Face of the Earth

by Doug Raber

  The credit card made Sarah think of something else. She took the legal pad and signed her name. But not her real name, not “Sarah Lockford.” What she wrote was “Sarah Wallingford.” Then she reached for the passport with the same name and opened it. The signature that she hadn’t even noticed before was virtually identical to the one she had just written on a legal pad.

  Sarah figured that her father had used a sample of her writing. There would have been enough of a patter to generate the “Wallingford” in exactly the same style that Sarah normally used. As long as she remembered to use the right last name, whatever she signed would look just like the signature on her passport.

  Once again, she turned to the file folder. There were only two envelopes left, and the first had just a few more documents from her graduate school days. The last envelope was labeled “drivers.” At first it seemed to be empty. But when Sarah shook it, a little, another piece of plastic fell onto the desk. A Virginia driver’s license.

  Once again, her picture was on the front. It was the same photo as her passport, but it was cropped differently, and her hair color looked a little different. Sarah put the two next to each other and thought that someone had intentionally made the photos look different, just enough that nobody would compare them and ask why the same photo had been used for both. The signature was the same. Except it wasn’t. At first she thought they were identical, some sort of photocopy. But when she placed them next to each other, she saw that there were small differences. Then she put the piece of paper she had signed in between the two documents and shook her head in amazement. I wouldn’t be able to tell them apart.

  Looking at the driver’s license and passport side by side, Sarah noticed for the first time they didn’t show her current address. The documents listed her residence as 6138 Stoneham Lane in McLean, Virginia, only a block away from the family home where she grew up. Her friend Jennifer had lived at 6100, the last house on a dead end street.

  Sarah spent a few more minutes poking around the file cabinet, but she couldn’t find anything. She couldn’t eat, so she found a couple of blankets and a pillow that she carried out to the couch. Just before turning out the lights, she looked up at the photograph of her parents on the bookcase. Thanks Dad. I’m glad you’re looking out for me. But you could have told me.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  Antiques

  As you approach her the sandstone figure seems to have two heads but when you pass her only the fine features of a beautiful woman remain. … More exploring reveals more weird rock creatures. When you tire of hunting fantasy figures you drive back onto the main road and head toward Navajo Dam.

  —New Mexico magazine, 1965‡

  Day 17: Interlude

  Gregory Anniston was depressed. Here it was the weekend before Thanksgiving, but instead of having a weekend to relax with his wife and kids and maybe even watch some football with his buddies, he was in Albuquerque. I’m stuck out here in the middle of the freakin’ desert.

  His hotel room had a magnificent view of the Sandia Mountains. He didn’t want to play golf, or go sightseeing, or even take in a movie by himself. He would be away from home for the entire week.

  The adult movies on TV didn’t help matters. And here I am, almost 2,000 miles from home.

  So he went to the hotel bar and ordered a bourbon. He sipped the drink slowly. It figured to be a shitty Friday night.

  Greg had been a defensive back on the football team. Not a star, but he had become a starter by the second half of his senior year. Football practice cut into his moderate scholarly efforts, resulting in a grade point average that was just barely above the lower limits for passing. But he managed to graduate.

  He was bigger than average, standing a little over 6 feet, and weighing just more than 200 pounds. That was 20 pounds heavier than when he played college football 15 years earlier, but he thought he carried it well.

  The bartender came over to ask if Greg was ready for another drink, but he said, “No thanks.” He had at least another five minutes left on his first round. He was happy to run up a tab, but he wanted to do it slowly enough that he could still walk back to his room at the end of the evening.

  As the bartender turned away, a young woman with long dark hair took a seat at the bar and ordered a Margarita. The next time the bartender came by to ask if he wanted another drink, Greg said yes. Noticing that the woman had looked up, he said, “Could I buy you a refill? No point in being unfriendly.”

  She laughed. “Thanks. That’d be nice.” Again, they returned to their drinks.

