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I had to leave everyone and everything behind. My life is a lie, a fake ID. All because I stumbled onto LeHavre's secret lab.
They listed their own whistleblower number, but I never trusted corporations. The larger ones don't mess around. Government security pales in comparison to that of corporations involved in certain kinds of research.
They're not openly called hit men, but they designate a few of their security team as proactive and, voilà, you've got yourself a hit team. I assumed LeHavre's whistleblower number was that team's direct line. Their only question would be, "Where are you right now?"
Paranoid, yes, but better safe than sorry.
I had been working in IT at LeHavre's North American regional headquarters the past couple years in Brentwood, just south of Nashville, Tennessee. A conglomerate from Belgium was gobbling up bioresearch firms on this side of the pond and bought Hemsley Research shortly after I started there. I had a clearance level of "secret," but only those with "I'd tell you but then I'd have to kill you" clearance knew what really went on at that lab.
When the lab director's assistant Darla – a full-figured blue-eyed blonde in her late-30s, and the only good thing about that place – called that day, it was nice to hear her sweet southern drawl. My wife Cori and I had another argument that morning and it reverberated in my head all the way to work. Our marriage was running on fumes.
Cori was an attractive, lithe, hazel-eyed brunette, also in her late-30s, with a certain authenticity and honesty I liked. A welcome contrast to what I typically run into. Honesty cuts both ways, but I could take it... usually.
I'm a redhead. Not that that means I can take it any better than anyone else, but does apparently mean I require more anesthesia than most. Fun fact. But I digress.
I was a few years older than both women, taller than average, and still reasonably fit.
Darla and I always enjoyed a lively banter. We'd only met in person a few times at company functions, but you wouldn't know it to hear us talk. There was an instant spark, but we had to settle for a platonic, long-distance relationship.
This story is about her, mostly, but I didn't see much of her until the very end. So, you'll have to put up with me for most of it. If I was former military or a cop or, best of all, a former military cop, I might be more exciting. But it's just me, Dub Wagner/IT Man. Dub is short for the W in Wagner, in case you're wondering.
Tim sat in the cubicle behind me. He was a couple years and inches older and shorter than me, but with a handsome face framed in thick brown hair. He'd been with the company longer and enjoyed a regular stream of co-workers, mostly women, stopping by just to say hello.
We had an unspoken competition – not over women, he'd win that nine times out of ten – to come up with the best one-liners. On a good day, we were the second coming of Abbott & Costello. We tried and failed to come up with a more recent comedy duo. He suggested Sonny & Cher, but with me as Cher because I was taller, it didn't work for me.
On a bad day, we were called into the principal's office — our boss, Griffin — and given a talking to about professional decorum, blah blah blah.
We regularly overheard each other's phone conversations and, after one of my calls from Darla, he would say something like, "Phone sex again?" or "Get a room!" or "Have you told your wife about her?" My responses were equally juvenile and not worth repeating.
On this latest call from Darla, she said the lab's production line was "messed up."
"The term you're looking for," I said, "is 'hosed.' Probably caused by a Windows update."
I laughed. She did not. She was under duress. Boss breathing down her neck, probably staring down her blouse.
The software controlling the hardware was not working. And that's as technical as I'm going to get. Nobody wants technical details.
She said Jimmy, the handyman down there, couldn't fix it.
"Jimmy couldn't jimmy it?" I offered with a laugh and smile in Tim's direction, but he wasn't there. He would have drummed out a "ba-dum-bump" with his hands for that one.
There was silence on her end, but if you listened closely you could almost hear her rolling her eyes.
"No one can fix it," she said, defeated.
"Are they holding their mouth right?" I asked.
I knew things were bad when she didn't even scoff at that. Even at my stupidest jokes, she would at least scoff.
The idea that it matters how you hold your mouth while fixing something is a joke from Tennessee, I think. I'd never heard the phrase until moving there, at least. I'll give the middle Tennessee IT community credit until someone else claims it... which seems unlikely.
She was in no mood for jokes, though, so I stopped.
* * * *
My boss Griffin usually dealt with that place when someone had to be on-site, but he was on extended medical leave. Brain cancer, poor guy. Glioblastoma. They weren't sure he would survive, let alone return to work any time soon.
He had been spending quite a bit of time at one of LeHavre's nuclear medicine facilities lately. The building was new, with a lot of empty office space, leaving room for expansion. He temporarily set up shop in an unused office next to one of the CT scanners.
He was an old hippie-turned-IT-guy, keeping a guitar within reach next to his desk. "You never know when a song idea might hit you," he said with a twinkle in his eye. From "everywhere and nowhere" as he put it, he settled in Nashville a couple decades ago hoping, like so many others, to make it in the country music business.
I once asked why he preferred this facility over the corporate office, and he said, "Home is where I hang my guitar. Besides, it's cool being in a brand-new building. Gives me a fresh perspective."
"Uh-huh," I smiled knowingly. "I'm sure the former swimsuit model receptionist out front has nothing to do with it."
"Hadn't noticed her," he laughed. "But here, at least, I don't have my name on the door. It's my little hideaway."
They assured him that his office was perfectly safe, but a routine inspection months later discovered that the CT scanner had been leaking radiation. The design of these rooms includes lead-lined drywall, doors, and observation windows to absorb radiation and ensure the safety of adjacent spaces. However, several sections of ordinary drywall were used in place of the lead-lined variety. Whether this was deliberate cost-cutting or simple human error remained unclear. What was clear was that Griffin had been soaking it in for months.
* * * *
Tim would have been next man up to visit Darla's lab, but he was in a serious car accident a couple days prior and still recovering. That's when the conspiracy theories began. What happened to Tim was no accident, they said. And by "they" I mean Tim.
It was a warning. He knew too much.
I'm not quite the conspiracy theorist that Tim is, but don't dismiss them out of hand, either. Coincidence and conspiracies happen all the time. Some people don't believe in coincidence, but I do. Up to a point. As to conspiracies, unless it's personally affecting me, I don't generally care enough to theorize about it.
* * * *
I had visited Griffin and Tim – on different floors of the same hospital – and the latter filled me in on the former's leaking CT scanner. Before I could make it clear to Tim that I didn't want to know anything – I want plausible deniability on everything that ever happened to anyone anywhere – he dragged me into their little secret.
He considered himself a witness and said I was one now, too. Any decent lawyer would quash our testimony as hearsay, but Tim insisted that was not true in this case because Griffin had told him in person. In bed, hooked into an IV drip, with one leg elevated as he was, I wasn't going to argue with him. On my way out, he said, "Give Darla a kiss for me."
"You can do it yourself," I tried to cheer him up, "after they let you out of here."
Before you start thinking how nice of me it was to visit them, you should know that I had ulterior motives. Sure, I came away from the visit hoping they'd be okay, but went in selfishly just to pick their brains because I had to cover for them at work until they returned or were replaced. I didn't get anything especially useful from either one of them.
Griffin's wife and sister were in Griffin's room as I made my rounds. The sister, Rachel, said they had grounds for a massive lawsuit. The wife – Dina, or something, I've already created a mental block – was on the phone the entire time, talking to lawyers, glaring at me like an uninvited guest.
I timed it right and caught Griffin while he was awake, which I was told was an increasingly rare state. Lying in bed, looking like hell – as people generally do when deathly ill – Griffin seemed pleasantly surprised to see me.
He gestured for me to come close. He could barely talk but felt the need to confide in me.
"I was hoping after all that radiation," he said between gasps, "I would have superpowers. You know, like Spiderman?" He then laughed so hard that his monitors began to shriek and nurses came rushing into the room.
"What did you say to him!?" the wife shrieked even louder than the alarms.
"Nothing," I shrugged. "He told a joke, started laughing, and you saw the rest."
She gave me an evil look and turned away.
Rachel had driven all the way from Colorado to be with her brother in his final moments. She said a line from one of his songs kept popping into her head: "Scatter my ashes where the road meets the sky."* She hoped to quote several such lines when the time came. I said that was a great line, and I wanted to participate, if possible.
The wife turned back and glared at me while Rachel and I spoke. I could feel her staring holes through me, but I never looked up to acknowledge it until I was leaving the room. Now, every time her image or voice creeps unwanted into my thoughts, I imagine her surrounded by flying monkeys and finishing every sentence with "and your little dog, too!"
Rachel and I exchanged numbers and I said it was a pleasure to meet her. The wife, not so much.
* * * *
There's a traffic light at the entrance to our corporate office, and that's where Tim's accident occurred. Someone t-boned his car as he turned into the lot. Tim had the green light, but that was a moot point to everyone but the insurance company.
I drove past the wreckage as I entered the parking lot that morning, gawking like everyone else as I squeezed past the emergency vehicles, not knowing Tim was in the middle of all that. I should have recognized the gold Firebird artwork on the hood, but it didn't register at the time.
Tim's theory had it that someone in a fake Tennessee Department of Transportation (TDOT) uniform and vehicle – we'll call him T-Boner – had placed orange traffic cones in the right lane in front of our building to keep it clear. He then pulled his truck in behind those cones and waited. As Tim passed through the intersection, T-Boner punched the accelerator, plowed through the cones, and rammed Tim's car.
The official story was that the TDOT man had a heart-attack and reflexively slammed the accelerator, but the conspiracy theory was more fun and, as it turned out, the truth.
* * * *
LeHavre was prepared to fly in Jules from Belgium to fix the problem at the lab. His last name was something unpronounceable, so everyone just called him Jules from Belgium. LeHavre-NA's boss, Miss Jessica Broyles – CEO, with a bunch of credentials after that – wanted me to try my luck at the lab before flying Jules in from across the Atlantic.
The facility was out in the sticks, near Ducktown and Turtletown, not far from Little Frog Mountain in the southeast corner of Tennessee. The Ocoee River runs through the area. Either way, it was a lot closer than Belgium.
I thought, "Road trip!" My biggest concern was which snacks to bring. I was so innocent back then... two months ago.
Miss Jessica ran into me in the building's cafeteria on the ground floor as I was tossing snacks onto my tray. Tim and Griffin called her Jessica Rabbit behind her back. I guess it was her curvaceous good looks, red hair, and maybe some men fantasize about female cartoon characters? I don't know. They are a lot less trouble than the real thing.
"Health nut, eh, Dub?" she nodded at my unhealthy snack choices. I slid my tray toward the cashier – a large, smiling middle-aged woman – along those steel tray rails that surround cafeteria food displays.
Miss Jessica touched my arm. Caressed it, really, when she said, "I was joking, Dub, but you can take the company jet. It has better snacks."
She puffed out her chest as she said it. Was she offering those as a snack? The Jessica Rabbit reference was making more sense.
"There's an airport near the facility," she said. When I looked surprised, she added, "A very small local airport. Easy to miss. I'll have someone down there pick you up. Your teammates are dropping like flies," she laughed – a bit too happily, I thought, but let it slide – "and I want to make sure you get there safely!"
I was tempted. Probably should have taken her up on it. But, with me and Cori not getting along, I was happy for an excuse to get out of town. Besides, I love a good road trip and wanted to impress Jessica with my concern for the company's bottom line.
I paid the cashier, entered the dining area, and began to look for an available table. "Fuel for the jet there and back," I said, "would cost ten times more than driving a few hours round-trip, even after you reimburse for gas."
I was sucking up – and try to avoid that – but might be moving up the company ladder, through attrition if nothing else. I had to play the game. "Ingratiating myself" sounds better. Let's go with that.
"Go for it!" she said. "But, if things get messy and you have to spend the night, there are motels nearby."
