Joe Ledger 2.10 - Material Witness (a joe ledger novel)

by Jonathan Maberry

  Joe Ledger 2.10 - Material Witness

  ( A Joe Ledger Novel )

  Jonathan Maberry

  Author’s note: This story takes place several weeks after the events in PATIENT ZERO

  -1-

  Echo Team: Case File Report / DMS-ET 82fd1118

  Events of August 16 / Prepared August 17, 11:30 A.M.

  Team Leader: Captain Joseph Edwin Ledger

  Preamble to the official statement of Dr. Rudy Sanchez:

  I personally tested Captain Ledger and his men. Blood and urine, a full workup. There is no presence of alcohol or any controlled substance. Standard interview and psychological profiles demonstrate post-traumatic stress and nervous tension typical with recent combat, plus a degree of heightened nervousness that I believe should be ascribed to the unusual nature of the events as described by the members of Echo Team.

  From the analysis of a voluntary polygraph test:

  All three men were tested separately. I oversaw each test. Each man was given a number of unsequenced control questions as well as the set of questions prepared by Mr. Church. These questions were introduced randomly and without preamble. There is nothing in their responses or on the polygraph tape to suggest that any of them provided false or exaggerated answers. As disturbing and unlikely as it appears, these men believe that they saw and experienced everything exactly as described in Captain Ledger’s after-action report and in the private interviews with Dr. Sanchez, Aunt Sallie, and Mr. Church.

  Handwritten note included in Mr. Church’s private copy of Dr. Sanchez’s psychological evaluation of Captain Joseph Edwin Ledger, First Sergeant Bradley Sims and Staff Sergeant Harvey Rabbit. Note reads:

  Per your question of earlier today . . . yes, I am certain that they believe that these events occurred. Please bear in mind the troubled history of that town. It has had far more than its share of troubles for many years. I respectfully but firmly decline your offer to go there and investigate matters for myself. No thank you! --RS

  -2-

  The Warehouse

  Department of Military Sciences Baltimore Field Office

  August 16; 8:19 A.M.

  One Day Ago . . .

  “God— please! They’re killing me here. You got to get me out of this. Jesus Christ, you said this wouldn’t happen.”

  I leaned forward to listen to the voice. Even with the distortion of a bad digital file, I could hear the raw terror—the urgency.

  “When did this come in?” I asked.

  My boss, Mr. Church, sat on the other side of the conference table. He was neatly dressed, the knot of his tie perfect, his face impassive. But I wasn’t fooled. This had to be hitting him every bit as hard as it was me.

  “That’s the problem,” he said. “This message is three days old.”

  “Three days? How the hell—?”

  Church held up a hand.

  I paused, dialing it down a notch. “How did this get missed? Burke’s handler should have called us right away.”

  “The handler didn’t get this until this morning.”

  “Then how—?”

  “This message was left on the home phone of the Special Agent in Charge.” He let that float in the air for a moment.

  “Wait,” I said, “home phone?”

  “Yes,” said Church, “and isn’t that interesting. Simon Burke would have had no way of knowing who the AIC was, let alone having access to his home number.”

  “Did the handler get a call?”

  Church opened a folder and slid it across the table toward me. “These are the phone records for the handler, Dykstra. The top page is the direct line to Burke’s safe house. The next pages are Dykstra’s cell and home numbers. The previous call from Burke was the routine check-in last week. Nothing since then. Nothing from a pay phone or from any other line that Burke could have used.”

  “The handler’s cell . . . ”

  “No,” said Church. “There is no identifiable incoming call on any line associated with the AIC or the handler that could have resulted in that message.”

  I frowned. “I don’t understand. If Burke left a message then there has to be a record.”

  Church said nothing. He selected a vanilla wafer from a plate of cookies, which sat between us on the table. He nibbled off a piece and munched it thoughtfully, his eyes never leaving my face.”

  I said, “Then someone got to the records. Altered them.”

