White Mountain

“Sir…it’s Dolan. I’m on the scene.”

“Fine. Remember, I want this played loose and easy. It’s entirely possible that no one there knew a thing about the old man’s background. If that’s so, then his reasons for deceit have died with him.”

Jack sighed. “Yes, sir, I understand, but in our business, we’ve always got to look for conspiracy, right?”

“Do I detect a note of ambivalence?”

“Maybe. And maybe I’m just more tired than I thought.”

“How are you healing?” he asked.

Jack flexed his stomach muscles, noting that each day brought a little more ease.

“Good. I rarely feel any pain.”

“That’s good. No need pushing yourself unnecessarily.” Then he added, “As a matter of curiosity, what’s your first impression?”

Other than the fact that I almost let myself get infatuated with a ghost? “Not much. I’ve only seen a desk clerk. Everyone else was at Frank Walton’s funeral. I did meet the owner briefly last night, but I didn’t have time to make any kind of connection.”

“Did he say anything about Walton’s death?”

“He is a she, and she referred to the old man as Uncle Frank. She also mentioned that her father had passed away less than two weeks ago, so she’s pretty devastated. I didn’t push.”

“Hmm, that’s quite a coincidence—two people living under the same roof and dying within weeks of each other. Check into the father’s passing. Make sure it was from natural causes.”

Jack’s pulse kicked up a notch. “Do we have any reason to assume otherwise?”

“Company intelligence thinks we’ve got a visitor.”

Jack stilled. “Soviet?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Two weeks, maybe more.”

“Do we have any background on Walton or, I should say…Waller? What was his line of expertise? Was it nuclear…? Biological…? What in hell did that old man know that would still be of interest after all these years?”

“He was a doctor. If there was a special project, we know nothing about it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dolan.”

“Sir?”

“Watch your back.”

“Yes, sir.”

The line went dead. Jack dropped the phone on the bed and reached for his shirt. The leisurely week he’d been hoping for had just gone up in smoke.

Up one floor and at the far end of the hall, the uncles had gathered in David Schultz’s room. Their demeanor was morose, reflecting their depression. Jasper Arnold scratched his bald head as he looked about the room.

“What about the clinic?” he asked.

“What about it?” Thomas countered.

“Samuel was the heart of it,” he said. “David and I have wanted out for more than five years. The staff is well-trained. We’ve accomplished what we set out to do. I say let them have full authority and we officially retire.”

Rufus Toombs smoothed his hands over his paunch, then laid his hands on his knees and leaned forward.

“Samuel had plans, remember? He swore he’d perfected the process even more than before. Things have already been set into motion.”

Jasper waved away the comment. “Exactly my point. Samuel had plans…but Samuel is dead.” He took out his handkerchief and mopped the nervous sweat from his brow. “I have plans, too, and they do not include being murdered.”

David interrupted. “I think you’re all overreacting.”

Thomas Mowry had been listening quietly, but when he heard what sounded like derision in David’s voice, he had to speak up.

“There are facts that cannot be ignored. Please. We should concentrate on them and not run amok here, worrying unnecessarily and blaming each other for what is, ultimately, inevitable.”

“What are you talking about?” Jasper cried.

“Age has caught up with us,” Thomas said. “And…quite possibly our pasts. We knew this could not go on forever. Besides, we have Isabella to consider and protect.”

The other four looked at each other and then away, individually nodding or muttering.

“Yes, yes, Isabella,” David said. “We have to think of our precious girl.”

“Right,” Thomas said.

For a moment there was silence, then Jasper asked, “So, what are we going to do about the last project? You know how high Samuel’s hopes had been. He kept claiming to have corrected the final flaw in our earlier works.”

Rufus sighed. “Speaking of the works…I have news.”

The others grew silent, waiting, fearing, yet knowing that their sentence must be that they hear it, if for no other reason than the fact that they were the ones who had set it in motion.

“We have another self-destruct.”

There was a collective sigh of frustration and regret that went up within the room and then, moments later, Thomas asked, “Who?”

“Norma Jean Bailey.”

“The blonde?” Thomas asked.

Rufus nodded.

Thomas’s voice began to shake. “I had such high hopes for that one. She’d already done some modeling and had enrolled in acting school, remember?”

Each man there averted his eyes from the others, choosing instead to look away, as if afraid to see blame in the other men’s eyes. David Schultz simply bowed his head and covered his face with his hands.

Thomas Mowry stood abruptly. “This leaves only two of the original twenty alive. I find this an unacceptable reason to try once more.” Then he strode to the window and stared out at the valley and White Mountain beyond.

John Michaels, who up until now had remained silent, cursed beneath his breath, then, oddly enough, began to cry.

The others said nothing. What could they say that hadn’t been said before? Finally Jasper broke the silence.

“Does this mean we scrap Samuel’s last project?”

“I say we take it to a vote,” David said.

The five old men looked at each other. Finally they nodded in agreement.

“Then a vote it is,” Jasper said, and picked up a pen and a pad of paper from beside the telephone. “Yes means we give the project one last try. No means we quit. Now. With no regrets and no blame.”