She squeezed my arm as I sat at an empty table, but remained standing herself. Definitely hitting on me. I don't mean to be conceited but some women find me attractive. I blame my parents. Either way, I got the impression she wanted me to punch her Mile High Club card.
"Just add it to your per diem," she continued, "but someone from the lab will most likely let you stay with them, free of charge. They really are some of the nicest people."
Darla came to mind, but I pushed it away. Didn't need that kind of trouble. Halfway down there, I was kicking myself for not taking the jet. When would I get another chance like that?
Sooner than expected, it turned out, but for all the wrong reasons.
The lab director, Brice – a bit younger than me, early 30s, of average height and build, with brown hair and mustache – greeted me in the lobby upon my arrival at the facility. Darla was noticeably absent.
He had me sign a waiver – which I didn't bother to read – and drop my phone into some sort of black bag. We then headed for the production line room. You hear about the heroes of the world running toward trouble. That was me: IT Man, leaping broken-down old computers in a single bound!
"What, no tour of the facility?" I joked as we made a bee line down the hall into the fray. Brice sneered.
Turning the corner and entering the room labeled Production: Authorized Personnel Only, we immediately put on hair nets, blue paper booties and latex gloves.
"What about masks?" I asked.
"Like the ones people wore during the so-called pandemic?" he sneered again in case I missed it the first time. "Those don't protect against viruses."
"You've got viruses in there?"
"Among other things, but everything is safely stored. When we're in production, everyone wears what you might call a hazmat suit. Otherwise, like now, it's safe. The hair nets and booties are to keep us from contaminating the area, not the other way around."
We entered the room and turned another corner. The signs everywhere saying "radioactive" and "hazardous" gave me the heebie-jeebies, but I powered through. We were then joined by another man. Black, with glasses, shorter and thinner than Brice, he was introduced as Harold.
Something felt off and it must've shown on my face. Brice and Harold exchanged a glance.
On cue, two huge, armed guards then appeared behind us. Stealthy suckers. Grim. Unsmiling.
I had yet to meet any of these "nicest people" Jessica mentioned earlier. Brice was only minimally polite. Not even the receptionist was nice, and that's in her job description. It was kind of weird a place like this had a receptionist at all, but, whatever.
I gave the security guards a wary look. Brice assured me they were only going to keep an eye on me as they would with any visitor, but his assurances carried little weight. I've seen too many bad guys make people dig their own graves before putting a bullet in the back of their head. Okay, only in the movies, but it probably happens in real life.
I wasn't seriously worried about that, but it did cross my mind. They can keep their little secrets. My main concern was that I had never fixed this particular piece of hardware before, and didn't want to screw it up. This problem at the lab hadn't happened yet when I visited Griffin in the hospital, so couldn't ask him about it.
Still, the place gave me a gnawing sense of unease.
"I'll need to take notes," I made an excuse to gather my thoughts. "You got office supplies? Would've used my phone, but you had me drop it into that bag. What was that, anyway?"
"Faraday bag," Harold answered. "It blocks..."
"...electronic signals," I interrupted. "I'm familiar with Faraday. Just didn't recognize the bag in person."
Harold looked mildly offended.
"Sorry to interrupt," I apologized
Brice sighed deeply and gave directions to the office supplies while he and Harold stayed behind to talk.
On my return, notepad in hand, armed guard in tow, I tried to convince myself that everything they did here was legitimate. I've worked for the company a couple years now. I should be used to this, but it's one thing to know what kind of work your employer does, completely different being in the field, in person.
Brice and Harold were just around the corner from me, and I could hear them speaking in hushed tones, using words like dengue, Ebola and Marburg. Everyone's heard of Ebola, but I remembered those other two from biology class.
"It's crucial we get this fixed," Brice was saying.
I froze in my tracks. There was a convex mirror at the top of the corner wall. I backed up a few steps before they spotted me through that. Didn't want my hesitation to cause suspicion.
Even if this place was legitimate, did I want to be working for this sort of company? Not really, no. Dealing with biological specimens was bad enough, but if I saw any dogs or cats in cages, I was out of there... with as many of them as I could fit in the back of my car.
People like me can't up and quit, though. We have bills to pay. Until I win the lottery, I have to deal with whatever life throws at me. Only the wealthy can afford to be irresponsible.
Maybe my premonition was a reaction to the overly sanitized environment. I like a bit of mess to make me feel at home. There were no dirty Petri dishes in any of the sinks. No dirty laundry on the floor in the corner. I'm joking, but my guard was up. Alarm bells going off.
I came around the corner with a forced smile to meet the challenge. "Point me to the control panel."
Harold walked me over to a green metal box with red lettering standing in stark contrast to the room's otherwise white and stainless-steel décor. It was connected to the production line, among other things, through metal hoses and wires.
I dismantled the control box, disconnected things only to reconnect them – the reboot method – in case that magically fixed anything. It did not.
That's when Miss Jessica joined us. She must have flown down, after all. Harold took her arrival as his cue to leave.
I checked the control panel for blown fuses and whatnot, poking and prodding its innards with a multi-meter and voltage meter.
"Where do you keep this thing's spare parts?" I asked Brice. "It's got a blown fuse."
He gave me a look like something wasn't adding up. "Try the tool closet," he said finally.
"And that is... where?"
"Jimmy'll show you."
"And Jimmy is... where?"
Brice stayed behind as Jessica and one of the security guards escorted me to the administrative section of the building in search of Jimmy. We found him in a hallway amid rows of gray cubicles and walls adorned with lithographs of local wildlife interspersed with photographs of kayakers and canoeists navigating those famous Ocoee River rapids.
Jimmy, a middle-aged man of average height and build, with salt-and-pepper hair parted down the middle, walked with a rhythm to his gait, captivated by whatever he had coming through his ear buds. He made a move to go around us until Jessica stepped in front of him.
He smiled wide, happy to see that she wanted him for something. He pulled out one of his ear buds and left it dangling. Jessica nodded at me and let me explain the situation.
With considerably less enthusiasm for me than he had for Jessica, Jimmy listened to what I had to say. He nodded, gave Jessica one last smile, and led me to the tool closet.
I looked around but never caught sight of Darla. Jessica stayed put and chatted with a gaggle of employees who had gathered nearby. She had a rock star appeal, almost always the most attractive woman in the room, and her employees were her fans. That must be why she thought everyone was so nice. When you look like her, people tend to be nice... and invite you to stay the night.
Inside Jimmy's walk-in tool closet sat three full-height gym lockers, each with its own lock. It took him two seconds to work the combination and open the door.
I spotted the box of fuses and pointed at it. He gave me a look that said, No shit.
I gave a fake smile and look that I hoped conveyed, Just hand me the fuses, and I'll be on my merry way.
As Jessica and I – and the ever-present security guard – returned to the lab, she said, "Good news, bad news, Dub. Which one do you want to hear first?"
"Bad news first, always."
She nodded. "The bad news is that Griffin has died...."
"Oh no!"
"...and with Tim's recovery... there have been complications. He might not make it."
I nodded soberly.
"The good news is that you're being promoted, with commensurate title and salary bump... assuming you fix this thing."
That should have brought a smile but, given the circumstances, I just nodded.
* * * *
Under Brice's close supervision – at least he wasn't looking down my shirt – I replaced the fuse and put everything back together. Twenty minutes after I began – yes, I timed myself – it all came back to life with a triumphant whir. The conveyor belt was conveying again.
"Problem solved," I crowed. "Nailed it. Mission accomplished. My work is done here."
With a dismissive exasperation, Brice scoffed, "You gonna dance a jig?"
"Fantastic!" Jessica was not afraid to show appreciation. She learned long ago that acknowledging and encouraging others' accomplishments was the right approach.
She hugged me without reservation. I returned the hug, but she felt a little too good up against me. Just the right height. She and I were a perfect fit. I broke away before it became obvious that I was enjoying this a little too much.
"Now, remember," she said in a motherly tone, wagging her finger, "you can't tell anyone anything about what you've seen here. Corporate espionage," she glanced around the room, "is a very real problem in our business."
Brice stood beside her, nodding, adding, "You might want to read the release form you signed when you came in."
"No, of course," I said but don't think either one of them believed me. My poker face needs work. "I'll cancel that 60 Minutes interview I had scheduled," I joked.
Jessica laughed politely while Brice of course sneered.
"We'll let Tony escort you out," she nodded at the closest security guard. Both of them towered over me, but Tony was tallest of all. I had him pegged as a Mongo, not a Tony, though. And Mongo is how I'll remember him when I look back and reminisce on our time together.
I nodded and smiled in his direction, like saying "nice doggy" to a snarling junkyard dog. He gave no response. I was extremely happy to be out of there – tempted to dance that jig on my way out – but felt the need for a certain decorum as I headed for the exit.
Mongo was right behind me. I had dubbed the other guard Gary. Not sure why, other than because Mongo and Gary sounded good together, like a morning radio duo. Gary was probably out in the woods now finding a good spot for me to dig that grave.
At the front desk, I asked the woman if I could have my phone back. I was going to be nice and say her name, but her nameplate read simply: RECEPTIONIST. She smiled thinly and said, "Name, please?"
I was fairly sure I was their only visitor that day, but gave my name and waited. Shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I was anxious to be on my way. I flashed a fake smile at Mongo scowling behind me.
That's when Darla appeared. She was a sight for sore eyes. Smiling that happy smile of hers. A ray of sunshine on an otherwise cloudy day.
It was the first time I'd seen her all day, somehow missing her on my earlier excursions into the office area. I pulled her aside and whispered in her ear. Our closeness, like with Jessica earlier, had me more aroused than intended.
It must've been all the stress making me act like this. I mentioned my misgivings about the lab. Nothing specific, but a suspicious glance here, a sidelong glance there, a general feeling of something not kosher.
Nodding in the direction of the armed guard, I said, "I need to get out of here."
She gave a knowing look, stepped in behind the reception desk, pulled my phone out of that Faraday bag, smiled and handed it to me. Taking my arm, she said, "I knew I liked you! It's close enough to quittin' time. I'll go with you!"
The receptionist was still trying to look me up on her computer as Darla and I escaped out the front door. We took my car – coincidentally, an Escape – parked in a front row visitor spot, and Darla navigated us back onto the highway and toward her house.
I never noticed, but Mongo followed us in his own black SUV. Bad guys always drive black SUVs.
* * * *
LeHavre's company jet was parked next to the terminal as we drove past the little airport Jessica mentioned. I never would have recognized the jet, but their name was on it. If I had a secret lab and private jet, I wouldn't have my name splashed across it, but that's just me.
Through more side roads and woods, we eventually ended up at her house. It was a small, one-story brick home painted white, with a red metal roof. A large swath of cleared land separated it from the surrounding woods, and most of that space was covered with freshly mowed lawn.
I wondered if she mowed it herself, or if I would soon be meeting the man of the house who did such chores. Inside, an elderly man with thick, white hair and the deep wrinkles of a lifelong smoker slept in a recliner in the living room. I saw no ashtrays and the house did not smell of cigarettes, so maybe I was wrong about his smoking. Either way, he seemed to be the only one home at the moment.
An old movie played on the big screen TV. The scene was at dusk along the side of a desolate road. Two men with guns and foreign accents were escorting another man, pleading for his life, into the nearby woods.
I stood, transfixed, convinced they were going to make him dig his own grave. What are the odds this would be the scene I would walk in on? Darla grabbed the remote and turned it off, breaking its spell over me.
I wanted to know what happened to that poor man, but when she pulled me into her bedroom and began to strip, I didn't complain about this latest plot twist.
