Except to be honest, my sister’s the one who did all that. But I can’t plead innocence, always eager to go along for the ride. Nothing stopping us locals from turning the place into our own personal resort or private club that included unlimited access to boats, fishing, tennis, bowling, a campground, a gym and athletic fields. I see it all like a movie, memories sparking like mad as I follow the water-filled moat from inside the perimeter.
The remains of stone barracks and buildings are skeletal and weathered gray like old bones, equipped with the barest of modern conveniences. Nothing much more than safety railings and infrequent iron lamps. Following the familiar signs pointing out historic sites, and I can recite the posted descriptions verbatim. The Old Cistern, first noted on a map in 1834, a source of water for the garrison . . . The 12-pounder Howitzer, a bronze fieldpiece made by Richmond’s Tredegar Iron Works in 1862 . . .
The Rodman gun, smooth bore, weighing 15,800 pounds . . . The arsenal, specializing in seacoast gun carriages . . . The Engineer Wharf, where Jefferson Davis landed as a prisoner . . . And coming up on my left, tucked behind winter-bare trees and a plugged cannon, the casemate where he was confined in failing health before being moved inside the fortress. Finally released on bail some wretched 5 months later.
Across the moat the Old Point Comfort Lighthouse burns strong today, a safe beacon for sailors on the Chesapeake Bay, and a lookout used by the British during the War of 1812. And next ahead, the single-story redbrick former barracks where Vera Young is dead. The street in front is lined with Hampton and NASA police cars and trucks, and the unmarked windowless black van from the Tidewater medical examiner’s office. I park behind Fran’s Tahoe, texting her that I’m here.
Grabbing my gear bag, I climb back out into the dry-ice cold, the night restlessly empty. Just the sounds of the wind. The thud of my door shutting. My boots as I walk around to the back of the truck. Lifting the tailgate, I open a storage locker to retrieve my tactical chemical clothing and full-face respirator. Can’t be too careful these days. Law enforcement and military operatives like me have a lot more to worry about than chemical spills.
In general, chlorine bleach isn’t what we fear, but we’re far more concerned about horrors like anthrax, ricin, sarin gas and carfentanil. But we can’t be certain what we’re dealing with until tests are run in the labs. Even if it turns out that the chemical is nothing worse than what one might find in most laundry rooms, I don’t want it on my skin. I don’t want the fumes, and with a chirp of my key, I lock up beneath an overcast tarp that covers the moon and stars, completely obscuring them.
Across the dark void of the moat, the lighthouse burns through a moiling fog that will form rime on whatever surface it touches. The cold pierces my thin clothing, and I can’t stop thinking about Dick’s reaction or lack of one to the old flight jacket with its stiff brown leather that’s beginning to crack in places, the elastic cuffs sprung, the patches faded. The obvious explanation is he might not have been sure who was wearing it. Carme or me.
But after putting me through his trial by ordeals, he knows darn well who I am. And yet he said not a word about the special gift he presented to me in front of Space Command. Helping me put on the vintage jacket for all to see as if he were passing on a special mantle. That’s what I wanted to believe anyway when I left active duty and Colorado, when I left Dick three years ago almost to the day.
It was never supposed to be for good, the plan written in the stars that I’ll serve with him again under very different circumstances. As an astro-acrobat installing antenna dishes on the moon while making sure no adversary destroys or hacks into them. As a cyber ninja flying through space on a tether of technology, repairing a telescope orbiting the sun a million miles from Earth.
Maybe doing a little satellite wrangling along the way, tracking down and tethering rogues and runaways that might create havoc in our telecommunications and defense. Or checking out an interstellar visitor like the cigar-shaped ‘Oumuamua passing through, maybe landing on it to take a sample or two. It was a given that I would return to Dick’s command when fully trained and ready, but it’s best not to get caught in a loop about him or Carme right now.
I’m distracted beyond belief, lecturing myself nonstop as I cross the street, headed to the silver Lexus SUV parked by the curb near the brick walkway. Now’s not the time to obsess over the unreality of my former boss sitting in my truck only moments ago, informing me that my identical twin sister, my other half, my other self is a person of interest in a disappearance and possible suspicious death.
Worse, I’m supposed to report to him immediately should I hear from her. As in Aye, aye, sir, Captain Chase reporting for duty, and I’m unsure what to make of that. Or if I would comply. If I could bring myself to choose fidelity over family. Because so far, I’ve not done a very good job with that. Always bending the same way when those winds blow, moved by what I love.
That’s why I’m not in the air force anymore. Why in the minds of the MP Crocketts of the world, I’m nothing more than a nerdy scientist whose hobby is to moonlight as a security guard.
00:00:00:00:0
THE FLAP is attached by nothing more than a delicate tether of skin. The flesh white and bloodless. Dead. The way I feel.
Drained of life, about to faint. Trying not to look as Dick applies pressure, his arms around me, his powerful hands slippery with blood that’s soaking into the camouflage cuffs of his sleeves. Like the doctor taking care of Lincoln after he was shot, it bizarrely occurs to me.
