Gold Dust

by Reavis Z. Wortham

  The Supervisor examined the documents spread on the desk between them. “You’re confident this benign bacteria is dangerous.”

  “My research team is.” Gray replaced the pipe, thinking that his Supervisor was trying to trap him into taking responsibility for the conclusion that Gold Dust was deadly. The man wasn’t dealing with an amateur. Deflect to the research team and let them take the fall, one way or another.

  “Fine. Pull the rest of your team from the field.” He closed the file allowing Gray to read the large Confidential stamp on the cover. “This experiment is terminated. It never happened.”

  “Yessir.”

  “You’ve dealt with your fatality?”

  “Yes. The body was cremated as an unnamed entity, and the family compensated.”

  “The civilians?”

  “Other than the deceased pilot, an elderly man is in the hospital along with a boy about fourteen years old. Neither is expected to live, and both illnesses trace back to Gold Dust. The boy’s grandfather is a local constable, and his uncle is the sheriff.”

  Supervisor laced his fingers and rocked, giving Gray a good view of his buffed fingernails. “Okay. What of it?”

  “I have reason to believe that the grandfather is investigating this beyond what you’d expect.”

  “Meaning?”

  “We think he has a lead on my team.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “My man just called from Arkansas. He says the constable is coming here.”

  Supervisor shook out a cigarette. “That can’t happen. You know what to do.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Chapter Fifty

  On Tuesday, thirteen days after Curtis Gaines sprayed Gold Dust over Center Springs, Ned and Tom Bell drove through the heavy traffic flowing toward the nation’s breathtaking capitol building. Stunned by the grandeur and spectacle of the columns on the Lincoln Memorial, Ned could only shake his head.

  “Good lord, this place looks like what I imagine Heaven to be, without the gold streets…and the traffic.”

  Tom Bell twisted in his seat to see the bright marble Washington Monument beyond the reflecting pool. “Make no mistake, my friend. This ain’t Heaven. It’s closer to Hell, in my opinion. Look all the money they spent on marble. This is what the Roman Empire looked like not long before it fell.”

  Not knowing where they were going, Ned simply followed the flow of traffic. They soon found themselves driving past the Smithsonian Institution. Tom Bell pursed his lips. “This place has changed since the last time I was here.” He pointed to the Capitol Building. “That hasn’t, though.”

  “That the Capitol?”

  “It is, and if you want to see something impressive, we can go in there.”

  “Nope. I don’t have any intention of going in there. Tom, I’m so out of my territory they’ll put me in jail the minute I step through those doors.”

  “Ned, did you see Lincoln sitting in that big memorial we passed back there?”

  “Sure did.”

  “Well, he did what was right at a bad time in this country. I believe anyone worth their salt in that capitol would see what’s in you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean we’re here for what’s right, even though there’s people who work for the government who’s on the opposite side.”

  “I still don’t get what you’re saying.” Ned turned left, away from the mall.

  “What I’m saying is even though you and me are Davy fighting Goliath, all these great buildings have given me faith in what we’re doing, despite the corruption going on behind some of those walls. It’s gonna be all right.”

  Ned drove in silence for several minutes. Tom Bell opened a map and squinted through a pair of reading glasses. “Take this road out of town for a little bit so we can figure out what to do.”

  “I’m getting’ hungry.”

  “I know just the place, if it’s still there.”

  The Texans took the table farthest from the door in the nearly empty tavern called T.C.’s outside of Tyson’s Corner, Virginia. As the name implied, the little community was nothing more than a crossroads west of Washington, anchored by T.C.’s on one corner, and a gas station on the other.

  They were stiff and sore after the long, uneventful drive leading to the lonely crossroads in the country, thirteen miles west of Washington D.C. Eisenhower’s interstate system helped on their journey East, but many of the roads they followed meandered through small towns reminding them of Center Springs. Neither man had slept well since they left. Most of the privately owned tourist cottages sported refrigerated air conditioning and color television, but the lumpy, sagging beds took their toll on men who started the trip with aching joints and questionable backs.

  Ned squinted at the menus in the dim light. “I’god, Tom, the least these folks could do is put in some stronger light bulbs. I bet these ain’t but twenty watt.”

  “I believe this place is called a roadhouse in this part of the country.” Tom’s eyes crinkled at the corners.

  Ned’s eyes began to make out the dark paneled walls, the plaid seat covers on the booths and chairs. Wooden shutters on the windows looked as if they hadn’t been opened in years. “I don’t like bars and we ought-not be in here. It’s a nervous place, if you ask me.”

  “It’s not Frenchies. I believe I’ll order a beer.”

  “Sweet tea for me, and a hamburger sounds pretty good right about now.” Ned scanned the room, glad they were the only customers in the early afternoon. The odor of spilled beer and frying onions filled the thick air.

  “I doubt they’ll have sweet tea, and you better ask for extra ice, too.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “They don’t use much ice in their drinks out in this part of the country. Oh, and I ’magine you’ll be charged for every glass. They don’t have free refills, neither.”

