Building castles in his mind.
He pushed that aside for now. First he had to get an idea of what was happening at his house. He wouldn’t be any good to anyone, least of all Elise, if he walked blindly into a manhunt. He needed to reach out, get some help.
He drove to a beer joint he knew of in Quantico Town. This was a unique little municipality, a tenth of a square mile, entirely enclosed by Quantico Marine Base. Residents got passes to come and go, all five hundred of them or so. But what was even more unique, the unusual thing that he needed, was the pay phone inside. Not too many of those around but things didn’t change very fast in quaint old Quantico Town.
He ignored the “closed” sign on the door of the Forward Observer pub and went on in. If you looked like you belonged, Felix the owner would ignore the archaic eighteenth-century law still on the books that said you can’t sell alcohol before noon. That’s why the door wasn’t locked, that and they made a few bucks in the morning selling coffee and smokes and breakfast sandwiches and day-old donuts to guys on their way to work. Fortunately, Felix wasn’t in to recognize him, just a chesty young thing with a wedding ring, in too-tight jeans and a tee shirt, makeup over acne, probably the teen wife of a teen Marine, making a few extra bucks.
“Whatcha want?” she said with that fake brightness servers put on. She stood hipshot, pointing with one long nail over her shoulder at the menu chalked on the wall. Ah, the brashness of the young.
He didn’t sit down. “Three ham cheese and egg bagels, large coffee to go.” He pulled a gallon of milk out of a fridge. “This too. The head that way?” She nodded, and he went back in the direction of the facilities, what the Navy and marines called the “head,” which happened to be where the phone was.
His first call was to his next-door neighbor Trey, a friendly Creole from Louisiana who’d married a nice German girl on a tour in Bitburg and eventually settled down in Virginia after retiring from the Army. Even in the twenty-first century, a black man bringing a white girl home to “N'awlins” was a tough row to hoe.
“No, nothing unusual going on, Dan, what’s up?” he asked.
“Nobody in my driveway, no visitors, nothing like that?” They kept an eye on each others' houses, because there were four schools in the area and a few kids always had sticky fingers.
“Nope. Why, something wrong?” he pried gently.
Daniel would have loved to tell him, the way he was feeling right now; he was a neighbor, a fellow vet but not really a brother in arms. He could probably be trusted to a point, but Daniel didn’t want to involve him if he didn’t have to. So he dissembled, though it was painful to do so. “No, just missed a meeting with a friend, wondered if he came by there.”
“Okay…well, you let me know if I can do anything.”
Daniel could tell Trey didn’t buy it, but he stuck to the plan. “Thanks, Trey. Hey I might be out of town for a week or two, could you pick up my mail and keep an eye on the place for me?”
“Yeah Dan. Sure.” He sounded hurt.
Man, he hated that.
“Look – Trey, I can’t talk about it right now, okay? You know how it is. But I’ll tell you when I can.” With that half-lie and half-promise, he hung up. Then called work, told them he was really sick and wouldn’t be in for a week. In that time it either wouldn’t matter or it would be all over.
He thought of calling his dad, who was a good guy to have with you in a situation. David Jonah Markis, Chief Warrant Officer Four, US Army retired. He’d fought in Vietnam, driving Hueys, and had been wounded a bunch of times flying guys in and out of hot landing zones. Purple Heart with oak leaf clusters, and a Silver Star for the time he went down and carried his wounded copilot seven miles through enemy territory to the nearest US firebase, with an AK round in his left lung. He lived in South Carolina now, had sixty acres and his own grass airstrip south of Blacksburg, and an old but airworthy Piper Cub to keep him busy. But if they knew who Daniel was, they knew his dad too and might be watching him. If Daniel wanted to talk to him he’d have to figure out a way to do it without bringing the trouble to the elder Markis.
