by Joe Nobody
After two trips to the changing room, Grace had selected a seaside outfit, complete with floppy hat and leather sandals. Dusty was having more difficulty, unaccustomed to anything but blue jeans and boots.
Grace finally helped him select a pair of khaki slacks and a polo shirt that wouldn’t look out of place with his otherwise-western attire. A Panama style beach hat was, in his opinion, a poor substitute for his familiar western hat - traded to the now-dead Russian just a few hours ago.
“Let’s eat,” Dusty suggested as they paid for their purchases and headed out of the store. “I could swallow a buffalo whole, and more importantly, I need coffee... bad.”
Grace shook her head. “How about we check into the hotel first, take a quick shower, and then go put on the feed bag?”
With a reluctant nod, he agreed.
They changed clothes in the public restroom, Grace having to remove a price tag from Dusty’s new shirt to insure he fit in with the locals. Soon they were entering the hotel’s lobby.
“I’m sorry, but we don’t have any vacancies for the next few days,” informed the pleasant clerk. “I’d be happy to check other nearby facilities.”
“That would be great,” Grace replied, the disappointment clear in her voice.
The young man working the desk tapped on the keyboard, and then looked up with a smile. “One of our sister properties, Southside Harbor has several rooms available. Their nightly rate is a little pricier than ours, but they offer a very nice environment.”
“How far away is it?” Dusty inquired, and then added, “Does their ‘nice environment’ include fresh coffee?”
“Just over two miles up the lake. Less than five minutes by car, and I’m sure they’ll have coffee.”
Grace flashed him a troubled look, but he ignored it, instead continuing his conversation with the clerk, “Well, now that’s the problem. Our car broke down on the road a few hours ago and was towed to the shop. For the rest of today, we’re without transportation.”
The kid considered the travelers’ predicament for a minute before brightening. “How about a taxi?”
The cab arrived a short time later. While riding to the more ritzy accommodations, Dusty spied one of the huge box retailers. Nudging Grace, he observed, “I think a shopping trip is in our near future. Our supply list is going to contain more than just a change of clothes.”
Southside Harbor was an impressive complex, the high-rise hotel surrounded by a large marina and numerous offices. Dusty paid for the cab, and the couple anxiously strolled into the lobby.
“We’d like a suite,” he announced, reaching for his new ID and wad of cash.
The clerk shoved the registration form across the counter and said, “May I see the credit card you’ll be using to secure the room?”
“I was going to pay cash,” Dusty replied as he scratched in the information from his Canadian persona.
“I’m sorry, sir, but we require a credit card on file. You are welcome to pay cash at checkout, but I’m not allowed to reserve a room without it.”
Dusty didn’t miss a beat, “Son, with all of the credit card fraud, stolen identities and other shenanigans going on, I cut up all my plastic. Are you sure there isn’t another option?” Dusty flashed the young man his roll of bills to emphasize his point.
“I’m very sorry, but the hotel is very strict where this policy is concerned, sir.”
Both Grace and Dusty protested the requirement until the manager was summoned to the front desk. She was a middle-aged, attractive lady who obviously understood customer service and the needs of weary travelers.
After listening to the couple’s tale of woe concerning lost luggage, rude airline employees, and a black cloud that seemed to be following them around, the manager’s face brightened with an idea. “Have you considered a pre-loaded credit card? It takes only minutes to acquire one. It has to be safer than carrying around all of that cash anyway. You can easily purchase one right up the street.”
Dusty thought about the new identity delivered by the Russian. “But I’m Canadian; I don’t think I qualify for a U.S. credit card.”
“Oh, there’s no qualification,” she assured him. “I buy them for gifts all the time. The credit card company won’t even know your name or what country you’re from.”
Dusty turned to Grace and shrugged, “Can’t hurt to try. Might come in handy.”
She glanced toward the front door and frowned, “Our cab is already gone.”
“No problem,” chimed in the manager. “We have a shuttle service. I can have Danny run you down to the store right away. You’ll be back in 15 minutes.”
Grace stared longingly at the plush lounge chairs scattered around the lobby. “I’ll stay here with our shopping bags and your duffle. Don’t be too long.”
Danny drove the courtesy car to the same retail giant Dusty had recognized during the cab ride. The gunsmith entered the massive space and was soon directed to the pre-paid card display. What he saw amazed him.
There were hundreds of options covering everything from coffeehouses to national fast food chains. He finally found the generic MasterCard and Visa section, quickly focusing on the brand recommended by the hotel’s manager.
As he stood in line at the register, Dusty realized it was the first time the rail gun had been out of his possession since he’d left home to visit his brother in College Station. It was an odd feeling, almost as if he wasn’t fully dressed. He didn’t like the sensation.
When it was his turn, he handed the clerk three of the cards. As the small packages were scanned, the clerk inquired, “Do you want to load any funds onto these?”
“Sure. Is there any limit how much?”
“I can load a maximum of $500 per card, but you can go online and set them up just like a checking account and add more money whenever you choose.”
