CHAPTER 3
I'm not sure what I was expecting when I went to the Standard-Gazette looking for Darla Finley. The fact that I was totally unaware of how much the place had changed over the past twenty years is evidence of how long it'd been since I was last there.
The main room in which the bulk of the "written" work was done was wide open and huge; that much hadn't changed. But the desks were bigger now—and newer; and all of them were equipped with a computer.
I remembered where the Editor-in-Chief's office had been back when Dad held that position, and I made my way through the maze of desks, heading in that general direction.
As was undoubtedly made evident by my brother's mention of my "cover," I was wearing my uniform. Being an admiral in the Navy has its perks when flying, but it can also have its drawbacks if there are any passengers seated nearby who are angry at the military in general, regardless of what branch of the service one might be in. As a desk jockey at Homeland Security, I was allowed some discretion as to whether to wear my uniform or civilian clothes whenever I was not on duty. Since my departure had been delayed due to urgent business, I left D.C. pretty much on the fly, so I really didn't have time to go home and change. I'd had my luggage packed for two days before I actually got the chance to leave. I'd been afraid I wouldn't make it on time, since Uncle George had given us a time and a place to meet, and I was lucky to get away when I did. . ..
Anyway, the uniform caused a bit of a stir as I walked through the newsroom. One reporter—who appeared to be in his late thirties—jumped to his feet, stood at attention, saluted, and said (as I passed his desk), "Admiral Beckham, sir! Welcome to the Standard-Gazette, sir!"
"At ease, sailor," I said, trying not to smile. The young man—young by my standards, anyway—slid into "at ease" stance, but continued to behave as though he were in my office, instead of the other way around.
"Former lieutenant Lionel Lerner, at your service, sir!"
"The key word here is 'former,' son. Have you and I served together, Mr. Lerner?"
"Yes, sir. In the first Gulf War. I was in one of the squadrons you commanded. It was an honor to serve with you, sir, and it's a privilege to see you here. Your father has always spoken of you with a lot of pride whenever he's come in. I was sorry to hear that he's been kidnapped."
"Me, too," I said with a nod. "Tell me, Lerner: Is my father's disappearance general knowledge around the newsroom?"
He shook his head. "No, sir. It's just that . . . I overheard them talking—your father and Mrs. Finley . . . Danger . . . Disappearance . . . I didn't understand it all, but it sounded to me like he was expecting to be abducted."
I nodded and asked somewhat skeptically, "Really?"
"I know it sounds ridiculous, but . . . that's the way it seemed."
"Well, I'm headed to Mrs. Finley's office now to ask her a few questions . . . find out how much she knows. If my father was expecting to be kidnapped, I'm sure she'll tell me."
"Yes, sir."
"Carry on, Lerner; and thank you for the heads-up."
"No problem, sir."
The former lieutenant returned to his chair but didn't return to his computer until I had turned away and started heading for Mrs. Finley's office. Once I arrived there, I was in for another surprise.
The office was a glass-enclosed room, about ten feet by ten feet square. The door was wooden, though, and it opened before I even had a chance to knock. The woman who opened it smiled and said, "Hello, Jack. Long time no see."
"Darla McIntyre . . . " I mumbled, my mouth dropping open slightly.
She laughed. "Darla McIntyre Finley," she corrected me. "Come in and sit down, Jack . . . if you dare."
I went in and sat down across the desk from the woman I had once known as a young girl named Darla McIntyre. The door closed of its own accord behind me.
"I'm surprised you recognized me, Jack," Darla said, still smiling. "It's been thirty-five years."
"I'd've known you anywhere, Darla," I told her. "You really haven't changed all that much."
"I was fourteen when you left for Annapolis and eighteen when you got married. I certainly hope I've changed—at least a little—since then. You certainly have. You used to smile more—and your hair wasn't quite so gray. . . But then, mine's a lot grayer now, too." She was right about that, although the gray didn't look half-bad on her.
Darla McIntyre Finley—five-foot-three, with bluish-green hazel eyes and long, brown hair that reached to the small of her back—was wearing a dark brown skirt and a beige blouse (which were about all I noticed at the time; I'm not really into accessories). She had her hair clipped back behind her ears, so that you could see the gray streaks in the under layers of her hair that would not otherwise have been visible. There were only a few sparse streaks of gray here and there in the upper layer. I thought it fortunate for her that she could hide most of her gray if she chose to. And I had to admire her willingness to let it show. Most women of my acquaintance that were anywhere near her age either colored their hair or used Lady Grecian Formula, or something. Despite the gray, she didn't look anywhere near her actual age—unlike me.