  They laughed awkwardly when both reached for the bowl of cocktail snacks on the bar between them. Then the woman motioned to the empty seat between them, a nonverbal request to see if it would be okay for her to move over. The nod and smile from Greg provided a clear answer. “Danielle Brandis,” she said, extending a hand.

  “Gregory Anniston. Friends call me Greg. It’s nice to meet you Danielle.”

  Over the next 45 minutes, the two travelers chatted about their backgrounds and why they were in Albuquerque. Danielle turned out to be an antiques dealer, what she called “antiques and artifacts.”

  “I specialize in Native American arts and crafts, with a particular focus on the Southwest. Every year, I take a two-week trip out here to hunt for items that I can bring back to sell at my shop.”

  “I’m going to guess Delaware. Your accent definitely isn’t New York or New Jersey, but it’s not southern either.”

  She laughed. “Pretty close. Maryland, actually. Just north of Baltimore, not too far from where I grew up. I have a place there now.”

  “In the city?”

  “About 20 miles northwest. Out in the countryside. It’s a low-key life style, but I love it. I studied art history in college, and then I found out I could travel around the country finding things related to American history. And I could make some money in the process. For a couple of years, I had some dead-end jobs that supported my antiques as more of a weekend hobby. Then I took my savings, along with some help from my parents, and bought the property in Maryland. It’s not much, just a small house, but there was a barn next to it that I use as my shop.”

  “So you just sell stuff from the Southwest?”

  “I wish. No, I still deal in all sorts of antiques. A girl has to make a living.”

  “Sounds interesting. Any really old pieces?” Greg’s mood was improving.

  “If they’re really old, they’re really expensive, and I can’t afford them. Like Navajo blankets and rugs. Pieces from the early 1800s might go for a half million dollars. And the truth is, I have a hard time when I find a real steal. I mean, how can I buy something worth thousands of dollars and pay only a few bucks to someone who has no money? I’m not rich, but I can’t cheat poor people. Usually, if I find something that I think is worth a lot, I’ll give the person what I can afford. Then if I can sell it for a lot more, I’ll send them half of what I make.”

  “You’re a real saint.”

  Danielle stopped smiling.

  “That came out wrong. I didn’t mean it as an insult. It’s just that it doesn’t sound like very good business.”

  She recovered. “No offense taken. But you’re wrong about the business end. The couple of times I’ve done it? Those people have stayed in touch with me, and they’ve found me more bargains. They know I’ll be fair with them, and they’d rather sell to me than get cheated by somebody else. That’s why I come back and make the same circuit every year. This is five years in a row now.”

  They talked more about little things, and Greg told her about his job. “A lot classified defense programs, so I can’t say too much. The company does software design and instrument development for high-tech manufacturing. Mostly laser-based. Mostly, I manage projects, especially with subcontractors. I make site visits to check on progress. That’s why I’m here. It’s my job to make sure that we don’t get any big surprises.”

  “It sounds exciting. It’s impo
rtant for the country, and you get to travel.”

  “I suppose so, but it gets tiresome after a while. And lonely at times.” The words caught in his throat, and he felt himself blushing. He looked away from Danielle and stared down at his drink. What the fuck am I doing?

  He tried to recast his comment in a more innocent light. “You’ll see what I mean after you’ve done this for a few more years.”

  “Oh, listen to Mr. Old Guy. What’re you, maybe five years ahead of me?”

  Anniston laughed. “Okay, I’m being dumb. But traveling does get old.”

  “Yeah, and I do understand about it getting lonely at times. For me, too.”

  “Hey, look.” Greg hesitated, almost stumbling on his words. “Like this has been really fun talking here, but if we keep doing this we’re both going to be drunk off our asses. What do you say we go get some dinner?”

  Danielle smiled. “I’d like that. Any ideas where?”

  “There’s a restaurant on the other side of the hotel. It’s convenient, and someone told me it’s pretty good.”