"Nunh-uh," she said, seeing the look in my eyes. "I'm just changin' clothes, but didn't wanna leave you out there alone with Daddy. Mainly for his sake."
"Am I that scary?"
"You're not scary at all," she smiled seductively. "It's just so he don't wake up and shoot you. He keeps a gun under a pillow next to the remote."
"Ah," I said, as if that was normal. "But how is that for his sake?"
"He gets upset after he's killed someone, and I don't want him getting upset. His heart ain't what it used to be."
She smiled and stepped out of her pantsuit. "I don't wanna be over-dressed as we make our getaway."
"Our getaway?"
"We're in this together now, Dub. You and me, like Bonnie and Clyde. But, they make me dress up more than anyone else because I'm an executive assistant, while everyone else gets to wear jeans. Anyways, seeing me in my underwear is no different than seeing me on the beach."
"It is when we're alone in the bedroom," I smiled. "And, spoiler alert, Bonnie and Clyde did not live happily ever after."
She forced a frown, but her eyes were smiling. She looked even better in blue jeans and a simple peach blouse. Some women look better dressed up, some when dressed down.
I tried to find something, anything other than her to stare at. The curtains were open, so I looked out the window into the backyard. Something there made me do a double take. It looked like lawn furniture had been blown to bits, and I asked about it.
"That's Daddy's doing," she laughed. "He likes to blow things up. Yeah, sometimes I worry our house won't be here when I get home, but he's taught me everything I know about explosives. I can undo whatever he's done... if it's not already too late."
"Useful skill," I nodded.
Pulling a small suitcase out of the closet, she brought a couple blouses and slacks down off their hangers. The slacks were placed at the bottom in the suitcase, the blouses folded neatly and set aside. Lugging it out to the dresser, she pulled a couple days' worth of undergarments out of their drawers and dropped them into the bag before placing the blouses on top.
"You have great taste in... underthings," I joked, uncomfortable. There aren't many things in life better than being in the same room with an attractive woman taking off her clothes, but I was a married man. Not very happily lately, but I took those vows seriously.
"Feel free to borrow some," she offered.
"Nah, it looks much better on you."
My vows never said I couldn't flirt.
She turned away – blushing – and went to the adjoining master bathroom. Collecting mouthwash, toothbrush and other toiletries, she dropped it into a smaller zip-up bag. She then went back for a bottle of perfume, sprayed herself, and added it to that bag.
She handed me the suitcase – which I accepted like a hotel porter – and followed her into the living room.
"Don't forget your secret stash," I said.
"How could I forget! Wait, how'd you know...?"
"I thought I was joking," I shrugged.
Reaching into the hall closet, up high, her blouse rose up and I caught a glimpse of her lower back. It was nice, increasingly rare these days, to see a woman's lower back free of tattoos.
That sounded creepy. I just meant I'm not a fan of tattoos, not that I expected to see even that much of her again.
She brought down her "go bag," a leather briefcase, and lost her balance. I caught her with my free arm and wrapped it around her waist. I was tempted to throw her onto the bed, and I'm pretty sure she would have let me.
Something I do when resisting the allure of another woman – and it's necessary more often than I would like to admit – is to picture my wife Cori next to me, smiling. That's it, but it works like a charm. Keeps me out of trouble.
Holding onto Darla now – longer than I had to, but she wasn't complaining – I set down that first piece of luggage and took the briefcase into my other hand.
"Hold that, too," she smiled, as if she had everything under control, and I guess she did.
"Yes, ma'am."
She returned to the living room, pulled her father's handgun out from under the pillow and dropped it into her go bag.
"Daddy, wake up," she nudged him. "We need to leave."
Sure enough, his first move was to reach for the gun that was no longer there. I was not happy about this becoming a party of three, but we couldn't leave the man behind, trigger-happy or not.
Awake now, we helped him to his feet.
"Does he have a walker or cane?" I asked as I looked around.
"Don't need none of that," he grumbled, eyeing me suspiciously. "Who are you?"
"Daddy, be nice. This is my friend Dub I've told you about."
She's been telling her father about me?
"Well, if it isn't the famous Dub," he said. "What's your last name?"
"Wagner."
"Any relation to Robert, the actor?"
"Not that I know of, but I might be related to Wagner, the German composer."
He shook his head, as if he had never heard of the man.
"We need to skedaddle," Darla said with some urgency, "like, right now."
"Wait!" he shouted. "My teeth!"
"They're in your mouth, Daddy."
He ran his tongue over his teeth and said, "Ah, so they are. Well, alrighty then." To me, he confided, "Don't never want to forget your teeth."
"Yeah, I hate when that happens."
Pedal to the metal on Interstate 75, we headed west toward Chattanooga. I thought about calling Cori to tell her what had happened, but what if my phone was bugged? Plenty of companies will track employees' cell phones, infecting them with spyware to monitor them while on the corporate campus. What's to stop them tracking your phone everywhere you go after that?
I was an IT guy, but not all of us are hackers. The finer points of security were not my thing, but I assumed my phone was infected at the lab. I didn't want LeHavre knowing my plans. I had no plan, but didn't want them knowing that, either.
There was also the issue of Darla. How would I explain her to Cori? "Hi, honey, this is my hot new friend, Darla. She'll be staying with us a few days. I'm sure you don't mind."
I would cross that bridge when I came to it.
With the speedometer pushing 90, I asked Darla to look up those viruses I heard Brice and Harold talking about.
"They were talking about bioweapons," she said immediately.
"You haven't looked it up yet."
"Don't have to. I've worked there seven years."
It was nice to know my instincts were correct, but now I wondered how far LeHavre would go to keep me quiet.
"I have a confession to make..." she began.
"Speak, my child," I faked a Southern preacher accent.
She laughed and said, "I'm the reason you had to come down here."
"How's that?"
"I was the one who sabotaged the lab's production line."
"What? Why?"
"To get you down here, silly!"
"No, really, why? And how do you know anything about fixing... or destroying that control panel?"
"I'm on LeHavre's ECOP team."
"ECOP. Electronic cops?"
"No. Emergency Continuity of Production. And the real reason was because I've had enough of LeHavre's bullshit. I don't care if they have a contract with the military, if they even do. We shouldn't be making bioweapons!"
"Somebody has to, I guess..." I began.
"Don't give me that 'somebody has to do it' bullshit. It has to stop! I did want to see you, though," she ended with a much friendlier tone.
"I get that a lot," I helped to lighten the mood.
"I've known about that lab for a while," she continued after a moment. "It started after LeHavre bought us and they brought in Brice, but I've been putting off reporting it." She looked off into the distance, nowhere in particular, as we sped past slower vehicles, with a green blur of trees as a backdrop. "Did you know I almost married a US Marshal? Eric."
I was confused by the non-sequitur.
"I called it off. Anyway, that job pays so well – paid – I just looked the other way, and avoided dealing with my ex. Even if I reported it to someone else at the Marshals office, it would end up on Eric's desk eventually. You'll see when we get there and become whistleblowers."
"Whistleblowers? I don't know enough about it to be a whistleblower. I can't just say they gave me the creeps."
"Well, I know all about it," she said. "And you can help corroborate."
I'd been focused on our escape. Blowing the whistle had not occurred to me, but she had a plan, so I rolled with it.
Bad move.
"Don't we have to be referred to the Marshals?" I asked, already finding excuses not to follow through.
"Maybe most people do," she smiled, "but I made a lot of friends there through Eric. They will keep us safe. Like I said, I've been meaning to do this, then you come along and... it's like we're meant to be!"
First, she's stripping in front of me, now she's saying we were meant to be. I pictured my wife – what's-her-name, Cori – in front of me, smiling.
Aloud, I said, "Make the call."
Maybe once she and her fiancée saw each other again, it would rekindle that old flame, and she would choose him over me. Or maybe they'd kill each other. Either way, I'd be sure and keep out of the line of fire.
* * * *
At the Marshals office in downtown Chattanooga, Darla was greeted like an old friend by several men there. The women were less friendly. Her ex, Eric – literally tall, dark and handsome – had that abandoned puppy look in his eyes, more hurt than angry. I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe he wouldn't kill her... or me in a jealous rage.
She and her father were whisked into a nearby office by her former fiancée. I would have thought he would be deemed too close, too personally attached, but what do I know?
I was pulled into a separate office by another marshal. A large man with a ruddy complexion and authoritative air. Everything about him said "don't even think about messing with me." Normally, that would be my cue to mess with him. That's just how I am, but I needed his help, so I tried to behave.
He told me to sit, so I sat – like an obedient dog – trying to get off to a good start. It irked me, but I bit my tongue... for now. He said he would get some coffee from the break room. When I glanced at the coffeemaker behind his desk, he said, "The break room is where we keep the good stuff."
His nameplate read: US Marshal Dieter G. Hintenscheissel. "Dieter G" sounded like a German rapper.
"What do you want your new first name to be," he asked before stepping out, "should things progress that far?"
I said I had to think about it. I was never crazy about my first name, Edgar. That was my father's name, and my mother regularly cursed him for leaving us years ago. Being forced to read Edgar Allan Poe in elementary school, followed by classmates calling me Creepy Edgar, didn't help, either. I was a little odd, maybe, not creepy. Kids are so mean.
My middle name is Leslie, but that's a girl's name so I couldn't use that. Plenty of people go by Junior, but I figured if Edgar wasn't good enough, Junior was even worse. Don't ask me to explain, I'm just telling you what my thought process was at the time.
My mother forbade me from using Eddie, my father's nickname. When she and her boyfriend at the time suggested I use my initials E.W., I had to explain that that spells "ewwww!" And, nobody wants "ewwww!" said in their direction, especially in grade school.
Ridiculously long story short, there's some history behind my name, and I've been Dub – don't call me Dubya – since fifth grade.
Oblivious to the above personal issues, he frowned and stepped out. I think he was kicking himself for allowing his deputy to take Darla, leaving him stuck with me, and I couldn't blame him.
Inside his stuffy perspiration-caffeine-tobacco-scented office, its only window – small and just below the ceiling – looked more like an air vent. I wish it was an air vent, but at least it let some light in.
I noticed the poster on the wall showing a tiny speck of a person climbing a sheer-faced rock wall. It occurred to me that climber could be me and the wall could be LeHavre and its goons.
I snapped out of that train of thought when it hit me: if I ran off like I'd been doing, I would lose out on that promotion and salary bump Jessica promised... assuming it was for real. I could use a salary bump.
When Herr Hintenscheissel returned with a Styrofoam cup in each hand, I caught a whiff of both coffee and alcohol. The latter must have been that good stuff he was talking about.
"You have to choose," he reminded me.
"Between booze and coffee?"
"No, your new first name. The coffee is for you," he handed it to me. "But you've got a good nose. The alcohol that you think you smell is fermentation. A probiotic shake...."
"Good one! I'll have to remember that."
"I'm serious," he smiled thinly, "but we used to let people keep their own first name until the powers-that-be chose this office to pilot a new system. We provide the surname, and you come up with a new given name, so long as the full name is new, and not John Smith or someone famous. Just use something like Bill or George...."
"Anything but Sue, right?"
He gave an impatient look. "...or Gunther," he finished his thought.
"I do have some German in me," I admitted, sorry for stepping on his punchline. "How about Jim Bob? I'd fit right in around here, but I'm guessing you're sending me far away."
"That is the hope, yes. So, what's your new first name gonna be?"
Looking at the poster on the wall, I said, "Clif. With only one 'f.' Short for Clifton, not Clifford."
