by Mike McKay
Mark contemplated a little what he would tell Spalding, if it was, of course, the Eric Spalding, and not some other Spalding. It was possible Frederick, Martin, and Samantha had gone home. Samantha mentioned that Mr. Spalding was the only plant worker who came to work in the evening and left in the morning. The night watchman must be at the plant, along with Jasmine Hobson and her two brothers. The gates must be locked, and the watchman must be armed. It would be really nice if Captain Spalding follows the rules of engagement as he was taught in the West Point: first, positively identify the target, and only then – shoot. I got to stop convincing myself that the night watchman and the Captain Eric Spalding were the same person, Mark reminded himself. With much greater chance the night watchman had never been to the West Point, knew nothing about the rules of engagement, and would start shooting left and right. And then, it would turn out the watchman's name was Joe, and he was a former NBA player with a hernia.
Then, it also was probable that the watchman was indeed the Captain Eric Spalding, but he had nothing to do with the Sheldon Butcher. In such case, everything was great. But if the watchman was indeed – the Butcher, the situation would be much worse. Mark had absolutely no logical reason to associate Eric Spalding with the serial killer. Only a vague suspicion, based on the service record from the Pentagon database. He had no legal reason to make an arrest. Even during the rough times immediately after the Meltdown, they would not arrest a person on such a thin suspicion. Besides, judging by the Spalding's personnel file, arresting this ex-special forces man without summoning at least a couple of armed deputies would be difficult and even dangerous undertaking. Clearly, the arrest was out of question. But then, Mark's visit to the synthetic gasoline plant would tell Eric Spalding the FBI was after him, and his behavior might become totally unpredictable.
Mark desperately needed some good excuse. Right: Jasmine and her brothers! They could be used as a plausible cause for Mark's visit. I must look at Eric Spalding, as at some piece of furniture, Mark decided. Treat him as totally irrelevant. Like, the FBI came to see Hobsons, on the Witness Protection program; other civilians, please step back… Mark planned the possible dialog in his head: “Hi, I am Special Agent-in-Charge Pendergrass, the FBI.” Show the badge. Then: “may I have your name, sir? Eric Spalding? How do you do? These three teenagers – the Hobsons family, are they here at the plant? Did Mister Stolz tell you the FBI decided to move the kids to another location? Where to? I'm afraid I am not free to tell you, sir. The Witness Protection program, you must understand. The funding had been approved. Many thanks for taking care of the children, sir, blah, blah, blah…” Perhaps, if Mark played this just right, Spalding would not suspect anything. Special Agent-in-Charge Pendergrass, a dull bureaucrat from the FBI, performed his dull bureaucratic thing.
Finally, Mark reached the gates of the synthetic gasoline plant. As expected, the gate was bolted, but the brick chimney had smoke above it, indicating that the boiler was in full operation. As Mike explained, the deal here was even stricter than in the smelter shops. Once the bombs were started, they could not stop until the cycle was complete. Stop it before the due time, – and you would face an unpleasant business of cleaning the semi-cooked plastic by hand. Mark was banging on the gates for full five minutes until someone from the inside answered: “is it you, Jass?”
Half a minute later, a small look-out window opened in the gate, and a man poked out. His face was shadowed by a raincoat hood. “Who the hell are you? Get lost!”
Mark produced his badge and started along the prepared lines: “hi, I am Special Agent-in-Charge Pendergrass, from the FBI.”
“Wow! From the very FBI!” Behind the gates, the latch rattled, and one wing came slightly ajar. “Well. Please come in.”
Mark touched his ‘Glock’ with the left elbow, felt the reassuring weight of the gun, and pushed his bike inside. Everything seemed to be fine. But was this man the Eric Spalding from the Pentagon file or not? “What is your name, sir?” Mark asked, trying at the same time to make the man's face. So far, he only knew the guard was exactly as tall as the Butcher (or as a matter of fact, Eric Spalding) – nine feet and five inches. Mark also saw that the watchman had a twelve-gauge. In its former life, this weapon was probably used for clay pigeon shooting, but now both the barrel and the butt were sawed off, turning it into a poor man's version of a tactical shotgun.
The night watchman shut the gate and threw the bolt in place. Then, he turned and removed his hood. Now Mark could see the man's face clearly. It had a lot in common with the face of Eric Spalding on the file photos, but the man was positively not the Captain Eric Spalding. Mark's well-trained eye instantly counted a dozen of differences: the nose, the ear shape, slightly arched eyebrows… Mark felt a huge relief.
Then the man extended his hand for a shake and introduced himself: “Rick Spalding. In charge of the plant security. Howdy, sir? And, uh, please don't you mind the gun. Reasonable precautions, as you may understand.”
“Nice to meet you, Mister Spalding,” Mark replied, shaking the man's hand, “I don't mind the gun. An extra caution does not hurt, especially on the day like this.” The shortened name ‘Rick’ could mean ‘Richard,’ ‘Patrick,’ or quite possibly ‘Eric,’ but it was just a coincidence. Besides, the man seemed friendly enough, and did not look worried or nervous.
