The R.E.M. Project_A Thriller

by J. M. Lanham

  “Well?” she asked as he sauntered up the steps. He looked up, and Kerry sighed.

  “They want me to come back tomorrow, but I don’t know. I don’t think they’re too interested in giving poor Mr. Vaughan a loan.” He walked past Kerry, and she followed a trail of wet footprints inside.

  “What did they say, Arlo?”

  “A whole bunch of nothing,” he said, hanging up his coat and hat. “Kept me waiting till damn near five o’clock. Then some wormy little pencil neck ho-hummed around, stalling till closing. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe I’m overthinking it. But I feel like he’s kinda hoping I don’t show up tomorrow.”

  He stepped into the kitchen and opened the fridge, searching for nothing in particular. Kerry stood in the doorway, hand on her hip.

  “Well, with that kind of attitude, what do you expect?”

  He didn’t have an answer.

  “So he told you to come back tomorrow. Big deal. You go back tomorrow, put a smile on your face, and hope for the best. It’s all you can do. If things don’t work out, Arlo, then it just wasn’t meant to be.”

  Arlo smiled, took out a Coke, and closed the fridge. Kerry always had a way of making him feel better; he just needed a little encouragement from time to time. He popped the top and sat down at the kitchen table. Kerry sat beside him.

  She said, “You worry too much, Arlo. Trust me: after tomorrow, everything’s going to be fine. You’ll see.”

  He took her hand. “We’ve just been dreaming about this for so long, Kerry. And to think, everything comes down to whether or not the banker’s in a giving mood tomorrow. Just doesn’t seem right, does it?”

  Kerry laughed playfully. “Honey, if I didn’t know any better I’d think you were born yesterday. Who ever said anything about banks being on the right side of anything?”

  “Yeah. Guess you got a point there. Still, I hate even asking.”

  “Don’t you worry about that, Arlo. We all need a little help every now and then. And if we’re going to run a business, taking on a little debt is just going to be a fact of life.”

  Kerry seemed full of sound advice on the surface, but underneath all that positivity she was reeling like a duck on water. They sat in silence as Arlo stared blankly into the kitchen table.

  Finally, Kerry asked, “You working tomorrow?”

  “Yep. Seven P to seven A.”

  “Lord, Arlo. I don’t know how you do it sometimes. Are you going to come to bed with me tonight?”

  “Don’t think I’ll be able to, sweetie. It’ll wreck my whole schedule.”

  “But if you’ve got to be at the bank at 10—”

  “I won’t get any sleep. I know.”

  Kerry rolled her fingers on the table. “I don’t know why you won’t just take your sleeping pill. Situations like this are exactly why you got them in the first place.”

  “I know, I know. They just . . . I don’t like the way they’ve been making me feel.”

  “Rested? Relaxed? Rejuvenated? Well, I can believe it. You’ve never been any of those things in your entire life.”

  Arlo chuckled. “No, it’s not that. They do work, but they make me feel funny sometimes. That’s all. Plus . . .”

  He was about to tell Kerry about the dog he’d almost turned into roadkill; the dog that had looked just like Samson. Hell, for a moment he’d almost convinced himself it was Samson, back from the dead. But, he stopped short of adding another worrisome thought to the list.

  She asked, “Is there anything I can do to persuade you to come to bed at a reasonable hour?”

  He looked up from the table. Kerry was sporting her bedroom eyes, then a wink. Both had aged quite a bit from their first summer of love, but Kerry’s eyes had stayed the same. Tempting. Seductive. The primal glance took Arlo back to his youth.

  Smiling, he said, “I suppose I could come to bed early this evening. You know, for my health and all.”

  “Uh huh,” she replied, then turned to walk in the bedroom. She cast a single glance back, and Arlo was hooked.

  He stood from the table, eyes fixed on the hallway leading to the bedroom. Then he thought about trying to sleep at a time he was usually at work.

  His bottle of Ocula was still in the medicine cabinet—for emergencies only. This was one of those times.

