Ramon knew that as much as he wanted to be done with the whole mess, he couldn’t just leave. It wasn’t a game of tag—from Green, to him, to Lena. He owed it to Green--no, he owed it to himself to follow this thing through. What they were doing at the Installation was dead wrong. But it wasn’t his choice anyway. There was no way they would let him walk away after what he had been through. Not with what he knew. He’d never be free until the whole operation had been brought down.
As he turned back toward the main room, he realized Lena was still standing in the doorway, and he could tell that something wasn’t right,
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Lena glanced at the bed then glared at Ramon. “Don’t get the wrong idea. This was the only room they had open. I didn’t know there was only one bed.”
Ramon was caught off guard. They were being pursued by professional killers. There was a conspiracy that included parts of the U.S. government itself. Getting the wrong idea about sleeping arrangements seemed to be low on their list of problems. But from her viewpoint, he was a threat. And she was right. He did want her. He could picture them together; quick, hot images flashed in his mind. His pulse quickened.
Ramon took a deep breath and slowly let it out.
“No,” he said. “You’re right. I’ll sleep in the car.”
14
Captain Cain sat still and tried not to show his annoyance. By all accounts, Captain Pearson of the Houston Police Department was not having a good day. The temperature outside was near the century mark and the station’s air-conditioning was on the fritz. The air was cranked hard, but it just moved warm air around the room. Cain, sitting across the desk from Pearson, didn’t mind. He was used to the heat. Hot or cold, it didn’t matter. Through training and discipline, he’d learned not to let variations in the environment affect his state of mind. He could endure whatever was necessary while pursuing a goal. And today. he was very close to accomplishing his objective.
“This is bullshit!” Pearson slammed the phone down. “I’ve never heard a bigger crock in my whole life.”
Cain tried not to smile. It was almost too easy. Just as he’d planned, he’d flushed the rabbit out and he ran straight into the net. Now all that Cain had to do was step forward and claim his prize.
Today, he wore a uniform of a different sort. A long-sleeved white shirt with a maroon tie and navy pants, the required dress for the part he played. Cain adjusted his sunglasses and glanced back at Pearson, a burly man with thick blonde hair, a walrus mustache, and crooked teeth. He looked like he’d be more at home in northern Minnesota than south Texas. His shirt was soaked through with sweat and his face pink with anger.
“Your dissatisfaction has been noted, captain,” Cain replied coolly.
“Bullshit!” Pearson snorted as he gripped the arms of his chair to control his anger.
Cain shrugged. The world was filled with sore losers. It didn’t matter. Whether he liked it or not, this oaf was about to help him. With the rabbit flushed out, they’d needed to be in position to finish the hunt. For this assignment, he wanted to come in small. This pickup would be a two-man job. He only brought along Rev Tanner, who’d proved he could be trusted.
It took a few phone calls to arrange for credentials from the National Security Agency. A federal warrant for the subject—now identified as Hector Ramerez—hadn’t taken much longer. Getting the subject’s fingerprints changed over to his new identity and re-filed in the national archives was harder. The FBI kept the directory and they weren’t known to cooperate. But when the need arose, Colonel Pope always had the connections to get things done.
“I sure can appreciate how frustratin’ this must be for you, captain— ”
“No, you don’t. This is pure bull. We track this creep down and you Feds come in to steal all the glory,” Pearson groused as he mopped his forehead with a paper towel. “You bastards— ”
“Calm down there, captain,” Cain cut in. His voice was calm and he spoke slowly and softly. “It’s awful hot in here and that puts us all a little out of sorts. You might want to be careful you don’t say somethin’ that you might regret.”
Pearson grunted again. “This is a crock.”
Cain shrugged. Let him rant and get it out of his system. It wouldn’t change anything. He sat back in his chair and listened.
“This blows. We got a suspect for murder and you want to take this guy down on some bullshit charge and you won’t even tell me the specifics. It freaking blows.”
“It’s already been established that we have jurisdiction,” Cain said. “The NSA has been after this guy for over six months. We’ve got the federal warrant and your boss has already told you to give him up. This boy is ours.”
“Bullshit!”
Cain suddenly leaned forward in his chair, “Cut the crap, Bubba. This guy’s face has been flashed all over the TV for the last two days. So you took the call and picked him up at some motel—just where the desk clerk said he’d be. Sherlock Holmes couldn’t a done it better. Congratulations. But quit the whining and do your job. Why don’t you take us on down and let us have a look.” He sat back in his chair. “Or would you rather call your superintendent one more time?”
A short time later, Pearson was leading them through the hallways to the main lockup. As they walked, Cain looked over at Rev Tanner. He was big and black as jet. He walked with the grace of a natural athlete but was now bathed in sweat.
“You okay there, Rev?” Cain asked.
Rev smiled. “I’m fine sir. I like the hot weather.” He wiped his brow with an already saturated handkerchief. “I once worked a summer in a bakery in Jackson, Mississippi. Now that was hot. This? This ain’t nothin’. I like it.”