Spalding pointed towards the yard, inviting Mark to follow. “Goddamn rain! Let's get into the office, sir.”
Mark leaned his bike against the gate and went after the guard. What a nice pair of rubber boots, he mentioned to himself, envying the guard's footwear. ‘Wellingtons.’ Must be bloody expensive and not easy to find. Even the FBI did not have access to such supplies. Mark also noted the guard was not lame. Relax, and don't be paranoid, he ordered himself. This was not the Butcher. One quite different, quite abstract Rick Spalding, a night watchman from a garbage processing plant at the 'Fill. Ten thousand chances to one he had nothing to do with the serial killings.
At the office door, the watchman knocked dirt from his boots. Next, he solemnly opened the door and motioned for Mark to enter. “How may I be of assistance, sir?” he said. As some British butler from an old Hollywood movie. Following Mark's conversation plan seemed pointless, so Mark asked directly: “Frederick Stolz – is he here? I tried to call, but all I got from the phone was the damn answering machine…”
“The local cell tower is down. We had no coverage after lunch.”
“But – the Syntegas answering machine?”
“Oh, it is because Mister Stolz has one of those expensive plans. The Syntegas answering machine must be a computer at the phone station. Translates the voice messages into a text, all bells and whistles.”
“I see. I was a bit worried and decided to drop by, just in case. Frederick, his Martin and our Samantha went to the plant this morning…”
“Oh, you must be the father of Samantha and Michael!” the watchman shined a wide smile, “wonderful children you have, sir, just wonderful! How is your Michael doing in the Army? When Samantha decided to join us here at the plant, I told Mister Stolz: excellent deal, sir, could not be any better!”
In this, the watchman was shamelessly lying. Samantha said that the first time they met he muttered something like: ‘and what the heck is she here for?’ An ordinary suck-up, Mark thought. This type of people: they always said just what you would be pleased to hear.
“So they are here or not?”
“Gone home. Must be an hour and a half already.”
Mark looked through the half-open window at the rain-drenched yard. Mike's cargo tricycle was at the usual spot – in the corner, under the shed. On the platform, there were two orange jerrycans. Perhaps, Frederick, Martin and Samantha decided not to take the tricycle with them: pushing it through the rain would be a foolish idea. There were no rubber boots under the tricycle's seat. Good that Samantha put the boots on, Mark thought. The road was surely flooded, and the murky water might hide all sorts of nasty crap.
<
br /> Mark unbuttoned his raincoat and pulled out his phone. Still, no mobile signal. “What about Jasmine and her brothers, Mister Spalding?” he asked.
“They are gone too, sir. In the morning, Jass decided to walk the boys to school. No way they will return today. Probably, scared of the hurricane and decided to spend the night at the school? Not sure…”
OK, I just had an unfounded paranoia attack, Mark decided. The plant's Rick Spalding had nothing in common with the file's Eric Spalding, and he was not the Sheldon Butcher. Samantha called him ‘weirdo’ because he was an exceptional suck-up, but being a suck-up had never been a crime. Nothing to worry about. Frederick and the kids had gone home; Jasmine and her brothers would be probably safer spending the night at the school than next to those bombs. And the phones did not work, well, – because they did not work. After the Meltdown, many things did not work quite as before. Especially during the hurricanes.
“Well, if so, I'd better be on my way. Would you let me out of the gate, please?” Mark asked.
“Wait, sir. You are all soaked from the damn rain. I have hot coffee. It's an acorn substitute, as you may expect. But almost as good as the real thing,” Rick Spalding pushed a rickety stool towards Mark. “Take your coat off and have a seat. I insist, sir!”
Mark decided to accept the invitation, pulled his raincoat off and looked around the darkish ‘office.’ The furniture was surely Spartan. At the window, there was an improvised coffee table – a plywood box with planks for the legs, covered with a battered oilcloth. Along the walls, there were few similarly improvised bookshelves, with some folders and books on them. Three little stools were placed around the coffee table. In the corner, there was a prehistoric-looking fire safe. Next to the safe, the space was consumed by two huge dilapidated office desks and two equally abused leather office chairs. One desk was buried under a pile of books and papers, the second one was empty, except for some strange-looking tin box with electric contacts, thumb-switches and buttons. At the far end of the room, there was a little door with milk-white glass: ether a storage or the sleeping room for the night watchman.
The watchman pulled out two mugs, blew inside to remove the imaginary dust and poured some coffee from a thermal flask. Indeed, the drink tasted almost like a real coffee.
“You should not go around the 'Fill alone, sir. Especially in such weather,” the watchman started a conversation. “Personally I would not come out of the gates! For any damn money! Of course, sir, you have a gun, all that stuff… However… At the Police Station – do they know you are here, at the 'Fill?”
Mark had his mouth full of hot coffee, so he did not have time to respond. Somebody started banging at the gate. Timidly at first, and then in full force.
“Who the hell is this?” Spalding said, “must be those damn rats from the 'Fill. The ones who don't have a territory, a stake, of their own. While it's raining, they pick up – steal – some scrap materials, and come here to sell. Below the standard price. I'm not going to open. They will bang for a while and go away.”