  Guess I could take that pill tonight, thought Arlo. Hell, what’s one little pill gonna hurt?

  Chapter 9:

  Bajos, Part Two

  The road to Bajos del Toro was notoriously treacherous. Chunks of road broke off from the shoulder and tumbled down the steep hills to each side. Potholes were deep enough to send wheels flying off their axles. In some places, the narrow, cracking, worn-out strip of asphalt connecting San José with the rural farmland to the north seemed less like a road and more like a vehicular graveyard; the rusted cars and rotting ox carts of the less fortunate coming to their final resting places at the bottom of the hills below.

  Fortunately, Alejandro knew the road well. He drove while Claire rode shotgun, keeping her eyes peeled for wandering cattle and other pitfalls. One glance over at her and he couldn’t help but smile. A man of his caliber always had a security detail close by; it was an occupational necessity in Central America. But with his daughter away at private school, he had been able to ask security to sit this one out, embarking on a two-day getaway alone with his Yankee crush in the passenger seat.

  They crested a hill and watched as the last orange trace of sunlight peeked through the clouds before falling below the mountaintops to the west. Alejandro noted the time. It would be dark soon, and this was no road to be on at night.

  Claire asked, “What do you think—ten, fifteen minutes?”

  “Sooner. This road rides the ridgeline all the way into Bajo”—he made a downward motion with his hand—“and we’re already heading down. Should be getting close.”

  She nodded and turned to look out the window. The scene was like watching a movie in letterbox, clouds capping the top and bottom of the frame, rolling green hills speckled with ceiba trees and high grass in the middle. She had only been in the area once in her life, passing through in the opposite direction with nothing but moonlight to show off the rural landscape.

  It was then that she thought about Roberto; the third wheel in the back seat who had abruptly woken her up while making his midnight escape. She wondered if he’d made it out of the jungle; if he was one of the facility technicians who’d raised such a fuss with the media in San José; if he really had told them everything he knew about Ocula 2.0.

  Doubtful, she thought. An innocent scientist would have had every reason to stick with the escapees to San José—only a guilty party would have bailed like that. Not to mention the countless tails Claire had had to shake in Atlanta. Someone had tipped off Tanner’s henchmen, and Roberto fit the bill better than anyone.

  They rounded a blind curve as Claire looked ahead, just in time to see a cow standing in the middle of the road.

  “HAN!”

  Aguilar jerked the wheel and cursed, tires screeching, the momentum throwing him shoulder-first into the door. Claire grabbed the dash as the suburban rocked left, then right, before righting itself on the southbound side of an oblivious cow.

  Aguilar stopped the car and wiped his forehead. He turned to Claire. “It really is a nice drive, no?”

  Claire sighed and shook her head while Aguilar’s nervous laugh played off his excitement. He slowed the car to take a breather, then pointed ahead.

  “Look.”

  The small mountain town of Bajos del Toro lay in the valley just down the road, a modest enclave of rural homes surrounded by barbed-wire fences and farmland. They had arrived.

  ***

  “How do you know this person again?” Claire asked, referring to the red board-and-batten farmhouse a hundred yards down a driveway of gravel and mud.

  “He works for me.”

  “Up here? Doing what?”

  “Exports.”

  She raised an ey
ebrow.

  “Nothing illegal about exports, Claire.”

  She put up her hands. “Okay, okay. No need to get testy here.” They pulled up to the house. It looked empty.

  “So, where’s the homeowner?”

  “Exporting.” He parked and jumped out, retrieving their bags from the back before Claire had a chance to finish an irritating game of twenty questions. He walked with her to the front door, quietly wondering if there was a journalist out there who could settle for not knowing everything about everybody.

  The farmhouse was a structural patchwork, built with whatever building materials were available at the time. A tin gable roof covered the house; asphalt shingles hung over the porch. Barkless log pillars held up the exposed rafters of the crooked porch, the smell of motor oil heavy the moment their feet hit hardwoods.

