Cold War

Chapter 17

Rasche sat at the breakfast table, reading the newspaper. The front-page headline was about the American ambassador to the U.N. publicly calling the Russian ambassador a liar and insisting that there were nukes being moved around illicitly in the arctic, but Rasche was more interested in the funnies-”For Better or For Worse” was his favorite.

He sipped coffee and looked up at the clock: 7:20. It would be three hours later in New York, the middle of the morning.

He lowered the paper. “Shaef never called back, did he?” he asked.

”No,” Shari said. She was standing at the sink, rinsing the kids’ breakfast dishes.

”That’s not like him,” Rasche said.

He’d tried calling Schaefer three or four times the night before and hadn’t gotten an answer.

He’d left a message on the machine at Schaefer’s apartment.

”Maybe he’s on a stakeout,” Shari suggested. “If he is, he could be gone for days.” She didn’t mention all the times Rasche had been gone for-days on stakeouts, or that there hadn’t been any since they had moved to Oregon.

”Maybe,” Rasche admitted. He smiled at Shari to show he wasn’t worried, that everything was fine and that he was happy to be out here in Bluecreek.

Then the smile vanished. “What the hell,” he said, ”I’ll give him another try.” He tossed the paper aside and reached for the wall phone. He knew Schaefer’s office number by heart.

Someone picked up on the fifth ring, and Rasche started to relax-but then he realized that the voice on the other end wasn’t Schaefer’s.

”Detective Schaefer’s office, Officer Weston speaking,” the voice said.

”Weston?” Rasche frowned. “This is Rasche-is Shaef around?”

”No, he…” Weston began. Then he recognized the name. “Rasche? My God, you haven’t heard?”

”Heard what?”

Shari looked up at the sudden change in the tone of her husband’s voice.

”Schaefer’s gone,” Weston explained. “His whole squad was wasted in a drug sting that went bad-we still don’t know what the hell went down, but we wound up with a van full of dead cops, three dead perps, a shitload of questions, and no Schaefer. Rawlings and Horshowski and a couple of techs bought the farm on this one.”

”What about Schaefer?” Rasche demanded. ”What do you mean, ‘no Schaefer’?” The possibility that Schaefer might have been included in the vanful of dead cops simply didn’t occur to Rasche. Schaefer couldn’t have died that way; it wasn’t his style.

”Schaef’s disappeared,” Weston said. “Gone without a trace. One reason I’m on his phone is in case someone calls with a lead.”

”Schaefer doesn’t just vanish,” Rasche said.

”He took off to Central America that time without telling anyone here,” Weston countered.

”Yeah, but he told me,” Rasche replied. “Look, check around his desk, will you? Appointment book, calendar, maybe he left some kind of note.”

”Jeez, Rasche, I don’t.:.” Weston didn’t finish the sentence; Rasche could hear, very faintly, the rustling of paper as Weston poked around on Schaefer’s desk.

”There’s some stuff about the sting,” Weston said at last, “and a note here on top with no explanation, just a couple of connected names

…”

”What names?” Rasche asked. He’d been Schaefer’s partner a long, time; he thought he might recognize names that had never made it into any official records.

”Philips and Smithers,” Weston said.

That first name struck Rasche like a thunderbolt. “Philips?” he said. “Philips?”

”Yeah, Philips, one L,” Weston said. “Does that mean anything to you?”

Rasche hung up the phone without answering.

In New York Weston called “Hello?” into the mouthpiece a few times before he gave up and did the same.

Rasche was staring at the wall.

”Honey?” Shari asked. “What is it?”

”Schaef,” Rasche replied.

”What about him?” she asked, putting down the last cereal bowl. “Is he okay?”

”He’s missing.”

”Oh,” she said quietly, staring at him.

”I have to go, Shari,” Rasche said.

”But if he’s missing, how will you know where to go?” Shari protested.

”It’s more than that,” Rasche said. “It’s not just that he’s missing…” He stopped, unsure how to explain.

Schaefer was his friend, and more than just a friend; he was Rasche’s partner, and that held true even if they weren’t working together anymore. Schaefer was someone who’d always been there for Rasche whenever he needed him, no matter what, and Rasche had tried to do the same, to always be there when Schaefer needed him.

And if General Philips had turned up again, then Schaefer damn well might need Rasche’s help.

If Philips was involved, then two things were certain-Schaefer was in trouble, and it had something to do with those things, those murderous monsters from outer space that had been haunting Rasche’s nightmares for the past six months. Those were Philips’s special province.

Schaefer being in trouble was nothing new; Schaefer lived and breathed trouble, and was a match for just about anything he ran into.

If there was anything on Earth that Schaefer wasn’t a match for, though, it was those damned alien creatures-and General Philips.

”I have to go to New York,” Rasche said.

”But how…” Shari stared at him. “I mean…”

”I have to,” Rasche said simply.

Shari sighed. She’d lived with Rasche long enough to know not to argue. Usually he was a good husband, a thoughtful man, a loving father-but sometimes something would come along that made him suddenly push all that aside, and when that happened there wasn’t any point in argument. His sense of duty, of responsibility, was stronger than anything she could say-and that sense of responsibility was part of what made him the man she loved.

”If you’re sure,” she said.

Rasche pulled on his coat. “Call the mayor for me, would you? Tell him it’s a family emergency,” he said. “Tell him whatever it takes. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He headed for the garage.

Shari watched him go.

”I hope so,” she said quietly.