by Jude Hardin
“I bet,” Brad said. “The restaurant closed at ten, but I have the keys to your house here, and there’s plenty of food there in the pantry and fridge.”
“Sounds good. Think you could give us a ride to the house?”
“I can do better than that. I can give you the keys to your very own car.”
Brad reached into his pocket and pulled out two key rings. He handed one to Diana, and the other to Colt. On each ring there was a house key and a car key.
“Great,” Colt said. “I didn’t know we would have the use of a vehicle while we’re here.”
“You lucked out,” Brad said. “Not everyone does. It’s parked right outside at the curb. The little black Kia out there. And your home address is thirty-two twelve Beaver Avenue. If you go out the door here and go north on Main Street—”
“I know where it is,” Colt said. “I’ve been on Beaver before. It’s been a while, but I’ve been there.”
Brad didn’t laugh.
Diana gave Colt a sideways glance. “It was one of the streets we walked in on,” she said to Brad.
“I see. Well, I’ll let you guys run along then. I think you’ll find everything you need at the house. There are two copies of the rules there, one for each of you, and you’ll find the schedules for your jobs and a list of phone numbers for any questions you might have. My number’s on the list, so don’t hesitate to give me a holler if you need anything.”
“Will do,” Diana said. “Thanks so much for waiting up for us.”
Diana and Nicholas—Karen and John—walked outside and opened the Kia’s rear hatch and stowed their luggage.
“I’ll drive,” Colt said.
“Be my guest, hotshot.”
They climbed inside. Colt started the car, eased away from the curb, drove half a block and made a U-turn.
“What was with that guy?” Colt said.
“Brad? What do you mean? I thought he seemed nice.”
“A little too nice, if you ask me. Aggressively nice. All bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and eager to please. And that big toothy smile. If I’d been up all night waiting on someone, I probably would have chosen different phrases than ‘my goodness’ and ‘how the heck.’ I probably would have thrown the keys at you and walked away. Better yet, I probably would have gone to bed early and left the keys hanging on a nail somewhere with a note. Brad Washington was just—”
“He was just a really nice guy,” Diana said. “They do exist, you know? Maybe it has something to do with the way they live here in Sycamore Bluff. It does seem very peaceful, and quaint in its own little way.”
“The place gives me the creeps. I was ready to leave the minute we stepped out of the woods.”
Colt turned down Beaver Avenue, crept along at five miles an hour while Diana looked for the address.
“Here it is,” she said.
Colt steered the car into the driveway and killed the engine. The porch light was on, and Diana could see that someone had attached a brass plate over the front door. It said The Millingtons.
“I vote we carry our stuff in later,” Colt said. “I’m about to drop.”
“Come on, old man. It’ll only take a minute. Look, they put our name on the door.”
“Joy.”
Colt grouchily yanked the hatch release and climbed out of the car. Diana met him around back and hefted her suitcase and backpack, and the two of them flatfooted wearily up to the porch. There was an envelope taped to the door. Like the brass plate, it simply said The Millingtons.
“What’s that?” Colt said. “An eviction notice? Already?”
“I don’t know. Let me see.”
Diana grabbed the envelope and opened it. There was a letter welcoming them to the town, and a pair of gold key chains for their new keys, one that said John and one that said Karen.
“And look,” Diana said. “Tickets for the dance they’re having next Saturday night at the Town Hall building. Fun, huh? They’re going to have food and punch and a band and everything.”
“I don’t dance,” Colt said.
He unlocked the door, and they walked inside.
The first thing Diana noticed was the smell of Pine Sol. She felt inside the doorway and found a light switch.
“Home sweet home,” she said.
Beyond the tiny entranceway was a living room carpeted wall-to-wall with beige Berber. Three was a blue couch and a matching loveseat and a flatscreen television and a stone fireplace. It was an open floor plan, and Diana could see that the vinyl flooring in the kitchen matched that of the foyer. Formica countertops, white appliances, round wooden table with four chairs. Everything looked brand new.
Colt dropped his suitcase and backpack by the sofa. He walked to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator and then the pantry beside it.
“What do you want to eat?” he said.
“I don’t know. What is there?”
“How about bacon and eggs and orange juice and toast and coffee?”
“I want pancakes,” Diana said.
Colt gave her the kind of hateful glare usually reserved for teenage vandals and Department of Motor Vehicle employees.
“How about bacon and eggs and orange juice and toast and coffee?” he said.
Diana was a little giddy by this point. She stifled a laugh. “Okay.”
Colt grabbed a package of filters and a can of Maxwell House and started building a pot of coffee.
Diana was a little giddy, but nevertheless on high alert. Especially after what had happened on the helicopter. Right now it didn’t seem as though she and Colt were in any danger, but an operative for The Circle, on assignment, knows better than to relax. Ever. Things can change in a heartbeat. Diana had downplayed the need for weapons, because she genuinely thought this assignment was going to be a cakewalk. Busywork to get her mind off the shooting. Now she knew better. The 9mm Ruger was strapped to her ankle, and she would keep it within reach at all times. Even when she slept.
