Страница 33 из 111
Harvath thought about that for a second, not yet ready to rule it out. Flying low enough, a stealth helicopter could have evaded the radar monitored by the Secret Service agents who had been posted with the FAA in the Tower and Approach Control at Salt Lake International Airport and breached the protective “No Fly Zone” over Deer Valley. The sophistication of the jamming device Hollenbeck had found demonstrated loud and clear that the kidnappers had access to some very high-tech equipment. But the one element that didn’t fit was the human element-the pilots.
Even U.S. Night Stalker pilots, the best in the world, couldn’t have tackled that storm last night. In normal conditions, the downdrafts around the valley were amazingly tough to handle. As Scot thought further, assembling a mental picture of the area where the bodies of the president’s detail were found, he realized there wasn’t enough room to land any sort of helicopter. Scot ran down how it might have happened. What if the kidnappers were able to get their hands on a helicopter with stealth capabilities, and what if they could find a pilot crazy enough to tackle the downdrafts, and what if the pilot was good enough to do it in a raging snowstorm, and what if he could land in a heavily treed area that didn’t provide enough space? Would it have been possible? Absolutely not, thought Scot. That was too many “what-ifs.”
The kidnappers would have had to ski down the mountain along a route they were relatively confident would not allow for them to be spotted and then rendezvous with some sort of transport that would either facilitate their escape or be an intermediary step along the way.
When the Deer Valley helicopter had flown Scot over the only serviceable pass to Midway, the pilot had told him the other routes would be traversable only if you brought climbing gear, plus they switched back on themselves often and would take double, and in some cases triple, the time. When Scot had asked if a four-wheel-drive vehicle could make it through the pass, the pilot had said it was possible, but why would you use a jeep when a snowmobile would be so much faster?
Reaching the bottom landing again, his nose and the smell of cigarette smoke led Scot back into the family room. He stood for several moments with his eyes closed, trying to put himself in the mind of the killer. The Madduxes were not smokers, so it must have been the killer who had lit up, and more than once. That heavy smoke smell didn’t come from just one cigarette. So, he’d had time for more than one. Why?
Simple. He was waiting. Scot’s mind began to turn faster. Waiting for what? His colleagues, the kidnappers, to arrive with the president. He waited right in this room and smoked. What else did he do? Scot looked around the room; there were no books or magazines, but there was a television set. He walked over and turned it on. After a few moments, the set warmed up enough and its picture popped to life. Where would he have sat? Harvath looked behind him and spotted what must have been Mr. Maddux’s La-Z-Boy recliner. It had man of the house written all over it.
Knowing he was compromising the crime scene, but needing desperately to put the pieces of the puzzle together, Scot sat down in the chair and extended the tattered leg rest by pulling on the worn handle. The old La-Z-Boy lurched backward as the footrest sprang up, placing him in a very comfortable position. If the killer had been smoking, he would have needed an ashtray and a place to set it. He could have rested it all on his chest as he waited and watched TV, but if he had gone to this extent to make himself comfortable, why not use the end table immediately to his left?
Scot sca
Scot mimicked smoking, imagining the killer had used a pop can or something similar for the ashes, and let his left hand trail back toward the table, where he believed the makeshift ashtray would have been. The movement was difficult. Not just because of his sore muscles, but because of the position of the end table. The killer would have needed to rotate his torso and actually look at what he was doing, or he would have missed his target. Scot thought the chances were pretty good that he had missed once or twice and jumped out of the chair to test his theory.
Examining the edges along the surface of the end table, he saw a grayish, powdery dust that could have been cigarette ash, but only a lab would have been able to tell at this point. Dropping to his knees, Scot searched along the bottom of the table and found what he was looking for. Resting in the fibers of the matted orange carpeting were indeed cigarette ashes. The killer had obviously missed.
Then something else caught his eye. The end table was between the La-Z-Boy and a long couch. Judging from the wear on the couch cushion closest to the end table, that was where Mrs. Maddux sat while Mr. Maddux occupied the La-Z-Boy and the two watched TV. Underneath the couch was something dark and square. Scot reached under and pulled it out.
He held it up to the light coming in through the window. It was a piece of chocolate, perfectly square, that had been broken off from a larger bar. It was stamped with a distinct N, which Scot recognized as being the monogram of Nestlé, and the almost imperceptible word Lieber across the N. Conscious of the heat in his fingers, Scot transferred the chocolate square into his palm and walked across the entry hall into the kitchen, hoping the Madduxes had some Ziploc bags. He placed the chocolate on the edge of the counter by the sink and started rummaging through the drawers underneath. In the fourth drawer he found what he was looking for.
Scot crossed to the refrigerator, took several ice cubes from the freezer, and dropped them into the larger of the two Ziploc bags. He then put the piece of chocolate into the smaller bag, zipped it, and placed it into the large bag to keep it cold. He slipped the package into his outside parka pocket and turned his attention to the garbage can under the sink.
There wasn’t much garbage and nothing that could have been used to ash a cigarette into. As Scot was closing the cabinet door that hid the trash can, he heard the telltale signs of an approaching helicopter. Leaning against the sink, Scot looked out the window above it to see if he could make out the approaching FBI team. Nothing yet, but they would be here very soon. As his mind raced through what else he should be looking for, Scot looked down at the dish rack to his left with its three upturned glasses. He upended them one by one, placing his nose inside and inhaling deeply. With the second one, his hunch was confirmed. After placing the glasses back in their original positions and ru
“Looks like the gang is on approach,” said Deputy MacIntyre as Scot finished tying his shoes and came down the front steps of the house toward the assorted police vehicles.
“It’s about time,” replied Scot.
“You learn anything while you were in there?”
“Naw, not really. Pretty much just as you called it. I know it’s been snowing a bit, but did you fellas find any tire tracks or anything out here on the perimeter?”
“Yeah, some pretty big mothers.”
“Really? How big?”
“Looks like maybe a big rig. Eighteen-wheeler. Came right up to the barn. There were some others like one of them big flatbed pickups that uses the doubled-up tires in back, but only singles in front. And some other single-tread tracks behind the barn, probably snowmobiles.”