“Very well. Agent Terry, I want you to get up very slowly and lie down with your hands behind your back. If she doesn’t comply, shoot her.”
The room felt very, very cold. The heater wasn’t working well, but that wasn’t the only reason. Vic and Abe kept their eyes focused on Stephanie, who looked shellshocked. “Do as he says, Stephanie,” Abe said calmly. “It’ll be all right.” Stephanie got up very slowly and lay down between the two beds, then put her hands behind her back.
“I fervently hope so,” Alphonse concurred, not bothering to correct Abe on his error in tradecraft. “Thomas, retrieve your handcuffs and fasten them on Terry’s wrists. Do it slowly and watch her closely. Very closely.”
“Would somebody mind me telling me what is going on?” Stephanie said fiercely, blinking back tears as Abe got up and cuffed her wrists. “All done,” Abe said hollowly.
“Good. Agent Terry, we have to take some precautions that I’m hoping are absolutely unnecessary. I’ll apologize later, because this is going to be very unpleasant, but right now I’m going to have to walk all of you through some important procedures.” He went on to give them their instructions.
Listening, Stephanie began to cry. Tears ran down her face. She cried as quietly as she could so as not to move. Vic turned pale, but if she was pale at Alphonse’s words, Abe was positively ashen.
“Damn, Alphonse,” Abe said, his voice unsteady. “You better know what the hell you’re doing.”
They got started.
Sonja insisted on driving the rest of the way into Promise. Seeing how tense she was, Frank eventually relented. Allen stayed out of the argument and whistled softly as he cleaned his fingernails. His shoulder was sore and Sonja was bruised from the belts, but that was the extent of their injuries. The seat belts had protected Sonja and Frank from serious injury, while Allen had merely flopped around in the back seat. All told, Sonja believed they’d been damned lucky. This kicked off another argument with Frank in which he claimed that the driver of the van was really at fault, but she cut him off short and they were back on the road soon enough.
Soon they were coming down the ridge and into the lowland of the valley. Curiously, there was no sign announcing the name of the town or anything else of the sort. There weren’t even any advertising billboards in the untended fields outside the town proper. Frank noted that the farms which used to take up the valley and even much of the ridge were gone, the buildings demolished and the ground left to grow wild.
Promise was beautiful—if you wanted to live in an amusement park. The roads were newly paved, the landscaping was perfect, the houses were all aesthetically compatible, and on and on. It really was like being in a theme park’s “Old-Tyme U.S.A.” attraction, except for the obviously modern elements such as cars and joggers.
The road came to a wrought-iron gate and guardhouse, both styled to match the architecture of the rest of the place. The gate was somewhat symbolic; there was no wall around the town, so it wasn’t a huge deterrent if you really wanted to get in. But normal travelers wouldn’t be that determined. A guard in a khaki uniform and a straw fedora leaned out the window of the gatehouse and said, “Good afternoon, may I help you?” Sonja recognized his accent. She’d gotten her degree at Boston University, and knew a beaner when she heard one.
“We’re here to see Promise,” she said. “Can we take a look around?”
“Business or pleasure?” the guard replied, smiling. In the car, Frank began whispering.
“Business,” Sonja said, ignoring Frank. “I’m a reporter, and I’m interested in doing a story on community restoration.”
The guard chuckled. “Just kidding. Everyone’s welcome in Promise. Drive on.”
“Thanks!” Sonja called cheerfully as she rolled the window up.
“Damnit, did you have to tell him we were reporters?” Frank asked testily. The gate was swinging open.
“Oh come on,” Sonja replied. “Like they won’t figure that out in half an hour anyway. We might as well get on their good side while we can.” The gate was all the way open, and she drove forward as Frank crossed his arms and looked out his window, ignoring her.
Predictably enough, they were on Main Street, according to the decorative street signs on every corner. Sonja spotted a corner mailbox and realized it didn’t have U.S. Post Office markings; instead it read PROMISE POST.
