by Joe Nobody
Dusty was still digesting the new information when their meal arrived. He found himself taking note of the server’s face when he set the plates down in front of them. Did he study my features? Does he know who I am? Will he dial the police the minute he gets back into the kitchen?
Paranoia was back in his life, and he didn’t like it one single bit. They had been stupid, checking into the motel and shopping, lulled into the false security of believing they were in the clear.
“Of course the FBI isn’t going to stop looking for me,” he said after washing down a mouthful of potato chips. “They don’t have a body, DNA or any other proof of my demise. We were silly to assume they would give up.”
Grace sat toying with her salad, the fork engaged more with rearranging than eating. “You don’t know that, Durham. We have no facts, and that’s the most troubling part of all of this. How can we make reasonable plans if we don’t know what’s going on?”
He nodded toward the now-muted weather report, “We know they’re still looking for me… splashing my mug all over the airwaves. That’s a pretty black and white fact right there.”
She reached over and covered his hand with her own. “I’m with you, Dusty Weathers. I want to be. We’ll figure it out.”
“One thing is for certain; we can’t stay around Houston. I’ve blown half of this city to hell, or at least people think I have. It wouldn’t surprise me if the local cops have an order to shoot me on sight. Probably 90% of the civilians would too.”
They finished the rest of their meal in silence. On the way back to the room, Dusty spied a sign advertising the hotel’s business center. “Let’s do some research,” he suggested, nodding toward the threshold.
They entered a small room furnished with modern-looking computers, a printer, fax machine, and copier. Neither wasted any time, typing in various internet searches and scanning the results with intensity. Dusty browsed newspaper articles and the websites of local radio stations while Grace used her knowledge of the court systems and legal databases.
An hour later they both reclined back, disappointed in how little they had learned.
“That didn’t help much,” Grace admitted. “About the only thing I learned was that I appear to be no longer wanted by the authorities. All charges have been dropped and no new ones filed. You, on the other hand, are still the most wanted man in the world.” Smiling coyly, she added, “My mom warned me about hanging around with bad boys. Why are you guys always so cute?”
Dusty grunted, “There are still federal officers in Fort Davis, and I doubt they’re hanging out because the diner’s blue-plate special is so tasty.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because there aren’t any rooms at the hotel. That place hasn’t been 100% full since old man Smith died. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry with the same last name showed up claiming to be an heir.”
Grace laughed, but didn’t doubt the validity of his analysis.
When the humor had worn off, his expression became very serious, his voice sad. “Grace, we need to split up, and you know it.”
“No.”
“I don’t want to either. It’s actually next to the last thing I want, right after being in prison for 10 years and then being put to death via lethal injection. If we separate, you can work on clearing my name. You can go home and use that wonderfully powerful intellect of yours to end this the right way.”
The lawyer in her knew what he was saying made sense, but the woman inside didn’t want to acknowledge his logic. “I have waited years to feel this happy with someone. After my husband and daughter were killed, I thought I would never feel this way again. No,” she sniffled.
Dusty reached over, gently lifting her chin. “Grace, you know it’s best. We are both young; we can have a lot of happy years together, but not if I’m in jail… or worse.”
They hugged, sobs racking her frame. Dusty held her tight for several minutes before the emotion worked out. “Okay. But we need to set up some way that I can contact you. I don’t want to lie in bed every night wondering if you’re dead or alive.”
He thought that over for a bit, finally brightening with an idea. “I know a way… if we’re careful.”
The dust was finally beginning to settle, and it couldn’t have happened fast enough for Agent Shultz. The hours following the ship channel incident had been a blur of status reports and forensic failures, all the while trying to recover from the loss of over a dozen federal agents in the explosion.
They had been lucky, with most of the Houston office personnel escaping death. To Shultz, in the role of leading the investigation, an injured agent was just as much of a manpower issue as a dead one.
Other regions had begun supplementing field personnel while those still able to report for duty began pulling all too familiar double shifts. Local agencies had been devastated as well. The number of official funerals would keep the local news stations busy for days. He shook his head, disgusted at the thought of having to watch the continuous coverage. The last thing the Houston law enforcement community needed was video of the processions, countless fire trucks and police cars following black hearses throughout the city. Shultz was sure he would attend more than his share.
Sitting down for what seemed like the first time in days, he noticed a stack of pink messages that had recently been delivered. He picked up the bundle, flipping through the records of incoming calls. He discovered that the administration group was now sending Agent Monroe’s messages to his desk as well. When it rains, it pours, he mumbled.
Mid-way through the stack, he noticed one slip that was marked “Urgent!” in bright red ink. It was an internal call for the head of the digital technology group three floors below.
Sighing, he reached for the phone and dialed the extension, hoping it wasn’t more bad news.
“We’ve processed the video images from the drones that were orbiting over the Houston Ship Channel. I think you’ll want to see this right away,” the nerdy-sounding tech informed him.
Shultz entered the lab ten minutes later, where he was led to a conference room equipped with a large screen monitor covering one entire wall. After everyone was seated, the department head clicked a few keys, and an overhead image of a bridge and waterway appeared on the screen. Shultz recognized it immediately as the area where they had hoped to arrest Durham Weathers just a few days ago.
