Waypoint: A Game of Drones

by C. F. WALLER

  “On what Greg,” I groan, pinning the cell to my shoulder and step forward to butt the cigarette out in an ashtray resting on the coffee table. “Pitch me this once in a lifetime opportunity, but do it quick.”

  “I can’t talk about it on the phone,” he confesses, then clears his throat. “But I need someone who does not work for the government, if you know what I mean?”

  It would appear he needs something done off the books. Normally, I would assume it was simple P. I. stuff, but he’s gone to the effort of tracking me down. What sort of trouble is he in? I momentarily think of Beth then remember that she didn’t bother to call me after Glen died. If he’s in an embarrassing situation, poor Beth is on her own.

  “If you or one of your cronies got caught in a hotel with a hooker, you can farm that out to a local investigator.”

  “It’s not a personal issue,” he balks, sounding mildly offended. “Do you remember the Malaysian Airlines flight that disappeared?”

  “Yeah.”

  He doesn’t continue, creating an awkward silence.

  “Are you there?” he finally asks.

  “Yeah,” I shrug, noting the girls are watching me intently. “I don’t suppose you care to elaborate?”

  “No, but I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “That’s pretty a low bar,” I chuckle. “My net worth is three dollars in loose change and a quarter tank of gas.”

  “Where are you?” he demands, his voice sounding eager.

  “Lexington,” I sigh, lessening my grip on the gun, but feeling the claustrophobic cloud return.

  “Kentucky?”

  “South Carolina, an hour or so outside of Columbia.”

  “I’ll have my people in the city office drive down and get you on a plane. Text me the address and don’t move. I’ll have them call when they get close.”

  “If I do this,” I warn, thinking it’s ruining one hastily planned and ill-conceived murder suicide. “And I do mean if. I’m not interested in a few hundred a day plus expenses.”

  “Money’s not a problem.”

  “For you maybe,” I grouse.

  “I’ll see you very soon.”

  “Whatever,” I grunt, then snap the phone closed.

  On the couch, salty tears drip down Brittany’s face. Her roommate pats her back and glares at me. Her hair is a wild ball of curls held up with a huge yellow scrunchie. The two of them look so young. It’s astonishing that moments ago, I nearly murdered one of them. Probably both of them. The suffocating desire to do so still lingers, as if a hunger has gone unfulfilled. On the coffee table, an open pack of Menthols sits next to a plastic Bic lighter.

  “I didn’t get your name,” I wag the gun at the roommate.

  “Ryan.”

  “Okay Ryan, I have a proposition for you.”

  They look at each other and nod in unison.

  “How about I don’t kill either of you and we forget this ever happened?”

  “So, you’re just going to leave and expect us not to call the cops?” Ryan snaps.

  I tap the tip of the gun on my forehead and shrug.

  “That works for me, Brittany gulps. No harm, no foul.”

  “Excellent, what say you?” I press Ryan, feeling like it’s a fair deal for everyone.

  “Fine,” Ryan grunts, but seems like she would have preferred a full-blown scene.

  Dragging a wooden chair from the kitchen, I sit down and set the gun on the coffee table. Ryan watches me carefully as I take my hand off it to pick up the cigarettes. Would she actually dive across the table to get it? I light one, then hold the pack out backwards to her. She leans forward and takes one with her lips, then slithers back on the couch.

  “You gals want to order a pizza?” I suggest, putting one in the corner of my mouth.

  Chapter Three

  Relentless pounding on the door drags me from sleep. All attempts to ignore it fail, despite my sincere desire to do so. I roll over onto my back and squint the room into focus. Hal had me on a plane all night before someone dumped me off at this hotel around dawn. The clock radio reads 2:41 in red LED numbers, a dot next to the PM indicator. Next to the clock is a roughly torn open pack of smokes that I convinced his lackeys to buy me on the way to the hotel. The cigarettes are surrounded by an army of tiny bottles procured from the mini bar. I reach a hand out, then chase the yellow Bic lighter around on the nightstand with shaky fingers. Before I can track it down the pounding on the door returns.