Colt found the appropriate cookware and utensils and started preparing the meal. He tore open a package of bacon and arranged some strips in a skillet and cracked some eggs into a bowl.
“You seem to be pretty good at that,” Diana said.
“Don’t get used to it, Mrs. Millington. I plan on spending a lot of time at that restaurant in town. What was the name of it? Oh, yeah. The Restaurant. We can eat every meal there as far as I’m concerned. Unless the food sucks, of course. If that’s the case, cold cuts and bread are going to be my closest friends. Don’t think for one minute that I’m going to be responsible for feeding you while we’re here.”
He was being a jerk, but Diana knew that his foul humor was a result of extreme fatigue. She let it slide.
“I’m going to take a look at the rest of the house,” she said.
She opened the door on the left side of the kitchen, reached inside the jamb and switched on the light. The garage was empty except for a lawn mower and a gas can and some gardening tools hung neatly on the wall. Again, everything looked brand new. She turned the light off and closed the door.
She walked to the other side of the kitchen and turned the corner down a short hallway. It was dark, but the light bleeding in from the living room revealed something horrible, something Diana never would have expected. She padded to the end of the hallway to make sure.
It was true.
She felt the blood drain from her face. It was one of the worst things she’d ever been forced to witness as a government agent. Unbelievable. She staggered back to the kitchen with her heart hammering in her ears. The whole house was spinning now, and Diana was barely able to maintain her balance. Part of it was fatigue, maybe most of it, but what she’d seen at the end of that hallway was dreadful just the same.
She turned the corner and faced Nicholas Colt. There was a jug of bourbon on the countertop next to a coffee cup. She ignored it for the moment, unable to process more than one shocking surprise at a time. “You’re not going to believe this,” she said.
Colt had been loading four slices of whole wheat bread into the toaster. He turned, obviously concerned by the tone of her voice.
“What?” he asked. “What is it, Di?”
Diana laced her fingers together and held her hands to her chest. She took a deep breath.
“There’s only one bedroom,” she said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
An early morning phone call from an FAA investigator named Jay Ingram, a call carrying the news that a UH-1 Iroquois general utility helicopter from Grissom Air Reserve Base had crashed, came as no surprise to Lieutenant Colonel David A. Davidson. The location of the crash, however, made his stomach do a series of somersaults. He told Ingram to hold on for a second while he tried to digest what he’d just heard.
He climbed out of bed quietly, trying his best not to disturb his wife, and walked to his study and closed the door.
“You’re telling me the copter went down somewhere between here and Scott?” he said. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Ingram said. “And that location is consistent with the flight plan filed before the helicopter lifted off. Sorry to be the one to deliver the bad news. There were two people on board, and neither survived. Right now we’re working with the coroner’s office to establish positive ID. Unfortunately, the deceased were burned beyond recognition, so it might take a while.”
Two people on board. Colt and Dawkins. At least that part made sense, Davidson thought. But why had Needleman allowed the copter to crash over land? Why had he deviated from the plan?
“Please keep me updated with any developments,” Davidson said. “There were three people aboard when the helicopter left Grissom, so—”
“Actually, there were four,” Ingram said.
“Excuse me?”
“Yes, we know that for a fact. Major Needleman, the pilot, radioed the passenger list to the tower after he was in the air. There was a married couple, John and Karen Millington, who’d been on the initial chit, and an enlisted man named Leslie Howard, who’d been added at the last minute. From the preliminary crash report, it appears as though Major Needleman delivered the Millingtons to Scott Air Force Base as planned, and that the copter went down on the return trip to Grissom. We’re assuming the bodies at the crash site are those of Needleman and Howard. But like I said, positive identification hasn’t been established yet, and we weren’t able to confirm that the passengers disembarked at Scott.”
“I see,” Davidson said. He stared at the wall, contemplating his next move.
None of this made sense. How could Needleman have so royally screwed the pooch on this deal?
The Millingtons were actually a pair of agents from The Circle, of course. Davidson knew that. And he knew they hadn’t really been taken to Scott Air Force Base in Illinois. But where were they? Were they still alive? Had they somehow made it to Sycamore Bluff? If so, their presence threatened to ruin everything. If they were in Sycamore Bluff, they would have to be dealt with. Immediately. One way or another, Davidson would have to get rid of them.
“Are you there, Colonel?” Ingram said.
“Sorry. I’m here. Major Needleman was a friend of mine. I’m just in shock, I guess. Please call me right away when you know something. I’ll hold off on notifying the next of kin until we know the casualties’ identities for sure.”
“Absolutely, Colonel. I’m sorry about you friend. These types of calls are never easy to make.”
“They’re never easy to take, either. Goodbye, Mr. Ingram.”
Davidson headed toward the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. It was going to be a long day. He slid a filter into the basket, and he’d started spooning in some grounds when his phone vibrated again. The caller ID said Vic.
Victor DeLorenza was the vice president of research and development for Pelican Nutritional Products. If all went well, Victor DeLorenza was going to help Colonel David A. Davidson become a very wealthy man.