Darla still wore glasses, which curse had come upon her at a very young age, although I'd heard that she wore contacts for a while, undoubtedly giving them up when she became a mother. I'd been told by some (who had reason to know) that it can be painful to wear contact lenses when your eyes are tired; and moms don't always get a lot of sleep—especially if they have little ones that wake up in the middle of the night. Despite the glasses (or maybe even because of them, since "designer" frames were now available), Darla was a very attractive woman. She had a delightful smile that I remembered well and hadn't seen in a long time.
I shook my head, mildly stunned. "Darla McIntyre, the little girl next door! Who would've ever thought that after all these years you'd end up working for my old man?"
"He owns the paper, Jack; he doesn't run it—although he likes to think he does."
"Meaning that, even though he's the publisher, you still do pretty much what you want."
"Most of the time, yes." Her words and her tone seemed somewhat guarded.
"Darla, I'm getting some weird vibes from you. Uncle George sent me here to ask for your help in locating Dad. But I have a feeling that's not going to happen—at least, not in the way Uncle George implied. . . So, what's going on?" I asked pointblank.
Darla bit her lip. "I'm not supposed to tell you, Jack. Your father ordered me not to."
"Why? Is he afraid I'll get myself killed?"
"No, not really," she replied, shaking her head.
I shook my head, too. "The more I hear, the more confused I get; so, I'm going to ask you one more time: What's going on?"
Darla sighed. "I really wish I could tell you, Jack. I'm torn between loyalty to your father and being honest with you. That's a pretty tough call to make."
"My father wants you to lie to me, is that what you're saying?"
She nodded slowly, deliberately. "Yes."
"Look, Darla, just answer me one question: Has my father been abducted or not? Former lieutenant Lerner out there seems to be under the impression that Dad knew something was going to happen to him. Is that or is it not accurate?"
Darla bit her lip and looked pensive. Then she seemed to get an idea. "Have you had lunch yet, Jack?" she asked.
"Lunch? No. It was still morning when I left the house. Why?"
"It's nearly noon now. I know a cozy little café not far from here that serves great lunches . . ."
"Are we going to talk during lunch?" I asked, looking at Darla slightly askance—and, I hoped, meaningfully.
"I thought we might play a round of 'Twenty Questions.' Your father ordered me not to tell you what's really going on; but the fact of the matter is, I can't lie to you, Jack. I never could."
"'Twenty Questions,' huh?" I acknowledged, nodding. "Sounds reasonable. I can find out the facts of the situation without your actually coming right out and telling me anything. Good plan; great moral loophole."
She blushed. "That's all it is: a loophole. . . I'm not comfortable with it; but, as I said, I can't lie to you, either. Your father stuck me between a rock and a hard place. All I can do is give you a hammer and chisel in the form of 'Twenty Questions' and let you chip away."
"All righty, then. Let's go have lunch."
"I'll drive," she told me as she took her shoulder bag out of a bottom drawer of her desk. "That way, if, at some point during the course of our 'game' you decide you need a drink or two, I'll be able to get us back here in one piece."
"I don't usually drink this early in the day."
"I believe you," said Darla, nodding. "But, once you figure out what's going on—presuming you ask the right questions—you may decide you need one."
I frowned. I felt my brow furrow. "I'm liking the sound of this less and less."
Darla nodded again as she led the way out of her office. "I understand; and I'll do my best to alleviate your confusion—bound, of course, by the rules of the game."
"Nothing but 'yes' or 'no' questions, right?" I asked as Darla locked the door behind us.
"Right. But I must warn you that I may not know the answers to all of your questions."
"Duly noted. . . What kind of a car do you drive, by the way?"
"A Ford Taurus. I know: they don't get as good of gas mileage as some other makes and models; but I like the way they handle, and they're easy to drive."
"Automatic?"
"Of course. I was always too afraid of stripping gears to want to learn to drive a stick. Besides, maneuvering through city traffic is difficult enough without having to worry about shifting on top of it. I know my limitations, and I'm a tad neurotic. So, I take the easy way."