  “Come on,” I groan, watching the Bic slip off the nightstand, followed by an avalanche of tiny bottles.

  “Stacy?” Hals voice comes at me, muffled by the door.

  I toss my legs over the side of the bed and slowly stager to a standing position. My stomach rumbles, booze and pizza turning like an internal Ferris Wheel. My ripped jeans are tossed over the end of the bed and I have to hop up and down to pull them up, the button and hole refusing to come together. I pull hard on the zipper in hopes of keeping them on.

  “Stacy, are you in there?”

  A mirror on the back of the door reveals knotted greasy hair covering puffy bloodshot eyes. Same thing, different day. I take three quick breaths and pull the door inward.

  “Morning,” I cough into my hand, glancing around the dim hallway.

  Hal’s face looks horrified. There’s a pause as he comes to grips with my appearance, then he slips past me flipping on the wall switch. He no doubt recalls me somewhat skinnier and much, much cleaner. His appearance on the other hand has changed little. A half a foot taller than myself, maybe six foot two, dark skin and green eyes. He has shaved his head, but it works for him in sort of a Ving Rhames way. Gone are the bookish glasses that used to perch on his nose, replaced by contacts, or possibly Lasik eye surgery.

  He’s wearing an expensive grey suit and a Rolex, so his life must be pretty good. Hal’s green eyes scan the room, taking note of the well raided mini bar and cigarette butts.

  “Can you even smoke in here?” he complains without looking back.

  “I think we requested a smoking room,” I shrug, ending in a cough that vibrates my ribcage.

  He rubs his smooth forehead, scanning me over a second time. It’s not the good way a man looks at a woman, but it’s par for the course for me now. I cross my arms over my sheer tee shirt, suddenly aware that I’m not wearing a bra.

  “There’s no such thing as a smoking room,” he grumbles, waving a hand in front of his face. “Are you okay?”

  I nod, arms crossed over my chest, hands hooked under my arms.

  “You look horrible.”

  “You look bald,” I toss out, then regret it before it hits the air.

  An offended expression creeps across his face, then slips into a moderate smile.

  “Hey, you called me?”

  “Yes, I did. How about we grab something to eat downstairs? That would give me a chance to catch you up.”

  Glancing at the desk, I note a Hyatt nameplate on a scratchpad. I recall passing a decent looking restaurant that was gearing up from breakfast when I blew in off the redeye.

  “Yeah, that’s good. Give me a minute to clean up.”

  “Take your time,” he replies, slipping by me as if I were radioactive. “Come down when you’re able.”

  Once he’s gone, I circle the room gathering up my blazer and shoes. I kick tiny bottles under the bed, but the frame is a solid board and they bounce back. Deciding to leave this for the maids, I concentrate on my attire. I linger in front of the bathroom mirror, the stark lighting doing nothing to improve my appearance. To shower or not to shower, that is the question? I can’t imagine it matters as these are the only clothes I have. After a moment to replace my undergarments, I slip on my blazer.

  Mixed among the tiny empties on the night stand are the faded pictures rescued from my dashboard. I gather them up carefully, folding a ragged ends of yellowed scotch tape over, before stashing them in my blazer pocket. These are the only possessions I truly need. Everything e
lse is just details. On the way out I snag my sunglasses off the desk, slipping them on.

  “Future’s so bright,” I mutter, pulling the door shut behind me.

  …

  A hostess in a burgundy vest and matching bow tie greets me at a podium. After shooting me a judgmental look, she shows me to a booth in the rear. Hal sits sipping on a sparkling water, the bottle still on the table. A tiny plate with the remnants of a muffin, abandoned in the corrugated paper wrapper, sit on the outside edge. Once I am seated, a waitress with a nametag reading Tiffany, offers to bring me coffee. I nod, then push my sunglasses up on my head, leaning back. Cold air from a vent overhead rains down, giving me goosebumps.

  “Well? I’m here?”