"Like New Jersey?" he laughed, much friendlier now that he'd had a few sips of whatever was really in that cup and took a seat in his high-backed chair.
My cup had a black X on it, drawn with a Sharpie. Did X mean I was dead as soon as I drank it? Paranoid again, but that's what came to mind.
"Like Clifton, Tennessee," I set my cup on his desk.
"Use a coaster!" he snapped. "There, to your right."
"Sorry!" I snapped back, not liking his tone, but did as I was told. "Clifton is my hometown," I lied, creating my own back story. Passive-aggressive response to his tone, maybe.
He smiled absently, not listening, busy typing.
"Your last name will be Johnston," he announced after smacking the Enter key. "That part's been decided. Paperwork's just been submitted..."
"Oh, well, if the paperwork's been submitted..." I laughed. He glared. After an awkward silence I said, "So, Clif Johnston isn't anyone famous, is it? I'm just glad you didn't give me the last name Barr."
He narrowed his eyes.
"As in ClifBar," I explained, "those energy bars?"
"You ever try stand-up comedy?" he asked.
I shook my head.
"That's good, because you would fail miserably."
"Thanks, you're too kind."
"'ClifBar.' Give me a break..."
"That's KitKats."
He made another face. "Can we get on with it, please?"
"Sorry. Go ahead."
"You sure?"
"Please."
"Anyway," he continued, "other agencies are interested in LeHavre Research, and WitPro is making you a priority. God help us all. We usually stash our witnesses somewhere safe ASAP, but this office is under-staffed. My people are taking care of someone right now, but we've got no one for you. I'm getting the paperwork started, but don't have the manpower to babysit you."
"You said you're taking care of someone else right now," I ignored the babysitting comment. "Would that 'someone' be Darla and her dad?"
"I can't divulge that."
"We came in together for the same reason. You can't tell me whether or not you're putting her under protection?"
"Nope," he was enjoying himself.
He then gave me the business card for someone in the Nashville office and said I should get up there as quickly as possible.
A two-hour drive, minimum. Alone. Someone would meet me. He promised.
* * * *
Walking out of his office, I was now officially a snitch. Those guys don't last long in prison or gangs, but I hoped to never see the inside of either one of those, so that wasn't a problem.
The problem was that Darla had gone missing. She and her father were not in the waiting room when I came out, and there was no one to help me find them. Everyone, including Hintenscheissel, had disappeared. Was it happy hour? Two-for-one margaritas down the street?
I texted and left a message at Darla's number. When there was no response, all I could do was hang around and wait. Conveniently, I was in the waiting room.
Several minutes later, Hintenscheissel returned and said, "What are you still doing here? You need to get up to Nashville. They're waiting for you."
"I'm waitin' on Darla."
"It's a free country," he smirked, "but don't get your hopes up."
"So, you did put her under protection."
"I can neither confirm nor deny."
He knew more than he was saying, but it was pointless pursuing that line of questioning. I had no idea at the time, but he probably knew Darla's ex, Eric, was planting a tracker on my car as we spoke. Most likely ordered it himself.
* * * *
Exiting the building, the heat of the day felt good after the air-conditioned office. The AC was nice at first, but after a while I was wishing I'd brought a parka.
I kept an eye out for anyone stalking me – standard procedure now – on my way through the parking lot. A homeless man was pushing a shopping cart nearby, but I thought nothing of it.
Once safely inside my vehicle, I called and made a motel reservation in Nashville, in case someone was still after me at that point. And, because half the country was in town for Nashville's yearly country music festival, Fan Fair – or whatever it's called now – I couldn't be picky about which motel.
In the meantime, I thought I might visit the Tennessee Aquarium, if they were still open for the day. Their signs were all over town, and I had never been.
It was an out-of-the-blue thought, but ever since escaping LeHavre, the farther I got from that lab the closer I came to thinking I was overreacting to this whole thing. I should just relax. Everything will return to normal.
Either way, a visit to the aquarium – if anyone was following me – might throw them off my scent. They would never expect me to stop and play tourist.
If anyone was chasing anyone, they were after Darla, not me. She was the one with the inside scoop. I only had vague suspicions.
* * * *
At the aquarium I was enchanted by the wide variety of freshwater and sea creatures swimming, floating and lurking in the largest tank I had ever seen. I turned to see if anyone else was enjoying it as much as I was. That's when I saw Mongo. He had followed me all the way here. They were trying to intimidate me like they did Tim. LeHavre was clearly worried that I knew too much.
I confronted him. Walked straight toward him. He knew he was busted and didn't bother pretending otherwise.
"This place makes you wanna break out the fishing pole, doesn't it?" I said.
He smiled down at me. He would look down on almost anyone not on an NBA court. He had not said a word to anyone since we entered each other's worlds. Only the occasional nod. And he was not about to start now.
"Hablas Ingles?" I tried. Still nothing, and quickly grew tired of trying. "Good talk," I said, and turned toward the exit.
Outside, I hung around the front entrance and let a vendor's cart and its dangling paraphernalia serve as a sort of hunting blind while I waited to see which car he got into.
Mongo, studiously casual, walked out a few seconds after me, pulled out his key fob and pressed it. His SUV, in a no-parking zone, chirped as its engine came to life and he climbed in.
I walked behind his car and made a mental note of the license plate. I flipped him off but couldn't tell if he saw me. Either way, it felt good. I'm such a bad-ass.
A few rows away and back inside my car, I called the police and reported Mongo's license plate. Not sure what good it would do, but the woman answering said, "Any time you think someone's following you, drive to the nearest police station." It sounded like good advice and I took it.
In their parking lot a few minutes later, I watched as Mongo's SUV cruised past. I left another message for Darla, and thought about calling Cori, but some things are best said in person.
I gave Mongo another few minutes, then headed home.
I assumed every car that lingered behind me more than a few seconds was tailing me. It was only a matter of time before one of them pulled alongside, rolled down their window and shot me. Paranoia is exhausting, though, and the tension faded. I convinced myself I was being ridiculous. By Monday morning, I'd be back at work, taking that promotion and pretending this trip had been uneventful.
Then traffic turned on me. Cars and trucks kept cutting too close, swerving toward my lane just a little too aggressively. Reckless drivers are everywhere, sure – especially with the advent of cellphones – but this felt deliberate. More than coincidental. Maybe I wasn't crazy after all.
And then I saw it. A black SUV with a dented front fender. A red sedan with a busted taillight. A white pickup with a "Honk If You're An ET" bumper sticker.
I had seen all of them before, in different spots over the last few miles, lurking in my mirrors, slipping ahead and falling back again.
This wasn't a series of unfortunate near-misses. They were following me.
West of town, the Interstate split. I was in the fast lane because I wanted to go fast – like Ricky Bobby – but the lanes boxed me in. Traffic forced me southward, away from Nashville, into Georgia and Alabama. Two of those same three cars came with me.
I took a zigzag scenic westerly route, through Huntsville, past NASA's Space Camp, and back onto I-65. And that's how I ended up at a Buc-ee's.
For those unfamiliar with the Buc-ee's franchise, imagine a gas station and convenience store, times ten. Everything the Road Warrior could ever need, and more. If that's not already their slogan, I should sell them the idea. I might need to find a new line of work, and word on the street is that stand-up comedy is not an option.
I parked in one of the few shady spots. This lack of trees in places otherwise surrounded by them is a pet peeve of mine. This area was cleared of its trees decades ago. Former farmland, so they get a pass. But, if property developers would plan ahead and leave more foliage, there would be plenty of shade. The land would be more attractive and valuable. It's a win-win.
Maybe I can get a job as an Arbor Day ambassador.
I went in and ordered something at the food court. Yes, they have a food court, but no tables. My phone had a good signal so I leaned up against an outside wall of the "tortilla factory" kiosk and made a full backup to "the cloud."
I removed the SIM card and broke it in half – like I'd seen done on spy shows – and reset the phone to factory settings, wiping everything. I then dropped it in the trash in their amazingly clean restroom. They're known for that.
This Buc-ee's will show up on my stalkers' tracking devices as the spot where they lost me. Pretty sure I lost them, anyway.
They'll probably stop and eat when they get here. Buy a few souvenirs. What sort of trinkets do bad guys buy, anyway? Something camo-colored and lethal, I'll bet. There's an entire section of the store for that.
I ordered a cheeseburger, fries and root beer and ate it in my car.
Back on the Interstate, I drove way too fast, hoping a State Trooper would serve as an escort as he tried to pull me over. And, sure enough, because I wanted to be spotted by the cops, I never was. Funny how that works.
I made it to Nashville in record time.
* * * *
The Marshals' downtown Nashville office was inside a shiny new federal courthouse, where I met my new handlers, Brad and Calista. The former was an average-height, wiry, sandy-haired white man in his early 30's. The latter was another full-figured woman pushing 40. With a friendly face and dark curly hair, she looked to be of Caribbean descent.
Those near misses down south convinced me to go ahead and meet them and finalize the WitPro paperwork, just in case. I recognized her name from the card Hintenscheissel handed me in Chattanooga. But, like Dieter G, they didn't think I had much of a case, either.
"If I were you," Brad said, "I'd take that promotion you mentioned, and just go back to work."
He was right, of course, but for some reason coming from him it was annoying. You ever meet someone and the both of you just have this immediate repulsion, animosity toward each other? That was me and Brad. Calista and I had the opposite of that.
They went ahead and finalized whatever Hintenscheissel had started, and escorted me home.
"You're lucky you caught us on a slow day," Calista said.
"I am lucky," I said. "So lucky."
"Smart ass," Brad scoffed. "We're only doing this as a professional courtesy to Darla's ex, Eric."
"We're hoping they get back together," Calista explained more helpfully. "Everyone's pulling for them."
* * * *
At my house, they stayed in their car while I went in and told Cori we might have to go into witness protection. Nothing was finalized yet, but it might happen.
I knew it would be a difficult conversation but was not prepared for her response. Brutally honest would be an understatement.
She was sitting on the couch, barely noticing me, scrolling through her phone when I first explained the situation. I remained standing and told her all about my visit down south, excluding Darla. She gasped at one point, but said nothing.
After I finished, she gave me a long look followed by a deep sigh. She looked down at the floor, then up to the ceiling. Anywhere but directly at me.
I unthinkingly followed her eyes up to the popcorn ceiling and down at the cheap carpet. Thinking we were on the same page, I began, "Yeah, it sucks, but..."
"We're sick of each other, anyway, Dub," she interrupted, shaking her head. "This is our excuse to finally end it."
I couldn't believe it. I knew our marriage was not what it used to be, but this was a shock.
"There should be a life insurance payout," she ignored me, "to convince everyone you're really dead. I can finally redo the kitchen! There will be a payout, right?"
I didn't know, didn't answer, just shook my head and left the room. She was enjoying this way too much.
"How did you supposedly die?" she called out, now in the kitchen.
"Stabbed through the heart by my wife!" I shouted on my way out the front door, slamming it behind me. I'm not normally so dramatic, and she's not normally such a bitch, but that was the conversation.
I then sneaked back inside and grabbed my handgun from the nightstand by the bed. For one, I didn't want her to find it; secondly, I might need it where I was going. I wrapped it up in a sweatshirt to hide it from the marshals.
Rather than go back and ask Cori if she wanted to join me – I didn't want her to, but had to ask – I texted, telling her about the motel, saying it might be wise to get away from the house for a few days.
She said, "No thanks, but you go ahead," which is what I did, after texting her and the marshals the name of the place. And, now I wished I hadn't told Cori anything.