“Hmmmm,” he remarked while stroking his chin as if in deep thought. “Well, I have never actually bought one of these and am not sure what is best. Maybe you can give me a little advice. You see, I’m buying these as gifts. If I put funds onto these cards, will my nieces and nephews be able to access the money?”
“Anyone can use them. There’s no name or ID required. They make great presents, and if they get lost, there’s a toll-free number you can call to cancel and get a new card reissued.”
“Splendid,” Dusty replied. “Please load the maximum on each card.”
The clerk’s eyebrows shot up. “But sir, you do realize I can only do that with cash?” she questioned.
“No problem.”
The lady laughed, “Could you adopt me into your family? If you need any more nieces or nephews, that is.”
A short time later, Grace and Dusty swiped a plastic keycard to enter the fifth floor room, the opulence of the accommodations immediately obvious, the space impressive and well designed for comfort. Plush carpeting, a huge master bed, expansive bathroom, and tasteful appointments made both of them smile and relax. The view of the marina added to the calming effect. Dusty noted the coffeemaker.
“I’ve got first dibs on the shower,” Grace announced, balancing on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek, and then hustling off to close the bathroom door.
Dusty, with credit card on file at the front desk, wasted no time perusing the room service menu.
Agent Shultz checked his reflection, the mirrored interior of the elevator revealing a filthy, disheveled man. It’s no wonder, he mused. One hell of a morning.
Were it not for the golden shield and official-looking photograph on the FBI credentials hanging around his neck, he doubted they would have let him in the hospital’s front door. He’d originally tried to enter via the emergency room, but that entrance was inundated with incoming ambulances, emergency vehicles, and utter chaos.
The blue-haired ladies at the reception desk had kindly taken their time locating Agent Monroe’s room number. They had shown mercy and manners, not commenting on his appearance. Given the bedlam back in the ER,
he wasn’t the only haggard-looking fellow walking the halls.
Still, he straightened himself out as best he could, tucking in an errant shirttail and dislodging a streak of mud from his pants. He wanted to present the best possible image to the boss.
He identified Monroe’s room without any problem, entering quietly lest he disturb some procedure or consultation. There was only an aide present, a middle-aged Latino woman who appeared to be more involved in housekeeping than any medical task.
His boss was connected to a multitude of tubes, wires, machines and other associated life-preserving devices. The low background of beeping and hissing noises disturbed the otherwise quiet environment. The patient was perched in the middle of the bed, lying very still with his eyes closed.
Upon entering the room, Shultz stood and stared at his co-worker, mesmerized by the plethora of machinery attached to his body, wondering if the senior FBI man had any idea of how lucky he’d been. They had found him in a pile of debris at the edge of the parking lot, nearly drowned and suffering numerous injuries after being swept away by the tidal wave of water rushing onshore.
That entire sequence of events seemed like a lifetime ago. The pre-dawn assembly of the teams, the thrill of potentially apprehending the most wanted man in the world, the hope of finally being able to return home to College Station.
And then everything had gone wrong.
Strangers appeared in the midst of what was supposed to have been a relatively simple operation. Right in the middle of their takedown, a gunfight with unknown persons wearing FBI clothing convoluted the mission. In retrospect, that complication seemed like a minor annoyance once the military gunship collided with the tanker, followed by a Hellfire Missile exploding on the pier. Shultz could remember the radio waves being filled with excited, confused voices. And then the tanker heading directly for the bridge… a bridge full of snarled, gridlocked traffic.
Something had happened. It was all so quick, shrouded like the fog of war. One second, he thought Durham Weathers had been killed in the Apache’s attack. A few moments later, a wall of water was sweeping away the converging law enforcement teams … the mass of twisted, nautical wreckage eventually resting on their crime scene.
Shultz was beyond exhausted. He’d lost count of how many ambulances he had filled with co-workers and innocent bystanders. A mad scramble had ensued, the survivors rushing about to uncover the wounded and render aid. For over an hour, he’d dug through piles of debris and sloshed through muddy water, frantically rushing here and there, desperately searching for survivors of the tsunami.
All the while, first responders were pouring in. Exhausted, filthy and on the downslope of the adrenaline rush, Shultz had decided to stand back and let the professionals perform any remaining rescue work. He’d been loading colleagues into rescue units for what seemed like a lifetime when he realized the source of his own pounding headache was a rather large gash in the back of his head. He found a functioning FBI vehicle and began driving to the hospital – a decision that no doubt saved his life.
He was just over a mile away when the SUV’s police radio carried voices of panic. The blast’s shockwave almost knocked his heavy transport off the road. There were going to be more injured – a lot more. The bureau’s crime scene was now a crater filling with ship channel water, any evidence not washed out to sea was most likely reduced to carbon by the inferno. There was nothing more he could do back at pier #19, so he continued his trek to the hospital.
Glancing again at his boss, Shultz knew the man was going to be disappointed. Durham (Dusty) Weathers had been the Houston office’s primary focus for weeks. All of that work, all of the lost comrades, all of the man-hours, resources, and destruction – for naught. Nothing. Nada.
He needed to sit… take a load off. Pulling the nearby chair produced a vibrating scrape across the floor, as well as a grimace on the agent’s face. “Damn it,” he whispered, embarrassed by the racket.
