Snakes and Ladders Page 19

  Lorna returned from the restroom and climbed gamely back onto the stool. “Whew. I better take a break from the game,” she said.

  “Sounds good to me,” said Philip.

  They discussed the book a bit more—this time without a shot riding on the result—then Lorna asked, “Do you live in Sedona?”

  “Yup.”

  “I hope you don’t think I’m being too forward, but could we go to your place? I’m visiting here with my sister, and she has a guy in our hotel room, and I’m tired of sitting in a bar.”

  “Sure,” said Philip, and he flagged down Zach to pay the bill. As he took Lorna’s elbow to help her off the barstool, Zach wiggled his eyebrows and gave him a thumbs-up. Philip tried to look disapproving.

  They stepped outside into the cool evening air.

  “Are you okay to drive?” she asked.

  “Actually, I don’t have to. I don’t live far.”

  “Excellent,” said Lorna with a smile, and hooked her arm under his.

  By the time they got to the casita, he was starting to feel a little more clearheaded, but it wasn’t to last.

  “I wouldn’t mind another drink,” said Lorna. “Do you have any bourbon here?”

  They dispensed with the Desert Solitaire game, but she downed her first drink as she perused the books and CDs on his shelves. She asked for a refill and he felt obliged to join her. Nearing the end of his seventh drink of the evening, he walked over to where she was examining the jewel case of Incubus’s Morning View and slipped his arms around her waist. She turned with a smile and, with the CD in one hand and her glass in the other, kissed him.

  After a minute, she pulled back with a breathless laugh.

  “Can you excuse me for a minute, Philip? I’ll be right back. I promise.”

  “Sure thing.”

  He showed her where the bathroom was, then went to the kitchen to get a glass of water, hoping to dilute the bourbon a bit. He wished he had made the bed that morning.

  When he got back to the living room, Lorna was there, sitting on the couch with her legs pulled up under her.

  “You look very pretty, Lorna,” he said.

  “Thank you, Philip,” she replied, and laughed. “Listen to us. So formal.”

  He smiled. “Now you’ll have to excuse me for a minute. I’ll be right back. Promise.”

  “I’ll be here,” she said.

  When he got back, she had the bottle of Knob Creek out and was topping off their drinks. She stood as he approached the couch and handed him one of the glasses. “To a lovely evening that I think may be about to get even lovelier,” she said, and tossed back the drink.

  With an internal groan, Philip tossed back his own drink.

  Afterwards, that was the last thing he remembered.

  47

  Mitchell and Millard sat in a rental car on the dark Sedona street, neither one attempting to fill the silence with conversation. Since they had flown out to Phoenix two days before, Mitchell had spent most of the time following Millard around or waiting in the hotel room while Millard hired the prostitute to bring to Sedona—he obviously didn’t believe that Mitchell would be able to find out Elizabeth Ballard’s location without the help of the flunitrazepam. Sure enough, they had had to resort to Lorna’s wiles.

  Millard’s phone buzzed and he pulled it out. “Hello. … He’s out? … Okay, we’ll be there in a minute.” He slipped the phone back into his pocket. “Let’s go.”

  They climbed out of the car, which was parked just down the street from Castillo’s casita.

  Millard pulled his collar up around his face and gestured for Pieda to do the same, then led the way to the driveway. Lights were on in the main house, but Mitchell didn’t see any movement from inside. They went to the front door of the casita and knocked lightly. Lorna opened it and stepped aside to let them in.

  “Where is he?” Millard asked.

  “In the bedroom.”

  Millard raised his eyebrows.

  “Nothing happened. But it didn’t work as fast as you said it would.”

  “How fast?”

  “Maybe five minutes.”

  Millard nodded, then led the way to the bedroom, followed by Lorna and Mitchell.

  Philip slouched in an easy chair next to the bed, his boots on the floor next to him. Millard approached the chair and bent down. Castillo’s eyes didn’t move.

