Read White Mountain for Free Online Page B

relaxing the tension in his muscles.   He leaned his head against the back of the tub and closed his eyes.   Something inside him was starting to give.   He’d known it for almost six months.   There was a restlessness to his behavior that had never been there before, and a longing for something he couldn’t name.   Although he couldn’t name his frustration, on thing was blatantly clear.   Something needed to give.   Whether it would be him or his lifestyle was yet to be determined.
    He swiped a wet hand across his face and rolled his head.   The beginnings of a headache he’d had since noon were starting to ease.   A small squirrel scolded from the pine tree at the corner of his year, angry at the invasion into its territory.
    “Back off Chester.   It’s my yard, too.” Jack said, and then smiled at himself.
    Now he was talking to squirrels.   He really needed a change.
    He had not taken a vacation in over four years.   Maybe what he was feeling was a simple case of burnout.   But whatever the diagnosis, the cure would be the same—a much-needed change of pace.
    He sat in the hot tub until his legs felt like gelatin and watched the moon come up.   It wasn’t until his phone began to ring that he dragged himself up and out of the tub.   Wrapping the towel around his waist, he jogged into the house and picked up the phone.
    “Dolan”
    “Jack, how are your ribs?”
    Unconsciously, Jack straightened to attention as he recognized the director’s voice.
    “They’re fine, sir.   What do you need?”
    The director’s chuckle rippled through the line.
    “So you’ve taken up mind reading now, too?”
    Jack grinned wryly.   “Truthfully, sir, when was the last time you called just to char?”
    “Point taken,” the director said.   “What I need is for you to pack for an undetermined stay in Montana.   You will receive a packet tomorrow morning, including a plane ticket to a small town called Braden.”
    Everything went through Jack’s mind, from militia-based groups to terrorists.
    “Yes, sir.   What am I facing?”
    “Oh…I’d say at least a week, maybe more, at a fine old hotel called Abbott House.   The air is clean.   There aren’t any golf courses or rivers in which to fish, but I hear the scenery is great.”
    “Sir?”
    The director chuckled again.   “Not what you expected, is it?”
    “No, sir, but I’m certain you’re about to fill me in.”
    The director sighed.   “Yes, well…as Paul Harvey always says…’now for the rest of the story.’   Two days ago, a set of prints from a dead man come through NICI that didn’t match up with any we had on file.”
    “I don’t get it,” Jack said.   “Surely you aren’t wanting me to establish an identity?   That’s a job for a homicide detective.”
    “Let me finish,” the director said.
    “Sorry,” Jack said.
    “Yes, well, this is where it gets weird.   The body was discovered in Brighton Beach.”
    “Isn’t that the place they call Little Russian?”
    “Some do, I believe,” the director said.   “At any rate, I understand that because of the large number of immigrants in that area of Brooklyn, that from time to time when a situation warrants, the police also send prints through Interpol as a means of speeding up identification.”
    A puddle had formed on the floor where Jack was standing, so he dropped the towel from around his waist, put his foot in the middle of the towel and began swiping at the water while he continued to listen.
    “Yes, sir, but I still don’t—“
    “I’m getting there,” the director said.   “The thing is…the prints rang a bell at Interpol.   A really big bell.”
    Suddenly, the hair stood on the back of Jack’s neck.
    “How big?”
    “The prints belong to a Russian scientist name Vaclav Waller.”
    “And?”
    “Vaclav Waller died in a plane crash off the coast of Florida over thirty years ago.”
    Jack kicked aside the wet towel and headed for the back of the