by Darrell Bain
“This better be Goddamned good,” were the first words he heard.
“Yes, sir, it is. I mean it's bad, but it's good that I caught it-uh, I thought I had better call you now rather than later.” Crafton didn't have to say who he was; the phone took care of that with its voice recognition program, even though he was stammering.
“All right, Goddamn it, spit it out.”
Crafton began his tale. He was interrupted several times and made to go back over details. The more he talked, the angrier Phillips sounded. At last, Phillips cut him off, deciding that he had all the pertinent information.
“All right, give me a few minutes to decide what to do about this clusterfuck. Stay right where you are and feed every thing relating to this to the shredder. If there's anything in computers, make damn certain it's permanently deleted. Who was the IA officer? Mullins? Get him back in there pronto. I'll talk to him when I call back.”
Crafton put in a call for Mullins, then poured himself another cup of coffee that he didn't want. He drank half of it, then emptied the rest into the sink and walked over to a tall narrow, mahogany-colored cabinet and touched his forefinger to the lock pad. It clicked open. He reached in, brought out a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels and poured a double shot into a Styrofoam cup. He closed the cabinet and gulped down the liquor as quickly as he could stand it. It created a fire in his gullet and stomach at first, then tapered off to a warmness that spread to his brain. He sat down heavily at his desk, took out a package of breath mints and chewed several of them at once. He had just swallowed the residue when Mullins walked into the office without bothering to knock.
“You got here awfully quick,” Crafton said.
“I expected to be called back. Have you shredded yet?”
“No, I was waiting on-”
“Never mind. Are you finished?”
“Yes.”
Mullins proceeded to dispose of the contents of the folder he had brought there only a few hours earlier.”
“Mister Phillips wants any references to the contents that might be on computers deleted, too.”
“Done already.” Mullins sat down, crossed his arms and waited.
Crafton wished he had another drink but was glad he hadn't tried for one; he would have been caught in the act; though in truth, he wouldn't bet the farm that Mullins didn't know of his hidden bottle anyway. The man had invisible antennas out everywhere.
After an eternity of silent waiting which amounted to only ten minutes by his watch, the secure phone rang. Crafton jerked, as if from a sudden bite from an insect. He picked up the phone.
“Crafton-” He got no farther before Phillips began talking.
“All right, here's what's to be done. Terrell is going to be taken into custody. Start thinking of a replacement. Send word to one of your secondary teams, the best one, and have Stenning taken down. Make it look like an accident, you hear? We're not ready for publicity yet, and that Godless place has so few homicides that a direct termination might cause headlines.”
“Yes, sir. What about his partner?”
“She's clean. Once Stenning is out of the way you can pull her back here, have her pretend to be going to his funeral. We'll provide the props; he doesn't have any living family that we've been able to trace. Big mistake, Mandel. Every field agent should have family. It keeps them in line.”
“I'm sorry, I-”
“Not your fault, but someone in personnel is going to lose their skin over both those ringers.”
“Yes, sir. Is that all?”
“No. Start briefing some more agents on the situation there, but hold them in reserve. I've got to talk to the President about this. Now let me speak to Mullins.”
Mullins had already stood up, knowing he would be called on. He held the phone to his ear for a few moments, saying nothing more than “Yeah” or “Uh huh.” Crafton wondered how he got away with being so disrespectful to the director, not knowing that he not only attended the same church as Phillips, but that he knew enough dirty details about almost everyone in the agency to make his job secure; and since he had no desire to advance further up the bureaucratic ladder, no one above him worried. Crafton knew the man could never retire, though. He knew too much. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if one day he turned up missing and his body was found at the bottom of a cliff or in a river. He was getting old. His reflections were broken up by Mullins hanging up the phone and leaving, not even saying good-by. He knew that Terrell had only a couple more hours of freedom-and perhaps of life. And David Stenning's life was already forfeit; only the execution remained.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The bed in their room was queen-sized, but it seemed much smaller with Shirley under the covers next to him. She had come out of the bathroom wearing only a thin yellow nightie, transparent enough that the pair of matching panties she wore beneath it were plainly visible. The sight of her alluring body disconcerted him momentarily, especially when she climbed into bed next to him and her negligee was momentarily stretched across her breasts, revealing how firm and well-shaped they were. He felt himself beginning to get an erection and hurriedly turned his thoughts to Lisa, of how fresh and pretty she looked, how much he liked her bashful, yet assertive attitude, as if she were purposefully overcoming a part of her personality in order to relate to him. It worked, barely.
Shirley clicked the bedside light off, leaving only a bit of moonlight showing through the curtains and the dim glow of a nightlight for illumination. Daniel felt the shifting of the bed as she settled her body into a comfortable position. He hoped she wouldn't want to talk, and for a few moments, she didn't. Then she moved again and he felt her touch his shoulder.
“Dan?”
“Yeah, what is it?”