But there were some that they didn’t know about, he hoped. They couldn’t cover everyone. No one had unlimited resources, not even the Agency. And they had limited powers inside the US anyway; they had already broken any number of laws and while a certain amount of that could be covered up, it became more and more risky the more they did. He had to depend on them not knowing he had the XH in him. He hoped they thought it was just a missed opportunity and they wouldn’t frame a federal charge to get the FBI and every other law enforcement agency in the country looking for him.
He got out his beat-up Army-issue green memo book that he’d had forever, that he’d carried to the Gulf and back. It had long since been laminated and converted into a home address book and retired to a drawer, but he had grabbed it on the way out of the house and now looked up Ezekiel “Zeke” Johnstone’s number. He had to risk it, and since he hadn’t contacted Zeke since forever, he hoped they hadn’t connected the two of them yet.
He called, and got a screening service. Right, this number isn’t on his safe list. He said, “720th” at the beep, waited through “Please Enjoy The Music While We Reach Your Party,” and almost gasped with relief when he heard Zeke’s voice.
“Yeah?” he said, his voice neutral.
“It’s me, man. DJ. Think a few years back. 720th, Kandahar. I can’t say any more, they might have a keyword trace.”
“Yeah man, I got it. Let me call you back on a better line.”
He could hear a woman’s voice, a shriek of childish mirth in the background. He closed his eyes as he hung up. Damn, I hate to drag him into this.
A minute later the pay phone rang and Daniel picked back up.
“All right, I’m on a one-off. You sure they ain’t got your end?”
“Not a hundred percent, but ninety-nine-point nine. It’s a pay phone and if they knew where I was they’d already have picked me up.”
“All right. What you get into this time? Another loan shark?”
Daniel used to gamble, and lose. It was one risk of being an adrenaline junkie – when ops slowed down, you had to find something for a jolt. Some guys drank too much, chased women, or took up high-risk sports. Skydiving, that was a given. Bungee jumping, jet-ski, flying, racing…he did all of that, especially the drinking…he had also played craps. A lot. He’d gotten stuck. The inevitable mathematics of the house odds had eventually gotten him, and he borrowed from the wrong people. Zeke and some of his guys had helped him out with that. DJ paid him back and he’d been clean ever since.
“No, nothing so simple. This is something big, something black, blacker than black. Man, I hate to involve you, what with Cassie and the kids, but it’s either you or run for the border. I don’t want to run yet.”
“It’s all right, man. You know what I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me your family. I think you need to cut them out. Get some distance.”
He could see Zeke in his mind’s eye, thinking and chewing the inside of his cheek the way he always did. “All right. Can you find the cabin?”
“I was thinking the same thing. Yeah, I can find it. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing to lead them to it. And Zee-man…might want to put out a warning order for a few more guys, just in case. This is some through-the-looking-glass stuff, and I don’t know how deep the rabbit hole goes.”
“Just don’t tell me I’m going to wake up in a tank full of goo with a tube down my throat.”
“Well, I got a red pill for you here, if you want it.”
He snorted. “All right, Morpheus. When can you be there?”
Daniel thought for a moment, trying to calculate the distance and time. About ten hours to Cave Run Lake, Kentucky. “Sometime tonight, I think. Same white van.”
“Okay, brother. You take care, and I’ll see you tonight.”
He put down the phone, used the latrine, then went out and paid for his f
ood order. He brought it out to the van and ate a bagel sandwich sitting there in the seat, watching Quantico go about its morning routine. He drank a half a gallon of the milk and started on the coffee. The hunger pangs seemed to come and go, and apparently he had to feed them when they did.
He got on the road, passing the inbound base traffic piled up at the gate. Then took it easy, driving in the right lane south down I-95, letting his thoughts flow.
Things were a thousand times better now. Yeah, he felt a little guilty for putting Zeke on the spot, but what were friends for, anyway, and Daniel had saved his life, after all. In some cultures that meant he was responsible for Zeke. Either way, me for him, him for me.