We had reached the elevator by this time, and Darla led me to the parking garage. Her Taurus was a shiny black '99. She said she preferred the older models because they were roomier than the new ones, and she liked the dashboard layout better, too. She'd been driving a Taurus since '87, making a trade-in about every five years—until '02. She had looked at the newer models, but, as she'd said, they were smaller and not as user-friendly in her estimation. So, she'd bought a '99 instead and was taking especially good care of it so that it would last her a long while. I admired that. It showed that, despite the fact that it didn't get especially good gas mileage, she was still practical about it in other ways.
During the course of the drive, I told Darla what was going on back home, with Uncle George giving Mac "clues" to the whereabouts of the so-called "evidence."
She smiled. "Your dad told me he was going to get his brother to help. He just didn't say how." She shook her head. "Poor Mac!"
"'Poor Mac'?"
Darla blushed. "I'm sure you'll understand why I said that by the time we finish playing the game."
"I sincerely hope so, 'cause I'm getting really . . . upset by this whole business."
We reached the aforementioned café—which bore the unlikely moniker "Raven's Roost"—right about then. Raven, it turned out, was the owner of the place. There was a portrait of him on a wall near the entrance, but Darla didn't pause long enough for me to get a good look at it.
The place was about as informal as it gets: there was no hostess. We wound our way through the large, open area that was the main dining room and entered a smaller, more enclosed room that was very probably used for private parties and banquets. In here, Darla explained, we could talk more intimately.
"I'm so glad they don't allow smoking in restaurants here in Denver anymore," said Darla. "It really is a foul habit, and it ruins the dining experience for those of us who don't smoke. In some places, even having separate non-smoking sections wasn't enough. The rooms were sometimes too small, or too close together . . . or both."
"I totally agree," I said, as we approached a table in a corner. I then did my gentlemanly duty, pulling Darla's chair out for her before taking my own seat. "Too many of the people I've associated with in the military over the years have smoked—cigars mostly—and I really, really don't like it."
"You were an athlete, Jack; and most athletes with any sense don't smoke. They know it's too injurious to their health and can affect their performance," she said. "Personally, I'm allergic to tobacco smoke—or terribly sensitive to it, anyway. I read an article in The Reader's Digest once that said you can't actually be allergic to cigarette smoke—only irritated by it. Either way, it makes me cough and sneeze."
"Reason enough to avoid it," I commented, nodding. I reached for a menu. There were four of them, standing up between the napkin holder and the sugar dispenser. "So, what's good to eat in this place?"
"Just about everything," Darla replied, "—or so I've heard. But, you know me: I've always been finicky. . . I usually get the quarter-pound burger (stripped down); or a toasted ham 'n' cheese sandwich; or some chicken strips." She shrugged. "It depends on my mood."
"How's the Swiss steak?"
"Your father seems to like it . . ."
"You've had lunch here with him before?"
Darla nodded. "At least once a week. He and Raven are old friends. He believes in supporting his friends in any way he can."
I nodded. "That sounds like Dad. But if they really are old friends, I should probably at least know who the guy is. The name 'Raven' doesn't ring any bells, though."
"He may use that name only for professional purposes," Darla suggested.
I nodded. "Possibly. I'll have to take a closer look at the portrait on my way out."
A waitress finally turned up. She was young, sassy, and wearing way too much makeup. "Hello, Mrs. Finley. It's good to see you again. Who's your guest today?"
"This is Admiral Jack Beckham, Julie," Darla said.
"You're one of the old man's sons?" Julie the waitress asked.
"Indeed I am."
"And you're the one who works for Homeland Security, right?"
"That's two in a row you've gotten right."
Julie beamed. "What can I get for you, Admiral?"
"The Swiss steak, with lots of mushrooms and onions. And French fries. And a Coke. Diet, if you have it."
Darla sniggered. "What's so funny?" I asked.
"I've never understood why it is that men who like to drink beer—which is loaded with calories—invariably order diet soda."
"You know, I've never really thought about that, either," I replied, puzzled by my own seemingly contradictory behavior. "But, how do you know I drink beer?"
"You were drinking beer with your dad while I was still in high school, Jack. I assume you still do."
"So then, you didn't find out about my . . . habits by doing a background check on me before returning to Denver . . .?" I asked flippantly while trying not to smile.