“Is there something about me that you don't like?”
Careful! “No, of course not. I do like you and I think we're working well together.”
“Hmm. Well, I like you, too. In fact, when we've been here a couple of days, I think we should ... maybe act more like we're married?”
“You could be right,” Daniel temporized, thinking that if he hadn't run into Lisa, the prospect would be more enticing.
“Such enthusiasm.”
“Sorry, When I'm on an Op, my hormones are more attuned to action than anything else.”
“It seems to me that they're also attuned to red heads. I could be wrong, though.”
Daniel couldn't make himself answer directly, but he was a quick thinker. “If we don't find anything threatening in the next few days, my attitude may change.” And it would, he thought. If he found out that Lisa's feelings were reciprocated, his attitude would indeed change, but not in the direction Shirley's might like. He knew he was going to have to find some way to get Lisa off to herself soon, especially if the meeting in the park he thought they had arranged didn't work out. He was already becoming frustrated and uncomfortable in his role as a “married” man, and Lisa was the direct cause of it.
“Well, a woman can hope. I think you're a good man, Dan. Just be careful here. Okay?”
“I will, Shirley.”
“Okay. Good night, then.”
“'Night,” Daniel replied, but he was a long time going to sleep, even after Shirley's breathing leveled out into a relaxed tempo, indicating that she was at rest.
* * * *
Daniel gave Shirley a casual wave as she drove off, leaving him in front of the oddly named CandyCane Barbershop. It had turned cool overnight and he was again wearing his jacket with a matching pair of faded jeans and western boots.
Inside, the facade resembled any other barbershop he had ever been in, though perhaps a bit neater than some, and posted prices a shade higher than he would have expected in a semi-rural area. There were three chairs, two serviced by middle-aged men and one by a relatively young woman. One of the male barbers was just finishing with a customer, and no one else was waiting. Daniel stood, waiting until the chair was vacant and the barber had been paid before seating himself.<
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The barber draped a candy cane colored protective covering over him and tightened it around his neck.
“Don't remember seeing you around before. You new in town?” He said.
Good. A talkative barber. “My wife and I just got here yesterday. We're staying at Ruthanne's Bed and Breakfast.”
“Didn't know they were opened yet. Good; glad to see they're already getting customers. How do you want it cut?”
“Just a trim. I like your name for the shop. The old barber poles are disappearing lots of places.”
“Well, I reckon this ‘un will stay the same. If you like more than a haircut, there's a couple other places; takes men and women. They do shampoos, manicures and the like.”
“You don't serve women here?”
“Oh, sure; just don't get as many as they do. Suzanne there does the ladies as they come in. Mostly they're just looking for a cut; the others do the curling and suchlike.” The barber ran his clippers around Daniel's ears, then took up his comb and scissors and began snipping, not getting in the least bit of a hurry. “Y!'all planning on staying around or just passing through on vacation?”
“Hard to say. We're actually working on a magazine assignment, looking for cities about this size with interesting folklore.”
The snipping ceased for a moment then resumed. “Folklore? You mean like old timely tales?”
“That's it, more or less. Either written or spoken. Say, would you happen to know of any old timers that might be willing to talk to us?”
“Could be. I'd have to ask some of the oldsters, but generally, folks around here ain't looking for publicity. Mostly, they're pretty well satisfied and not much interested in getting involved with outsiders. Can't say I blame ‘em, tales we hear about the gov'ment trying to run schools and banks and elections and the like right down to the finest detail. Mostly it seems they wind up making things worse, you ask me.”
“Can't say I disagree with you there. I like to see my tax money handled locally instead of being funneled through Washington.”
“That's what the City Council tries to do. ‘Course it ain't always possible. There's laws as got to be followed, like for banks and such, but mostly we manage to stay clean of those boys from Washington and Little Rock.”
“Good for you. On the other hand, I bet you miss out of a lot of grants, matching money and that sort of thing, don't you?”
“I wouldn't know. You'd have to talk to the Mayor or some of th’ City Council about that.” He twirled the chair around for Daniel to look at the results. “How's that?”
“Fine. My name's Daniel Stenning, by the way.”
“I'm Morris Whatley. Drop back by tomorrow. Can't promise, but I'll see what I can do about finding you some stories.”
Daniel paid, including a generous tip. There was still no one waiting, so he asked, “Say, that park looks interesting. Are there any jogging trails in it?”
“Sure. Lots of folks use them in the evening. Matter of fact, folks use the park a lot; there's benches scattered through it for folks to rest on, and eat lunch in good weather. You might find some of the old folks down by the pond as would talk to you, if you can get them away from their dominoes and checkerboards and chess games long enough.”
“Thanks. I'll have a look. This seems like an interesting place. We may wind up staying a while.”