There weren’t any power lines or telephone poles, either. Evidently all such utilities were underground. There were street lamps, but they were much shorter, clearly intended for the benefit of pedestrians on the sidewalks, and their styling was once again of that tiresome Old Tyme look so popular with suburban shopping centers. Sonja shook her head. Why would anyone want to live in Squaresville, U.S.A.?
Main Street, it turned out, was the main drag. It was lined with small businesses. Sonja was surprised to see that they were almost all chain franchise stores—she was expecting local outfits by the bushel. But no, it was like every other business strip in the country: McDonald’s, Taco Bell, Pizza Hut, 7-11, Exxon, Border’s Books, and on and on. The buildings kept the same decor scheme as the rest of the place. If anything, it was impressive just to see this many brand-new corporate stores in what was, frankly, a podunk town. Sonja figured the company that owned the town must be paying for these franchises to be here. There weren’t any huge superstores here, but then again a town of twelve hundred people—at least, that was Groversville back before the Hantavirus—couldn’t be expected to support quite that much commerce.
Sonja turned off of Main Street and onto Shady Glen Pointe. Rows of houses were here. No two houses were identical, but they were clearly variations on a theme. All sat side-by-side with a reasonable amount of grace and aesthetic appeal, however, and Sonja began to get the feeling that this place had been carefully designed block by block. It was more impressive and less ridiculous than she had first thought. Promise was growing on her, at least a little bit.
Something was bothering her, though. “Frank, didn’t you say this was primarily a farming community?”
“Well, a lot of it was agriculture. But the town was the county seat back then, so there were a fair number of service and bureaucratic jobs around, I guess. Still, there used to be farms all over the valley, and now they’re gone.”
“So where do these people work? Is everyone flipping burgers for everyone else?”
“Sounds like fat-commie utopia,” Allen chortled from the back seat.
“I’m serious. Where do these people work for a living?”
“Maybe over there?” Frank said. He pointed out the side window to a large complex on the outskirts of town. It consisted of a campus of six or so sizable buildings, all brand new and, of course, in tune with the rest of the community. A number of large tractor-trailers were parked in one area, backed up to one of the buildings. There were no signs identifying the facility.
“Could be,” Sonja said skeptically. “But does that mean that most of the adults work at the same place? I mean, I know this is some kind of company town, but that’s just a little weird.”
“Welcome to Groversville,” Frank said. “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”
“Well,” Sonja replied, “let’s find a local hangout and see what we can learn from the people. A park or something, since we’re not allowed to have a cup of coffee,” she said sharply, glancing at Frank.
“You want coffee, get back on 321 and we’ll find a Stuckey’s.”
“Stuckey’s? What the heck is that?”
Frank looked at her grimly. “You’ll find out soon enough. Let me just say this: shot glasses from all fifty states.”
Sonja shook her head. They were a long way from California.
Cell T’s motel was a Motel 6, part of a chain of low-priced accommodations. It was a two-story building in the shape of an “L” with several dozen guest rooms, all of which opened to the outside. Next door was a Denny’s restaurant, open twenty-four hours. There was a covered carport
area in front of the lobby, which was decorated in no particular style other than non-descript. A young woman sat in a chair behind the front desk, reading a magazine.
Outside, there were two sets of stairwells that led to the upper floor of rooms, one set at each end of the building. There was guest parking on all sides. At the base of the stairs nearest the lobby there was an alcove marked “Convenience Station,” which held an ice machine, a soda machine, and a snack machine with an assortment of potato chips, candy, and chewing gum. Cell T’s car was parked near the crook of the “L.” It was a 1996 Ford Taurus, obtained from a rental company at Knoxville’s McGhee Tyson Airport. The car was a pale green in color.
From the car, the nearest stairwell was at the end opposite the lobby. Up the stairs was room 219, where Cell T was staying. The curtains were drawn on the large window, and the sound of the room’s heater drifted out into the chill afternoon.
