sheriff’s office and its Wellington Squad weren’t firecrackers, but the sergeant and his five deputies had to possess some useful training that would allow them to process the crime scene correctly—just the way he wanted it. Three biker gangs in the Denver area were known to venture as far north as Norfolk when scouting new digs. The old Martinez farm around Graves Creek was rumored to be number one consideration on the list. It wouldn’t be a stretch to consider that one of them had dropped by the Cayampa Plains Community Church—and saw its door open. An invitation—it’s what the churches were renowned for.

He took out a tape recorder and put it on the picnic table that seemed to have served as an office desk and a dining table. It was an old cassette-style tool. He could have bought a digital voice recorder, but he hated to part with something that had worked so well for so long. Reliability these days was hard to come by.

He pressed play. The old lady’s voice was smooth and sweet—like honey. She could read a page full of foulest curses and her voice alone would put a smile on the listener’s face. She was that good. It’s why he used her for all his recording needs. Her age was her anonymity. No cop would ever guess the speaker was eighty-six—or that she lived in a log cabin, a mile along the Farmer’s Loop, in Fairbanks, Alaska. Her backyard was a noisy, soggy mess, like any other waterfowl breeding grounds. Her voice…ahh, pure bliss.

One of the job requirements is to dress all in black. A black jacket over black turtleneck and black trousers. There are no conditions on choice of footwear. It has been confirmed that the subject has the artifact and keeps it on the premises. It is not necessary to question the subject and in fact it is forbidden. Speedy removal is preferred. The artifact is a circular object, approximately twenty-four inches in diameter. It is metallic, most likely copper, but it could be any other type of metal that can withstand high temperatures. It could be a disk or dish or both. It may appear to be scuffed or even have a patina as a result of oxidation. The one most important distinguishing feature the artifact will possess is a series of tightly packed concentric rings, or microgrooves. For all intents and purposes, it will appear as if you were looking at an LP—a vinyl record format. The artifact must be left in whatever condition it is found. It should not be dusted or cleaned in any way. It should be wrapped in soft flannel cloth—cotton, nothing synthetic—and stored in the wooden box that will be provided to you when you accept and confirm this contract. The box should be kept on a flat surface. Excessive cold, heat or humidity should be avoided. Normal climatic conditions are preferable, as is the normal handling of the container. You are to deliver the artifact to the Hangar Suite at the Casper International, in Wyoming. Once you have obtained the artifact, notify the contract office by regular means; delivery and hand-over details will be communicated to you within twenty-four hours. There was a slight, calculated pause and then the punch-line came. The current holder of the artifact must be neutralized but his body must remain on the premises—untouched.

Untouched—as in not to search the body. And how would the client know if he searched anything on a job? In this case, even the police wouldn’t know. It was going to go down as a home invasion.

He blew a cloud of stale air. He always ended up holding his breath while listening to the old lady’s voice. He almost came to believe her voice cast a spell upon him. She was a pro. She interpreted all his marks and scribbles on the pages correctly and delivered the script just the way he wanted it. Still, the instructions were needlessly long. All he ever needed, on any given contract, was the descriptive sentence that the client put down. The artifact is a circular object, approximately twenty-four inches in diameter. It could be a disk, or dish or both. The rest…was nice to know, but immaterial. He knew what to do. He wasn’t a novice at acquisition of antiquities. Besides, he had transcribed the original instructions that came on a thumb drive, then listened to them a dozen times.

Well then, it is circular and on the premises, he said, turning around. Raising both hands, he smoothed his top knot. A hair strand out of place might distract him at the worst possible time. Then again, he had all the time in the world to look for the artifact. Up here, the term ‘first-responders’ was an alien topic. The first ones on the scene will probably be parishioners.

Books, books and more books, he said, when he turned around half a dozen times. And none of them circular. The artifact is also metallic…so let’s move away from this dismal paper empire and into the…. He stopped. To call the six-foot bank of cabinets with a sink and a hot-plate a ‘kitchen’ would have been travesty.