But Darla smiled. She knew I was teasing. Nevertheless, she seemed to feel the need to defend herself. Taking on a more serious demeanor, she said, "Your father sent for me, Jack—offered me the job at the Gazette.. .
"My husband died about fifteen months ago. My kids are all married now, and I still haven't gotten used to being alone. And since I was happily married, I hadn't thought about you for years—at least, not seriously. But then, your dad—" She broke off abruptly.
"My dad what?"
"I was about to give too much away. Nothing more until we start playing the game."
"A game?" said Julie. "Ooh! That sounds like fun!"
"I'm afraid you don't get to play along, Julie," Darla said. Then she placed her order—a diplomatic way of reminding the waitress that she had a job to do. "I'll have the chicken strips, with corn on the cob and waffle fries—and some lemonade to drink."
Caught off-guard, Julie wrote the order quickly. "Got it," she said. Then, thankfully, she left.
"So," said Darla, leaning on the table with her arms flat in front of her and looking at me directly, "what's your first question?"
I had given my questions some thought on the way to the café; but, since I didn't know what the answers to the first four or five might be, I didn't know where to go from there. However, the most important question of all was (of course), "Has my dad actually been abducted?"
Darla shook her head. "No," she said.
Naturally, I wanted an explanation. Darla knew I would, which is why we were playing this ludicrous game. She couldn't give me any detailed explanations; that would've been against Dad's orders. I wanted to ask her what the whole mess with Uncle George and Jimmy Kelsey was all about if Dad wasn't really in any danger; but that wasn't a yes or no question. I sighed.
"Is there really someone in the White House who's selling secrets to Al Qaeda?"
"I don't know. I suppose there could be . . ."
"But, as far as you know, is the story Uncle George told us a complete fabrication?"
"As far as I know, yes. I haven't heard the story, but I'm assuming—from what your father told me—that itis."
"Then, does Jimmy Kelsey really exist?"
"That's a difficult question to answer," Darla replied, looking slightly dyspeptic.
If that was a difficult question to answer, then that must mean . . . A figurative light bulb suddenly went on over my head. "Am I right in assuming, then, that Jimmy Kelsey isn't really a reporter at the paper?"
"Yes, you are."
I wanted to ask, "So, who is he?" but that question wouldn't've been allowed. "How many questions have we covered so far?"
"I count five."
Whew! I'd better choose my next few questions carefully, or I wouldn't learn anything of value. I chewed my lower lip, trying to decide what to ask next. After a while, I came up with something. "If Dad hasn't really been abducted, does that mean he's hiding out somewhere for reasons of his own?"
"Yes."
Wow! That was a mind-bender. Why in the world would Dad want to hide out, and then get Uncle George to send Mac and me on a mission to supposedly "rescue" him?
Suddenly, another light bulb went on.
"This has something to do with Mac and me, doesn't it?"
Darla nodded, smiling stiffly. "Yes," she said, "it does."
I smiled slightly and shook my head. "That old schemer! He designed this entire elaborate plot just to get Mac and me together!" Darla started to open her mouth to speak, but I put a hand up to stop her. "Don't say anything, D.J." (Her middle name was "Jane"; I'd often called her "D.J.") I smiled a little more. "I don't want you to get into trouble with Dad."
"Jack, since you've already figured it out—"
"Only what his plan was. I'm going to have to get together with my brother (after he's finished getting the clues from Uncle George) and decide what we're going to do about it."
"I know this whole situation is very upsetting," said Darla, "and when Mac finds out, he may feel that getting the clues from your uncle was a complete waste of time. But, you both need to keep in mind that the clues to your father's whereabouts are very probably hidden somewhere among those that are supposed to lead you to the so-called 'evidence'."
"I'm sure they are," I replied, feeling a tad annoyed and petulant about the whole thing. "That's not the issue. The issue is whether we should dance to Dad's piper, or let him stew for a while in his own juices. It'd serve him right, the interfering old coot."
"He just cares about his sons, Jack, and wants you to learn to get along."
"I kinda figured that one out by myself; but thanks for confirming it."
"What do you have against your brother, anyway? —aside from the fact that he's fifteen years younger than you are."
"Nothing, really," I admitted. "But that fifteen years' age difference kinda kept us from getting to know each other well, capiche? We don't have a lot in common—except, apparently, a fondness for Jeeps."