  “Mm. Difficult, but possible.” He sounded dubious.

  “Or . . . they have a way to erase their tracks, remove all traces of the call.”

  “Also possible, but . . . ”

  “ . . . even more difficult,” I finished.

  He said nothing. He didn’t have to. There were very few computer systems in the world capable of the kind of thorough hacking like what we were discussing; and even then there was only one computer that couldn’t be fooled by any of the others, and that was MindReader. That was our computer. It was a freak among computers, designed to be a ghost, to intrude into any other system and then rewrite its memory so that there was absolutely no footprint. All other computers left a bit of a scar on the hard drive. Not MindReader. And Church guarded that system like a dragon. Not even the President had access to it without Church personally signing him in.

  “Okay,” I said, “could someone have gotten to the answering machine directly and recorded a message onto it from the AIC’s house?”

  “No. Dykstra uses a service provided by AT&T and the messages are stored on their server. And if the call was made from Dykstra’s home phone, there would be a record of that.”

  “And there isn’t.”

  “No.”

  I reached over and took an Oreo from the plate. I can’t come up with any good reason why a sane person would bother with vanilla wafers when the chocolaty goodness of Oreos was right there. It added to my growing suspicion that Church was a Vulcan.

  “Who’s looking for Burke?”

  “The FBI has been looking for him since nine this morning. Except for us, no one else is in the loop.”

  “Local law?”

  “They are definitely out of the loop. There have been some concerns about the police department there, though admittedly that was under previous management. The current chief has no strikes against him but otherwise he’s an unknown quantity. This matter was deemed too sensitive to be shared with him.”

  “Even now?”

  Church pursed his lips. “Only with direct supervision.”

  “Which doesn’t mean the FBI.”

  “No.” Church ate more of his cookie. “We’ve backtracked to a few hours before the call was left on Dykstra’s voicemail and found nothing. Burke has not used a credit card or made transactions of any kind under his own name. His car is still parked in his garage.”

  I sighed. “I’m not liking the spin on this one, Boss. Burke’s not a player. He might know in theory how to stay off the grid, but I can’t see him managing it without making a mistake. Not for this long, not without help.”

  “Doubtful. And there’s one more thing.”

  I waited, knowing that Church would save the kicker for last. “Burke’s clever. His whole life is built around creating plots that his readers won’t see coming. Apparently he’s used this same gift against his handler. We hacked the confidential reports between the handler and the AIC, and Burke’s clearly gone missing four times previously. Not for long, a matter of a few hours each time. The handler eventually realized that Burke was using a bicycle to get into town or out of town via one of the two bridges. I had Bug do computer pattern sweeps on commerce reco
rds of stores within bicycle distance of the safe house. We’ve been able to establish that on the dates in question, and inside the window of time, there were purchases of six disposable cell phones. Burke has been making calls.”

  “Who’s he calling?”

  “Add this to the equation,” Church said. “Interest in Burke and his unstoppable novel plot has increased substantially in the weeks following those purchases.”

  “Well, that’s interesting as hell.”

  “Isn’t it, though?”

  “You think he’s trying to sell it?”

  “We have to be open to that possibility.”

  What Church didn’t say aloud was: In which case Burke becomes a national security liability.

  “We need to put this idiot in a bag,” I said. “But we can’t put out an APB. That would draw every shooter east of the Mississippi.”

  “Likely it would draw shooters from around the globe,” said Church. “A dozen countries come to mind.”

  “What if he’s already dead?”

  He looked at me. Church wears tinted glasses that make it tough to read his expression. “Is that what you think?”

  I thought about it, and shook my head. “No. Considering how important Burke is, a pro would either be under orders to get him out of the country or get him to one of their safe houses. Or they’d want him splashed all over the headlines. Either way, the odds on him seizing the opportunity to leave a message is pretty slim.”

  “Agreed.” Church took another cookie. Another vanilla wafer. Weird.

  I nodded to the recorder on the table. “Play it again.”