  “Let’s give it a try.”

  Greg paid the tab, advising that he was on a business trip and an expense account. “Part of my job is making new contacts, so it’s an investment. Just like when you find an expensive antique.”

  Danielle accepted graciously, and they stood up to leave. Greg hadn’t noticed before, but she was tall and willowy. All woman. As they walked across the hotel, they passed a sign for the rest rooms. “I need to stop in the ladies’ first, okay?”

  “Sure. I’ll wait here for you.”

  Noticing that he was by the gift shop, Greg wandered inside. Looking around, his eyes locked on something not on his normal shopping list. A package of condoms His heart skipped a beat as he reached for it. Then he picked up a second package. What the hell am I doing?

  Self-consciously, Greg paid for his purchase and the sales clerk discreetly put the items into a small paper bag. Danielle was waiting for him outside. When he walked up to her, she leaned close and said, “I saw what you bought.”

  Greg turned a shade of red that he was certain must have been brighter than the crimson ribbons on some of the early holiday decorations in the hotel lobby. “I didn’t … I mean … Oh shit! Look, Danielle … I’ve never done this before.”

  “Of course you have, silly. You told me you have two kids. I’m okay with that.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I’m trying to say that I don’t go around doing this kind of stuff. I didn’t go out looking for women tonight. I mean, I’m really glad we met and everything, but I wasn’t trying to pick you up.”

  “I know that Greg. I was thinking the same thing.” She couldn’t meet his eye for a moment; then she looked up and smiled.

  She leaned even closer to him, her voice husky. “Dinner can wait. Let’s go to your room.”

  When the elevator doors closed, they were alone. Greg pushed the button for the 18th floor and turned to face Danielle. She reached up, and their kiss was electric. She put her leg between his and pushed her hips into him. He reached down, slid his hand under her skirt, and gasped. “You’re not wearing any underwear!”

  “I told you we were thinking the same thing. When I was in the ladies’ room, I took them off.”

  The elevator chimed, and they stepped out onto the 18th floor. Fumbling for the key card and again to unlock the door, it took Greg two tries before he finally opened it. They didn’t wait for the door to finish closing before their hands were all over each other.

  After a few seconds she pushed him away. “Don’t tease me anymore, Greg. I want you. Now. Take off your damn clothes.” She dropped her skirt to the floor and took off her sweater and bra. While Greg finished undressing, she took one of the packets out of the paper bag from the gift shop. Danielle led him to the bed and sat down in front of him, pulling him toward her. Gently, she unrolled the condom onto him and then lay back. “Please Greg. Hurry up. I want you inside me!”

  The first time, it was too fast and too rough. But that was only the first time. The second time was slow and gentle, and it lasted much longer. “Oh, Jesus, Greg. That was wonderful.”

  “It was. It really was. You’re fantastic. I wish I could do it again, but a guy needs a little recovery time.”

  “Fair enough. Let’s get dressed and go have that dinner. That should give you enough time.” As they stood up, Danielle pressed her breasts against him and kissed him again as she ran her hand down his back. Then she looked down and giggled. “I’m not sure you’ll need to wait that long, mister.”

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  Sarah

  The oversize white envelope bore the blue logo of the Department of Homeland Security. Inside, I found 20 photocopies of the government’s records on my international travels. Every overseas trip I’ve taken since 2001 was noted. … My biggest surprise was that the Internet Protocol (I.P.) address of the computer used to buy my tickets via a Web agency was noted.

  —Budget Travel Magazine, 2008‡

  Day 27: Romney, West Virginia

  Sarah was awake at first light. She made coffee, toasted a bagel from the freezer, and ate it quickly. Then she poured another cup of coffee, put on her jacket, and walked out onto the deck. Looking out over the back railing, she marveled at the view. The hardwoods had lost their leaves, but there were enough conifers to provide some color on top of the otherwise gray landscape. In the distance, she could see larger mountains, and she could hear the flowing water of the river 300 feet below. It was peaceful. She wasn’t.