Calista texted back – though we could see each other through our car windows – saying they would check up on me later. I didn't know if that meant tonight, tomorrow, or at my funeral with flowers. Hopefully yellow roses. Those are my favorite.
* * * *
It was a scary, cheap motel, but I wasn't sure where my next paycheck was coming from and didn't want to spend any more than I had to. If I had known at the time that the US Marshals Service would be picking up the tab, I would have found something much nicer.
As it was, my room on the second floor overlooked the Interstate. Not the best neighborhood.
Darla eventually returned my call and agreed to meet me there. A couple hours later, she knocked and I opened the door. Entering the room, she gasped, "Let me in and close the door!"
I laughed and let her in. She had brought a bottle of pink lemonade. Only in the South would someone do that.
"There were men staring at me!" she said.
"You should be used to that by now."
She liked that, but I told myself to stop. In my mind, I was just being charming – aren't we supposed to be charming? – but she took it seriously.
She said she was there to check up on me, see if I wanted to get into WitPro.
"Not especially, but might have to."
"That's what I thought, and I'm working on it, but no luck so far. In the meantime," she held up the bottle of lemonade, "I brought refreshments. I hope you have glasses. I was thirsty but on a bit of a health kick lately. Besides, I need to keep a clear head. I might have to do something drastic to get you into WitPro."
"Like what?"
"I don't know but, whatever it is, it's best you don't know. Plausible deniability, and all that."
"A woman after my own heart!" I let slip, then downshifted to a more casual tone and said, "My favorite thing."
* * * *
Cori decided to meet me there, after all. Of course. She found me alone in a motel room with another woman. Of course. I don't know how she got my room number. I'd only mentioned the name of the place.
It didn't help that as soon as I opened the door for her, behind me Darla had kicked off her shoes and was taking off her blouse.
Cori jumped to predictable conclusions, and it didn't matter how many times I said "It's not what you think."
"I'm sorry," Darla offered. "I spilled lemonade on my blouse and need to wash it in the sink before it stains."
"Uh-huh, sure," Cori was sarcastic.
From the bathroom, Darla called out, "Hey, Dub, you got a shirt I can borrow while my blouse dries?"
My wife raised her eyebrows. "Well? Do you?"
"Um, yeah, sure." I opened my suitcase, pulled out the Buc-ee's t-shirt I'd just bought, and handed it to her, averting my eyes as I did so.
Cori and Darla both laughed at that, but for very different reasons.
Returning from the bathroom wearing my t-shirt, Darla tried to play peacemaker. She served Cori a cup of lemonade.
"We couldn't find any real glasses," I explained when Cori gave me a look. She knocked it back in one gulp and I, stupidly, made light of the situation. "Thirsty, I guess," I said. But, as usual lately, humor was not my friend. Maybe it never was. I don't know.
Cori tossed the empty cup in the direction of the trash can, missed it completely, scoffed, and said to Darla, "You can have him!"
We heard a roar go up outside as Cori stepped out onto the balcony. The same men ogling Darla on the way in had now set their sights on Cori.
After an awkward moment of silence – in memory of my now dead marriage, perhaps – I sat on the edge of the bed.
Darla sat next to me – right up against me – and lay her head on my shoulder. I tried to picture Cori smiling, but couldn't for the life of me remember the last time she actually did. Sarcastic/psychotic smiling like when she first heard about WitPro doesn't count.
Darla began to rub my back. That turned into a hug, then a kiss, then tearing off each other's clothes. And that's how I crossed that bridge when I came to it.
* * * *
An hour later, thinking I was fast asleep, Darla sneaked out. I could hear her on the phone with someone as she descended the stairs. The only word I caught after "hello" was "ruckus." It stood out because I don't often hear that word.
An hour after that, I was awakened by Calista and Brad banging on my door. It was late, but neighbors on all sides were still partying hard. I'd had quite a day and was trying to sleep.
The marshals' banging shut my neighbors up. I'll have to remember to bang on my own door, shouting "US Marshals! Open up!" next time I have noisy neighbors.
I pulled on my jeans, grabbed the gun off the nightstand, and looked through the peep hole. Brad had gotten a buzz cut since just a few hours ago, and Calista had her thick brown curls pulled back tight.
When I opened the door – gun in hand but pointed downward – they drew their weapons and told me to drop mine.
"Oh, sorry," I said and handed it to Brad.
"Don't ever have a gun in your hand," he scolded, "when you open the door to a US Marshal!"
"Yeah, I wasn't thinking."
"Don't open the door at all," Calista added, "without seeing their credentials. Impersonating law enforcement is a common trick."
"I doubt I could tell the difference between real and fake credentials, especially through the peephole. Besides, I saw you just a few hours ago."
They ignored this. Brad was focused on securing my gun, checking its safety. He eventually stuck it in his back waistband.
Watching him, I said, "You shaved your head. Is this your on-a-new-case look?" He glared and I apologized, "Just kidding, but what can I do for y'all this fine evening?"
"We got a call," Calista began, "telling us to get over here as quick as possible. A concerned citizen said a 'crazy person' was in the parking lot, causing a ruckus."
"A ruckus, you say?" I've been working on my poker face lately, and think I kept it inscrutable. "And you assumed it was me? No, I haven't caused a ruckus in years. I was in here trying to sleep."
I never mentioned Darla.
"We monitor first-responder activity," Brad chimed in, "anywhere near our potential witnesses. We knew you were in the area, so they sent us to check it out. Anyway, we found your car in the parking lot."
"Saw someone running from it," Calista added. "Wanna know what we found?" I nodded. "A tracker under the wheel well and a bomb under the trunk..."
"It doesn't have a trunk," I said. "It's an SUV. You sure you checked the right car?"
"The back section, then. Whatever you wanna call it, you woulda been blown to Kingdom Come. The bomb squad is on their way now to deal with it."
"Just call Cori and have her defuse it," I joked. When nobody laughed, I explained, "That was probably her... earlier... running away."
"Never good when you have to explain your jokes," Brad scoffed. "But you would have had to leave your car behind when we put you in WitPro, anyway."
"Are you serious? That's my getaway car! It's even called an Escape."
"We're US Marshals," Brad dead-panned. "We're always serious."
"Remember Griffin and Tim?" Calista asked.
"I heard about Griffin, yeah. How's Tim doing?"
"He's dead, too," Brad said. "Someone overdosed their IVs at the hospital, and we have to assume you're next on their list." With a wry smile, he added, "That might not be such a bad thing, but it's our job to keep you alive."
Calista shot him a dirty look and pulled me fully inside the room, out of earshot. "I recognized the tracker as one of our own," she whispered. "Probably planted at our office here or in Chattanooga."
I wondered if Darla had anything to do with it, then remembered the homeless man in the Chattanooga parking lot and mentioned him.
She nodded. "We think the bomb was added later. Probably here in the parking lot. Someone in the Marshals Service must have leaked that tracker's info to the bomber."
When I glanced at Brad, she took my hand and said, "He can be an ass, but he's one of the good guys, I promise you."
"Why are we whispering, then?"
She had no answer. Letting go of my hand and looking down, she smirked and said, "You might want to zip up your pants before we go."
I looked down. Good thing nothing was sticking out. Smiling as I zipped up, I asked, "Was it good for you, too?"
She ignored that.
Seeing Calista moving back in his direction, Brad moved in closer to the door but out of her way. He must have seen that my fly was down but didn't bother to tell me.
"I don't see us becoming true friends," I said to him. "A bro tells a bro when his fly is down."
"I might've said something, bro," he ran his hand across the crown of his head, "but you made fun of my hair."
"My bad," I apologized. To Calista, I said, "I thought I'd try one more time to talk Cori into coming with me. We're not each other's favorite person right now, but I owe her that much after all these years."
"That is so sweet!" She took my hand again.
"Clean break, man," Brad shook his head. "Clean break."
Calista took those words as her cue to release her grip on me.
"You ever been married?" I asked Brad, but didn't wait for an answer. "Nothing about marriage – or women – is clean and simple."
"Don't tell me about women," he shot back. "You might have 20 years on me, but I can tell you a thing or two about the ladies."
"Twenty years? More like ten..."
"You look a lot older..."
"When you two," Calista mediated, "Mr. Different-Girl-Every-Week and Mr. Soon-To-Be-Divorced have finished pretending you know anything at all about women, we need to leave."
To me, she added, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."
"I deserved it," I shrugged. "I can be an ass, too. Just ask my soon-to-be-ex wife."
Riding in the back of a law enforcement vehicle was not on my bucket list, but that's where I sat as we drove to my house and they filled me in on exactly what happened to Griffin and Tim. The assassin was caught on camera going in and out of their rooms.
"Funny thing, though," said Brad, "the surveillance video made it look like you were the last non-medical person to enter their rooms before they died. Maybe it's a good thing we've got you in the backseat?"
"Luckily," said Calista, "our techs determined that the video was doctored."
"No pun intended," I said with a laugh, then added, "But I was there several days ago."
"Yes," Calista nodded, "there were large gaps in the timeline."
"Somebody tried to set you up, dude."
I wondered who had the access to do that, but all I could say aloud was, "Hmm."
"The real killer," Calista added, "who looked nothing like you, by the way, said he poisoned their IVs under orders from 'higher-ups.' Griffin died almost immediately because of his weakened condition. Tim almost recovered but relapsed and died the next day."
* * * *
Our Boston terrier, XeGirl, short for Tuxedo Girl von Trapp – Cori came up with that – greeted us with a bark at the door as we came in. Not much of a guard dog, she greeted the marshals happily and escorted us into the master bedroom.
She always somehow knew where I was going, staying a few steps ahead, in the way. This time was no different, except that Calista insisted on "walking point" while Brad "covered our 6."
Calista flipped on the lights as we entered the bedroom, but I immediately turned them off. Cori was asleep and wouldn't appreciate the lights.
"The night light in the bathroom," I whispered, "is enough."
Cori never opened her eyes, which was odd. XeGirl had jumped on the bed and Cori usually awoke at the slightest thing. In the past when I tried to wake her, she almost always reacted as if being accosted. It used to annoy me until I realized she – along with half the female population – probably had been accosted at some point in her life.
It was warm that night and she had pushed the sheets down so they were covering only her feet. Her nightshirt had ridden up, exposing her bare bottom and legs. She was on her side, knees pointed toward us. Her long, dark hair covered most of her face. Only her mouth and the tip of her nose showed.
I caught Brad ogling her, but couldn't blame him. She looked good, even asleep. Calista pulled the sheet up to cover Cori's bottom half.
"Cori," I said softly as I moved in and pushed her hair out of her face. "I'm leaving. Last chance to come with."
I couldn't hear her breathing, and rubbed her shoulder. She was unresponsive, a little too cool to the touch. I shook harder. Still nothing. I felt for a pulse.
"There's no pulse!" I shouted, stood up, and flipped on the lights.
Calista bent down to see for herself. "She's alive," she said, "but I'm calling an ambulance. Her pulse is very weak."
When Calista bent down, Brad was behind and to her left. I was on her right, closer to Cori. He tried to be sly – and I didn't care in the moment – but I caught him checking out Calista's ass as she bent over. All men are prone to do that, but this "new girl every week" thing made more sense now.
The paramedics arrived, put Cori on a gurney, and wheeled her out of the house. I put XeGirl in her crate and followed the paramedics outside.
I was thinking about climbing into the ambulance with her when Brad stopped me with a hand on my chest. "We need to get you out of here right now."
"Which hospital again," I asked, "was it that Griffin and Tim were sent to?"