  This is Simon Burke . . . look, you jokers said you’d protect me. They’re

  going to tear me apart. Look . . . I don’t have much time . . . this is really

  hard. You got to do something. God—please! They’re killing me here. You

  got to get me out of this. Jesus Christ, you said this wouldn’t happen.

  He played it three times more. It sounded just as bad each time; and Burke sounded just as terrified. I rubbed my eyes and stood up.

  “He sounds genuinely scared,” I said. “And outraged. I can’t see him making that call after he’s contacted potential buyers. It would make more sense for him to do that as a result of getting no action on this kind of a cry for help.”

  “Agreed. Which means we are short on answers, and time is not our friend.”

  “Then I guess I’d better get my boys and get gone.”

  “Sergeant Dietrich is prepping a helo,” said Church. He cocked his head at me. “Have you ever been to that town?”

  “Pine Deep? Sure, but way back when I was a kid. My dad took me and my brother to the big Halloween Festival they used to have. That was before the trouble, of course.”

  The trouble.

  Funny little word for something that stands as one of the worst disasters in U.S. history. More than eleven thousand dead in what has been officially referred to as an act of terrorism and insurrection by a domestic terrorist cell that had been formed by members of a local white supremacist organization. The terrorists dumped a lot of LSD into the town’s drinking water. Had everyone convinced that half the town was turning into monsters.

  “Terrible tragedy,” said Church.

  “I saw the movie they did on it,” I said. “Hellnight, I think it was called. Hollywood turned it into a horror picture. Vampires and ghosts and werewolves, oh my.”

  Church chewed his cookie. “There was a lot of confusion surrounding the incidents. The official report labeled it as domestic terrorism.”

  I caught the slight emphasis he put on the word official. “Why, was there something else going on?”

  He very nearly smiled.

  “Have a safe trip, Captain Ledger.”

  -3-

  Route A-32

  Bucks County, Pennsylvania

  August 16; 4:22 P.M.

  The chopper put us down at a private airfield near Doylestown, Pennsylvania, and a couple of DMS techs had a car waiting for us. It looked like a two-year-old black Ford Explorer, but we had the full James Bond kit. Well, I guess it was more the Jack Bauer kit. No oil slicks or changeable license plates. Mostly we had guns. Lots and lots of guns. The back bay was a gun closet with everything from Glock nines to Colt M4 carbines fitted with Aimpoint red-dot sights, and enough ammunition to wage a moderately enthusiastic war.

  Bunny whistled as he opened all the drawers and compartments. “And to think I asked for a puppy for Christmas.

  “For when you care enough to send the very best,” he said, hefting a Daewoo USAS-12 automatic shotgun. “I think I’ll call her ‘Missy.’”

  “Freak,” muttered Top Sims under his breath. First Sergeant Bradley Sims—Top to everyone—was a career noncom who had been in uniform nearly as long as Bunny had been alive, but for all that he’d never cultivated the testosterone-driven shtick of idolizing weapons.

  To him they were tools and nothing more. He respected them, and he handled them with superior professional skill, but he wasn’t in love with them.

  Bunny—Harvey Rabbit, according to his birth certificate—looked dreamy-eyed like a man going courting.

  They were the only two members of Echo Team left standing after our last couple of missions. We had more guys in training, but Top and Bunny were on deck and ready to roll when this Burke thing came at us. Like me, they were dressed in civilian clothes. Jeans, Hawaiian shirts. Top wore New Balance cross-trainers that looked like they’d been spit-polished; Bunny had a well-worn pair of Timberlands.

  I said, “Concealed small arms. We’re here on a search and rescue. We’re not declaring war on rural Pennsylvania.”

  Bunny looked hurt. “Damn, and here I thought it was redneck season.”

  Even Top grinned at that.

  I looked at my watch. “Saddle up. We’re burning daylight.”