He hesitated outside the door of the barber shop, debating with himself whether to try the bar first or the park. He checked his watch; it was way too early to start drinking, even if the bar was open. He ambled up the block toward the next crossing. Behind him, a man who had entered the shop just as he was leaving hurried back out. He got into a SUV which had been parked nearby.
Daniel waited for the light, then started across, not paying much attention to traffic. He had barely gotten past the middle of the street when some sixth sense, or perhaps his acute hearing picked up the sound of a car suddenly accelerating at a furious pace. He looked to the right and saw a SUV of a nondescript green color barreling around a slower vehicle and speeding down the lane toward him.
His first thought was that the big car shouldn't have been able to accelerate that fast; his second was an instant decision to turn and run back the way he had come, trusting that any traffic coming from that direction would be slower and miss him. The next few seconds were a kaleidoscopic cacophony of screeching brakes, slewing vehicles and banging of fenders and bumpers against each other as he dodged oncoming traffic, once almost jumping out of the way of one and getting run over by another. By the time the noise ceased, except for curses of vexed drivers and excited exclamations from bystanders, the SUV was long gone. He hadn't had either time or thought to get a license plate number and doubted it would have done any good if he had; he recognized the assassination technique and knew the numbers on the plate would be spurious. He stood on the curb now, shaking from an adrenaline overload after his brush with death.
“Are you okay, mister?” Someone asked.
“I saw the whole thing,” another voice cut in. “That damn big sumbitch never even slowed down! It was almost like it was trying to deliberately run this feller down!”
There was no ‘almost’ to it, so far as Daniel was concerned. Someone had tried to kill him, and since he didn't think he had any enemies, nor that terrorists would single a lone agent out for killing, even if they knew he was one, that left only a government agency. Or a planned elimination by the powers that controlled Masterville, if there was such an agency.
“Mister, could I get your name for my insurance company?” One of the drivers of a damaged pickup asked.
The man appeared to be a farmer of some sort. Daniel wrote his name down for the man after briefly wondering whether to give a false identity, then decided that it didn't matter; whoever was behind the SUV attack would know his name and where he was staying already. He wrote it down for the man, then gave it again to the local trooper who arrived on the scene shortly thereafter. He describing the event briefly, and suggested that the SUV had just been in a hurry for some reason, rather than trying to run him down. He detached himself from the small crowd as quickly as possible, then headed for the bar. If it was open, he wanted a drink; early or not.
* * * *
Daniel made his retreat back down the street appear as casual as he could, using techniques from his training to try discovering whether he was being followed or not. So far as he could tell, he wasn't. He pushed through the double-door entrance of Tiffany's Mistake and paused just beyond to let his vision adjust to the reduced light.
There were booths, a piano bar and a number of tables with comfortable, well-padded chairs on rollers. Seeing that there was a waitress present, he took one of two booths where he could see out onto the street through a small window. The waitress, who looked young enough to be a college student, and probably was, took his order, Jack Daniel's on ice. She brought it back, saw that he wasn't interested in conversation and returned to the bar. Daniel looked around; there were only two other patrons inside this early and neither of them was nearby. He took out his phone, noticing that his hands still had a tremor to them. Seconds later, he was talking softly to Shirley.
“Someone tried to kill you? Are you sure?” Shirley's voice sounded flabbergasted, even over the phone.
“Just about certain.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Call it in to Crafton, then go on with the itinerary we planned. We'll meet at the place we agreed on, same time.”
“You're sure? You don't think we ought to stick together now?”
“Why give someone two targets together? No, let's stay separate like we planned. I just wanted to give you a heads-up. Watch your back.”
“All right, but be careful. And thanks for the warning.”
Daniel put his phone back in his pocket and began sipping his bourbon, trying to analyze the situation. It didn't make sense that an individual, or a cabal of some sort holding power in Masterville, would try killing him; no
t if they knew he was a NSA agent. It would only bring more agents and heat into the city. And if they didn't know, why would they be after him? That left the federal agencies. Surely the FBI had no reason to eliminate him, and that being the case, he could think of only two other possibilities: the CIA, and his own department, the National Security Agency. He hated to believe that his own cohorts would try killing him for no apparent reason, and the CIA supposedly wasn't allowed to operate inside the boundaries of the country. He mulled all this over in his mind but came to no conclusions other than that he was damn well going to keep his eyes wide open for the rest of his stay here, however long that might be. He dropped a bill on the table and departed. No sense letting alcohol dull his judgment.
* * * *
It was nearing the noon hour as he entered Spring Rock Park. The temperature had risen some but it was still breezy and cool. Yet despite that, a goodly number of strollers and joggers were already present. He found the center of the park easily, simply by following the widest path. He passed a number of groves of trees which would have made good ambush sites but he wasn't overly worried; if that were the way an assassin intended to work, the SUV hit wouldn't have been attempted, and he had already reasoned that a murder in Masterville would be poor strategy. Nevertheless he kept a close watch on both foliage and people as he walked along, not hurrying, but not going slowly, either.