"Why?"
"I don't want Cori taken to the same one, given what happened to them."
"Good point."
Calista was headed toward the ambulance and Brad relayed my request to have them avoid Griffin and Tim's hospital. She nodded, walked up and handed something to one of them, then returned to me and Brad.
"Brad's right about getting out of here now. We'll bring your wife along as soon as she's able but need to take you tout de suite. Someone will stay with her until she's ready."
"Assuming she ever is," I said, deflated.
"I'm sure she'll be fine," Calista lied. She knew no such thing.
"I meant I'm not sure she'll want to rejoin me, but what did you hand to that paramedic?"
"A bottle of sleeping pills," she said with a glance at Brad. "He found it on her nightstand."
Found it, I wondered, or planted it?
* * * *
Brad and Calista drove me to John C Tune Airport, a small public airport on Nashville's west side. Along the way, Brad, driving, pulled up in front of the Tennessee State Prison at Cockrill Bend. "We'll be dropping you off here," he said with a straight face as we sat idling at its massive front gate.
The place has been closed for 30 years now, replaced by the newer maximum-security facility nearby, but its architecture – I'm told it's called Romanesque Revival – was quite impressive.
"Hilarious," I said. "Can we go now?"
"I'm with him," Calista shook her head. "Let's go."
"What? Don't like prisons?"
"I don't even like riding in the back of this car. Does that answer your question?"
At the airport, as they handed me off to my new marshals, Roger and Laura, Brad said to me, "You can thank Hintenscheissel for your new location. He insisted on it. You must've made quite an impression."
"I do have a knack."
"Just be glad it's summertime."
I took that to mean I was relocating to somewhere just shy of the North Pole, and I was close: Sioux Falls, South Dakota. One state south of The Great White North, but in winter it's all just tundra to me.
I can reveal that now that I'm no longer there.
I disappeared into the night not knowing Cori's fate, but did make sure XeGirl was taken care of. The neighbor lady always loved her and offered to keep her as long as necessary.
I finally got that ride on a private jet when they flew me to my secret location. It was exciting, honestly, but I spent most of the flight thinking how much Cori, even XeGirl, would have enjoyed it.
Roger and Laura put me up in a motel until the house was ready. When they stopped by to see how I was doing I asked what was taking so long with the house. I didn't mean to be rude, but this motel was almost as scary as the last one.
Roger avoided eye contact while Laura spoke. "Oh, you know, they like to give them a thorough cleaning, sometimes a paint job, inside and out. Mow the lawn, trim the hedges. That sort of thing."
I wasn't buying it. More likely, there was a cleaning crew in hazmat suits on their hands and knees, scrubbing blood stains out of the carpet, wiping bits of gray matter and skull fragments off the walls.
Once my new home was ready but before they handed me the keys, I had to promise I would not share my details with anyone from my former life. I never got a warm and fuzzy feeling from these two new agents. Not especially concerned about my well-being. Not as engaged as the previous team.
Brad was an ass, but at least he was fully engaged. As for Calista, she always made eye contact. Wasn't afraid to put a comforting hand on your shoulder. Much more touchy-feely.
* * * *
With the map program pulled up on my new car's dashboard display, I pulled into my new neighborhood. I was starting to appreciate the benefits of a fresh start. It put me in a good mood, despite everything.
The house was a very nice two-story, three-bedroom craftsman-style home with a small front yard, narrow side yards, and big backyard with a deck. The car was a brand-new black Cadillac Escalade with all the upgrades. Feds only seem to buy black. Sadly, neither one of them belonged to me. They were just loaners until... well, I don't know. Until I got whacked, I guess.
But, like so many hand-me-downs, they were ill-fitting. Too big for just me. In the Marshals' defense, they were expecting a couple with a dog.
As I pulled into my driveway, the next-door neighbors were parked in theirs, piling out of a gray minivan. The wife, with her arms full of groceries, smiled at me on her way inside. The husband, carrying a bag in one arm while on the phone with the other, glanced and nodded curtly at me before stopping and giving my car a serious, almost lascivious look. It was a nice-looking SUV fresh from the factory, but not something I would personally lust over. To each his own.
The boy, 9 or 10, carrying nothing but his phone never looked up as he went in. The girl, 6 or 7, struggled with a bag as she lagged behind.
"Justin!" she yelled at her brother. "Lazy! Get a bag!" But Justin was ignoring the world around him.
"Justin," his dad joined the conversation, "get a bag." The boy made a show of being egregiously inconvenienced, but went back and got a bag.
It was a family of brunettes, though the girls' was lighter than the boys'. The husband was the only one keeping his cropped short. He had a military air, and I wondered if there was a base nearby.
They were all physically fit. Probably had gym memberships they actually used. Not my style. I need my exercise to come as a by-product of sports or chores.
The wife held my attention more than she should have. She was a knockout. If her husband can lust after my car, I can do the same with his wife, no? Maybe not, but after Miss Jessica and her flirtations, then the thing with Darla at the motel, and now my marriage apparently over, you might appreciate my mental state at the time.
The wife and daughter stopped by the next day with some homemade cookies to welcome me to the neighborhood. People still do that? Apparently they do in Sioux Falls.
The woman was even prettier up close. The girl was an exact copy, only smaller... and losing her baby teeth.
"I made them!" the girl boasted.
"I hope you're not allergic," the woman smiled. Everything about her was graceful. "We didn't know what kind of cookies you might like: chocolate chip, oatmeal or sugar..."
"So, we made them all!" the girl half-shouted.
"No allergies, thank goodness." I never say "thank goodness" except in the presence of children and religious folk.
I was prepared to tell them the back story WitPro had provided me, without giving too much detail. "Let them assume your vagueness," they said, "comes from being a very private person."
The woman asked if my family would be joining me. So far, she had seen only me.
"Yes," I was guessing, "my wife should be joining me."
"Okay. Well, we're the Johnsons. Welcome to the neighborhood."
"Welcome to the neighborhood!" the girl echoed with gusto. "This was Cindy's house!"
"Oh, no," I laughed and shook my head.
"What's wrong?" the woman asked.
Her daughter looked insulted, as if I had something against Cindy.
"I'm sorry. No, it's just that my last name is Johnston, with a 't.' We'll probably start getting each other's mail."
I'm probably giving him too much credit, but had to wonder if Hintenscheissel saw the neighbors' last name in his database and thought it would be funny to give me something close to that. Just one more irritant in my new life.
"Ooh, you're right," the woman agreed, then joked, "Any chance you can change your name?"
If she only knew.
I was tempted to say "Again? No problem!" Instead, I shook my head and smiled. "My first name is Clif, with one 'f.' Short for Clifton not Clifford. I dropped the 'ton' because Clifton Johnston was just too much."
She laughed at the drawn-out explanation. "I'm Larissa, and this is Jordan. We'll just have to deal with each other's mail, I suppose."
"Beautiful names," I laid it on thick, still figuring out how to play this new identity of mine, like an actor getting a feel for my character. "Larissa, like the city in Greece; and Jordan, as in The River of..."
Larissa's eyes laughed at me. Aloud, she said, "Oh, have you been to Greece? I've always wanted to go."
"No, but a family member visited and told us all about it."
Another lie. And not even part of my official back story. I just made it up. I'm such a liar now. Just shoot me if I start manipulating people because lying and manipulating are the two worst qualities a person can have.
Jordan finally handed me the cellophane-wrapped plate of cookies. Her mom said, "It was a pleasure to meet you, Clif with one 'f' Johnston with a 't.'"
"Larissa has two S's," Jordan said through her missing teeth.
The two lovely ladies walked to the end of my driveway, turned left onto the sidewalk, then left again at their driveway. The girl tried to cut across the grass, but her mother deftly caught and steered her back onto the pavement.
I would have cut across, too.
* * * *
Back inside, I unwrapped the cookies and chose one of the oatmeals. I was about to take a bite when one of Calista's warnings came back to me. "Don't take candy from strangers. But, seriously, be careful with edible gifts. It might be poisoned."
"Great. Paranoia, the new theme of my life."
"You'll get used to it."
I'm guessing Larissa told her husband all about her visit because I later watched as he got up on a ladder and redirected two of his security cams toward my house. Suspicious? Jealous? Or, maybe my new neighbors were my latest surveillance team.
When Larissa stopped by again one evening a few days later, she was alone, in a housecoat and slippers, and looking out of sorts. Poor thing, I invited her in.
She asked about my wife, and smiled when I said she would not be coming.
I poured us each a glass of wine. After a few sips, she revealed that her husband never touched her anymore.
"What!?" I was incredulous.
She looked deep into my eyes and placed her hand on my upper thigh. Her lips slowly parted as she moved in close. And we got to know each other right there on the couch.
She thanked me afterward and went home. It was weird. I'm not that lucky. Did I dream that? Then I woke up. Crap.
In my next dream, Larissa and her entire family were professional killers. Even Cindy, who I never met, was trying to kill me. I tried and failed to convince myself I wasn't losing it.
* * * *
My neighbors began stopping by more frequently, and we developed a friendly rapport. The husband, Charlie, was a bit too intense for me, but loved to talk about cars. Larissa, as always, exuded a warm, inviting presence. It was nice to have such friendly neighbors. Cori and I had that in Nashville, in particular the woman now taking care of XeGirl. I just didn't expect it in the cold, presumably inhospitable north.
One afternoon, Charlie announced with a laugh that he was in love with my car. I was tempted to announce my love for his wife, but held my tongue. The Escalade was too much for me, but he couldn't stop gushing about it. I asked how long they'd lived there, and they said theirs was one of the first houses in the neighborhood, built ten years ago. I thought the neighborhood was newer than that, based on the size of the trees. They nodded in unison and Larissa explained that the cold winters there make trees grow more slowly.
"Not crazy about cold weather."
"You get used to it," they answered simultaneously, then laughed at themselves.
I gave a polite laugh, but was stuck on the "you get used to it." I had been hearing that too much lately. Yes, twice is too much.
"We are such a married couple..." Charlie began and Larissa joined him in saying, "...we finish each other's sentences!"
Winking when he said it, Charlie asked if they could borrow my car for their upcoming vacation to the Gulf Coast. "It would be perfect," he said. "Wouldn't it be perfect?" he asked his wife.
She nodded and smiled. I think she was embarrassed. Too polite to make such a request herself. We all laughed it off in the moment, but I think he was serious.
* * * *
The only problem with my new house was the bugs. Not insects, the place was bugged in every room. I thought I was under protection, not suspicion. Guess not. The Marshals were holding me as much as they were protecting me. It was a prison cell disguised as a very nice house with very nice neighbors. Could have been worse, I guess.
I checked online how to find bugs in your house. Once I got past the insecticide results, I went around and removed anything that looked like it might have a camera or listening device behind it.
* * * *
Cori's overdose was ruled accidental. The toxicology report said there were other sedatives already in her system before she took what Brad had found on her nightstand. Again, I found myself wondering if Darla had anything to do with it. She was one of the last people to see Cori that night and did serve her a drink.
Cori was back home, recovering, when Brad and Calista stopped to check on her. They asked if she had noticed anything suspicious lately. They also asked if she wanted to join me in my secret new location.
"My overdose was an accident," Cori scoffed. "Losing Dub is not something I would kill myself over. I definitely ain't following him to East Paducah, or wherever you sent him."
"We need to keep you safe," Calista said, "but can't do that with you staying here."
"The budget," Brad explained, mostly as an excuse to talk to her now that she was single again, "doesn't let us split families up. You'll have to live together or take your chances here, unprotected."