“Hello, Tom,” came a hoarse voice from the bed.
“How are you feeling, sir?”
“I’ve been better; that’s for sure. Did we get him?”
The junior agent had dreaded the question, and for a variety of reasons. Special Agent in Charge Monroe hadn’t asked how many men they’d lost. Nor was his first inquiry concerning the number of civilian casualties or collateral damage. No, nothing of the sort. Lying in critical condition with half of the nation’s fourth largest city in ruins, the region’s top FBI man wanted to know if the suspect was still loose on the streets. It revealed an obsession that had consumed all of their lives for the last two weeks. Shultz didn’t know if he should be impressed with the man’s dedication to the job, or worried about his mental state. It was easier to go with the former.
“Unknown at this time, sir. The crime scene has been… err… obliterated.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“The tanker that washed up on the pier - it exploded, sir. A blast large enough to make a mushroom cloud.”
Monroe didn’t comment for several moments, the duration of the silence so long at one point that Shultz wondered if he’d slipped back into dreamland. The junior agent wasn’t so lucky.
“And the aerial surveillance? The drones?”
“Those images and video are still being processed, sir. Right now the top priority is accounting for all of our men and putting out the fires.”
“What about the rail gun? Surely we recovered at least some pieces of that damned weapon?”
“Sir, the tanker was lying directly on top of the spot where we last saw that damned thing. The explosion left a crater the size of a football field and then immediately filled with water. Frankly, the rescue effort has taken precedence, and retrieval of any evidence has not yet fully begun.”
Something in the tone of his subordinate’s voice made Monroe pull back and rethink his line of questioning. “How many dead and wounded, Tom?”
“A lot, sir. I don’t have a final count, but a lot.”
A grimace crossed the patient’s face. “I’ll recommend to the director that you take over the investigation, Tom, at least while I’m recovering. Until Durham Weathers is confirmed dead or captured, I don’t want you to slow down our efforts… not one single bit. Is that clear?”
Shultz didn’t tell his boss that the director had already called. He’d let the upper echelons work things out, such men often inflexible when it came to topics like chain of command. And then there was Weathers. “Yes, sir. It is clear. But you know there’s very, very little chance he survived. Even if he did manage to make it through the missile attack and tidal wave, no one within an 800-meter radius of that ship is alive now.”
Despite the tubes and wires, Monroe managed a curt nod. “No matter,” he whispered. “We need confirmation.”
You need confirmation, Shultz thought. Weathers would have faded into oblivion or accepted a presidential pardon if you hadn’t had a stick up your ass.
Day Two
The couple spent the rest of the day napping, eating, and strolling through the marina. Grace visited the hotel’s boutiques, informing her male traveling companion that she was a lady, and thus required more than one outfit for this little adventure. Dusty noted the bathroom counter had suddenly become crowded with a smorgasbord of powders, crèmes, and smell-wells. She also purchased a few items for him, including a razor and deodorant. “Give ’em an inch,” he quietly mumbled, but then smiled at his reaction. She cared, and that made him feel good inside.
Dusty, living in West Texas for most of his life, was fascinated by the boats. He even toured a few vessels offered for sale by a local broker.
“Some of those yachts have everything you need,” he informed Grace. “You can turn saltwater into fresh, generate your own electricity, and fish for food. Amazing. If the Russian hadn’t ripped me off, I’d consider buying one and taking it to some remote island. We could live comfortably and no one would know we were there.”
“The Russian left
us with about $12,000 in cash. That’s not enough money to last long, especially on a boat. We need to figure out what we’re going to do.”
He looked down with a grimace, her statement bringing back the harsh reality of the fugitive’s world. “Let’s go to the poolside bar and order a sandwich,” he recommended. “We can hatch our plot there.”
The pool was resort quality, with shining blue water, colorful lounge chairs, and a cascading waterfall. The oasis was nearly empty, so they selected two seats at the end of the bar. A smiling, young man appeared, offering the happy hour special margaritas. They chose iced tea instead, Dusty going with a ham and cheese, his lady selecting the spinach salad.
There was a television above the counter, a local news station showing footage of the recent disaster at the ship channel. The sound was muted, but it was clear that the reporter was interviewing survivors and first responders. The footage then switched to a different scene of mayhem and destruction, the medical center.
Dusty reached across the bar and picked up the remote, taking a moment to locate the volume button.
“Authorities are still seeking this man in connection with the explosions that rocked the medical center,” the announcer stated as a picture of Dusty flashed on the screen. “KTWO news has learned that there may be a connection between the two incidents, but so far the FBI hasn’t made any official announcement.”
“Shit,” Dusty whispered and then cast a worried glance at Grace.
“They don’t know if you’re dead or not, do they?” she observed.
“I wasn’t counting on my picture being splashed all over the television again. I think we have to take that into consideration as we make our plans. Perhaps the Houston area isn’t the place for us.”
“It will die down,” she said hopefully. “You saw those pictures of the pier. It will take months to sort that all out. This might have been just a one-time story.”