  “Stacy, your appearance—.”

  “You mentioned that already,” I shake my head. “You called me, remember?”

  “How long has it been?”

  “Glen has been gone six years so that plus one or two,” I mutter, accepting my coffee from Tiffany. “Seven, maybe eight.”

  There’s a silent pause as my late husband’s name hangs in the air. I am reminded that this topic brings about a circular conversation that’s worn thin on me. He died, I will never get over it, stop talking about it.

  “About that—,” he stumbles over his words.

  “No need to say anything,” I interrupt, trying to head off the inevitable pity party.

  “Beth and I meant to get in touch with you.”

  “It’s fine, really.”

  “It had to be hard for him,” he stammers, then pauses. “After what happened to Jessie.”

  “That was hard for everyone.”

  “Right, well, I didn’t mean—.”

  My head pounds and I watch the steam rise off my cup. People always feel they have to say something profound when talking about Glen’s suicide. It’s as if they believe they can lessen my suffering with a few kind words. My considerable experience with this phenomenon has brought me to a much darker conclusion. People are trying to lessen their own guilt, not my suffering.

  “Did you bring me here for a reason, or just to apologize for a previous lack of interest?” I remark, desperately trying to change the subject.

  “Sorry,” he nods, then pauses before redirecting the conversation. “Were you seriously working at Old Navy? Why’d you leave Def-Tek?”

  “They wouldn’t let me play shortstop on the company softball team.”

  My sarcastic answer brings a frustrated expression to Hal’s face.

  “I assume you already asked them?” I sigh, adding sugar to my coffee and stirring it with a knife.

  “Def-Tek wouldn’t say.”

  “Well, they take their co-ed sports pretty seriously over there.”

  He frowns at my avoidance of his inquiry, then takes a sip of water.

  “Homeland Security came calling and Def-Tek declined to answer? That hardly seems likely.”

  “I’m not with Homeland.”

  I swirl the knife in my coffee and wonder who he might work for. If it’s not Homeland, then it’s probably the Defense Department. It might be CIA or FBI, but I can’t possibly guess with any accuracy. Hal was always an upwardly mobile fellow.

  “What’s the gig?” I ask, blowing on my cup.

  “I’d like you to tag along with some diving experts. We think someone found what’s left of that Malaysian Airliner that went missing a few years ago.”

  “These dive people with you?”

  “No, private contractors,” he shakes his head vigorously. “They didn’t even want to take the job, but we convinced them to help us out.”

  “By convinced, do you mean paid or threatened?”

  “Both, they didn’t seem to be inclined to do it for God and country.”

  “I get that.”

  A slow nod comes my way, a subtle signal that he’s working ever so hard to like me.

  “You said someone found,” I soften my approach, pointing my coffee cup at him. “Foreign government?”

  “No, some rich guy lost a G6 over the Indian Ocean. A private group has been looking for it since last month.”

  “And you think they found something?”

  “Maybe; last week they hired the diving specialists I mentioned.”

  “Who?”

  “You wouldn’t know them.”

  “So, you had these dive people under surveillance, and now Big Brother wants to know what’s worth finding on the bottom of the ocean?”

  He pauses, looking for words and finding none. At least he doesn’t deny it. If regular every day citizens had any idea how closely monitored they were, a riot would ensue. Television shows and movies poke fun at this subject, but they are actually understating the situation. It sounds like Hal’s people had these dive specialists under surveillance for something else. A red flag is pulled slowly up the pole.

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “The team going out is two guys and a girl,” he explains. “We convinced them to let you go along instead of their regular gal. Just tag along and report back what you see.”

  “Again, convinced indicates threatened or bribed, right?”

  He nods.

  “Wonderful,” I sigh, taking a sip. “You’re neglecting the fact that I don’t know didley about ocean salvage?”

  “You don’t need to know anything. These are tech people with underwater cameras. The girl isn’t mission critical, just part of their team. Tag along and let me know what’s out there.”

  “You went to the all the trouble to dig me up, for this?” I shrug, smelling a rat. “Why not just send one of your people?”

