No Return

by Brett Battles

  They had sat in silence after Wes had finished telling him what had happened. Wes was sure his dad was going to force him to go to the cops and confess.

  “This girl, you’re positive he raped her?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  Wes’s dad drew in a deep breath, then exhaled loudly through his nose. “There are times we’re faced with near-impossible situations. Ones where no matter which choice we make, neither direction feels like a good one. But most times, even in these circumstances, while there might not be a good choice, there’s always a right one. And I’d say you made the right one.”

  His father didn’t make him go to the police. He saw things in much the same way Lars had seen them. “I’ll take care of this.”

  Two weeks later his parents sat him down in the living room and told him they were splitting up. Wes was to move to San Diego with his mother, while his dad would be staying in Ridgecrest. Wes had known things were bad between them, but it was still a shock. Several hours later his father found him in his room.

  “Two things you need to know,” his father said. “First, you had absolutely nothing to do with the problems your mother and I are having. It is what it is, and what we talked about tonight has been a long time coming. The second thing, and I want you to listen to me very carefully, once you get to San Diego you are never, ever to come back here again.”

  “Never? But when will—”

  “No,” Wes’s dad said. “There’s no questioning this.” He paused. “I went out last week to the mine near … what did you call it? The Rocks?”

  Wes stared at his dad, too surprised to confirm.

  “I found some timbers farther back in the shaft and tossed them in the hole. The chance that somebody will find what’s down there is almost zero. But if they do, I want you away from here. There’s nothing there that’s going to tie you to the body.”

  “My blood is on him.”

  “I took care of it. Your job is to just stay away.”

  In that instant Wes realized what his father had really done. He had gone to the mine, left footprints there, touched items that were now down the shaft with Jack’s body. If the body was found, his father was going to take the blame.

  “I can’t ask you to—”

  “No, you can’t,” his dad said. “I don’t want to hear any more about it. This subject is closed.”

  WES PICKED UP THE PHONE ON THE FIRST RING.

  “Casey?”

  No voice, just a faint double beep.

  “Casey, can you hear me?”

  Nothing for several moments, then a click, and the line went dead.

  Confused, Wes started to hang the phone up. Suddenly he heard the sound of tires screeching on asphalt. He looked back toward the street.

  Two dark sedans, the same military issue Lars had been driving, had just made the turn off Inyokern Road onto Downs, and were making a beeline for the convenience store parking lot.

  “No,” Wes whispered to himself.

  He dropped the phone and jumped on the Triumph.

  There was no time to do anything with Lars’s papers, so he squeezed them between his hand and the grip as he kick-started the bike to life.

  The lead car adjusted its course to intercept him, so Wes turned hard as he hit the gas, and raced past the near side of the sedan, then turned again and headed for the exit. But before he could get there, the second car skidded to a halt across the ramp, blocking the way.

  Wes angled to his left, shot across the sidewalk, and flew off the curb. The tires shimmied as they hit the road, but sheer willpower kept the Triumph upright.

  As Wes glanced over he got a quick glimpse of the second car’s driver. It was Lieutenant Jenks.

  Cursing under his breath, he took off down the street. Someone must have found out what Casey was doing, and discovered the call to the pay phone at the 7-Eleven. It was the only explanation.

  Back at the store, the sedans sped out of the lot and took up the chase. They were faster than he’d expected. With every block, they got a little closer. If he was going to lose them, it wasn’t speed that was going to do it for him.

  He took a quick right, his turn going wide and taking him into the path of an approaching panel van. He swerved toward the sidewalk, barely missing the vehicle.

  “Sorry,” he shouted reflexively.

  He checked behind him again. The sedans were there, but the turn had slowed them down.

  Two blocks ahead the housing tracks fell away. Beyond was an area of large lots and open desert. Now he was the one with the advantage.

  The driver of the lead sedan started coming on fast, but it was already too late. Wes spotted what he’d hoped for just ahead on the left. He took one more glance at the sedans following him, then veered across the road and onto the dirt motorcycle path that cut through an open field.

  Behind him, the first sedan slowed for a moment, then continued down the street to the next intersection and turned left. Jenks’s sedan, on the other hand, was far enough behind that it was able to turn left at the intersection before the open field. It sped forward, paralleling Wes for a moment, then raced past his position.

  Their goal would be the next intersecting street, with the hope of cutting him off. At least that’s what Wes was counting on. As he continued along the trail, he could see that the first sedan was now almost even with him. Wes slowed just enough to let it get ahead. The other sedan had already reached the intersecting road and was just pulling up to the spot where the motorcycle trail crossed. A door flew open and Jenks got out.

  Wes let the bike ease back a little more, then, as soon as the first sedan had made its turn onto the intersecting road, he whipped the bike around in a one-eighty and took off back the way he’d come.

  Five minutes later, after reentering the city and using the residential streets to mask his movements, he pulled in to the parking lot of the Church of Christ on Norma Street. Since it was still relatively early on a Monday, the lot was empty. He slowed the bike and eased it behind the A-frame building, out of sight from the road, then cut the engine.