Holding my right hand over the sink, palm up, applying pressure to the fingertip filleted to the bone. The pad with its looped and whorled fingerprint all but amputated, hanging by a thread. Feeling him against me and the throbbing pain he’s causing. But I don’t squirm or throw up. I don’t resist the slightest thing he does.
“It’s going to be fine, Calli,” he keeps saying that and my name, and I think about what I’ve done to myself, to him and everyone.
Blood drip-drip-dripping, splashing in stellated round drops, bright red against white porcelain.
“. . . This is going to sting a little . . .”
Trembling against him as he pours Betadine, dark reddish brown like liquid rust, and it doesn’t sting. Not even a little. But rather burns like hell fire. As if I’m being tortured with a red-hot poker, and it’s all I can do not to arch my back and shriek. But I keep it to myself. Not flinching or uttering a peep. Not showing any visible indication of what I suffer.
Except for the shaking, inside and out. About to collapse as he holds me up. My body trembling like something in the agonal throes of dying. Mortified that I can’t stop.
“. . . Deep, deep breaths, Calli. Try to hold as still as you possibly can . . .”
Bracing me from behind at the sink, his arms around me, holding my hand, cleaning the wound as gently as he can.
“. . . I had to be trained as a medic to go into space, but that’s not saying you’d want me giving you stitches if avoidable . . .”
Talking to me soothingly as if I’m a child.
“. . . That’s not going to work anyway, sutures aren’t going to do the trick. I’m opting for adhesives, but no guarantees about that either. Not sure it’s going to take, just being honest . . .”
All the while I apologize for the trouble I’ve caused. For ruining the morning and possibly my life. All from obeying orders. From doing exactly as I was asked. At a time when I wasn’t in the proper frame of mind to conduct business as usual. But I showed up as commanded, salutes and all, only to pull a stunt like this. As if things weren’t bad enough.
“I’m sorry, sorry, sorry. All it took was a second while my mind was somewhere else.” I wouldn’t stop saying it as he applied the Steri-Strip bandages, pain blotting out the sunlight flooding through the windows in the break room.
00
:00:00:00:0
BLANKING OUT such shameful memories and thoughts, I really can’t afford distractions, can’t indulge my weaker self by succumbing to them. What I must do now is concentrate on the mission. Do my job. Get over myself.
“Focus, focus, focus,” my breath smoking out each time I mumble and mutter.
Ears cold bitten, eyes watering, I approach the driver’s door of the leased Lexus, mindful where I step, always on the alert for hazards like ice and frostbite in this kind of weather. Keeping up my scan for the infrequent vehicle going past in the wintry dark, making a note of every license plate, the wind gusting and groaning, evergreens and bare trees rocking and thrashing, dead leaves sailing and skittering.
I set down my gear on the pavement, and shine my tactical light through the silver SUV’s windows, contemplating what Vera Young told me when I interviewed her late yesterday about her alleged stolen badge. I mull over her claims about driving away from Langley midmorning, headed home with a migraine, making sure I knew it was her routine the minute she’d leave the NASA campus to take off her lanyard with its attached ID. She wanted me to know that she was extremely careful. So careful that she never wore the badge while getting gas, stopping at the store or running other errands, she told me emphatically.
It seemed her every concern and motivation were unrelated to her personal safety. And that’s odd. I thought so then. More so now, wondering why a woman living alone wasn’t more mindful of physical threats. But mostly what I sensed from her was paranoia about the top secret technologies she was hired to work with and protect, in addition to fears about professional rivalries and sabotage.
Without saying it in so many words, she sent the message loud and clear that Pandora Space Systems has a zero tolerance for imperfection and indiscretions of any nature. No surprise since the company is known for being relentlessly competitive, and unforgiving of negligence or mistakes, the work environment as stressful as it is exciting. Maybe not a hostile workplace but close enough, and Vera seemed quite anxious and upset when I was with her early yesterday evening.
Weighing out loud the consequences of the problem she “accidentally caused,” as she must have put it half a dozen times. Apologizing profusely about her badge, about being “inattentive,” blaming it on her migraine, and as I’m thinking this, I’m envisioning her written statement. I home in on the red flags waving their same warnings, only much more brightly, impatiently this time:
“. . . I’m extra careful about my NASA badge and appreciate the responsibility that goes with being granted such a privilege . . .”
First red flag: When I was with her, I got the feeling that she didn’t appreciate the privilege at all. She seemed put out for having to live away from home, resenting that she was stuck in the boonies with a team of considerably younger researchers. She was none too happy, I might add, when I showed up with my list of questions.
“. . . As I drove through the guard gate, leaving the campus, I took off my badge, never wearing it in public because no one needs to know my name or where I work. I don’t wear it in photographs and never leave it easily accessible to anyone . . .”
Second red flag: She was appropriately mindful, and yet would opt to leave her badge inside her vehicle? Ever?
“. . . I arrived at the drugstore around 10:15 and before going inside, collected my badge from the passenger’s seat and secured it in the glove box . . .”
Third red flag: Why not tuck the badge inside her purse or coat pocket?