  “My people?”

  “Maybe you’re not Homeland, but you must have some people.”

  “We do, but the guy who lost the plane is pretty well connected. His people will be looking you over pretty close.”

  “Who’s the guy?”

  “Flynn, Ian Flynn, but there’s nothing to worry about. When you worked at Def-Tek they wiped your records. Facial recognition will ping back blank on you.”

  “You think they’re going run me through facial?”

  “No, but there might be integrated security cameras on the boat. Any government or military personnel would be flagged.”

  This is curious. What sort of people is he trying to deceive? The U.S. government has more Black-Ops people than pencil sharpeners. Why do they need me?

  “You mentioned the Indian Ocean,” I pause to cough phlegm into my hand. “We talking about a boat ride?”

  “Private jet to San Diego, C-130 to Perth, then a sea plane out to the site.”

  “It’s like 30 hours to Australia from the west coast,” I complain. This is going to take a while.”

  “You got other plans?”

  I don’t answer, choosing to shake my head. Given my departure from Old Navy, I do have some free time. A person should always take stock before embarking on a job search.

  “Gives you lots of time to memorize your alias then,” he smirks. When I fail to respond, he pulls a folded-over manila envelope from inside his suit jacket. “Start with this.”

  “Alias,” I cringe, taking the envelope. “I charge more if I have to be someone else.”

  “From where I’m sitting you could use a change.”

  I wrinkle my nose as his inference, but have a peek in the envelope. Inside is a U. S. passport. The picture is a decade old, taken at Def-Tek for a security badge. It looks like my former employers cooperated a little bit. The name is Lydia Knox and there’s a debit card and a California driver’s license to match. A few other items trickle out of the envelope.

  “Don’t lose that phone,” he warns, wagging a finger at the table where it lands.

  “This,” I mutter, holding it up. “How old is this thing?”

  “Don’t knock it. You get a signal anywhere in the world with that. Just don’t lose it.”

  The phone is graphite grey, a style that used to be known as a Razor phone. I used to have one, but that
goes back to maybe 2004. They were all the rage, but went out of vogue when Blackberry’s took over the world of communications.

  “It’s fine, better than the pile of crap I got now.”

  “Yeah, hand that over,” he demands, wiggling his fingers over the table. “That and your driver’s license, credit cards, whatever you got.”

  Loose in my blazer, I have an expired driver’s license and a Shell Gas Card that’s two months past due. I toss these on the table, then replace them with the ones provided . Hal scoops it all up, pausing to pull the battery out of my phone.

  “I really had to twist your arm on that one,” he jokes, tapping my driver license on the table.

  “I was done with that life before you called,” I sigh, recalling the murder suicide plot fondly.

  “Speaking of that. My guys tell me you had them swing by your boyfriend’s place to pick up some stuff on the way out of town.”

  I nod, even though I didn’t take anything.

  “There seems to have been a fire. His apartment building burned down an hour later. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that would you?”

  “Can’t say that I do.”

  “Looked like arson. Your boyfriend was very upset.”

  “I’m sure he was,” I nod, imagining the water in his massive salt water aquarium coming to a boil. “That’s a shame.”

  “Well, he’s lucky he wasn’t home at the time.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Right; well, my guys will come get you at noon tomorrow. Be down at the front door ready to go.”

  “And until then, I do what?”

  “Take a cab to the mall and get some clothes,” he suggests. “There’s a picture of the real Lydia Knox in the envelope. Get a haircut and clean yourself up.”

  “A spa day. Just what I need.”

  “Her hair’s darker. At least do something about that.”

  “No problem,” I nod, needing a dye job one way or another.

  “You’re going to be travelling, so get one of those rolling suitcases and whatever a person takes on a trip.”

  “Right, right, shampoo, deodorant, the works.”

  “Yes, all those things,” he rolls his eyes, another indictment of my appearance. He starts to slide out of the booth, but then stalls. “On another subject, I do have some information about sister?”