  Even as I said it, I heard a rumble of thunder and glanced up. The sky above was bright and blue and cloudless, but there were storm clouds gathering in the northeast. Probably ten miles from where we were, which put the clouds over or near Pine Deep. Swell. Nothing helps a manhunt better than fricking rain.

  We climbed into the SUV, buckled up for safety, and headed out, taking Route 202 north and then cutting onto the snaking black ribbon that was State Alternate Route A-32. Top drove; Bunny crammed his six-and-a-half-foot bulk into the back and I took the shotgun seat.

  “So why’s this Burke guy so important?” asked Bunny. “And since when do we screw around with Witness Protection?”

  “Not exactly what this is,” I said. “Simon Burke is a writer and—”

  “I read his books,” said Top. “Bit weird. Little paranoid.”

  I nodded. “He writes thrillers and, since the middle nineties, he has built a rep for creating ultra-believable terrorist plots.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Bunny, nodding. “I saw the movie they made out of one of those books. The one about terrorists introducing irradiated fleas into the sheepdogs in cattle country. Jon Stewart had him on and kind of fried the guy because a couple of meatheads actually tried to do the flea thing. Burke kept saying, ‘How is that my problem?’”

  “That’s the story in a nutshell,” I said. “Burke’s plots have always been way too practical and he likes showing off by providing useful detail. There’s a fine line between a detailed thriller novel and a primer for terrorists.”

  “Hooah,” murmured Top. That was Army Ranger–speak for everything from ‘I agree’ to ‘Get stuffed.’”

  “Well, early last year Burke was doing the talk-show circuit to promote his new book—”

  “— A Predator Species,” supplied Top. “Read it. Gave it four stars out of five.”

  “—and Conan O’Brien asks him about his plots. Burke, who’s a bit of a jackass at the best of times, according to what I’ve been told and the interview transcripts I’ve read, starts bragging about the fact that he has a plot that is so good, so perfect that his contacts w
ith Homeland ‘strongly requested’ him not to publish it.”

  “We know who that was in Homeland?” Bunny snorted.

  “It wasn’t Homeland,” I said, “it was Hugo Vox, the guy who does all the screening for people getting top secret and above clearance. He ran the plot out at that counter-terrorism training center he has in Colorado. Terror Town. Teams ran it six separate times and Vox said that the best case scenario was a forty-percent kill of the U.S. population. Low-tech, too. Anyone could make it work.”

  “Jeeeez-us,” said Bunny.

  “What was it?” asked Top, intrigued.

  I told them. Top gave a long, low whistle. Bunny’s grin diminished in wattage.

  They considered it, shaking their heads as the logic of it unfolded in their imaginations.

  “Damn,” Bunny said, “that’s smart.”

  “It’s damn stupid,” countered Top. “Putting that in bookstores would be like handing out M16s at a terrorism convention.”

  “It was stupid for Burke to talk about it on Conan,” I said. “Luckily he didn’t actually describe the plot on TV. Just enough to give the impression he really had something. You can probably guess what happened,” I said.

  Top made a face. “Someone made a run at him?”

  I nodded. “Within a day of doing the show he was nearly kidnapped twice. He must have realized his mistake and he went straight to his lawyer, who in turn called the FBI, who called Homeland, who called us.”

  “And we did what?” asked Bunny. “Put a bag over him?”

  “More or less. This is before we came on the DMS,” I said, “so I’m getting this secondhand from Church. I drew this gig because I know Burke. Or, used to. He did ride-alongs with me and a couple other cops when I was with the Baltimore PD. Bottom line is that Burke was set up in Pine Deep as a retired schoolteacher and widower. His handler’s cover is that of ‘nephew’ who lives one town away. Place called Black Marsh, right over the river in New Jersey.”

  “So it’s just protective custody?”

  “No. Homeland is cooking up some kind of scam thing where they’ll eventually use Burke as bait to lure the cockroaches out of the woodwork. Get them to make a run at him so we could scoop them up, take them off for some quiet conversation, say at Gitmo.”