Galley, he found a word that fit, albeit not all that well either. Two wooden boxes stacked atop each other could have once been apple crates. Just because someone screwed on a handle did not transform them into kitchen cabinets. He opened the cupboard doors with care, though chances that they were booby-trapped were low. Once on a job, when he grew inattentive and yanked a cupboard door open, a boxing glove injected with hardening compound swished at him and knocked him out cold. He burned the place down from sheer embarrassment. Three plates, two cups, five glasses and two bowls begged to be tossed, so he obliged. There was little fear that the noise of smashing glass and earthenware would alert the neighbors. The east side neighbor was two miles down the road. The west side was a cemetery that had not seen any business activity for at least a hundred years. He emptied both cupboards but didn’t find anything metallic. The next came the drawers, filled with metal but once again, none of it circular. Not even the spoons were circular they were so old and so beat up, misshapen.

He turned his attention to the six-foot bank of cabinets. He started to take out the cereal boxes and little biscuit bins, one by one, but soon grew frustrated. The rest of the contents started to fly in all directions. He threw jars and cans, cups and bowls, boxes and bins—everything he could get his hands on sailed through the air and landed on the paper-strewn floor. Strangely enough, nothing he threw into the main apartment space landed on the corpse on the floor. It was as if the man’s possessions, tossed every which way, had respect for their deceased owner and avoided landing on his dead body.

A thought he did not want to entertain on any job started to break up his concentration. His anger had long fractured his resolve to find the damn artifact.

What if the client set me up? The thought coursed through his head, unimpeded by his determination to block it.

It has never happened to him…but it was possible.

The bottom cabinets held more dishes and pans. He knelt down and took them out, one by one, sorting them in the process. Ceramic and Pyrex pans on one side, the cooking pots and frying pans on the other. When there was nothing left in the cabinet, he sat on the floor and started looking over the pots and pans. There was only one frying pan that came close to having a twenty-four-inch diameter. It looked neither old nor new…just used and ordinary. But the metal was copper-colored, though its surface was dull from frequent scouring. The handle had wooden inserts for insulation and a rather thick copper-colored bottom.

He rose and hefted the pan in his hand. It could be used as a weapon but probably not by a woman. It was too heavy to wield, much less swing around. He walked to the table and swept it clean of whatever clutter there was. Using both hands, he turned the pan upside down and put it on the table. At first, he didn’t see anything but blackened copper surface scratched and scored through regular use over an open flame. An image of a camp fire flashed through his head. He saw a Kleenex box where his ‘housecleaning’ had swept it to the floor and pulled out a tissue. Moistening it very slightly with his tongue, he rubbed the black smudge near the edge. He expected to see a clean spot of metal but not brilliant shine—indeed a blinding sparkle. He nodded, as if to affirm something to himself, and went to look for a dishcloth. He didn’t find one, so he just ripped down one side of the curtains over the kitchen window. He squirted some dish soap into the sink, ran water, soaked the cloth then wrung it.

It occurred to him that he might get a better result if he just soaked the pan in the dishwater, but he’d already decided to wipe it clean with the rag. Later, if it still needed cleaning….

The spot that shocked him with its brilliance was still shiny, albeit not throwing off sparks. He thought of continuing where he left off but that sparkle had surprised him; even unsettled him. He picked a spot on the flat bottom, diagonally across from the one he’d cleaned, and squinted in anticipation of intense brightness, but the earlier experience did not repeat itself.

Well, then, he said out loud and proceeded to vigorously clean the pan’s bottom. Whether he’d rubbed off the patina that came as a result of oxidation over a long time, or just soot and dirt that had baked on to the pan over the years of use, the surface underneath emerged merely clean—and not even shiny clean either. There was no evidence of the earlier sparkle and strange brilliance. There was, however, clear evidence of grooves—microgrooves. The concentric circles were tightly packed together. He thought the surface looked more like a cross-section of a thousand-year-old tree than a vinyl LP. The client’s instructions were to leave the artifact untouched. He would have obeyed—except he didn’t touch any artifact. He touched a frying pan and one that had been in use for some time. Its previous owner was a slob who didn’t bother washing it after each and every cooking event. Therefore, someone had to. There was nothing abnormal about a frying pan that had been scoured clean.