  “Well, this ain’t my kind of place. That’s for sure.” Ned shook his head and dropped the menu behind the condiments and napkin dispenser on their sticky pine table. He laced his fingers. “You were right, I may have bit off more’n I can chew.”

  “I been tellin’ you this place was more than you expected.”

  “I figured we’d just walk in to that Bureau of Public Roads and ask who’s in charge.”

  “The one we couldn’t find.”

  Ned studied his hands. “I never saw such a place. All that marble and such, it’s bigger’n Dallas. I figured we’d find that building right off, but I reckon it’s gonna take some doin’.”

  Tom nodded slowly, letting Ned work it all out in his head.

  The bartender/grillman with oiled hair came around, wiping his hands on a stained apron. “You guys decide?”

  “Burger and sweet tea.”

  “We have regular tea.”

  “Is it sweet?”

  “No.” The owner pointed at the sugar dispenser on the table. “You’ll have to add your own. You?”

  Tom Bell hid a grin. “Burger for me, too, and a Hamm’s.”

  The man turned on his heel. “Be right up.”

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Mr. Brown steered into a Gulf station, one of only two buildings at the intersection of two two-lane highways. Directly opposite, a wooden roadhouse squatted amid bare hardwoods. He’d passed a fresh new mall only two miles away, proof that Tyson’s Corner was poised on the edge of a boom.

  An attendant popped out of the office at the sound of the bell. “Fill ’er up?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll get that windshield, too.”

  Brown shrugged. The bug-splattered glass of the rent car that wasn’t supposed to leave Texas was the least of his worries. All the way from Chisum, he had time to watch the old men and think. He’d run operations all over the world, but this one was bothering him.

/>   “Pay phone?”

  “Around the side.” The attendant used the Ethyl pump without asking if Brown preferred the more expensive gas blend. “Bathroom’s unlocked.”

  Brown nodded his thanks and dug in his pocket for a dime. He could see the parking lot of the tavern across the street, and Parker’s red Fury parked in front. Crows cawed and fluttered in the leafless trees.

  Sticking his finger into the rotary dial, he spun it several times, following a series of numbers he’d long since memorized. It rang twice.

  “Gray here.”

  “This is Brown.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Tyson’s Corner, at the Gulf station. Ned Parker is at the tavern called T.C.’s across the road.”

  “That the man who’s coming to see me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Take him out, now that you’re close enough for a cleanup team. I’ll have them there in…”

  “Sir, with all due respect, I don’t do wet work. I never have.”

  There was a long silence on the other end, and Mr. Brown wondered if they’d been disconnected. Gray’s clipped voice came back sharp in his ear. “Did you just refuse a direct order?”

  “That sounds like a military term to me, and we’re far from military. We all have specialties. I don’t do wet work. I’m covert operations.”

  “You do as I say.”

  “Not in this sense, I don’t. My lack of morals only goes so far, and it isn’t gunning down innocent Americans.” Brown felt the emptiness inside drain out like water down a bathtub drain, to be replaced by a dull anger and strong indignation. Surprising himself, he’d hit the end of the road and was finished. “In fact, sir, conducting tests on U.S. citizens is as wrong as it gets for me. I’m done.”

  “Hold on.” Silence returned to the other end. Brown started to hang up, but Mr. Gray came back on the line. “Fine. You go in and engage until a team shows up.”

  Brown swallowed. The gray sky darkened, becoming even more threatening. The incessant cawing of the crows emphasized the dismal, chilly weather that added to the downward spiral of his mood. “No. I’ll stay here and cover from the outside, then leave when the team gets here.”

  “Fine.” Gray’s answer came far too fast. “Call me when they’re finished.”

  Brown hung up the phone and returned to his car as a soft shower fell on the pines lining the road. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  He started the engine and pulled out, headed back to D.C., where he could hide in the never ending throng of people.

  Chapter Fifty-two

  CIA Agent Matteo was in his tiny, closet-sized office. His phone rang. Recognizing the line, he snatched it up before it could ring again. “Yes, sir.”

  “Get a wet team out to Tyson’s Corner right now. You know where that is?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Gray. It’s out on highway…”

  “You don’t have to map it out for me. I know where it is. There’s a Texan inside. Take him out.”

  “Done.”

  “Hold on.”

  “Sir?”

  “We have an agent across the street at the Gulf station keeping watch.”

  “We won’t break his cover.”

  “That’s not what I want. He’s your second target.”

  Agent Matteo felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck. He took a deep breath to gain a moment. “Sir, confirm. You want us to take out an asset, a Company man?”

  The deep voice was all business. “Yes. He’s turned. He’s now a throwaway.”

  “Name?”

  “Codename in this operation, Mr. Brown. Confirm his identity before taking action.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Matteo hung up with a shaking hand and leaned back to gather himself. He’d just moved up in the Company. He grabbed his coat and went to find his best friend in the CIA, Sammy Fontaine. Matteo’s move would bring Fontaine right along with him.

  It was a great day for both of the young agents.