Inside room 219, there were two full-size beds with dark purple spreads. The walls were covered in a patterned wallpaper, the pattern consisting of light pink crosshatching against a cream background. A nightstand stood between the two beds, on which rested an alarm clock supplied by the motel. Just above the nightstand were two reading lamps, with a central rotating switch. The switch had four positions: both lamps off, left lamp on, right lamp on, both lamps on. Opposite the two beds was a long, low bureau with four drawers, atop which rested a television set. Atop the television set was a guide to cable channels and a stand-up color advertisement for the motel’s pay-per-view movie service. In one corner stood a small table and two chairs, with a hooded ceiling lamp hanging down overhead. On the table sat the cardboard shipping box from Alphonse. It was open. Inside was a manila envelope and two large spray bottles full of a clear liquid. A third spray bottle sat on the table next to the box, though it was only three-quarters full. Next to the third bottle lay Vic and Stephanie’s handguns, the safeties engaged. Behind the table was the large air conditioner/heater unit, directly beneath the curtained window.
Abe sat on the bed closest to the window. He’d put his overcoat on because it was cold; it hadn’t occurred to him to turn up the heat. Abe was in his early thirties, with thick red hair, green eyes, and pale skin. He was just over six feet in height, with a sturdy build that had a slight tendency towards flab. He dressed conservatively. Back in Milwaukee, he had a son, a car, an office, and a wife, in roughly that order of importance. He’d been married for four years, which it turned out was about two years too long. After the birth of their son, Abe and Carol rapidly lost interest in each other. The stress of having a young child certainly had a lot to do with it, as did their too-small condominium. But in the end, they’d simply married the wrong people, and had yet to deal with that situation. Abe was willing to play the husband for the sake of being the father, but he agonized over the paradox of his regret at marrying Carol and his joy in their young son, Eric. Any chance to leave this problem behind was a welcome one, so he threw himself into his work—and into the occasional opportunities Delta Green sent his way to leave his drably conflicted life behind and enter a world of secrets and danger, where he could be with other people and indeed be another person. One who was confident, decisive, commanding . . . but all of this was getting him nowhere. He simply couldn’t bring himself to speak at the moment.
On the opposite bed lay Vic. She was curled up beneath the bedspread, face buried into the pillows, because she was cold, too. Vic was in her mid-thirties. She was short and slim, with strong legs from the constant hiking her job with the parks service required. She kept her hair dyed strawberry red and cut short for ease on the trail. While she knew Abe considered his life to be somewhat in disarray, hers was the opposite. Everything was slotted away in neat cubbyholes. Everything was figured out. There were no messy contradictions or areas of confusion. Vic had a routine, and she believed in routine. But there were times—times like this—when she allowed that perhaps her life was a little too tidy. She wasn’t a very ambitious person, and neither was she a passionate one; even her music had a clinical detachment. Vic felt disconnected from the surging tide of life that others around her seemed to be drenched in. She had tamed the world by casting out everything wild, and she had grown to regret it. Delta Green was her one escape, her one indulgence. She enjoyed copping an attitude, carrying a gun, solving mysteries like some butch Nancy Drew; she was willing to accept the horrors that this work brought to her doorstep as a fair exchange for the mundanities she got to leave behind. Occasionally, that bargain tasted of ashes.
On the floor between the two beds lay a crumpled pile of clothing. They belonged to Stephanie. Abe and Vic had to cut some of them free with a knife because of the handcuffs. Once they’d stripped her, they sprayed her with the liquid from the package, slowly and carefully, because Alphonse had just given them some idea of what they might expect in the worst-case scenario. It had been a taxing and painful ordeal, full of dread over what might happen and guilt over the process, exacerbated by Stephanie’s obvious pain and humiliation. It had felt like a violation. It was an exercise of power that neither Abe nor Vic were interested in wielding.
And in the end, it had accomplished nothing. Except, perhaps, to hammer at the fragile trust they had with Stephanie.
By the bed in which Vic lay was the door that led to the bathroom. It was closed. Inside, Stephanie lay in the bathtub. She had the shakes, and the hot water wasn’t making them go away. The room smelled of the chemicals that Abe and Vic had doused her with, though she had done her best to wash them away. The memory lingered also, and was the more toxic of the two.