He grabbed the only chair in the place, flipped it around and sat down. A few seconds later, he took out his smartphone. It would not have surprised him to see the eight-hundred thousand dollars gone from his account. In fact, he had expected it. Yet the money was still there. He started to pick up the pan then changed his mind and spent five minutes taking snapshots of it with his cell phone. Instinct told him that it was the copper bottom that was of interest, not the rest of the metallic cooking dish.

Why would a hundred and fifty-year-old chemical giant, like ARFEX, that dominated the chemical industry on a global scale, be interested in a mundane frying pan? He looked down at the body.

And how did you get hold of it in the first place? he asked out loud. His eyes went to the dead man on the floor and then to the frying pan. It rested upside down on the rickety wooden table, as clean as it probably had been in a long, long time. An artifact worth eight hundred thousand dollars...? Was it for the ordinary copper dish or the dead man on the floor? Neither seem to him to be worth that kind of money.

He rose, walked over to the body and knelt down. The man’s face was like the rest of him—unremarkable. He snapped a photo with his cell phone precisely because if pressed to describe the victim, all he’d be able to say was that he shaved—regularly. The white plastic clerical collar contrasted with its black surroundings. For some reason, it bothered him. His job demanded that he blend in, not stand out. He looked away because he really didn’t like the sight of the white strip and saw the man’s hand on the floor, palm up and open. The other hand was a mirror of its mate.

Almost, he said softly and leaned over the left hand to be able to see that which made it different. The four-leaf clover, tattooed on the fleshy part of the palm just below the thumb, could be a definition of irony. Did the ‘luck’ aspect ever work for the man, and if so, why did it run out today? He looked closer without touching the hand. Maybe it wasn’t a symbol of luck; the tattoo was old and faded. It could have been something else when new…maybe a number eight, twinned in vertical and horizontal…? Eight was lucky in many cultures, but its luck too had an expiration date. He snapped a few shots of the tattoo, out of curiosity and then set to do a thorough search of the man’s pockets. The search yielded a small folded square of paper. He unfolded it carefully and put it on the man’s chest, inches away from the kraton blade planted in his heart. It was a long list of names. He counted twenty. None looked familiar. He would have to check them out…were the names connected to the frying pan or the dead man on the floor?

He folded the paper back to its original size and put it in the silver box where he kept his benazepril meds. Then it was time to leave the depressing environment and head up to Wyoming to deliver the ‘artifact.’ What was it about the ordinary dish that a chemical behemoth like ARFEX valued?

He leaned over the pan but saw nothing else than what emerged when he cleaned it. Copper bottom with nicks and scratches in it—normal from using it the way it was meant to be used…for cooking. The concentric rings were faint. Were they fading? He touched a spot about an inch away from the edge and waited. Nothing happened. His senses were telling him that he was touching metal and nothing else.

He decided to trace a groove just to see if he could actually follow it. His finger barely moved, rubbing the surface, when his surroundings rippled. It was as if the dingy room where he stood had been cut in half by a giant knife. His periphery remained the same but the front view that opened up for him was…unreal.

His eyes took in whatever it was that opened up for him, but his brain refused to process the scene—and what it meant. He looked down. His left foot had remained in the unaffected half of his surroundings, while his right foot had moved forward, intending to step—into another world; another dimension for all he knew. Slowly, his brain began to process what the eyes were feeding him. To call the rutted dirt and gravel strip a street would have been a euphemism. You wouldn’t find such a sorry-looking dirt road even in Alaska. The only thing that defined it as a street were dwellings. He could not rightfully call them houses because houses usually had upstanding walls and roofs. These structures were crumbling ruins at best. Some had bits and pieces of roofs left; he saw a blackened roof truss here and there. The jagged holes in the walls could have been windows but he rather doubted it. Whatever had gone down here was recent. The protruding bricks and heaps of rubble were fresh; it had not even rained on them yet because he saw small puffs of dust rise when a brick or piece of masonry fell down. An odd detail made him turn his head a fraction of a degree. The street sloped upward then curved to the right. It afforded him a view of the doorways. Two or three were just yawning holes, but a couple had a covered entrance. Except he could not decide whether they were barn doors, tavern doors or gates.