The tech again tapped on the keyboard, and the image changed to show odd, glowing colors. “This is the infrared spectrum. You can see here… and here… and here are various law enforcement officers moving into position.
“Yes,” Shultz replied, “I remember deploying men in that area.”
“This hotspot here,” the tech resumed, “we believe is the suspect. If I switch back to straight video, you can see he’s hiding in what appears to be a pallet storage area.”
Shultz nodded for the man to continue.
“Things get a little confusing during certain segments. The drone was in a high orbit to avoid the law enforcement helicopters in the area. As you can see, the video lacks clarity when the craft was at the edge of its range.”
Shultz sat in silence, reliving the events of that morning. He saw the man they all thought was Durham Weathers appear, taking the bridge hostage with his super-weapon. Then the attack helicopters came into view, a large section of the display going pure white when the Hellfire Missile struck the shore. There were people running everywhere, some converging on the area while others, probably civilians, were trying to escape the violence.
Then something odd appeared on the screen. From the clutter of what he knew were the pallets, a thin black line appeared, stretching into the water directly ahead of the ship that was about to collide with the bridge. It appeared on the screen for only a fraction of a moment.
“What was that?” Shultz asked, sitting upright in his chair.
The tech waved him off, “We think that was a glitch in the binary stream being downloaded from the drone. It happens so
metimes. The same line appears in the infrared spectrum, which is impossible, so we wrote it off as an anomaly in the data stream.”
Another of the white-coated technicians was also curious. “Sir, could you back that up and show the black line again? I would like to see the time stamp.”
The keyboard clicked a few times, and again the image showed the odd-looking black streak. In the lower right-hand corner was a date/time stamp. The newly interested tech pulled open a folder and began hastily shuffling through a stack of papers. Finally locating what he was looking for, his complexion flashed pale. He glanced up at the screen and back at the paper twice before announcing, “That was the rail gun!”
“What?” Shultz asked, almost bolting out of his chair.
Poking his finger into the paper, the tech announced, “Space Command in Colorado reported another of those odd EMP waves associated with the discharge of the rail-weapon. The time stamp matches exactly.”
Shultz looked like someone had just dropkicked his new puppy. More mumbling than speaking, he observed, “So Weathers did survive all that. He wasn’t blown to bits by the Apache’s missile. I’ll be damned.”
The agent then brightened for a moment, glancing over at the department head. “But he couldn’t have survived the tsunami? There’s no way anyone got out of that alive!”
Hesitant and shaking his head, the tech didn’t answer verbally, instead typing a new command and then nodding toward the screen. “We isolated this image, ten minutes after the tanker was washed up on shore.”
The monitor presented what appeared to be a small raft traveling down a waterway. The picture didn’t offer enough detail to enable identification of the occupants, but the outline of a large green duffle bag was clear against the white outline of the inflatable.
“That bag matches the dimensions of this bag perfectly,” the tech said, the display changing to show a side-by-side picture. On the left was the raft; on the right was a shot of the pier, immediately before the black line appeared. “Whoever was standing there had an identical piece of luggage, and it appears as though they escaped.”
Shultz’s hand slammed into the tabletop, startling everyone in the room. “Fuck!” he grimaced, not caring about professionalism or offending the attendees. Then in a low, grumbling voice he added, “You lucky son of a bitch…. You got away…. I know you did.”
Exhausted, angry and frustrated, Shultz made his way back to his office. Within minutes, he was preparing orders for every law enforcement agency along the Texas coast to be on the lookout for one Durham Weathers.
But then a thought occurred to the federal agent. Rising from his desk, he turned to the window with a southeast view from the federal building. The plumes of smoke and ash still rising over the ship channel were clearly visible. He then glanced down at the parking garage where Mr. Weathers’ super-weapon had destroyed several vehicles in a fraction of a second.
“We’ve got to be smarter,” he mumbled to the scene below. “We need to wise up and get a step ahead.”
Returning to his desk, he added one last sentence to the FBI’s alert. “Notify immediately – DO NOT APPROACH under any circumstances.”
Shultz tapped the keyboard, distributing the message throughout the region. He returned his gaze to the distant horizon, content for the first time in days. “If we corner you again, you might do just about anything with that gun of yours, Mr. Weathers,” he whispered. “This time, you’re not going to know we’re coming. You won’t know we’re there. One shot, one kill… Mr. Weathers.”
Day Three – Morning
First thing the next morning, Dusty exited the hotel lobby and jumped in a waiting cab. The driver seemed disappointed to be called out for such a short fare, but cheered up when Dusty announced he was going shopping and wanted the man to wait, with the meter running, for his return.
“Might be a while,” Dusty replied as he handed the hack a $100 bill. “This is a deposit. Is there a problem?”
The cabbie checked the currency and smiled. “No sir, take as much time as you want. I haven’t had a chance to read the paper yet this morning.”