Lying in the water like this, Stephanie could only think of that night just a few days ago when she lay in the bathtub of her apartment and prepared to kill herself. Looking back, Stephanie admitted that perhaps she wouldn’t have gone through with it. She’d approached that brink before—three times, in fact, as an adult—and had never done herself physical harm. That night might have been just another false alarm.
The breakup with David—Shasta, the little voice of tradecraft reminded her—hadn’t been the main reason. That really had been just a fling, initiated after the Baltimore op. David reminded her a bit of Forrest James—they were the same age—and she was attracted by the depth of his life experience and the warmth of his smile. At first, she couldn’t understand how he had gone through life without getting married or finding a long-term love. But it didn’t take long for her to find out. David had a lot of surface warmth, but inside he kept himself very, very tightly guarded, and tightly wound. He angered easily, and disliked intimacy. He was fine over dinner at a nice restaurant, but as soon as they got back to his house he was eager to romp in the sack, call it a night, and send her home. When she surprised him on his birthday—he was forty-nine—he accepted the dinner graciously, but then told her that he didn’t think they should see each other again “in a romantic capacity.” Evidently she’d pushed too far, and now he was pushing her away. He disappeared soon afterward. She was politely questioned by the CIA, but as she had an alibi and no real bitterness towards David, it hadn’t gone very far.
No, the reason for her alleged suicide attempt was the same as all the others: a pervasive sense of futility about her life. At times, nothing seemed to matter, and she believed that she might as well just check out of the whole mess.
Stephanie took a deep breath. She was avoiding the present issue, which was the humiliating ordeal she’d just been through. Was this what she’d joined Delta Green for? To be handcuffed, her clothes cut off, and her body doused with God knows what chemicals by people she thought were allies? The obvious discomfort on Vic and Abe’s faces was the only mitigating factor. She hadn’t even hung around to hear Alphonse’s harrumphing, stammering apology and explanation, but had instead run immediately into the bathroom to get clean. She’d never felt so vulnerable, so exposed, so compromised. It was like a sick joke. Part of her bitterly wanted to believe that Abe and Vic were sitting out there now, laughing about
her body or planning some other degrading outrage against her, some nightmare of teenage summer camp come mockingly to life. But she didn’t really believe those things. They had simply done what they were told, and there were good reasons involved. She was willing to summon up the courage to get past this and focus on the op. She wanted to believe that they were still a team, that Vic and Abe still accepted her, and that she was still willing to accept them. David was missing, and while she might be disappointed with the way things had worked out with him, she still cared for him. Maybe she couldn’t rescue Forrest James, but she was damned if she wasn’t going to try and save David.
James. He was never far from her thoughts. In the time since the Roscoe op—while he’d been court-martialed by the Navy and sentenced to ten years in Fort Leavenworth for assault and conduct unbecoming an officer—she had finally crossed that line, the line past which she was willing to accept the horrific for the sake of forestalling the apocalyptic. Some part of her felt guilt at not accepting him and his actions at the time, as if his subsequent incarceration were her fault. But he had chosen that fate before they’d even met. Regardless, they hadn’t spoken since.
Stephanie brought her hands up from the warm water of the bath and rubbed her face. She wasn’t crying. She’d shed enough tears, and the shakes were gone. It was time to get up and move on. The more time she spent feeling sorry for herself, the less time they had to find David and spare him from whatever fate had befallen him.
She emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, clean and dressed. Vic and Abe looked up at her furtively.
“Okay, I’m ready,” she said. “Let’s go.”
Sonja had parked the rental on the side of the road next to what was clearly the town park. It wasn’t very large—half a block wide by a block long—but it was pleasantly landscaped with benches, trees, a fountain, and a few meandering paths. There were also several picnic tables off in one corner, which Sonja noticed were nearest the fast-food restaurants on Main Street. (There were no other kind of restaurants, actually.) There were a dozen or so people in the park, eating or walking or talking or what have you.
Delta Green: Strange Authorities Page 13