“. . . I remember this distinctly because my wallet fell on the floor, and had I not noticed, I would have ended up in the store with no money . . .”
Fourth red flag: This extraneous detail is like a geofence around a part of the narrative that becomes problematic for her. She doesn’t want to talk about getting out of the SUV and what she did with her badge. Most likely because she’s outright lying, and therefore quick to skip ahead to 11:00 a.m., when she walked into her apartment and climbed into bed. Staying there the rest of the day, or so she said.
“. . . Finally, at around 5:00 p.m., I was feeling well enough to return to Langley. To be honest, I wouldn’t have bothered were I not so far behind in my projects, with a storm and government shutdown predicted. When I reached the main gate and opened the glove box for my badge, to my genuine surprise and upset, it was gone . . .”
Fifth red flag, I don’t really trust it when people use words like to be honest and genuine.
“. . . I realized it must have been stolen and immediately reported this to the NASA police.”
Vera Young, 12/3/19
16
I ALSO don’t like it when someone instantly assumes theft, no questions asked.
Why was she so quick to believe that her badge was stolen instead of the more likely scenario that she lost or misplaced it? It went through my mind when I was talking to her that she wanted people to think the ID was stolen, and I envision her incident statement form.
I see it in my mind as clearly as if it’s in front of me, the page half-filled with her handwriting, tiny and flattened as if the words are too shy to raise their hands in class.
Pretty typical for a lot of NASA-type introverts like me, and what Vera wrote as fact might be perfectly plausible were her statements not rife with deception. I don’t accept that once she arrived home, not only did she leave her badge in the glove box, but she failed to lock the SUV.
That would be the only way someone could steal anything from it without smashing a window or having access to the fob or the radio frequency signal necessary to command the vehicle to release its hatch, hood, doors. Plus, a would-be thief or spy after her badge would have to know she was home sick yesterday afternoon, her SUV parked here at Fort Monroe, the badge tucked out of sight in the glove box with doors unlocked.
What a stroke of luck, except I don’t think so. Even if such a thing were possible, it still wouldn’t account for the SUV being unlocked again today. Only this time its negligent driver is dead inside the apartment, a cord around her neck, doused with a caustic chemical like chlorine bleach.
“Uh-uh,” I’m shaking my head.
Added to the implausibility, I don’t know of many people, especially those from major cities like Houston and Los Angeles, who leave their cars unlocked. Not unless they’re fleeing an earthquake, wildfire or assailant. Granted, if Vera had a migraine, she wouldn’t have been thinking as clearly. Or maybe she was in so much pain it was all she could do to get inside her apartment. Maybe I could accept that she forgot to lock her SUV yesterday, but how does that explain the rest of it?
What about today?
I ask myself this again, unable to imagine her explanation for what I’m seeing as I probe with my flashlight. Cupping a hand around my eyes to reduce the glare while holding my breath so I don’t frost up the glass. Zeroing in on the center console, on the cup holder closest to the gear shifter. All but certain that what’s glinting in the light is the keyless remote, meaning not only was the SUV left unlocked, but someone could have driven off in it.
“Makes no sense,” muttering under my smoky breath, my lips frozen, eyes and nose running.
Unzipping my gear bag, I root around, and rats, I’m almost out of clean gloves.
I pull on a fresh pair, my hands getting numb, my fingers wooden and clumsy as I open the driver’s door. The handle is biting cold through the thin sheath of purple nitrile, and I can’t do anything more than look. Not only am I without the proper protective clothing, but as underdressed as I am for the weather, I couldn’t last long enough to conduct the most rudimentary search. Not even close, and I’m getting colder by the second as I find myself faced with more questions than before.
Starting with why Vera Young would leave her Lexus unlocked and the key inside. Especially when it’s not even 24 hours after she
claimed someone had stolen her badge from the glove box while she was home sick yesterday. When was the last time she was in the SUV, and where did she go? Did she drive somewhere today before supposedly dousing herself with bleach and wrapping a computer cord around her neck?
Speaking of, where’s the computer or device that goes with that cord? In other words, is the weapon (a ligature) indigenous to the scene, and what might I find in her electronic files? And what might her GPS tell me, or did she navigate by using an app on her phone like Waze? Most of all, I want to know who she was close to, her admirers and rivals. Who were her romances and bad endings? I recall her mentioning an ex-husband and several grown children.
Apparently, she has a sister who also works for Pandora Space Systems but isn’t here at Langley, isn’t part of the lunar autonomy robotics team in Building 1110. Is too senior for “roll up your sleeves” work like that, Vera said, more or less, and it wasn’t hard to figure out that she didn’t think it fair she was being farmed out to the East Coast for long cold months on end.
But if she were having trouble with anyone, she gave no indication. It occurs to me I need to talk to this upper-level sister of hers, see what she might have to say about Vera’s life and why it’s brutally ended. I remember she mentioned this sister’s name in passing, an unusual one. Neva. As in Eva with an N, and darn it all, I wish I’d spent longer with Vera yesterday.
Quantum Page 13