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Ned and Tom Bell had finished their meal when the red padded front door opened, admitting a shaft of bright light silhouetting a voluptuous woman in a tight skirt and blouse. She moved across the dim room without hesitation and slid onto a barstool with the fluid ease of a cougar.

  Ned watched the woman spin on her stool and give them the once-over. He didn’t make eye contact, afraid it would encourage her to come over. Neither he nor Tom Bell were interested in other women, especially those who frequented bars.

  “She don’t need to be in this place.” Ned pursed his mouth.

  “I doubt she’s in here to eat.” Tom jerked a thumb toward the wall, and Langley, Virginia. “Back to what we were talking about. We’ll find what we’re looking for, but no matter what we do, you go in these places without me at first. We need to see what you find out on your own.”

  “You’re the ace in the hole, then.”

  “You can look at it that way.”

  The door opened again and the silhouettes of several loud young men filtered in. Laughing, they let it slam shut behind them and paused, allowing their eyes to adjust.

  Already accustomed to the gloom, Ned gave them a quick glance, and met Tom’s gaze. Neither liked what he saw of the rawboned men in casual clothes and fresh haircuts who moved together as smooth as sharks.

  They took a table in the middle of the café with a loud screeching and thumping of chairs. The shortest of the group wearing a plaid shirt and jacket pointed at the two old men sitting against the wall. The others followed his finger.

  The female barfly watched them with an appraising eye. She flicked a gofer alight and lit a cigarette. Shaking the paper match out, she pitched it into an orange glass ashtray and blew a lungful of smoke toward the ceiling.

  One member of the group whispered something and they all laughed. A muscular blond in white jeans and gray jacket waved at the counter. “Hey, how about a round of beers here?”

  The bartender/owner stopped wiping the bar. “What kind?”

  “What difference does it make? We’ll just piss it away in an hour. Just make sure it’s cold, that’s all.”

  They laughed again, apparently proud to have a comedian in their midst.

  White Jeans threw a thumb at the bar. “And buy that cute lady there anything she wants.”

  The woman raised an eyebrow and flashed them a smile. “It’s gin. Bombay and tonic.”

  “Whatever you want, sweetcheeks.”

  She tipped her glass in thanks and turned back to the bar.

  The two old men turned back to their conversation. Tom spoke softly. “Anyway, I think we find out where all those CIA guys go after work and follow ’em to a bar or something. Maybe we can get someone who’ll talk to us then.”

  “We have a name they used at the motel in Chisum.”

  “That’s right, but if we ask for Mr. Brown, they’ll look us straight in the eye and say they never heard of him. Ned, these people are something like you’ve never seen before. They lie for a living. They lie when the truth is easy, like what they had for breakfast. They make things up, and if they get called on them, they make up stories to cover what they made up.”

  Already tired from traveling, Ned felt deflated. “So what are our chances of finding who we’re looking for?”

  “Not a snowball’s chance in hell, but then again, I have a good feeling about this for some reason.”

  “That don’t make no sense.”

  “I know it.” Tom Bell straightened when one of the loud young men slid his chair back with a loud squall of wooden legs on the polished plank floor. He headed for their table, followed by two others just as big.

  Ned felt a cold knot form in his stomach at the sight of their faces drawn tight and smooth. The men were hard and solid. The one Ned thought of as M
uscles wore a jean jacket over a blue broadcloth shirt and he wondered what kind of weapons might be hidden.

  Muscles stopped and planted his feet at the head of their table. “What did you say about us?”

  Instead of meeting the man’s angry gaze, Ned kept his head low. He choked down a whimper of frustration at the rising situation that felt like an approaching thunderstorm. The brim of his hat hid his eyes. He didn’t need to see the man’s face. His hands held his attention. Both were doubled up in fists that had seen a lot of punishment.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, feller. We’re waitin’ for our check, that’s all.”

  “Well, Tex, I think you’re talking about us, all quiet so we can’t hear.”

  “I knew we shouldn’t have come in this place, Tom. This ain’t like back home.”

  Tom Bell was a mirror image of Ned, head low so his hat could cover his eyes. He sighed. “Look, friend…”

  Muscles leaned in. “I ain’t your friend, buddy!”

  “Fine. My mistake.”

  “Yeah, well, my buddy over there reads lips pretty good and he said you’re talking about us.”

  Ned felt his face flush, sensing a pressure wave of trouble on the way. The man was a freight train that wouldn’t be stopped, and Ned knew his kind from the beer joints across the river back home.

  Lacing his fingers, the Texas constable stared at his work-hardened hands, figuring the loudmouth might back away if he didn’t respond.

  “Hey, old man. I’m talking to you, too.” Muscles rapped the table. “Didn’t your mama teach you to take your hat off inside?”

  If there was anything the world that made Ned mad, it was someone who presumed to tell him where wear to a hat. Instead of responding, he ground his dentures and waited for the man to leave.

  The man in white jeans raised his voice. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

  “Hey, you guys!” The owner leaned over the counter. “That’s enough!”

  White Jeans put an index finger to his lips. The owner quieted. The dark-haired woman rose and backed toward the swinging door leading to the grill behind the counter.