Suddenly a strange squeaking, rattling sound rushed into his ears. He feared to move. So far it had all played for him in silence. Then again, a loud hallucination would have made him jump backward and the scene would have been lost.

Taking shallow breaths, he strained his eyes, but it was still a good ten seconds before he saw the source of the noise.

You’ve got to be shitting me…. He did not mean for the sentiment to sound. It just escaped. Coming down the street, heading toward him, crunching and pulverizing gravel with its iron caterpillars was a tank. The deep crevices in the unpaved street made the tank bounce and tilt. It’s when he saw the iron cross. Two of them. Both insignia sat on the turret, side by side. The markings looked identical—a black cross outlined in white. Lower down was a number: 538 and another iron cross, larger this time. The gun barrel looked impossibly long—and lethal. The death machine was almost the same color as the dust and gravel covering the street—sand beige.

He had seen tanks—in movies. The one rattling toward him belonged in a museum. Then again, so did the view that assaulted his eyes. Why was he hallucinating this historical war scene and what was it that his fingers had absorbed through touch?

He took a deep breath, held it to the count of three and then quickly stepped backward. He did not want to be run over by a hallucination. He expected it to follow him—and change into something else equally ludicrous. Most hallucinogenic substances did not ‘burn off’ in a matter of minutes. Much to his surprise, his surroundings changed back to the shabby room with a dead body after only a slight ripple effect.

He exhaled. Well now, what exactly did a chemical giant like ARFEX develop—and probably lose to piracy, hence the need for his services? The artifact story was bullshit. Whatever the coating compound on the frying pan, it was powerful enough to penetrate through the lamination on his fingertips. Eight hundred thousand dollars was not nearly enough to recover a substance that obviously had psychological warfare applications. It was time to leave with the ‘artifact’ and spend a few hours doing research. He had accepted the contract without doing due diligence. But there was still time to correct the near-mistake.

CHAPTER TWO

The Fire Creek Dude Ranch, Carbon County, Wyoming

September 2015

The young ranch hand rubbed his open hand up and down the side of his jeans before accepting the offered envelope. He flipped it over a couple of times. The expression on his face showed that he was perhaps expecting to see some change in the plain white paper. Finally, he shrugged and stuck a finger behind the flap and opened it.

He took out a slip of paper and stared at it for a long time. He tipped his head to the left and to the right as if the motion would drain from his head something ugly and unwanted through his ears.

This not enough to cover the last month or the month before that, he said reflectively.

I know I owe you money, Taylor, but we’ve talked about this. I’m still waiting for six accounts to come in. That family we had here for three weeks, riding and fishing, from back east, the Bensons—they owe the bulk of the money that’s coming in. The moment I see the money in the account….

Taylor interrupted. Nah, Miz Naylord, the money from east came before those folks came to ride and fish. I’ve been here since May, hardly a weekend off. You owe me three months of wages. I’ll give you a month, and if the money doesn’t arrive at my grandma’s place in Boulder, I’ll report you to the Dude Ranchers’ Association. He tipped his hand to his forehead, reached down and picked up his knapsack, and without waiting for June to reply, walked toward a beat-up pick-up truck.

The dust had long settled after the young man’s angry departure and June Naylord remained rooted on the spot, mouth pursed in a thinking ‘o’.

How’d he take it? A voice interrupted her reflection.

Not well. How did you think he would take it, Phil? June spun around, her words punishing the man who had walked up to her.

Phil Naylord grimaced then shrugged. I guess I hoped he’d see the reason.

June groaned. Oh, he saw the reason; he just didn’t like being owed money. He threatened to report us to the Dude Ranchers’ Association.

Wouldn’t be the first time, Phil remarked.