There was nothing quite like the bond between men who had face death together. It sounded corny, even in his mind, but it was the unspoken truth that turned recruits into veterans and boys into men on the battlefield, and had for millennia. And it was more important than just about anything else, on a par with the love between husband and wife. In fact, Daniel knew guys who would choose their brothers in arms before their wives, maybe even their kids.
Might not be right, but it was strong, very strong.
But that didn’t mean he even liked the guys, always. Sometimes he couldn’t even stand them, outside of an op. And Daniel was always a bit of a loner, hadn’t worried about keeping in touch. He could always find them later, he thought.
Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends. He hadn’t memorized many Bible verses, but that was one of them. He couldn’t remember who said it, but that guy really knew what he was talking about. I hope he died well, saving his friends. Couldn’t ask for a better way to go. I know I’d welcome it when it came, if I died doing my duty, so others could live.
He shook off his melancholy thoughts. Maybe the XH meant he didn’t have to think about dying anymore, or his buddies dying or anyone. Maybe XH would put him out of business. That was a strange idea. This stuff was going to change the world, if the unknown downside didn’t turn out to be too bad.
In any case, physically he felt great, better and better by the hour. His thoughts were clearer, his body hummed with vitality and health. It was an overnight revolution. And all he had to do was bite someone, he figured, to pass it on. He had a sudden feeling of power, of the ability to bestow a gift on his friends and withhold it from his enemies, whoever they were. Then he felt a sudden stab of conscience, realizing that he wouldn’t, couldn’t withhold it from anyone that needed it. That Others May Live was his code. Not “That Others Who I Happen To Like May Live.”
Daniel’s resolve crystallized. He knew then that everyone had to have this stuff.
His conscience nagged at him as he drove, with nothing to do but think and listen to the radio. He started remembering stupid things he’d done as a kid, growing up in Omaha. He’d hurt people, emotionally and physically. He’d been a jerk, because he could be. He was big and tough and athletic and good-looking and he’d used and discarded girls like paper cups, drinking his fill then tossing them away. He’d had a filthy mouth, he’d gotten into fights, and he’d bullied weaker people around him. It was all for their own good, of course, and they deserved it, of course, and he deserved whatever he wanted from life, of course.
Of course.
He kept a purer part of himself compartmentalized, in a box marked “Duty,” and that was sacred. In that box he was a paladin. He did everything right, everything by the book unless completing the mission called for a deviation, and the mission was everything.
But outside of duty, he was a son of a bitch.
Then Becky came along. God, she was beautiful, with sandy straight hair in bangs, freckles, a generous figure that he found just right - and she had a young daughter. It was fireworks and flame for a while, and they got married.
It lasted five years, until the drinking and gambling and stupidity ruined it all. They didn’t have any kids of their own, either. It was Daniel, his half of it. That poisoned the well too, just one more contributing factor. I can’t be much of a man if I was shooting blanks with my own wife, right?
He had too much medical training to deny a low sperm count.
A wave of guilt washed over him and he ground his teeth, tears of regret leaking out in the privacy of his van at sixty-five miles per hour. He had never faced his own culpability, and it was cleansing to just accept it.
Dr. Benchman used to tell him he had to take responsibility for things he’d done and he would feel better. He’d preferred Prozac and Ritalin and Dexedrine, but he realized he didn’t want those now.
I think the XH is fixing me.
Was XH going to put the shrinks out of a job too?
An inkling of the downside started to rattle around in the deep recesses of his thoughts, way down there where things he didn’t want to think about lurk. He couldn’t see it clearly but he figured that given time it would eventually surface.
Feeling better, his thoughts turned to Elise. He’d shot her, she’d made a fool of him by escaping – or had he let her go? Maybe he could have tried harder. He’d never killed a woman – not that he knew of, anyway. Never had a woman fire a weapon at him either. Maybe he’d had a soft spot? It wasn’t something he’d thought about much. Then he hadn’t kept her out of their clutches at the biker bar, but he might have had to kill four men in front of witnesses to do it, and she’d been so adamant. He turned it all over in his mind, trying to analyze his own feelings.