  “He was okay for a couple of minutes after he had the drink I put the pill into,” said Lorna, “then he just kind of … turned off.”

  Millard straightened and gestured Lorna to follow him to the kitchen. Mitchell followed as well. Millard handed Lorna an envelope.

  She counted the bills. “You’re a hundred short.”

  “We said seven hundred.”

  “It’s extra for the time to read the book.”

  Millard rolled his eyes and got two fifties out of his wallet and handed them over.

  She tucked them into her purse. “I should charge you extra for having to throw up the bourbon. I hate throwing up. For that matter, I hate bourbon. Why couldn’t he have been a tequila drinker?” She slung the purse strap over her shoulder and looked toward the bedroom. “What does that pill do?”

  “Nothing you need to worry about,” replied Millard. He took her arm and escorted her to the door. “Back to Phoenix with you.”

  She glanced once more toward the bedroom, appeared about to say something, then shrugged and stepped outside. Millard locked the door behind her, then returned to the bedroom, Mitchell still trailing him.

  “You want to ask him the questions, or do you want me to?” asked Millard.

  “I will,” said Mitchell. He looked around the room. “Can I get a chair?”

  “Sure. There are chairs in the kitchen.”

  Mitchell waited a moment, looking expectantly at Millard. Millard gazed back placidly. With a scowl, Mitchell left the room and returned with a kitchen chair. He put it down in front of Philip and sat.

  “Philip, can you hear me?” he asked.

  He sensed an affirmative response.

  “That’s good. I have some questions for you. Do you know Elizabeth Ballard?”

  He sensed a slight resistance, but Louise’s drug seemed to be doing its work. Again an affirmative response.

  “I see you do,” he said, for Millard’s benefit. “Were you helping Elizabeth and Dr. McNally?”

  Philip stirred slightly. Affirmative.

  “I see you were. Are you the person who disabled George’s car?”

  Mitchell this time got a clear image—a foot holding down a short length of wood, a hammer coming down on a nail.

  “Very clever, Philip,” he said, fighting the urge to glance back at Millard. “So you helped them get away from Sedona. Where did they go next?”

  The picture went fuzzy. An image almost swam into view, just a bright light, then faded.

  “Where did they go next?” repeated Mitchell. “Where did they go when they left Sedona?”

  The bright light again, but this time, in vague outline, an aerial view of a sprawling city.

  After a few moments, Millard said, “Well?”

  “It’s not clear,” he whispered. “I think Phoenix.” In a slightly louder voice, he asked, “Did they go to Phoenix, Philip?”

  This time a highway exit sign snapped into view, then was gone again before Mitchell could read it. Then a bird—a stylized rendering of a red bird’s head. A cardinal. The Arizona Cardinals, based in Phoenix.

  “Yes, I think they’re in Phoenix,” Mitchell whispered. Then, louder, “Are they in Phoenix now, Philip?”

  The cardinal faded away, replaced by a jumble of images. Objects, scenes, thoughts popped in and out of view too quickly for Mitchell to absorb.

  The silence stretched out to almost half a minute.

  Finally, Millard said, “Are you getting anything?”

  Mitchell turned to Millard. “It’s not like watching a TV show. Just give me a minute. Can’t you wait in
the other room?”

  “No.”

  “Then at least stop interrupting,” said Mitchell, and turned back to Philip. “Philip, are they still in Phoenix?” A few moments went by. He changed tack. “Were they planning on going somewhere after Phoenix?”

  An affirmative response.

  “Where will they go, or where have they gone, after Phoenix?”

  The images were getting hazier, whether as a result of the drug’s decreasing effect or Philip’s increasing resistance Mitchell couldn’t tell. He gazed at Philip, his brow knit. He had to get this answer for Louise.

  “Philip, if the Cardinals were playing an away game in the city where Elizabeth and Dr. McNally are going, who would they be playing?”

  This time the image popped up much like the television show he had just told Millard it wasn’t: another stylized bird’s head, this time an eagle. Philadelphia Eagles.