  Aguilar noticed Claire’s nose crinkling. He said, “Motor oil, mixed with a little gas. It preserves the wood.”

  “Jesus. That seems incredibly . . . stupid. You didn’t bring any cigars, did you?”

  “No. I assure you, Claire. It’s fine.”

  They stepped inside. Aguilar set the bags down by the door and found a light switch.

  “You sure we’ve got Internet access here?” Claire asked.

  “Of course. Would be kind of hard to talk to Miguel without it.” He looked around the large main room, dimly lit, with the wall studs showing. Puzzled, he said, “Although, I’m not sure where the router is.”

  “I’ll let you hop on that,” Claire said. “I’m going to break these images back out. We need to go over everything a couple of times before heading out first thing in the morning.”

  Aguilar nodded and commenced the search for a line out while Claire cleaned off a place on the table for them to plan their route. She lined up the satellite images, piecing together a mosaic that collectively displayed the entire Poás Volcano National Park from 10,000 feet.

  The photos were dense with information. Security patrols were outlined and categorized by foot, vehicle, and air. Naturally, the roads were off-limits, with Costa Rican police setting up checkpoints north of the town. Outposts were marked with red squares, with each zone transparently colored red, yellow, or green. Red zones were hot. Green zones were not.

  Claire noticed an S-shaped strip to the west of the volcano; the green zone marked the safest route. She called Aguilar over.

  “What do you think about this, Han?”

  He looked over the images and cupped his chin in his hand. The bottom-right photo featured a legend, complete with dates, coordinates, and a map scale.

  “Hmmm.” He laid his index finger by the scale. “If it’s a mile to my knuckle”—he used his finger as a ruler—“then it’s at least seven miles to the facility. In this kind of terrain, that could take a full day. Even longer if we get held up by patrols.”

  “I never said it was going to be a cakewalk.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Do you think the route is legit?”

  “Appears to be,” Aguilar said. “Moving southeast into the park puts us away from the heavy patrols to the north and into the trees. We can follow the creek here to the west side of the volcano before cutting north. If we avoid these clearings here, we should be okay.”

  He paused, then said, “This is good intel. Who is your source in the state department?”

  Claire smiled. “You know a good journalist never reveals a source.”

  “Right . . .”

  She changed the subject. “Is the Wi-Fi hooked up yet?”

  Aguilar looked toward the living room. A solid green LED lit up a white box by the TV.

  “Looks like it.” Claire’s phone screeched out three chimes in succession. Aguilar said, “Sounds like it, too.” He grabbed his backpack and stepped into the living room, checking his gear for tomorrow’s hike.

  Claire checked her phone. Three missed calls from three different numbers. No messages.

  “Hey, Alejandro. You wouldn’t know where a 530 area code is from, would you?”

  He shook his head no.

  Just then, her phone rang. It was a 541 number.

  “What the hell?”

  “Better answer while you can. Going to be phones off for the next few days.”

  Claire nodded and answered. The voice on the other end of the line was anxious.

  “Hello?”

  “Claire? Thank God you finally answered.”

  She almost didn’t recognize his voice.

  “Paul? Is that really you?” She put her hand over the phone and motioned to Aguilar that she was stepping out. He looked up and nodded, then went back to packing.

  Claire walked out on the porch and found a post to lean on. Then she said, “I haven’t heard from you in months, Paul. What’s going on?”

  “We can’t run anymore,” he said.

  You couldn’t run in the first place, thought Claire. She asked, “Has something happened?”

  “I got pulled over. Six Rivers National Forest.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “Northern California. We’ve been lying low, trying our best to stay off the grid. Camping. Cheap motels. Even slept in the car more nights than I can remember.” He took a breath, then said, “That was before I was pulled over today. First time I’ve had to show my license to anyone in months—”

  “And you’re worried you’re on the radar now.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m not sure what you want me to say here.”