"A fondness for Jeeps; I guess that's a start, anyway. . . Look, Jack, you're both middle-aged men now. The fifteen years age difference shouldn't be as big a deal as it was when you were eighteen and he was three. . . Spend some time with Mac and find out what he's been doing for the past several years. It can't have been easy for him, growing up in your shadow. A navy pilot who's also a decorated war hero—and now an admiral—is pretty tough to compete with. I feel for him—I really do. He's spent his entire adult life trying to establish an identity and a life of his own that could be important and meaningful in your father's eyes."
"I'm sure you're right about that; but it really wasn't my doing. I just lived my life as I saw fit, and Dad happened to be proud of me. . . Is it my fault Mac felt he could never measure up, or that Dad, maybe, didn't think he could, either?"
"No, of course not; and I'm sure your father has regrets. That's probably one of the reasons he's doing this."
I sighed. "Okay. You've made a decent case for Mac and me working together to uncover the clues to our father's whereabouts. . . But I still think we oughta let him sweat a little . . . ."
Darla shrugged. "I don't have a problem with that. Just keep in mind that he may not have a lot of supplies stored up. He may not be expecting the search to last overly long—"
"Wherever he is—whether his fridge and his larder are well-stocked or not—I'm sure he has access to whatever provisions he needs. He's probably staying at a cabin in the mountains somewhere, with a supply outlet or outpost of some kind nearby. Dad has lots of friends who're hunters, campers and fishermen, and some of them have cabins. In fact, we have one of our own, although I doubt very much he'd use it: too obvious; too convenient."
"I've no doubt you and Mac will find him easily, once you decipher the clues."
"Oh, yeah, I'm sure we will; the question is whether we should." I sighed. "We shouldn't leave him hanging too long, though. After all, he's only trying to help . . . ." I rolled my eyes.
Darla laughed softly. "Don't be too hard on him when you do find him, Jack. All he really wants is a little unity in his family, and . . . maybe a few grandchildren . . .."
"Grandchildren? He wants me to give him grandchildren, at my age? There're only two ways that could happen: one would be for me to marry a younger woman who's still of childbearing age—and being the irascible old coot I am, I'm not likely to do that to any sweet, young thing; the other would be for me to marry a woman who already has children and—"
"Why do you think he sent you to me?" Darla asked, a cat-that-swallowed-the-canary smile on her pretty face.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding! That is rich!" Another light bulb went on. I was feeling downright luminescent by this time. "That's why Uncle George mentioned that you were a widow and near my age: He was hoping the two of us would . . . Does he know about our past?"
Darla nodded. "Oh, yes, he knows—thanks to your dad. I suspect the two of them were hoping that—in spite of the unusual nature of our past relationship (or maybe because of it)—we might hit it off somewhere along the way while I'm assisting you in deciphering and interpreting the clues your uncle George is now giving to Mac."
I was dumbfounded. I couldn't believe that Dad and Uncle George had concocted such an elaborate scheme which—if it worked—would not only bring my brother and me together, but would also put me in contact with a suitable eligible woman. I then remembered hearing the last words Mac spoke as I was leaving the house: "Do you have a girl for me, too, Uncle George?" So, what if he did? Was getting us both married part of the plan, too? If so, Mac was undoubtedly due to be victimized sometime in the near future. . . Oh, man, were these guys good! I had to hand it to them. If Darla's conscience—in the form of her inability to lie to me—hadn't gotten the better of her, we might've fallen for the entire fabrication, hook, line and sinker!
Darla seemed to be reading my mind. She said, "The idea that he set us up disturbs you, doesn't it, Jack?"
"Only in principle, Darla; only in principle," I assured her. "He's interfering in my life—telling himself he's doing it for my own good, of course. That I resent; but this particular result of his interference—?" I shook my head. "No, that doesn't disturb me. I'm actually glad he brought us together."
"So am I," Darla said, smiling softly. That made me smile, too. I liked Darla. A lot. It was kind of scary, in a way. But, for some reason, I wasn't as scared as I probably had a right to be. I'd been on my own for a long time. Darla was a warm, attractive, intelligent, understanding woman. Plus, we had a history. What more could I ask for?
"So, when this is all over—after we find Dad—would you like to maybe, go out?"