No, it wouldn’t, Phil, but it sure as hell would be the last time. Even if I went back to my veterinary practice, we’d still barely make it through this coming winter. We’re down to three horses and they sure as hell will get fed first before you do.

We’ve still got almost three weeks left before we close up the season. We could book a couple of riding tours…. Phil started.

June swished her hand in front of his face. Riding tours—now there’s a novel idea for a working dude ranch. Except we have no tack, so how are the city mom and pop and their chauffeur-driven darling going to ride—bareback?

What happened to the tack…? Phil Naylord’s expression froze in sheer disbelief.

What happened? How do you think I could cut that check to Taylor Malpeck?

You sold the tack to pay Taylor…?

I’d have sold the horses, Phil, if that wouldn’t advertise to the whole damn county that we’re broke and out of business, June sneered at her husband.

Phil started backing away from his wife, his hand tugging the kerchief tied around his throat. So, what are we supposed to say to the guy in number four? he stammered.

What guy in number four? June’s tone turned business-cold.

Came in last night; you were in Rawlins. Normal looking enough fellow, except for his top knot. Made him look like some kind of samurai. I put him in cabin four. It’s the only one with all the light bulbs working.

Where’s his car? What did he come in? June turned her head but there was nothing to see except empty cattle grazing field, a fence that needed repairs, a water trough that was there more for decoration than functionality, and four shabby wooden cabins. The Fire Creek Dude Ranch website pitched the cabins as ‘rustic and romantic’. June had used the picture that she’d found among her uncle’s possessions, showing the cabins and the ranch when Fire Creek was a fresh new concept in Carbon County.

He drove up in a nice truck. One of them GMC SUVs. We looked at them down in Denver a couple of years ago.

Then where is it? June asked with less intensity as if realizing that alienating her husband right now was not a smart move.

Phil Naylord smiled as if tasting honey. He didn’t want it…to get dusty out here. He parked it way back there, behind the cabin, in the bushes.

He’s hiding. June said.

Sure is, but I don’t think he’s dangerous. I took down his driver’s license. He’s from out of state, Nevada; some kind of preacher, Phil said.

Preacher—out here? June was skeptical.

Meditation—peace and quiet. We’ve got plenty of that here. I pitched it to him that way. He prepaid for a week—all cash. He said he might take a few riding lessons too; relaxation….

Well, he’s going to have to settle for fishing—unless he wants to ride bare back. How much?

A thousand bucks.

June smiled. Hmm, did you tell him he can have breakfast all day long?

I tried to, but he wasn’t listening much. He looked tired. He asked if we had wi-fi. I told him he could get it but it wasn’t free. He didn’t seem to care. I told him we’d talk in the morning. I was heading out to the cabin when I saw you cross paths with Taylor.

This cabin had a good lock on it, June observed when she went for the door knob on cabin number four and the door creaked open on its hinges.

Sure did, Phil said, crowding her from behind. Call out; don’t want him to think we’re burglars.

What’s his name? June asked.

Stanley Sawyer, from Pioche, Lincoln County, Nevada.

Mr. Sawyer, sorry to bother you. It’s June Naylord, your hostess, June said loudly. My husband, Phil tells me you checked in last night…hello? Are you in? June took a couple of steps then turned and waved her husband inside. The cabin wasn’t small, but it wasn’t suite-sized either. The tourist season on the ranch ran from May to end of September, so there was no need for a fireplace. A small pot-bellied stove stood on a brick platform just off the kitchenette. There was a rustic-looking table, four wooden vintage chairs and a wooden lattice partition separating the ‘living’ area from the sleeping portion of the cabin.

Phil crept up to his wife and nudged her in the shoulder. His travel bag’s on the floor. He’s got to be still asleep.

And his laptop is on the table, June murmured, running a finger along the slim black notebook. Mr. Sawyer, it’s your hosts, the Naylords. If you want to take a shower, you have to come to the main house…Mr. Sawyer…? She tiptoed the last few steps to be able to peek around the lattice partition. Mr. Sawyer…?