He grabbed a cart, stopping first at a display of no-contract cell phones. He threw four of the base models into his buggy. Next came clothing, hygiene products, and finally a backpack. This was the third pack he’d purchased since that fateful day when he’d blown out the back of his workshop with the rail gun. When the gunsmith finally made it to the register, the checkout lady was impressed by the girth and variety of his selection. “My luggage was lost on the plane,” Dusty explained. “You know the airlines; it might take them a week to find my bags.”
She was sympathetic, having a sister who had recently suffered the same misfortune. When she’d finished scanning his purchase, she nodded toward his duffle bag and commented, “That looks like you brought it in with you – right?”
“Yes, ma’am. I didn’t want to leave it outside.”
He paid with cash, and then proceeded for the exit. A rather large man stepped in front of Dusty, forcing him to pull hard and stop the cart.
“Sir, I am with store security, and I need to look inside of that bag you’ve been carrying around.”
Dusty was initially surprised by the guy’s appearance. “There’s nothing in there that I didn’t bring with me,” was the only response he could think of.
“Then you won’t mind my checking inside,” the fellow countered, clearly intent in performing his duty.
“I’m not an attorney, but I don’t think you’re allowed to do that unless you have reasonable suspicion. I just purchased several hundred dollars’ worth of merchandise in your store. And now you think I am a crook? That doesn’t seem to fit with any shoplifting profile I’ve ever heard of.”
The security man shrugged, “No doubt, your behavior is atypical of most retail thieves. However, you arrived in a cab and paid cash for your purchases – not something we see every day. While you did spend some money here, you may have your big score in that duffle. Some of our smaller items carry hefty price tags. So, yes, sir. Those abnormalities fail my sniff test.”
Dusty straightened to his full height, a rooster clearly readying for a confrontation. “I have personal affects in that bag. No one is going to stick their nose in there.”
“Fine with me,” the store goon sighed. “We’ll call the local police, and let them do it.”
“They can’t search private property without proper cause either,” he replied. “As it stands right now, it’s my word against yours.”
“This is just my part-time job,” the gent stated with confidence. “I’m also a patrolman on the local force. Believe me. They’ll take my word for it.” The store-cop then lowered his voice, “Look pal, I don’t care if you have dirty underwear, pornography, or pictures of yourself wearing women’s clothing in that bag. I just have to make sure there’s no store merchandise inside. Whatever else is in there is your business… as long as it’s not illegal.”
Dusty smiled at the guy, and then acted as though he was looking around for eavesdroppers. Leaning in as if he was going to confess the bag contained nefarious contents, he whispered, “Go fuck yourself.”
The cop’s eyebrows went up for just a moment. “Have it your way, sir. Please come with me back to the office. I’ll call the officers from there.”
Dusty had thoughts about just going around the guy, but then noticed two more muscular young men standing between him and the door. They looked to be praying he’d make a run for it.
Needing to buy time, Dusty shrugged. “Can I call my attorney while we’re waiting?”
“Not on my phone. This isn’t a police station, although I’m sure you will be seeing one soon.”
Dusty, bookended by the store’s security men, was led to the back of the facility. After leaving the retail space, they entered the warehouse. Continuing, they passed through an expanse populated with numerous rows of floor to ceiling metal racks, each stuffed with cardboard boxes and pallets of merc
handise.
Dusty was getting very worried, the sick feeling of fear building in his stomach. At least these guys hadn’t recognized him – yet.
There wasn’t any doubt what would happen if someone looked inside of his duffle. Even if the cops didn’t match his face to the bulletins and most wanted list, the rail gun and Glock .45 pistol would result in an inquiry. The weapons, combined with the wads of cash and fake gold would definitely cause his fingerprints and mug shot to be run on every law enforcement computer in the country.
His mind scrambled to figure a way out. He might chance pulling either the pistol or the rail gun, but both would require a significant amount of time to draw, load, and fire. All of these guys were armed, the outline of their sidearms now obvious under their shirts. Desperate to buy some time, he decided to try to stall. Pausing, he reached into his cart and pulled out a recently purchased pack of gum. As slow as possible, he fumbled with unwrapping a stick and popped it into his mouth.
The store-gumshoe frowned at the delay. “What are you doing?”
“My mouth is dry. Since you’re obviously intent on locking me away for an extended period of time, I thought I’d better take advantage now before you throw me in the dungeon and forget I’m there.”
“You can keep your possessions… at least the ones you paid for,” informed the head guard. “Sometimes it takes the local cops a while to get here, so I hope you have some food in there.”
They meandered through the bowels of the warehouse, eventually arriving at a room that was slightly larger than the average closet. Inside was a single chair. “Please wait inside,” instructed Mr. Security Chief.
Peeking through the doorway, Dusty hesitated. “I’m claustrophobic,” he protested.
“Not my problem,” responded the guard, moving closer to intimidate. Dusty positioned himself as if he was thinking about running, the act complete with darting eyes and deep breaths. It was a distraction, giving him a moment to slip his wad of gum into the door lock’s receptacle as his hand brushed against the frame. He finally went inside with a look of terror on his face.