Rev was built like a coke machine, big and rock solid. As big as he was, he looked like he would be slow, but that wasn't the case. Cain had been with him in situations before and knew that Rev would do what was necessary, whatever it took to get the job done.
They moved through a doorway into the cellblock. Pearson had a quick conversation with one of the officers on duty, who then led them over to the cell where they were keeping the prisoner.
The jailer unlocked the cell and Cain walked in. The prisoner was lying on his bunk facing away from the door. He didn’t move until Cain was within an arm’s length of him. The prisoner rolled on his elbow, facing Cain. The first thing Cain noticed was the scar along the jaw line. The second thing he noticed were the eyes.
Something wasn’t right. There was a resemblance here—maybe a close resemblance—but this wasn’t his rabbit. Suddenly, Cain felt a wave of anger. A rage inside him came to a quick boil and he fought the urge to strike out.
It would be so easy. Just one step forward and he could grab the man’s neck. A quick twist and it would snap like a chicken’s. Or he could throw the moron to the ground and stomp his head like a ripe pumpkin. It would feel so good, it would be a release—but it would bring so many new problems too.
Discipline, he had to maintain control.
Cain took a deep breath and let the wave pass before he turned back toward the others.
“I guess you can keep him after all, Cap’n. This ain’t the guy.”
Lena didn’t sleep well that night. Her head was spinning with the possibilities. Her initial shock had given way to a sense of almost joy. One of the biggest stories in decades had dropped right into her lap. A dead man was alive and the government was recycling death row inmates to use as guinea pigs in some bizarre experiment.
It was inconceivable—but strange things had happened before. There were other times when the impossible turned out to be true. It had taken years for the government to admit they’d used poor black men in experiments with syphilis, or that the CIA used drug dealing to finance the Contras. Or Waco. If the ends justified the means, most anything was possible, and this was strange enough to be true. If she could find proof and put this story together, her career was made.
That morning, she sat down
across from Ramon, got out her note pad, and turned on the digital recorder.
“Okay, tell me what happened again. This time, I want you to describe it in as much detail as you can.”
Ramon talked for over two hours. He started with his time in prison, his final week, and the preparations for the execution. She stopped and asked more questions when he mentioned that the prison doctor had examined him the last week.
“Had you ever seen him before?”
“No, that was the only time.”
“And he took a blood sample? What was that for?”
“I don’t know. He just jammed the needle in. He didn’t say why.”
Ramon went on to describe what it felt like in the death chamber when he went under the drugs, and how it was when he woke up in the white room. He told her about the men in the spacesuits who came by in regular shifts to check on his condition, and how he’d tried to escape when he saw what they did to Billy Dale Burke. He told her all about Green, how they had escaped from the building, about the disinfectant showers, the checkpoints, and the guard stations.
“You were kept underground?”
“Yes, we took elevators up twice.”
“Did Green know who you were?”
“I don’t think so. He didn’t say anyway.”
“Right… What was his first name? Green’s.”
“Um, I’m not sure I remember,” Ramon paused for a moment. “Wait, I think it was Charley. Yeah, it was on the papers; it was Charley.”
“Charley Green?”
“Yeah, I’m sure that was it.”
Ramon continued with how he had managed to get away after Green died. How the truck driver helped him get past the road blocks and his time working at the farm. He ended with his trying to contact Barry just before Barry was killed, supposedly by a man meeting Ramon’s description.
“After that happened, I knew they were still after me. I thought of you. I knew that you’d have to believe me and maybe you could do something about it.”
Ramon brought out his bag and showed her the items that he had taken out of the Installation—the order papers, the gun, and the computer tape cartridge. The papers were important because they were documentation from the LBJ Installation that supported his claims. But it was the tape cartridge that excited her. What could be on there? She couldn’t use the cartridge with her laptop but someone at the paper might have the equipment to do it. That would be for later, though. There were a lot of other things she needed to check first.
It was still early, but the small motel room was already getting hot and the window air conditioner wasn't keeping up. Ramon stepped outside to get some air while Lena looked over her notes.
When investigating a story, Lena was taught to start with the information given and question everything. There were several avenues to explore. First, she needed to check all the facts she had on Green and the Johnson Installation. What kind of facility was it? Who was in charge? Had an officer named Charley Green been posted there? Had he been listed as killed recently? Then there was the prison angle—how did they dispose of bodies after the executions? Who handled the task? How did they do it and what documentation did they have?
Lena logged on to the Internet and went into the government archives, punching in the Lyndon B. Johnson Installation as a keyword.
A moment later, several options appeared on the screen. The first was a list of Army bases throughout the country. There was indeed a Johnson Installation in west Texas. She clicked on the name and the screen showed the homepage for the Johnson Installation. The information it gave was minimal. It stated that the camp was used for training and as a supply depot. It also stated that the commanding officer of the facility was a Colonel Lucian Pope. Lena made notes, then looked for the next connection. There were several other mentions of the base, but nothing that gave her any helpful information.