“What if it's Jasmine and the boys?” Mark suggested. The banging at the gates continued, even more insistent than before.
“Nah. Unlikely to be Jasmine. Must be the bloody rats. I gave myself a resolution: never buy the scrap from these scoundrels. I am no chemical engineer. All these PVC, POM, Lexan, Delrin, Nylon, and so on – no bloody idea! And these guys, they tend to sell you all kinds of wrong stuff. Then Mister Stolz comes and gives me hard time. Either: hey, man, this scrap is no good, or: hey, man, the scrap is OK, but you paid too much! I am always wrong.”
Strange, Mark said to himself. Now the watchman suddenly did not expect Jasmine anymore. But when he went to the gate the last time, he shouted just the opposite: ‘Is it you, Jass?’
“OK, I'll go look who the hell is out there,” the watchman said reluctantly, taking his wet raincoat from the hook. As if he did not want to leave me here alone, Mark thought. Spalding picked up his shotgun, cracked it open, glanced at the brass heads of the cartridges in the chambers, and snapped it closed again. Meanwhile, the banging had stopped. The watchman hesitated a bit, but he already had his coat on and his gun checked, so he went out into the rain. After a short while, Mark heard: “Jass?” Then, there was a loud click of the look-out window, and a few moments later – a heavy bang of the gates' bolt.
Suddenly, a gust of wind shook the room, and the little door at the far end of the ‘office,’ rattling with the glass, flew open. Yes, it actually was the watchman's sleeping hole: a tiny, four by six feet closet, with a wooden couch set against the wall.
What the heck, Mark said to himself. On top of the colorful baby blanket spread over the couch, there were two tightly stuffed backpacks: one huge, made from camouflage fabric, the type usually associated with the paratroopers, and one small, dark-black, like the type used for school books. Above the large backpack, a pair of rubber boots was tied up. These were Mike's rubber boots (or more precisely: Samantha's rubber boots, Mark corrected himself.) No doubt, these were Samantha's boots, and not just a similar pair. On the toe of the right boot, there was a neat patch. Mark remembered how last year his son pierced this boot. Then, for whole three weeks, Mike complained that he could not find the right glue and made endless temporary fixes with rags or duct tape. Finally, the right glue had been obtained, and the boot had been patched permanently.
It did not surprise Mark the night watchman had collected the bags: merely getting ready for the hurricane Arthur, in case the plant was inundated. Mark was also not surprised Samantha gave her rubber boots to the night watchman and went home in bare feet. By now, it was hardly surprising. The ‘real promise’ or not, his daughter would find a suitable excuse for being no-shoe once again. Today, the highway must be ‘so-o-o wonderfully soaked,’ or she would say something along the lines of hating this terrible water squelch in the rubber boots. With the water-in-the-boots argument it was impossible to disagree. Even all the crap hidden under the flood water did not concern Mark anymore: his younger kids, with their 100% anti-sissy feet, could safely abandon their footwear and go barefoot in any weather and for any distance, even to the other side of Houston. However, there was one little point. The guard had his chic ‘Wellingtons.’ Why would he suddenly ask Samantha to lend him a second pair of rubber boots?
Somehow, Mark realized, or more precisely, instinctively felt that his daughter had not gone home, but remained somewhere not very far. He quietly pulled out his ‘Glock,’ took it off the safety, sent the cartridge into the chamber, and peered through the window. And it was just in time: by the corner of his eye, Mark spotted the night watchman, approaching the ‘office’ door with the shotgun ready in his hands. ‘Rick Spalding’ was moving a little sideways, carefully and quietly placing each step of his chic ‘Wellingtons’ through the slippery mud. The way an experienced and confident hunter approaches the prey. The special forces' training was obvious. Mark raised his gun to eye level and stepped into the watchman's sleeping closet.
The night watchman, however, did not enter the ‘office.’ He pushed the door a little, saw his sleeping closet open, and realized he could not fool the FBI agent any longer. Without much aiming, he fired one barrel of his shotgun into the room, jumped back, and zigzagged across the yard towards the reactors' line. Mark jumped to the window, ready to shoot, but ‘Spalding’ turned and fired from the second barrel. A spray of glass from the shattered window rattled through the room. Mark hesitated with his shot, and the watchman disappeared behind the reactor number three.
“Missed your opportunity to shoot, the FBI man?” to overcome the rain noise, the watchman shouted the words like military commands, loud and clear.
“Decided to give you another chance, buddy,” Mark shouted back, “I will have my shot later. Where's Samantha? The others?”
“Oh, man! Your Samantha… Sorry, I had to…”
Mark's heart fell.
Chapter 25
“No, no. Just kidding,” the watchm
an continued after a theatrical pause, “your Sammy is alive and perfectly well. And all the others – too…” Between the reactors two and three, a shadow flashed suddenly. Once again, Mark missed the opportunity to shoot.
“Want to check it yourself? Samantha, dear, tell your Daddy how you love him…”