Davidson had known DeLorenza since their days at Indiana University. The two had met one night during fall rush at the Phi Tau fraternity house when they were both freshmen. They stood around the keg and talked about the kinds of things guys talk about, football and hunting and the number of notches on their belts from high school and such, and by the end of the evening they had both decided to pledge Phi Tau. Their adventures together from that day on rivaled anything Davidson had experienced since, even his tours of duty overseas.
Davidson answered the phone. “Good morning, Vic,” he said.
“Hey DD. I have some great news, man.”
“Cool,” Davidson said. “I could use some.” He continued preparing the pot of coffee while Victor talked.
“Everything’s been cleared with the marketing department, and we’re ready to start the initial campaign early next week. We’ve blocked a series of thirty-second spots on CNN to start with, some of them during prime viewing hours. That alone should put us in front of over thirty million people, and it’s only going to get bigger from there. We’re going to be rich, my friend. We’re going to be able to kick back on a beach somewhere with a tall cold one in one hand and a smart phone in the other, nothing to do all day but watch more money roll in. We finally hit the jackpot, buddy. This is going to put Pelican on the map as a leading manufacturer of nutritional products, and it’s going to put me and you on billionaire’s row. Can you tell I’m excited?”
“I can tell.”
“It’s going to be spectacular, man. Are you okay? You sound like you just woke up.”
“I’m all right. Still a little concerned about the Kyle Lofton incident.”
“It was a freak occurrence, DD. Nothing but a freak occurrence. It had nothing to do with the product, or the trials, and there’s no reason for any outsiders to ever know about it. As long as me and you and Needleman and—”
“He’s dead,” Davidson said. “Needleman’s dead.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He died in a helicopter crash this morning. The FAA and the coroner’s office haven’t made positive ID yet, but I know it was him.”
“Wow,” Vic said. “That’s terrible.”
“Yeah. And unfortunately, I have some more terrible news for you. I thought I was going to be able to take care of it without getting you involved, but now I’m not so sure.”
“What are you talking about?”
Victor DeLorenza’s tone had gone from one of extreme enthusiasm to one of grave concern. Davidson had hoped to avoid this conversation altogether, but now it seemed he had no choice but to give Vic the lowdown.
“I’m talking about the Kyle Lofton incident. There’s going to be an investigation.”
“Huh?”
“I’m going to give you a number to call, but don’t ever use it again unless I tell you to. Call me back in ten minutes. And not from a mobile phone, okay?”
“Okay.”
Davidson gave him the number and then hung up. He knew he shouldn’t be talking about any of this with Victor, but he couldn’t see any way around it now. He poured himself a cup of coffee, returned to his study, and waited for DeLorenza to call back on the super-secure ops line.
The Colonel added a shot of scotch to his coffee, and he’d drunk about half of it when the phone trilled. He picked up and said, “Davidson.”
“It’s me again,” Victor said.
“Here’s the deal, Vic. This is all top secret, so you have to swear to me that it won’t go any further than this.”
“Of course.”
“All right. First of all, there’s a government agency called The Circle. Totally clandestine, and totally deadly. Believe me, these folks don’t mess around. They ferret out homegrown terrorists and assassins, any person or group of people that pose a threat to the United States of America. Why are they so secretive? Simple: if the general public ever became aware of their mission, and the number of extraordinarily dangerous problems they come up against on a regular basis, there would be widespread panic and paranoia, even mor
e than there is now. It would be like the Cuban missile crisis on a continuous loop. People would freak out. So it’s crucial that they remain behind the scenes, while the Secret Service and the Department of Homeland Security and other government agencies put on a dog and pony show to placate the media. Truth be known, the threat of terrorism is higher right now than it has ever been, and the threat is not only from factions abroad. A great deal of it is from people born right here in the good old U.S.A., or from people who have come here from other nations and have managed to integrate seamlessly into our culture. Are you with me so far?”
“I think so,” Victor said. “But what does any of this have to do with Sycamore Bluff?”
“Nothing, really. The Circle wasn’t even aware that Sycamore Bluff existed until that Kyle Lofton idiot went off his rocker. Apparently, Lofton had briefly been involved with a crime cartel down in Central America a few years ago, a group hostile toward the United States, and NASA wanted to make sure he hadn’t stirred up any anti-government sentiments among the other residents. So they went through the proper channels, and eventually The Director of The Circle was contacted and asked to send in a couple of operatives to investigate. Of course, nobody at NASA knows about the little experiment we’re performing on the side. If they find out—”
“We’re toast,” Victor said.
“Exactly. So, to buy us the time we would need to restructure The Factory and get every molecule of unauthorized product out of every nook and cranny, Needleman was supposed to make sure the operatives from The Circle never made it to Sycamore Bluff last night. I had it all planned. I had it all mapped out for him. But he failed, somehow. I think he probably went maverick on me and devised his own plan, and whatever it was backfired on him. That’s the only thing I can think of that might have happened. Needleman did something stupid, and he paid for it dearly. The bonehead ended up getting himself killed.”
“So,” Victor said. “You’re telling me that these agents from The Circle are in Sycamore Bluff right now?”