June, he’s fully dressed and he’s not moving, Phil’s constricted voice sounded behind her.

June took a few more steps. Mr. Sawyer, she said loudly, leaning over the fully dressed man, lying diagonally across the double bed. She waited a few seconds then carefully pinched the sleeve cuff and lifted the arm. She let go immediately. The arm fell down.

He’s dead, Phil’s horrified whisper seemed to expand in volume until it swallowed the whole room.

Stiff already, June said, wiping her hand into her jeans. Must have kicked the bucket just after he settled down. Where are you going? She called after her retreating husband.

Call the sheriff…they’ve got to….

June walked over to her husband, roughly grabbed his arm and dragged him to the table. She kicked a chair from under it and then pushed him down on it. Now, you listen to me, Phil Naylord, the last thing we need now is this kind of shit to hit the news in Rawlins and the tourist roadside stands.

But we have to call the sheriff…can’t cover it up and besides, it’s not like it’s our fault, Phil said.

We will call the sheriff—just not yet. Let me think this through. We’ve got to protect ourselves, our business here, June said, fingering her chin.

What’s there to protect? You said we won’t last the winter; we’re broke. We can’t even offer a trail ride, never mind riding lessons. We’ve no one left to take a group on overnight camping and fishing excursion…not unless we pack a barrel full of trout. Phil tried to get up and was pushed down by his wife again.

I said let me think this one through. Search him, she nodded in the direction of the dead man sprawled on a bed.

Phil shrank away. I’m not searching him. Leave him be, June. Let’s call the sheriff.

Fine. I’ll search him, you go through his bags; see what’s in them.

The sheriff’s people will know… Phil started to object.

Know what, for heaven’s sake? He’s a guest. He checked in, and you gave him a key to this cabin. He unpacked—or at least opened up his bag and rifled through it. It’s what our ranch guests do, Phil.

He paid us a thousand bucks, Phil mumbled.

June turned around. You know what, find his car keys and then go out there and search his truck. We’re not stealing anything. We just want to know…what he’s got, where he’s from—go, go, she urged him impatiently when he held out a key chain with a clicker and some keys.

Ten minutes later, Phil came back. It’s just a nice truck, June. There’s not much in it. And it’s a rental out of Pueblo. I found the rental agreement in the glove compartment. It’s got his name on it.

You said he was from Nevada, June observed.

His driver’s license says Nevada but the truck’s plate’s Colorado. What did you find?

Just junk that we can’t take, June said, visibly dismayed.

Take?

Oh, for crying out loud—take as in money or even jewelry; something that might be worth something. He’s got this old SONY recorder which might be worth something. We can’t take his credit cards and we can’t take his clothes, not that he’s got much in that bag of his. Found this, though, in the knapsack, June moved the crushproof nylon bag to a side.

A frying pan? Phil waved his hand. So maybe he likes to use his own when he goes camping; we’ve had enough guests like that. Let’s call the sheriff.

I’m keeping the SONY, his laptop too and I’m keeping this so don’t go mentioning it, June shook the cell phone at her husband.

You’ve got a cell phone, Phil objected.

Not as good as this one. It’s a smartphone. I’ll have that kid who works at the Salvo’s Garage and Repair shop up in Rawlins clean it and get me a new sim-card; the laptop too, June said.

I think we should just leave things as they are…. Phil started and stopped when his wife glared at him.

I’m taking this, she tried to lift the frying pan with one hand and ended up using both. Because it’s a nice heavy pan; will last me for years so don’t you go mentioning anything about it to the sheriff’s people, and I’m keeping the recorder, cell phone and the laptop. Now, go up to the main house and make that call, June said.

And what are you going to do? Phil was backing away from his wife.

Just go. I’m going to take a look around again, see if we’ve missed something…useful.

CHAPTER THREE

Portsmouth, UK

Present Day

It’d been four hours since the tall ship sailed out of the Portsmouth Harbor, but Carter stopped by the open French doors to the balcony every time he found an excuse to check another dresser drawer for a missing sock. The hotel’s check-out time was two o’clock. It was now half