The Second Ship (The Rho Agenda #1)(78)
Mark grinned. “I think I can handle it.”
“Well, get going, then. You'll want to be back for dinner. Mom's cooking lasagna.”
“Gee, I’d hate to miss that,” Mark said as he headed back inside.
Mark quickly changed into his shorts, sweat suit, and running shoes, threw his backpack over his shoulders, and set off at a steady jog. As he disappeared around the bend onto the trail that led cross-country to the ship, far behind him, staying well out of sight, another jogger mirrored his path.
Chapter 56
In the midst of all the higher-priority wiretaps the night before, Harold had almost missed the most promising lead so far. It was almost midnight, and he’d been about to call it quits for the evening, when old habits forced him to review the recorded calls on the taps labeled “low probability.”
15:46:12. The timestamp on the call showed on two recordings, one from the Smythe house and the other at the McFarland house. Nothing unusual there. The families talked to each other so much they should buy an intercom.
Harold jacked up the playback speed, letting the chipmunk voices chatter in his ear, fully expecting to race through another set of best friend chitchat before logging another no-op recording. Suddenly he hit stop, followed immediately by a tweak of the jog shuttle control, rewinding the last several seconds of the tape before letting it play at normal speed.
Mark Smythe’s voice spoke clearly on the line. “I think we need to pull the laptop and QT recorder off the ship.”
“Do you think that’s safe?” Heather McFarland asked.
“Safer than us going out there so often. Without it, we’re flying blind.”
There was a brief pause before Heather answered. “I guess it’ll be okay. I don’t have to tell you to be careful not to let anyone see you bike out there.”
“I’ll just take a backpack and jog. I need the workout anyway.”
“Wow. That’s dedication, considering you’ll be playing a game tonight. I think I’d take the bike.”
Mark laughed. “All in a day's work. Believe me, I’ll enjoy the run.”
Harold listened carefully until the end of the conversation, but nothing of further interest presented itself. He manipulated the jog control again, replaying the section of interest several times.
The words that had caught his attention were recorder and ship used in close proximity. Combined with the cautionary tone and references to a laptop, it made Harold feel the need to find out exactly what those kids were talking about.
He considered calling in a report to Jack, but decided against it. It was late, and he had relatively thin data to back his suspicions.
So now, clad in his gray sweats, Harold jogged far back behind Mark Smythe on a rough mountain trail that led along the canyon rim country near White Rock. The kid was in great shape, not surprising since he was the finest athlete to ever play ball for Los Alamos High School. No doubt his pace would have left most people holding their knees as they puked their guts out. Harold Stevens was not most people.
By Harold's estimate, they were over eight miles out when he lost Mark’s trail. He was in a woodline at the top of a jagged canyon outcropping, another of those fingers of land that stretched out toward the south and west before ending in steep drop-offs into the canyons below. From the lay of the land, Mark must have climbed down off the rim, but on which side of the finger? Left, right, or tip?
Harold ruled out tracking the boy for now. Instead, he moved off the trail, picking out a hide location several hundred feet along the woodline to the north. Then Harold settled in to watch. He did not have to wait long. Within thirty minutes, Mark reappeared, climbing up over the north side of the rim, very near the tip of the plateau's finger. Harold watched him jog back down the trail, the backpack bulging.
Harold waited for an additional two minutes before breaking cover and moving to the spot where he had observed Mark climbing back over the rim. For an experienced tracker like Harold, the boy's path stood out as stark and bright as if he had painted a white line down the slope. A bent twig here, an overturned rock there, a slippage in the loose shale. These and a hundred other signs led the way back down the canyon side.
Reaching a spot about halfway down the steep wall of the canyon, Mark’s path turned left and entered a thicket. Harold paused. Odd. The trail, which had been so clear up until this point, disappeared completely three feet in front of the spot where he now stood. From that point on, the brush appeared unbroken, as virgin as if no one had ever passed that way.
Bending closer to the ground, Harold moved forward slowly, touching each broken twig, looking for some sign of deviation from the path. From the jungles of Cambodia and Laos to the deep African bush, he had read trail signs with such unerring accuracy that he had come to the attention of Jack Gregory. Now, he paused, confused. The sign here made no sense.
Feeling his way along the plants, Harold reached forward until his hand disappeared. He pulled back so hard he almost stumbled. What the hell? Examining his hand, Harold caught his breath. Everything was still there. Just a second ago it had not been, almost as if he had dipped his hand into a mirror pool. But there was no water in sight.
Gingerly, he eased forward once again until just a fingertip disappeared inside. Inside what? Harold tested it several times, first with one hand, then the other. Nothing. There was absolutely nothing in his way. Then why the hell couldn’t he see through it?