Okay, he admitted it to himself. He was interested. She’d shown backbone, and every man likes a woman with a spine, a woman he can respect. But there was something more there, a connection he felt. Part of it was the shared experience of combat, of the life and death stress that welds people together in unusual ways. But there was more to it than that. Was he fooling himself? It was the way she had looked at him, like she knew him.
Well, he had all day to think about it.
-7-
By the time she was back home – if she could call a cheap apartment she never wanted “home” – she was bone tired. But at least she was healed up after they had stuffed her with food. Correction, Karl had. Miguel just sat there and glared into the rear-view mirror after Karl had made him sit up front. He’d kept trying to cop a feel and she’d complained about it. A true international jerk. Russian hands and Roman fingers.
“Pack a couple of bags. Doc says you gotta live at the lab for a while.”
“Great. Just great.”
“He says it’s for your own protection too. He said Jenkins had powerful friends and they won’t be happy he’s dead.”
Elise protested incredulously, “It’s not like I killed him. I did exactly what he told me to, and almost died for it. As far as I know he just pissed off the wrong guy.”
“Doesn’t matter. Pack. As much as you like. It might be a while before you come back.” Karl was a bulldog, and she knew she couldn’t change one bit of his mind.
She started packing.
When they got to the lab, Karl threw her bags down in one of the sleeping rooms, the one right across from the security cubby. They probably have cameras in my bedroom, too. Have to change in the dark or give them a show. At least I’ll have work to do – Bobo and Mandy and the computers and gene sequencers and Arthur and Roger…I’ll be all right. She told herself to cheer up, then took a shower, turned off the light and threw herself onto the lower bunk.
She awoke hours later when the door opened. Miguel stood in the doorway staring at her. “Get out!” she snarled.
He only smiled, an evil thing. “Doc wants to see you. He says get your cute ass up.”
“Really.” She didn’t move from under the blanket. “Fine. I’ll be out in ten minutes.”
He stared some more, as if he expected her to get naked in front of him.
“Get out or I’ll tell the Doctor about you.” She sat up suddenly, the blanket held to her neck. “Or maybe I’ll bite you!” She hissed, showing unimpressive, very human fangs, and ma
de as if to lunge at him.
Nevertheless he jumped back, and then spat on the floor and slammed it shut with a curse.
She laughed darkly to herself, then opened her bags and began to dress.
***
Nine hours after he left Quantico, Daniel was muscling the van around the twists and turns of State 211 south out of Salt Lick, Kentucky, looking for Clear Creek Road, then Buck Creek Road. After that, it was all by memory, looking for the unmarked gate with a “Trespassers Will Be Violated” sign on it, then off into the wooded hills on the rutted dirt track. Branches scraped along the roof and sides of the van, adding to the innumerable dings already there. He’d got it cheap in a fleet auction, and never regretted it. If anything scraped too deep he just sprayed some white enamel over it.
After ten minutes of rollercoaster he drove up to Zeke’s cabin, rustic but well-maintained. There was a big barn next to it, and he pulled up midway between, headlights shining on the big door. He turned off the engine and the headlamps, leaving the parking lights on and turning on the dome light overhead. He put his hands on the steering wheel and he waited.
A moment later he heard something and froze in place. If it was hostiles, he was screwed anyway. He had to believe it was Zeke or one of his guys, checking him out.
A faint sound, like a breath, came from behind his left ear. His eyes flicked to the door mirror and he could see the barrel of an assault weapon with a short, dark figure behind it. About the same time Zeke came around the corner of the barn, dressed in some old BDUs. He was easy to identify, big and bearded. He’d gotten paunchy since retirement, but he still moved easily. He would be in his early fifties, about ten years older than Daniel was. He walked confidently up to the open window, waving the gunman back. Reaching through, he clasped hands with Daniel.
Eden Plague - Latest Edition Page 5