  His next problem was communications. If they could track down the pay phone he’d been using, they could easily pinpoint his position if he made a call on his cell. Unfortunately, he didn’t have much of a choice.

  He pulled the phone out and started to call Casey at his desk, then remembered Casey had gone into his boss’s office.

  “Judy Thomas, please,” he told the Quest Network operator as soon as she answered.

  “One moment,” the woman said.

  Another promotional audio took over while the call was transferred. Ironically, it was an ad for Close to Home, hyping the upcoming Chicago episode.

  “Wes?” Casey said.

  “Are you all right?” Wes said.

  “Where the hell are you? I’ve been trying to call that number you gave me, but all I get is a notice it’s been disconnected.”

  “You’ve got to get out of the building.”

  “You won’t believe what I—Wait. What?”

  “Get out now! They know what you’re doing.”

  “How do you know that?” There was the hint of fear in Casey’s voice.

  “They traced your call back to the pay phone I was using, and nearly grabbed me there. The only way they could have done that was through you. These are the same people who took Anna and Tony. You need to leave now. Don’t tell anyone.”

  “Are … are you all right?”

  “Don’t worry about me. Just go!”

  There was a pause. “Okay. But … I think you need to know what I found out.”

  Wes desperately wanted to hear what it was, but he said, “Later. Right now just get out of there. I’ll call you on your cell at exactly one-fifteen, okay?”

  Silence, then, “All right.”

  “Be safe,” Wes said.

  “You too.”

  If only it were that easy.

  LARS SPENT THE NIGHT IN A ROOM THAT WASN’T one of
the normal military holding cells used by Naval Criminal Investigative Services, or NCIS. It was more like a windowless office where the desk had been replaced by a cot. Anytime he needed to use the head, he had to wait until one of the guards checked on him, and then he was escorted down the hall.

  The guards weren’t NCIS, either. They also weren’t members of the contracted federal police force that handled the day-to-day law enforcement on the base. Rather, they were a group of naval personnel under Jenks’s and Wasserman’s command. Or, more accurately, under Forman’s.

  When he’d first woken up, he’d made a request to see someone from his office. The guard he had talked to had listened but made no promises. So far, no one had shown up.

  Well, not no one.

  At just after 7:30 a.m., as Lars had been eating breakfast, the door had opened and Commander Forman had entered.

  Lars got slowly to his feet and, after a brief pause, saluted. If the commander read any disrespect in the delay, he didn’t acknowledge it.

  “Don’t let me stop you eating,” Forman said.

  Lars sat back down, but didn’t touch the food.

  Forman leaned against the wall near the door and regarded Lars for a moment. “I trust you’ve been treated well.”

  “Well enough.”

  The commander moved the ends of his mouth up in an imitation of a smile. “Lieutenant Commander Andersen, were my orders unclear?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Could you repeat them back to me, please?”

  Lars chose to remain silent.

  Frowning, the commander said, “Your little excursion last night. What was that all about?”

  “There are duties I have that don’t fall under your command.” A beat, then, “Sir.”

  The ridge along Forman’s cheek began to redden. “You are in a hell of a lot of trouble, you know that?”

  Lars locked eyes with Forman. “Commander, if there is any trouble here, that would belong to you.”

  “And what the hell does that mean?”

  “It means I’ve learned just how deep this cover-up of yours goes. Figured out your little arrangement with Laredyne. Oh, and I found out about Jamieson, too.”

  Forman froze just long enough for Lars to know he’d been right. Smiling to himself, Lars picked up his fork and started in on his breakfast again.

  “Lieutenant Commander, I’m disappointed. I really thought you understood.” Forman paused. “I’m going to do everything in my power to see that you are destroyed. And I’ll tell you another thing, since you weren’t able to finish the job on your friend, Stewart, I’m going to finish it for you.”

  Lars cut one of the sausages with his fork and put a piece in his mouth, chewing it several times before swallowing. “Commander Forman. You can go to hell.”

  Forman glared at him, then pounded twice on the door. When it opened, he looked back at Lars. “You have just ruined more than your career.”

  Lars kept his expression unchanged, making sure Forman got the message that he didn’t care what the commander thought.

  After Forman left, he put the fork back down and pushed the plate away. The truth was, he was worried. Not about his career, but about his own life. Affixing the blame to him would be so much easier if he were dead.

  Several hours later, after his unfinished breakfast had been removed, and the lunch he had no desire to eat had been delivered, the door opened again. This time it looked like his request to speak to someone had been granted, as his new visitor was Lieutenant Commander Meyers.

  “Janice?” Lars said.

  “Lieutenant Commander Andersen.” She looked at the untouched tray of food sitting on his cot. “Is there something the matter with your lunch?”

  “Just not hungry,” he said, confused by her formality.

  “I see. Is there anything you need?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She positioned herself between him and the door.

  “Water? A bathroom break?” Her voice dropped. “Are you okay?”