  She looked at her list: “Four Corners.” It had to be her next destination. But first, she needed access to a computer. Time to head to Romney. The population of the county seat was only about 2,000, but it had a nice little library.

  After a last look around, Sarah picked up a small plastic bag with the trash from her visit, got into Eric’s old Chevy, and began the 45-minute drive to Romney. Just past the old courthouse she found a parking place almost directly in front of the Hampshire County Public Library. Inside, she saw several computer workstations that were clearly intended for public use. She smiled politely at the librarian and glanced at the library policies that were posted nearby. Internet access was available and encouraged, as long as “inappropriate subject matter” was not accessed. I wonder if the librarian would consider what I’m about to do inappropriate.

  Task number one was to find out more about the new Visa card in her wallet along with the driver’s license for Sarah Wallingford. Anything that could identify her as Sarah Lockford was now in a small packet in her backpack, stuffed under the back seat of the car.

  Sarah chose one of the computers and checked to see how visible her work would be to someone walking by. She hung her jacket over the back of the chair and stood back several feet to assess the view. She concluded that she could probably use her body to shield specific information on a small part of the screen, but if the librarian wanted to stroll by and see what sort of sites Sarah was looking at, there would be no way to prevent it. I’ll need to be careful.

  A quick Google search for “all-access Visa” told her most of what she wanted to know. Her Visa card was a prepaid debit card that was just about the same as a credit card—except that most car rental agencies wouldn’t take it. Not surprising I guess. This one doesn’t even have my name on it.

  The home page for all-access Visa had a menu for obtaining a new card, so Sarah tried an experiment. It might be a good idea to find out how you go about getting one of these things.

  She entered the name “John Smith,” and the next menu asked for a social security number. Oh, shit! The Post-it!

  On one of the envelopes in the file cabinet Sarah had found a Post-it note. She remembered that it said “Sarah-Boo,” And there were some numbers—almost certainly the nine-digit number that her father had used for a social security number. She grabbed her notebook and opened it to the last page she had used. There was no Post-it note. Damn it! I kno
w I pasted it there. Maybe it’s still be on Dad’s desk. Unless it blew out the window on the way to Romney or something. Crap! It could be anywhere.

  The experiment was a dead end, so she went back to the home page for the Visa site, where she found a list of “frequently asked questions.” There was a link for “How do I check my balance?” Okay, that’s progress.

  The link took her to an account login screen. Now she needed both a username and a password, and she didn’t know either one. Shit! Those were on the Post-it, too.

  The password had to be “Sarah-boo.” Her father had used it on the phone, and she was sure it was on the Post-it, as well. And it was also written on one of the envelopes. That’s the password. I’m sure of it.

  By the time she was 10 years old and could read her own stories, Rich Lockford still sat with his daughter at night before she turned out the light. She remembered the time that she was starting to feel much too grown up for such a silly sounding nickname, and she had told her father that he really ought to stop calling her Sarah-boo.

  He had understood the conflict between being daddy’s little girl and growing up. “It’s okay sweetheart, I won’t use it when anybody else is around. But it will still help you go to sleep at night. And it will always be our own little secret.” It worked just as he had said it would. The comforting phrase always helped her to go to sleep, and it was still their secret. Amazing. I was just a little kid, and already he was teaching me how to be a spy.

  Sarah tried to remember the other word on the Post-it. When she closed her eyes and concentrated, she thought she could remember that it had part of her new name. “walling” or maybe “swalling.”

  Then she remembered that her father had used an e-mail name like those for government agencies: part of the last name and first initial. Maybe it was “wallings” for her new identity. Unless it was in the other order, where the initial came first, “swalling.” I can almost see it in my mind. But I can’t remember which it was. Wait! There was an “x” in it. It was sxwalling or wallingsx. I’m sure of it!