"I'll take my chances."
Brad and Calista nodded, about to leave, when Cori shook her head and said, "I swear, I only took the two pills, like I always do."
The marshals gave each other a look. "We'll check on you every day for a while," Calista offered. "You might not see us, but we'll be around."
"We'll be in stealth mode," Brad thought he was being cool, striking a pose meant to convey stealth.
The women looked at each other and laughed.
* * * *
A couple weeks later in South Dakota, I called Laura, one of my new handlers. I could have called Roger, but prefer dealing with women for most things. In my defense, it's only because most men are assholes.
I asked for a "sit rep" on whether or not Cori would be joining me.
"Sit rep?"
"I watch a lot of action flicks."
She scoffed and said she had no updates. I then called and left a message for Calista, asking the same thing, and she called back surprisingly fast. She's usually hard to get a hold of.
"Yeah, she's not gonna be joining you," she said. "I don't know what you did or didn't do, Dub, but she's ready to move on. Sorry."
"Is she talking about remodeling the kitchen again?"
"Huh?"
"Never mind."
Several days later, Darla called. It was an unknown number, and I normally let those go to voicemail, but I was lonely and answered it. I recognized her voice immediately. I was glad she called, but all I could say was, "How'd you get my number?"
"I pulled a few strings and had them look you up for me."
"And by 'strings' you mean your ex? Never mind, I know you can't comment. But I'm guessing you and what's-his-name are back together?"
"Eric. Yeah, no, it didn't work out."
"Sorry to hear that," I lied. "What happened, if I may ask?"
"Ugh... it doesn't matter. You still married?"
"Good question. I don't honestly know. How would a divorce lawyer get a hold of me, anyway?"
"I need to tell you something," she got to the point.
"Testify," I said.
"Funny you should use that word," she began. "I've been digging into things, and it turns out you and I will never be witnesses because LeHavre will never be prosecuted. Their activities were commissioned, on the down-low, by our own military. We're not being protected so much as kept quiet."
"Those were my exact thoughts after discovering my house was bugged."
"Yep. On the bright side," she continued, "if LeHavre had their way we'd be dead like Griffin and Tim. So, WitPro did prevent that."
"There is that," I laughed.
"Still, I'm leaving the program. I need my freedom. What about you?"
"I think I'll stay. I mean, I've got it pretty good here. Nice house and car and neighbors. Too bad it's in... oops, I almost said where I was. Anyway, I'm staying."
She made more arguments, none of which swayed me, and finally accepted my decision.
"Suit yourself," she said sadly. "I guess this is goodbye, then."
"Guess so."
We each said goodbye and, after a moment of silence but still on the phone, she finally hung up. Click.
* * * *
She fell for it. Hopefully, anyone listening in did, too.
There was no way I was staying in South Dakota. Where I'm from, it never gets all that cold. Middle Tennessee has been home for the past couple decades. I like to say I moved there before it was cool.
It gets cold – even snows in winter – but that only lasts six weeks or so. That's five weeks longer than I would like, but I can deal with it. Barely. I used to like Januarys, but now dread that month.
I packed my bags, threw it all into the back of the Escalade, and backed out of the garage. I left the house keys in the house, knowing the automatic locks would secure the door behind me. Then I remembered how much Charlie loved that car.
I pulled out of my driveway and into theirs, leaving the engine running, got out and rang their doorbell. When there was no response, I knocked.
Larissa's cheerful voice jumped out of the doorbell speaker. "Clif! We're not home. What can I do for you?"
"Hey, Larissa. I'm leaving town for a while. Won't need my car. Thought I'd give Charlie the opportunity to drive it and me to the bus station."
"Bus station? Why?"
"Long story. I'll tell you all about it someday," I lied. I would never be seeing her again, and was truly sad about that.
The reason for the bus was that I assumed my car and phone were tracked and didn't want anyone knowing what I was up to. Bus stations allow for anonymity, last I checked.
"Okay, well, we're both at work. Sorry."
"Figured, but had to at least offer. See ya 'round."
"Thanks for thinking of us. Have a good trip!"
She was always so nice. I'll miss her... more than she'll miss me, apparently. She was a little too eager to say goodbye. I have to assume she had a crush on me but, for the sake of her marriage, was grateful to not have me right next door, tempting her. That or she really couldn't care less.
I thought about walking to the bus station. Needed to get my steps in. Joking. I have never once counted them. My phone has, but I never asked it to. I do like to challenge myself with a long walk once in a while, but it was too hot that day, and I had luggage.
I drove to the bus station, parked the Escalade, locked its keys inside, and texted Marshal Laura telling her where to find it. Locking the keys inside the house and car was harder than anticipated. It's such an ingrained habit to not do that. Muscle memory is a powerful thing.
As I stood outside the bus terminal, I remembered Griffin; his sister; his ashes. If she hadn't scattered them already, she'd be doing it soon.
I was closer to Colorado than Tennessee here in Sioux Falls but didn't know exactly where or when the ceremony would take place. We had exchanged information, but that was on my old phone. I could log in through a browser, but that would send my old phone a secret code I'd never see.
My latest phone and keys were locked in the Escalade's glove box. Good planning, Dub!
Inside the terminal, I got in line to buy a ticket. I was running through contingencies in my head when two men in US Marshals wind-breakers came through the main doors. The one in charge pointed his partner in one direction while he went the other, scanning faces like they knew who they were looking for.
How had they tracked me here this fast? I guess I was under 24/7 surveillance, after all. Seemed excessive for little old me. I thought they only did spot checks.
Larissa and Charlie were my surveillance team. Were they really husband and wife? Were those even their kids?
For all I knew, Jordan was a 40-year-old little man in drag. Joking! She was a miniature version of Larissa, so those two had to be mother and daughter.
With 20/20 hindsight, their friendly neighbor act now felt staged. But, there was no time to dwell on that. I needed to disappear.
To throw the Marshals off my scent, I purchased three bus tickets, all headed in different directions. One west – maybe I could see Griffin off properly, after all. One north – into Canada, kicking off an international manhunt, which is always fun. And one southeast – my original destination, Nashville.
Going back to the car for my phone was out of the question. I picked up a burner phone, dark glasses, and a Greetings from Sioux Falls cap from the gift shop – my impromptu disguise. Not much, but it was all I could do in the moment. The cap was one of those flimsy trucker hats, the cheapest quality possible, like you'd find at a truck stop.
I kicked myself for not having a contingency plan ahead of time. Contingency plans after the fact don't cut it.
With my new phone, I texted Calista, asking her to keep an eye out for my old phone – the one she'd given me before it was replaced by the South Dakota team – if she still had access and it hadn't been wiped. If she could retrieve the code before it expired, I had a shot at getting into my old records and finding Rachel's number.
For now, I had to keep moving. Somehow, I managed to avoid the Marshals and board one of the three buses.
As the engine hummed to life and the city became a blur behind me, a tune slipped into my head uninvited. Country roads, take me home, to the place I belong...
Was that Griffin, talking to me from beyond the grave?
I got a hold of Rachel and arrived at the scattering – as she was calling it – just in time. It was at a scenic overlook along the shoulder of the Interstate.
Several Harleys were parked among the many vehicles of family and friends who had made the trek. One of the Harleys had a sticker saying Jesus Loves You. On the next line down, much smaller, it said I think you're an asshole.
I had to laugh. Then everyone got quiet.
In a semicircle behind Rachel and her husband, we all stood in a dirt area between the end of the pavement and a low rock wall separating us from the sheer cliff on the other side. Her husband – handsome, bearded, tallest among us – held Griffin's urn. With the wind at our backs, facing that low rock wall, he removed the receptacle's lid, held it up high and, with a nod from Rachel, tilted it downward. Just enough for the granules to gradually spill out.
The wind took it from there, scattering his ashes in uneven trails across the dirt, over that little wall, and down the cliff. Then the wind shifted, and sent ashes out onto the highway. Griffin would have no distinct resting place, no headstone to return to. Just the windswept release of what was left, settling into the land like a final breath, and it felt right.
Rachel murmured something – a farewell, maybe, or a promise – and the others around her did the same. I wanted to offer my own goodbye, but had no words, just stood silent.
Country roads, take me home to... "where the road meets the sky." Griffin was going home. Everywhere and nowhere.
In Nashville, I went looking for Cori and Darla, in that order. Cori was still living in our house, which was no surprise. It hadn't been that long, but I've been afraid to assume anything lately. She had changed the locks and installed a security camera but was not home at the moment.
XeGirl barked happily, hearing and smelling me through the door, and I realized I missed her more than I did Cori. I flipped off her security camera, a juvenile reflex which triggered an unfortunate response.
"What do you want?" Cori's voice out of the speakers sounded like a fast food drive-thru.
"Oh, hey, Cori. Everyone's got these doorbell cams now. I was just trying to get into my own house. Checking to see if we're still married. You know."
"We're still married..." she began.
My first thought was "Crap!" which surprised me.
"...until you sign the divorce papers. I'm glad you came. Stay right there. I'll have my lawyer bring the papers over."
"I'm not going to stand around, waiting for your lawyer..." I began, then saw the neighbor lady – the one who took care of XeGirl and whose name I kept forgetting – cutting across the lawn toward me. My first thought was that she should have stayed on the pavement like Larissa and Jordan did back in South Dakota.
In her mid- to late-50's, with wiry salt-and-pepper hair, a bit on the portly side, the neighbor lady marched right up to me and handed me some papers. As I took them, she paused a moment to catch her breath and said, "Edgar Leslie Wagner, you have been served."
"Served? With what?"
"Read it," she said, uncomfortable. She was normally a very nice woman, but was now playing the part of a hard-ass lawyer.
I turned toward the doorbell camera. "Seriously, Cori? A summons and divorce petition? What the hell? Why do you hate me so much? I'd really like to know. What exactly did I do... other than be a smart-ass, which you always said you liked?"
"Nothing in particular," she said after a moment. "Nothing big, I should say. It's the little things, and it all just sort of faded away over the years."
I nodded. Made sense, actually.
"The last straw was that time I tried to surprise you at the motel – for fun, remember fun? – only to find you with another woman!"
"I explained that already. She was taken into Witness Protection but you and I were not. She was just worried, checking up on me."
"So worried that she was topless when I walked in?"
"She wasn't topless." To the neighbor lady, I said, "She had her bra on." Back to Cori's doorbell cam I said, "but, yeah, that surprised me, too. After you left, though..."
"I don't want to hear what happened after I left."
"Hey, you said she could have me, and it sounded like you meant it. I had nothing to lose at that point."
She was silent. Rolling her eyes, I'm sure.
The neighbor lady stood by, listening to the two of us like one of her soap operas.
"You wanna know what the final, final straw was, Dub?"
"Yes, please."
"I drank from your cheap-ass paper cup, and you joked, 'I guess you were thirsty! Ha-ha."
"That was it? I don't get it."
"That's the problem, Dub. You don't get how tiresome your jokes are. I'm sorry, but I can't take it any more. Have him sign the papers, Gloria, and let's be done with this."
"Gloria!" I said, ignoring Cori for the moment. "I couldn't for the life of me remember your name! Sorry. I'm terrible with names, but in your case it should be easy. There's at least three songs by that name that I know of." She just stared, not sure what to say. "I thought you made and sold your own jewelry...."
She visibly relaxed at the mention of her true passion. "That's my side hustle," she smiled for the first time.
"Sorry for trying to lighten the mood with my jokes," I said to Cori. I wanted to say, "God knows, with you around the mood almost always needs to be lightened." With Gloria there, though, I bit my tongue.