  Mitchell smiled. “They’re going back to Philadelphia?”

  A grudging affirmative.

  “Are they flying?”

  “I don’t think flying would be an option for Ballard,” said Millard.

  “Are they driving?” Mitchell asked Philip.

  This time the response was a clear affirmative.

  “They’re driving to Philadelphia,” he whispered to Millard. Then louder, to Philip, “And what are they going to do? What’s the plan?”

  There was a long pause. Finally, Millard said, “What?”

  “I see …” Mitchell hesitated. “Someone standing in a cafeteria line. With an old man.”

  Millard snorted. “I think your reception has gotten a little messed up, Mitch.” He pulled out his phone and hit a speed dial. After a moment, he spoke. “Yeah. They’re on their way back to Philly.”

  48

  Philip moved his head and immediately regretted it. He eased his eyes open. He thanked God that the blinds were closed, but even the sliver of light seeping into the room stabbed through his corneas like a knife. He carefully levered himself forward in his chair until he could see the bedside clock. Ten fifteen. He eased back and closed his eyes. He had expected to be hung over after eight shots of bourbon, but he hadn’t expected to be this hung over.

  What he had expected, he realized, was a woman in the bed.

  Then another oddity registered and he cranked his eyes open again. His wallet was on the bedside table next to the clock. Philip always put his wallet in the drawer, never on top. He groaned and pushed himself out of the chair, knowing already what he would—or wouldn’t—find.

  He shuffled carefully over to the table and picked up the wallet. It was empty—cash, credit cards, driver’s license, even his Bashas’ loyalty card … gone. He opened a little pocket inside the wallet, looked in, and gave a sigh of relief. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been. But it was bad enough. He lowered himself onto the edge of the bed and dropped his face into his hands with a groan.

  He sat like that until the pounding in his head that his exertions had triggered quieted to timpani level, trying to think over the din. Finally, he pushed himself upright, limped to the bathroom, and washed down four aspirin. Then he made his way to the kitchen and started a pot of extra-strong coffee.

  With the coffee brewing, he patted his shirt pocket where he normally carried his phone, and groaned again when he found it empty. He returned to the bedroom and searched half-heartedly for the phone on the floor and in the cushions of the chair he had been sitting in. Nothing.

  By the time he had finished his search, the coffee had brewed. He pulled on his boots, tucked in his shirt, and filled a travel mug with coffee.

  He crossed the driveway to the main house and knocked on the door as loudly as he could bring himself to do, which wasn’t very loud. No answer. He swore silently, then, sipping as he went, made his slow way to the office. Even though it was only a five minute walk, he was tempted to drive, since every step was like a blow to the inside of his skull, but he didn’t fancy taking to the road without a license in his pocket, especially in his current condition. Tourists tended to step unconcerned into the four-lane state road that ran through the center of town, as if they were walking through Disneyland, and a squashed pedestrian and a charge of driving under the influence would be a bitch of a way to end up back in prison.

  When he reached the office he kept the Closed sign in the window and locked the door behind him against any drop-ins. He didn’t recall having any appointments that morning—in fact, he had congratulated himself on his luck on that front when Lorna suggested they go to his place. He went to the back room, to a seldom-used landline phone on a small desk in the corner, when he realized that he had no idea how to get in touch with Owen or Lizzy—their numbers were just entries in his cell phone’s contact list. He swore and flopped into one of the Equipale chairs, regretting immediately not having eased himself into it.

  He was considering the likelihood that someone at William Penn University would give him Owen’s cell number when he realized with weak excitement that he had another option.

  He went to the answering machine attached to the landline, hit the replay button, and tracked back through the stored messages until he found the one he was looking for.

  “Hello,” came the now-familiar voice. “My name’s Elizabeth Patrick and I’d like to make an appointment with you. Could you call me?” Then Lizzy gave her phone number.

  Philip silently thanked the reliability of analog technology and dialed the number.