Lena backed out of the government site and did a wider search on the web. Here again there was precious little information. She tried again using Pope’s name first on Google, then as a keyword in several databases. This brought a slightly better result. There was a listing in Who’s Who, which gave a thumbnail description of his background. Pope graduated at the top of his West Point class in 1979. He saw action in Granada and Desert Storm, and taught strategy and tactics at the War College at West Point.
She went to the next hit on the list. It was one of a number of newspaper articles that related his fast rise up through the ranks. He was one of the youngest officers commissioned as a colonel, even rarer for a black man. She skimmed through all the articles and references. The themes of all of them were the same: great things were expected of Pope. But the last mention was from over ten years ago, and according to the Johnson Installation home page, he was still a colonel.
Lena tried several related searches with no luck. The information on Pope was curious but didn’t bring any insight. What she really needed was a directory of soldiers stationed at the Installation. If there was any information on Charley Green, that would be a first layer of proof. She thought a moment, then opened her phone list, found the name she was looking for, and made the call.
After a moment, a voice answered.
“Department of Defense, Mrs. Hamilton speaking.”
“Yes, I’d like to speak with Jason Ulmer, please.”
“One moment. I’ll transfer you.”
Lena tried to think of what she would say when he answered, but he was on the line too quickly.
“Jason Ulmer,” he answered.
“Hello, Jason, this is Lena, Lena Dryer.”
“Lena? … Um…”
“We met a couple of weeks back, at the affair for the Chilean delegation.”
His voice came back with enthusiasm. “Oh god, I’m sorry. Lena, of course. Lena from Texas. How are you? Have you moved up yet?”
“Not yet, but soon. Listen, Jason, I wonder if I can ask you a favor. I’m trying to track down an old friend. He’s in the army and I’ve kind of lost track. I’m trying to find out where he’s stationed. Can you get that kind of information?”
“Sure. Probably. I’ll punch it into the computer—you don’t have his service number, do you?”
“No…”
“Well, no problem. That would have been too easy. What’s his name?”
Lena could hear him working the keyboard in the background. “Charley Green,” she said.
“Charley Green, okay…we’ll try it as Charles…Wow. I’m going to need some more information. I just got one hundred forty-two matches.”
“He was stationed at the Lyndon Johnson Installation.”
“In Texas?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Lena heard the clatter of fingers hitting keys. “Hmmm, that’s funny. I’m not showing that.” He paused for a moment, but the keyboard clatter didn’t slow down. “I’ll tell you what, let me do some checking and I’ll get back to you shortly. Where can I call you?”
Lena gave him the number for the motel and hung up the phone. She glanced out the window. Ramon was outside leaning against the car, visible only from her cabin. She turned back to her notes. The morning was nearly gone and she was hardly further than where she started. And she still needed to run down the prison angle. She went through her notes again, looking for discrepancies and hoping Jason would call back soon.
It was about forty-five minutes later when the phone rang. Lena snatched it up.
“Hello?”
“Lena, it’s me.” Jason’s voice was just more than a whisper, like he was afraid someone might be listening. “You know, I shouldn’t really be telling you this, but ... how well did you know this guy?”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“I had to do some checking. Everything about the Johnson Installation is classified and, well, I’m sorry, but your friend is dead. He died in a training accident about a month ago."
Lena felt a rush of excitement. She couldn’t wait to get off the phone and call Jack Van Ru
ssell, her editor. The story was real. It was checking out.
Captain Parker Cain wasn’t used to failure. When the rabbit first escaped, Cain was sure he’d catch him quickly. But now, weeks later, he was back to square one. The longer the subject was out, the more dangerous it was for all of them. If he told his story—and if someone actually believed him—all their work could be brought down.
The last few days were especially frustrating. With all the publicity on the killing of the attorney, they got call after call from people claiming they knew the killer. But they were all a waste of time. Each lead had to be checked out. Some were from people holding grudges. Others were sincere calls that just didn’t check out. Investigating one lead from a factory foreman down in south Houston, the tip appeared to be real. A temporary worker at the factory matched the description of the killer. Everything checked out, the dates he worked matched up, and the worker’s description was corroborated by other employees. But the worker hadn’t shown up the last two days and the addresses he left were all bogus. Another dead-end.
Maybe he'd underestimated this rabbit, Cain thought. To evade detection this long, he had to be intelligent, or at least resourceful. Cain’s experience with convicts was that they were impulsive and prone to mistakes. In almost all cases, they lacked discipline. That was how they’d wound up in prison in the first place. With the pressure this rabbit was under, it was a wonder he hadn’t done something to call attention to himself. But so far, he hadn’t.
The rabbit wasn’t the only one feeling the pressure. Colonel Pope made it clear he wasn’t pleased with the progress of the search. If Cain didn’t perform soon, he would be replaced. And that wasn’t an acceptable outcome.
Living Proof Page 16