  “You don’t have to say anything.” There was a pause, then Paul said, “Look. I know I should’ve stayed in touch. Tried to help out in some way. It’s just—my family, Claire. These people tried to kill us, and all I could think about was keeping them safe. Away from Atlanta. From Asteria—”

  “You don’t have to explain yourself, Paul,” she said. “Everyone ran. After the volcano exploded, we had nothing to take to court—or to the public. Just a handful of technicians who were quickly labeled by the Costa Rican government as quacks. We had to split up. It was our only move. But, it would have been nice if you had kept the burner phone I gave you.”

  “What can I say, Claire? I had every reason to be paranoid, then and now.”

  Paul’s voice was riddled with apprehension, but Claire was calm and collected. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, Paul.”

  “Nothing to worry about? Have you lost your mind?”

  Claire pulled the phone away, giving Paul’s piercing comment somewhere to go besides her inner ear.

  She said, “Hear me out. I’m not telling you to go back to Atlanta. Sturgis still has reason to worry about the missing outliers, and he may have his own people working the case. But as far as being a national fugitive is concerned, you really shouldn’t fret.”

  Claire looked up to see Aguilar walking toward the screen door. She turned away. “Listen, I can’t get into the details now, so you’re just going to have to trust me.”

  Paul was silent. Was he following along? She didn’t know, but she had to wrap it up quick. “There’s something I’ve got to do tomorrow. Something big. If you don’t hear from me in thirty-six hours, promise me you’ll get in touch with this man.”

  Aguilar opened the screen. “Everything okay out here, Claire?”

  She turned. “Everything’s fine. I’ll just be a minute.”

  Suspiciously, he nodded and walked back inside.

  Claire said, “Paul. Did you get the name?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got it. But how are you going to contact me? I can’t exactly wait for two days by a rest-stop payphone.”

  Right, Claire thought, gently smacking her forehead. “Do you still have Ford’s number?”

  “Yep, unfortunately.”

  “Get in touch with Ford. I’ll call him to check in. Sound like a plan?”

  “Sure. I’ll do it for you.” He let out a heavy sigh, then said, “Hey, Claire. Whatever it is you’re about to do, take care of yourself, okay?”

  “You don’
t have to worry about me, Paul. But thanks.”

  She hung up the phone and walked back inside.

  Chapter 10:

  Crisis of Faith

  “Fenton? Man, I haven’t seen him in like a year.” Fenton’s ex-roommate Teddy spoke through a cracked apartment door while Dawa Graham took notes.

  “And you said he was spooked in the days leading up to his disappearance. Why?”

  “Something about being followed.” Nervously, the stoner looked back into his living room, then to Dawa. The detective’s eyes were dark and tired. Teddy said, “I already told the police everything I knew when he disappeared. I mean, don’t you need like a warrant or something?”

  “Would you like me to call a judge and get a warrant, or would you rather just get what I asked for?”

  Teddy nodded and disappeared into a hazy apartment. Dawa tilted his head to the side, peering past the gold chain lock and into the living room. A girl lay on the couch playing video games, wearing nothing but her underwear and a headset.

  Dawa checked his watch: 10 a.m. on a Tuesday. What is wrong with some kids today? Can they not see past their own temporary enjoyment? He thought about the dark side of things he encountered almost daily, and then he thought about the light. His students came to mind. They were on the right path, for the most part. Thomas could be troublesome, but he was still young and had much to learn.

  Perhaps that was the difference between getting high on a Monday and living a fulfilling life: the pursuit of wisdom. The desire to seek knowledge. Striving daily to become a better human being.

  The pale millennial unlatched the chain and opened the door just enough to stick a shoebox through.

  “Here’s everything that’s left of Fenton’s,” Teddy said, handing the box to Dawa. “His family got most of his stuff last year, but they didn’t seem to care too much about his old hard drives.”

  Dawa’s brows drew together. Teddy explained, “I think they were convinced he just took off. Never seemed to care about finding him; just came for his clothes and TV and left. I think they thought computers were part of his problem. Fenton was kinda weird, man, so I get it.”