“All right,” they echoed, and then each wrote his decision on a piece of paper and tore it off before passing the pad and pen to the next man.

David took a small porcelain bowl from a bookshelf, folded the paper his vote was on and dropped it into the bowl before passing it around.

One by one, the men dropped in their votes. Jasper Arnold was the last. He dropped in his paper, then set the bowl aside as if it contained something foul.

“It’s your bowl. You count them,” John said, and handed the bowl to David.

David Schultz felt every one of his seventy-eight years as he moved to his desk with the bowl in his hands.

“Once the count is made, there is no going back. Understood?”

“Understood,” they echoed.

He unfolded the first bit of paper.

“Yes. It reads yes.”

He laid it aside and picked up the next, unfolding it with methodical precision.

“No.”

He picked up the next and the next, until he had two votes for yes and two votes for no. The room was completely silent except for the occasional hiss of an indrawn breath and the faint scratchy sound of paper against paper.

“This is the last and deciding vote. Whatever it—”

“Just do it!” Jasper cried.

David nodded, then unfolded the paper. His nostrils flared. His expression went blank. He looked up.

The men held their breaths.

“Yes.”

A collective sigh filled the room, part of it tinged with disbelief, part of it echoing the inevitability of what lay ahead.

“Then that’s that,” David said. “One more time.”

“For Samuel,” Jasper added.

“And for Frank,” Rufus said.

They nodded, then stood. Without speaking, they left the apartment, adjourning to their own rooms to dress for breakfast. There was work to be done.

Isabella handed the room key to the couple who’d just checked in, directed them to the elevator, then watched them as they walked away. She didn’t have to ask. She knew they were here for the clinic. There had been so many over the years that she’d come to recognize the quiet look of desperation they all wore. Saying a silent prayer for their success, she filed away their credit card information, then turned to answer the phone. As she did, she missed seeing Jack Dolan’s descent down the stairs.

But he didn’t miss her.

He’d heard her voice before he’d seen her, and despite his hunger for a hearty breakfast, he had to see her again—in broad daylight, when he could be absolutely certain she wasn’t the ghost he’d first imagined her to be.

“Good morning.”

Isabella turned around and found herself face-to-face with the man from the lobby last night. Her first impression was one of surprise. The night before, she’d been so wrapped up in her own grief that she’d failed to pay him much attention. To her, he’d just been a lost and hungry guest whom she’d fed and sent on his way. But now, with the early morning sunlight coming in through the mullioned windows over the entry doors, she had ample light by which to see. She took a deep breath. There was plenty to see.

He was tall—taller even than her Uncle David, who was six feet two inches. His hair was thick and straight, a warm, chocolate brown, and clipped very short. His eyes were blue, with a tendency to squint. She could tell by the tiny fans of wrinkles at the corners of both eyes. He had the physique of a runner—lean and fit, without a spare ounce of flesh. His shoulders were broad, as was the smile he gave her when he leaned across the desk.

“Good morning to you, too,” Isabella said. “I trust you slept well after your midnight snack.”

Jack’s gaze swept the delicate curve of her cheek and neck, then back up to her face, looking for signs of exhaustion. They were still there, behind the smile.

“I think I slept better than you,” he said. “Again, I’m very sorry for your loss.”

The dull ache in her heart shifted slightly as his concern gave her momentary ease.

“Thank you.” Then she changed the subject. “I’m guessing you’re headed to breakfast. The dining room is across the lobby and to your left.”

Realizing he’d been politely dismissed, he nodded his thanks and turned away from the desk just as an odd assortment of elderly gentlemen exited the elevator and headed for the desk.

“Isabella…darling…you have no business working like this so soon. Where is Delia?”

Isabella blew Thomas Mowry a kiss. “Good morning, Uncle Thomas, and quit fussing about me. She’ll be here any moment, I’m sure.”

Jack nodded politely as, one by one, the men gave him a studied look. These, he suspected, would be the men she referred to as her uncles.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Jack said.

They nodded and smiled, but Jack could tell they were only being polite.

“I’m Jack Dolan,” he said, and held out his hand to the nearest man.

David Schultz hesitated, but only briefly, then accepted Jack’s offered hand.

“Dr. David Schultz,” he said. “The gentleman to my right is Dr. Jasper Arnold, then Rufus Toombs, John Michaels, and the last one on my right is Thomas Mowry. We are Isabella’s uncles. Are you visiting family in the area?”

“Nope,” Jack said. “All my family is still in Louisiana. I’m in the area gathering some research for a book.”

John Michaels clapped his hands in delight.

“A writer! I always wanted to write, didn’t I, Thomas?”

Thomas Mowry shifted his glasses to a more comfortable position on his bulbous nose as he gave Jack a closer look.

“So you’re a writer, are you? Are you published?”

“Not yet.”

“Ah…I see.”

Jack felt a little like he used to feel when his father would look at his report card. The disappointment was always there, even though he had tried hard not to show it.

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