  “Pen,” he mouthed. “I said I’m fine.”

  She gave him a nearly imperceptible nod. “Would you like me to take your tray for you?”

  “Yes. Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

  She walked over to the cot. As she bent down, she slipped a hand into her pocket, pulled out a pen, and dropped it on the bed.

  “No,” he whispered.

  She hesitated, confused.

  “On second thought,” he said in a normal voice, “can I eat the fruit first?”

  “Of course.”

  She backed off and Lars sat down next to the tray. When she was once again blocking him from the door, he scribbled a message on the napkin.

  “How did you get in here?” he whispered as he wrote.

  “When you didn’t show up this morning, Commander Knudsen found out you were being held here. He sent me to check on you. They didn’t want to let me in, but they didn’t have much choice. What happened?”

  So his request for a meeting hadn’t been passed on. “No time,” he said as he finished the note. He tapped the napkin. “Promise me you’ll do what it says.”

  “You can count on me.”

  He smiled, then quickly ate the cup of fruit.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant Commander,” he said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  As she leaned down to get the tray, she crumpled the napkin into her hand, then shoved it in her pocket and turned for the door.

  “If you need me for anything, please let one of your guards know. I’ll instruct them they are to contact me immediately.”

  Once she was gone, he lay down on the cot. He’d learned early on in his Navy career to take advantage of opportunities as they presented themselves. Janice had been an opportunity, quite possibly the only one he was going to get. Now all he could do was sit tight and see if it paid off.

  WES HAD SEEN ENOUGH MOVIES AND WORKED on enough crime documentaries to know that even when a cellphone wasn’t being used, it could be tracked. As soon as he finished talking to Casey, he removed the battery, then went in search of another pay phone.

  He found one in the park just east of the police station. It was a bit more exposed than the one at the 7-Eleven, but it did provide him with nearly unlimited avenues of escape.

  Casey picked up on the first ring.

  “Where are you now?” Wes said.

  “I went down to—”

  “Wait,” Wes cut him off. “I shouldn’t have asked. Don’t tell me. We can’t talk too long. And as soon as we’re done, take the battery out of your phone and go someplace else.”

  Casey hesitated. “Uh, all right. But how will I know it’s okay to go back home?”

  “Digger,” Wes said, using Casey’s brother’s nickname. “When things have settled down, I’ll call Digger with the all clear. Check in with … them, just not too often. Wait until at least tomorrow morning to start.”

  “Jesus, Wes. What have you gotten into?”

  “Don’t worry. It’ll be okay,” Wes said. “Now tell me what you found.”

  “Right. Okay,” Casey said. There was the sound of paper flipping. “SCORCH first. It was developed by a company called Laredyne Industries. Apparently they have been pushing very hard for the Navy to adopt it. If I’d had more time, I could have probably dug up more details, but what I did learn is that there’s been a pretty vigorous debate about it in both the military and in Congress, with those opposed to the Laredyne system supporting a slightly different one developed by Nickerson Avionics.”

  “Okay, so the SCORCH backers won. So what?”

  “They didn’t exactly win,” Casey said. “Not yet, anyway. Technically it’s still in the testing phase. Funding for fleet-wide activation is part of an appropriations bill up for a vote in Congress next week. But I’m told several reps and a few senators aren’t fans of the system. So there’s a good chance that the bill won’t get passed unless SCORCH is removed.”

  “Interesting,”
Wes said, still unsure how it fit in with what was happening. “Anything else?”

  Casey paused. “The next thing I looked into was Project Pastiche. Do you have that list of names you read off to me?”

  “Hold on.” Wes found the page. “Okay. Got it.”

  “Skip the personnel section; I hadn’t been able to find out much there before you told me to leave. Look at the names under ‘Pool 7B.’ ”

  “Looking at them now.”

  “I was able to identify Lieutenants Lemon, Briley, and, of course, Adair. What do you think they have in common?”

  “I assume they were all assigned to this PP-214 division at some point.”

  “They’ve all been reported as dead.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah,” Casey said. “Briley was killed while on duty in the Pacific during a training exercise near Australia. His body was never recovered.”

  “When did this occur?”

  “Thirteen months ago. Lemon was assigned to a ship in the Persian Gulf, but was killed while on a mission in Iraq. The report I found claimed there was little left of the body, and he had to be identified by DNA.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “It gets odder. The two other names on that list, Brian Faith and Cameron Bruce?”

  “The ones marked ‘Available,’ ” Wes said.

  “Right. As far as I can tell, neither man is serving in the military.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

  “I realize that. So I did down-and-dirty checks on all five men. Know what I found?”

  “Just tell me.”

  “The three men who died? Their histories are remarkably similar. All were from small Midwest towns, but had no family living there anymore. All had similar educational backgrounds and credit histories. And, this is interesting, each had been in the service approximately the same amount of time before they died.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, one more thing. None of them ever existed.”

  Silence.

  “I think you need to tell me that again,” Wes said.