  He got it wrong the first time and had to hang up on a woman who felt it necessary to share with him in an agonizingly loud voice her opinion of telemarketers. Providentially, he dialed right the second time.

  “Hey, Philip, what’s up?” Lizzy asked cheerfully, reigniting the hammering in Philip’s head.

  “Hi, Lizzy. Can I talk with Owen?”

  “Uh, sure. One sec.” She lowered the phone from her mouth and said, “Uncle Owen, it’s Philip and he wants to talk with you.”

  After a few seconds, Owen came on the line. “Hello, Philip—what’s up?”

  “I haven’t any idea, but I don’t think it’s good. I, uh, met a woman at a bar yesterday …”

  “Oh?”

  “We got into a drinking game …”

  “Aren’t you a little old for that?” He heard Lizzy say something in the background. “I’ll explain later,” said Owen, evidently to her.

  “Yes, I am. At least it was a literary-based drinking game.”

  Philip heard a door open and close on Owen’s end of the call.

  “Not beer pong?” asked Owen pointedly.

  “No, not beer pong.” The thought made Philip’s stomach flip. “Anyhow, I woke up this morning and my wallet and phone were gone.”

  “Jeez, that sucks,” said Owen. Then, with some concern, he asked, “Was there anything in your wallet or on your phone that would tie you to Lizzy?”

  “Her phone number is in my contact list under Elizabeth Patrick, so just in case they find a way to hack into the phone, tell her not to pick up any calls that look like they’re coming from my cell phone. Other than that, I can’t think of anything on the phone or in the wallet related to Lizzy.”

  “That’s good.”

  “But it does seem a little coincidental that this happened so soon after you and Lizzy left, and after I booby-trapped George Millard’s car.” He drew a deep breath. “I was pretty drunk. If someone questioned me while I was that out of it, there’s a possibility I might have said something about Lizzy.”

  “Is there any evidence that they tried to force information out of you? All your fingernails accounted for?”

  “Other than my head, everything seems to be in working order.”

  Owen was silent for a moment, then said, “Would this woman have had a chance to put something into your drink? One of your drinks,” he added.

  Philip thought back to his trip to the bathroom and the glass of bourbon Lorna had handed him when he got back. “Yes, it’s possible.”

/>   “There are psychoactive drugs that can lower one’s defenses—scopolamine, flunitrazepam, amobarbital. If this woman was working for Louise Mortensen, it’s possible she could have put something in your drink and then questioned you.”

  Philip pressed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “And if she does work for Mortensen, maybe she’s another Vivantem baby, like the guy in the video with Louise Mortensen,” added Owen, suddenly worried. “You did say your head hurt.”

  Philip’s stomach did another flip. “True. I just thought it was a normal—although monstrous—hangover, but I’ll get it checked out. ”

  “You should get to the ER right away,” said Owen.

  “Will do,” said Philip. “At least they didn’t take my car keys.”

  “Don’t drive yourself,” said Owen. “Take a cab. Or use one of those ride share cars.”

  “No wallet. No credit cards,” said Philip.

  “Do you have someone who can drive you?”

  Philip sighed. “Yeah, I should be able to round someone up. Actually,” he continued, “if I can track down Eddie, I can ask him if he’s seen anything odd going on around my place.”

  “Do that now,” said Owen.

  Philip ended the call with Owen and placed a call to Eddie. He was hanging drywall when Philip reached him, but was at Philip’s office within ten minutes.

  “I appreciate you coming to the rescue again,” said Philip as they headed for the hospital.

  “No problem,” said Eddie. “Although I am curious as to why you sent me to check out a tripped security alarm in a house without a security system.”

  “Miscommunication. Sorry about that.”

  Eddie waved his hand. “No problem. A little excitement in an otherwise humdrum life. Speaking of a humdrum life,” he continued, “or, in your case, its opposite—you had quite a busy time last night.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “People coming and going all evening.”