"You know what happened," I continued, "between me and Darla afterward?"
"Like I said, I can guess."
"Well, you'd be wrong. We started in that direction, yes, but I stopped. I couldn't do it."
"Couldn't get it up?"
"No, smart-ass, I said you and I have been together too long, been through too much to just throw it all away. I just... couldn't do it."
I didn't mention that there was some heavy petting, but we never went through with it. In the end, we just lay next to each other and eventually fell asleep. We were both exhausted.
In my book, that doesn't count as cheating. It's thinking seriously about and coming within a hair's breadth of cheating. To put it in football terms, if you stop and don't cross the goal line, it's not a touchdown.
"Remember that vacation in Gulf Shores?" I changed the subject, waxing nostalgic. "It was at, uh, Jimmy Buffett's sister's seafood place... Lulu's... and I...."
"Stop!" she snapped. "Gloria, you can always spot a liar. Do you believe anything he's saying?"
Gloria looked me up and down, shook her head, and said, "I hate to say it, Cori, but I think he's telling the truth."
"I always liked you, Gloria," I smiled.
"Just have him sign the papers," Cori said finally. "I'm done."
"He doesn't have to sign anything. He's been served. That's all you need in Tennessee... to get the process started, at least."
* * * *
Darla would not be so easy to find. She had trained professionals trying to keep that from happening, no matter who was looking. Something told me she was in the Nashville area, though. I saw online that her house near Ducktown had been sold. I wanted to call her but couldn't risk anyone finding out I was back in town. I had to find a way to tell her where to meet without identifying myself but, if I was too cryptic, that alone would tip them off.
I didn't know how smart my stalkers were, but it's best to never underestimate your enemies. Assume they are at least as smart as you. If you're me, assume they're smarter.
She once told me about the mom-and-pop restaurant where her parents first met – we covered a lot of ground in those phone calls over the years – so I texted, suggesting we meet there. I identified myself as "your lab partner."
After a few days wondering if she received my message, she texted back, telling me the exact day and time to meet. Any spies tracking us would have no idea where.
I hoped I knew where. If the story about her parents was true, and she hadn't blogged about it online, and the place was still in business, we'd be all set.
That last hope was apparently too much to ask.
* * * *
The restaurant was now a used – sorry, pre-owned – car dealership. I had to tell the salesman, another Charlie, that I was not there for a car. I was meeting someone.
"Who the hell meets someone at a car dealership," Charlie #2 asked, "unless one of 'em is looking to buy a car?"
I could see his point and almost said I might be looking for a new car – no idea what became of my old one – but didn't want to hear his spiel. Instead, I said I was having a secret rendezvous with a beautiful woman.
"At a car dealership?"
"There used to be a restaurant here. It's where her parents first met."
"Oh, yeah, I remember. Jo Marie's. They had the best pecan pie. Any chance your mystery woman has a lady friend for me?"
"I doubt it, but we will soon find out."
I passed the time strolling up and down the aisles reading the stickers on the cars in his lot. It was crazy how expensive used cars had gotten.
* * * *
A few days prior to my visit to the dealership, Darla had a secret rendezvous of her own. Nothing like ours, I hope. She'd gone back to Ducktown to meet with the handyman, Jimmy, at a local dive where he was a regular. The two of them skulked, mostly hidden in a rear booth, deep in conversation for a few minutes. Then, Darla was gone, with a smile on her face.
Jimmy was smiling, too. It was the most excitement he'd had in quite a while.
That night Darla was back in Nashville and crawling onto the roof of the dealership where she installed a couple of small surveillance cameras. Pointing them at different spots in the car lot, she returned to her own car parked fifty yards down the street. From there she tested her phone's connection to the cameras.
Everything was a go.
* * * *
When Darla arrived to meet me, Charlie #2 returned to my side. He ran his fingers through his greasy brown hair, and said, "Hoo-wee! Now that is something worth waiting for!"
Men don't normally say "hoo-wee" for women wearing loose-fitting long pants and bulky long-sleeve hooded sweatshirts. It was a lot of clothing for such a warm day, and I wondered what that was all about.
He spit his chew onto the ground in front of him. Male turkeys puff out their chest and spread their tail feathers to impress females. Maybe Number 2's people spit chew on the ground. I don't know.
"She's not a 'that' or a 'something,' I said. "She's a 'who,' a 'someone.'"
"Sounds like someone's in love," he smiled again.
I was already sick of that smile. "I am not..." I started to explain myself, then stopped.
"No lady friend for me, I see. Hey, that rhymes!" he said over his shoulder and moved toward her. "I'm gonna dazzle her with my charm. Watch and see how it's done!"
I wondered how she might react. Free entertainment either way, I waited for the show to begin.
* * * *
A black Mercedes SUV pulled up to the curb behind Darla. The passenger, dressed to match his vehicle, gave her a hard look. He then looked down at his phone, then back at her, not sure they had the right girl. The driver said something and the first man turned toward him in conversation.
Darla had turned toward them, as if expecting them, then turned back toward me and yanked two gas masks from her backpack. She hurled one toward me just as the mystery men lobbed some sort of canister heavy enough to land with a dull thud onto the pavement.
The thing hissed as a cloud exploded, blooming outward in a mist that rushed toward her like it had a mind of its own.
These guys were from LeHavre's lab. Had to be. The bastards would probably classify this event as a routine field test: "Effectiveness of Airborne Agent Deployment in Urban Civilian Settings." Just another data point to them.
Darla pulled her mask on just before the cloud reached her.
Charlie Number 2 was quicker than me. He snatched the second mask out of the air and pulled it over his own face. I stood exposed.
With her voice muffled by the mask, Darla screamed at me to run, but I was already moving. Instinct took over, adrenaline wiping out conscious thought. The salesman sprinted after me.
Behind us, Darla moved upwind of that cloud, letting it float harmlessly past her. She then turned toward the SUV and flipped them off with both hands as it sped away.
Number 2 and I were now quite a distance from her and the cloud, now dissipating. And I watched as Darla pulled out her phone and texted someone.
What the...? She barely escapes a poisonous cloud, then feels the need to text someone?
* * * *
In the dealership office afterward, I leaned against a desk while she stripped off her bulletproof vest and pants. Number 2 stood staring at her, dangerously close to drooling, saying nothing.
"That was it?" I said. "Your plan was to wear a mask and all this, flip them off, and then, what? Post it online?"
"Pretty much, yeah," she flashed a smile as she tossed the vest onto the desk. "Did you expect some sort of Rambo response?"
"Kinda hoping," I admitted.
Underneath her reinforced pants were olive green leggings. At least now we knew why she was so bulky. She had no problem disrobing in front of people. First it was in front of me at her house, now this.
She wasn't flaunting anything, this was just how she operated. Comfortable in her own skin. Maybe she used to be a stripper? I didn't know her that well... yet.
* * * *
Number 2 redeemed himself – somewhat – by rattling off the SUV's license plate, make, and model from memory. The guy was a car savant. What was it with guys named Charlie and cars?
I relayed the vehicle details to Brad and Calista, who tracked down the culprits. It didn't take long before we got word that the suspects had been killed in custody and a whole new investigation into LeHavre was launched.
LeHavre should have never had to worry about being prosecuted for that secret lab. They had contracts with the US military. Untouchable... until they used their bioweapons on US soil against civilians. Now, as Calista put it, they were in a heap of trouble for letting their research spill into public space.
They had walked into Darla's trap.
With civilians caught in the fallout, the aftermath became LeHavre's worst nightmare. Their military-backed research was now a liability, not an asset. No government agency could justify keeping ties after such a blatant act of corporate negligence. Cover-ups are not an option when there are casualties and undeniable proof like what Darla caught on video.
LeHavre would now crumble under the weight of its own arrogance.
* * * *
Miss Jessica was getting familiar with her new digs. TV and online news scarcely covered it. Reports were sterilized, almost an afterthought, and I had no friends left at LeHavre to ask for more details. All I could gather was that Jessica was now a resident of a nearby women's prison.
I'll bet she was very popular. She had that rock-star quality, after all.
* * * *
Back at the motel, after the dust settled, Darla sat at the vanity in the only chair in the room. Her phone lay beside her half-empty water bottle on the vanity's faux-wood surface. She watched as beads of condensation trickled down the sides of the plastic bottle, pulling the phone a couple inches closer to her to keep it dry.
I leaned against the dresser close to the door, arms crossed, and asked what she was doing on her phone earlier when the bad guys were speeding away. "Were you posting it online, hoping it'd go viral?"
Darla laughed, unconcerned. "I wasn't posting anything. I was texting them."
"Them who?"
"The bad guys speeding away," she answered, taking a slow, deliberate sip from her water bottle, the plastic crinkling under her grip.
"You..." I blinked. "You were texting the bad guys?" My brain couldn't quite catch up.
"Did you see the guy that threw the canister?" She leaned back against the chair.
"Yeah."
"He kept looking at his phone." She looked at me, assessing, measuring. "He was reading my texts. Probably looking at the picture of me that I'd sent him."
"Why would you do that?"
She sighed, stretching out her legs. "He thought I was someone else, giving him orders. I told him to find and kill me with one of their bioweapons."
My stomach tightened, and I sucked in a breath. "Again, what the hell?"
Her expression remained calm, like this was just another day at the office. "To get them on camera using their weapons on civilians on US soil. I knew that was the only way to shut them down."
I stared at her, searching for remorse, hesitation – anything that I'd consider normal – but her eyes were steady, confident.
"Clever," I said slowly, rubbing my temple, "but just a teensy bit dangerous, don't you think?"
"That's what all that protective gear was for." She shrugged. "Can't believe that salesman grabbed yours. Sorry about that."
"I survived," I muttered, stretching my neck.
She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "And, remember, I was on the ECOP team. I know exactly what goes into everything they make, so I knew what to wear."
I narrowed my eyes. What if you didn't know everything? I thought, but waved it away. "Okay, we survived. So, who did those guys think you were?"
"Jessica Broyles."
I straightened. "Miss Jessica?" My voice came out higher than intended. "Why would she ever do that?"
"She wouldn't," Darla smiled. "Too smart. So, I had Jimmy at the lab clone her phone for me, then I pretended to be her and gave her goons the order to 'that Darla bitch.'"
My head shook before I could stop it. "Again, just a bit dangerous, don't you think?"
She shrugged, unbothered. "I had to bring them down. It was the only way."
I sighed, dragging a hand down my face. "Impressive. Very cloak and dagger. You missed your calling at the CIA. You orchestrated everything. The attack at the dealership and, before that, the Marshals granting me witness protection."
She nodded and smiled, proud of herself.
She had manipulated me with that smiling face, that charming demeanor. I couldn't stand liars and manipulators but, somehow, this time I was okay with it. And that made her the most dangerous woman I've ever met.
Some might say I'm a sap. Others might say it shows that I am secure enough in my manhood to let her do what she needed to do. Let her be her.
I don't know or really care what anyone thinks. Everyone manipulates everyone. It's just a matter of how much. At least I got the girl... or she got me. Whatever.
"I gotta pee," she said suddenly, rising up from the chair.
"Too much information," I scoffed, and let her go.
With her out of the room, I ran through my relationships over the past few months, mentally categorizing them into wins and losses.
It wasn't pretty.
Me and Cori? Loss.
Me and Darla? Win.
Me and Calista? Win.
Brad? Loss.
Everyone else, even XeGirl? Loss.
For Darla, aside from her relationship with Eric and LeHavre itself, it was nothing but wins.
Hey, just trying to make a living.
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