by Joe Nobody
Without further comment, Monroe spun on his heels and exited the lab, managing to throw both Shultz and Floss a harsh glance on the way to the door.
The temperature outside was beginning to drop, the evening holding the promise of a comfortable, cool Texas night. The combination of air and walk helped cool Monroe off as well. By the time he’d strolled back to campus police headquarters, his mood was almost civil.
As he entered the building, his technician’s words kept reverberating through his head. Extreme caution. Unlimited power. And then the professor’s advice joined in. Above your pay grade.
Professor Weathers was yet again the object of Monroe’s focus – this time the senior FBI agent seeing fit to visit the prisoner’s tiny cell.
“You have repeatedly told me that the information I seek is above my pay grade, or similar words. Tell me who commands a position ‘high enough’ to be trusted with your information?”
Now we’re getting somewhere, thought Mitch. “Dr. Witherspoon – the Secretary of Energy.”
Monroe didn’t even try to hide the smirk, “Come on, doctor, be serious. Put yourself in my shoes. I call the Department of Energy and ask for the Secretary. What am I supposed to tell them when they ask why? How am I supposed to justify the request?”
It was Mitch’s turn to smirk. “You don’t have to call him, Agent Monroe. He was my post-graduate sponsor and is the godfather of my children. He’ll take the call on my name alone.”
Mitch watched his nemesis carefully, secretly hoping for some sort of embarrassment or backpedaling. He received no such gratification from the name drop. Instead, Monroe signaled a nearby policeman to open the cell, and then calmly waved for the professor to follow.
The two men walked to a semi-empty office, Mitch getting the impression it was Monroe’s temporary workspace while he was visiting. Again without a word, the agent pointed to the telephone sitting on the desk and said, “Be my guest.”
“Actually, sir, it would be easier if I could use my cell phone. I have the number stored in my contacts.”
Nodding, Monroe stuck his head outside the door and ordered Mitch’s personal effects be brought to his office. Five minutes later there was a soft knock on the door, and then a uniformed sleeve handed Monroe a large plastic bag.
Mitch dialed the Washington number, a voicemail system answering the call after four rings. “Please leave a message for Henry Witherspoon after the tone,” sounded from Mitch’s speaker.
After the beep, Mitch said, “Dr. Witherspoon, this is Mitch Weathers. I hope you and Paula are both doing well. Sir, I need your help desperately… an emergency. Please return this message, any time day or night as soon as possible. Thank you.”
Monroe was impressed. Most of the civilians, suspects and criminals he worked with on a daily basis exaggerated their connections. “Okay, Mr. Weathers, the answer to this next question determines if you sleep here or at home tonight.”
“Okay.”
“What would happen to me if I did know your deep, dark secret?”
Mitch considered his words before replying. “You might become corrupted, Agent Monroe. Or someone above you would succumb to the temptation and have you, or anyone else who knew the secret eliminated. I’d hate to see people start disappearing simply because of what they know. I wish I didn’t know. Look at what’s happened to me since I found out just a few hours ago.”
The answer seemed to surprise the senior agent. Thumping a pencil on his desk for a moment, he apparently settled on a course of action. “Go home, Professor Weathers. One condition – if anyone tries to contact you regarding this case, I’m to be informed immediately. Anyone. Do we have an agreement?”
“Does anyone include my brother?”
“Yes… probably the most important person on the list.”
“Then we don’t have an agreement, sir. I’ll not turn on my brother. Lock me away forever, but he’s my blood.”
Smiling, Monroe nodded. “Good. I think that’s the first time you’ve been absolutely honest with me. Go home, Weathers – with the condition that I’ll know about anyone but Dusty contacting you.”
Mitch rose to leave, but hesitated at the door. Turning back, he said, “I have an important suggestion for you, sir. You’ve caused quite the ruckus here on campus. I would strongly suggest you create some sort of cover story. Despite its size, the campus is a close society. People talk. I’m sure the last thing you want is a bunch of conspiracy junkies roaming around looking for a government cover up of some rumored super weapon.”
The FBI man pondered Mitch’s statement for a bit, and then asked, “What would you suggest, Doctor?”
“A bomb threat… nothing found… false alarm.”
“That’s not a bad idea. Not bad at all. Thank you, Doctor.”
Dusty waited until there was just enough light to safely take off. While illumination wasn’t a prerequisite for flying, he was in an unfamiliar area and didn’t feel like there was any advantage in waiting.
He’d studied the charts, entered the waypoints into the GPS, and double-checked the aircraft. It was time to leave the secure surroundings of the barn and head to the fourth largest city in the country. Hopefully he could lose himself in the vast humanity residing there.
Opening the barn doors, he carefully taxied the Thrush out into the field. There wasn’t any breeze, a fact confirmed by a telling glance at the closest line of trees. The takeoff went smoothly, and in a few minutes, he was 1,000 feet above the remote Texas countryside with just enough remaining light to make out the occasional feature here and there.
Flying at night was a different experience. The rods and cones in the human eye didn’t relay as much depth perception in low light as during the day. Vertigo was far more common, with stories of pilots flying their planes right into the ground while thinking they were maintain a safe altitude. It was a sobering thought.
Dusty knew from his charts that the only obstacles he had to worry about were radio towers. He’d carefully plotted a course that would avoid them.
Even at such a low height, he could see for a considerable distance. Lights twinkled in the cooling atmosphere, some clusters of illuminations indicating small towns or villages. Other, more distant examples were distorted with color – a horizon to horizon display of Christmas decorations if he used his imagination.
He was less than an hour’s flying to from his destination, and the miles passed quickly. Before long, the sky ahead began to glow a pale yellow, the effect growing more intense as he flew south. Houston’s nightglow was enormous, almost as bright as a false dawn. It made sense to Dusty. After all, the city measured over 70 miles wide and 50 miles deep.
The GPS indicated he was getting close to Texas Highway 290, which according to the map was a four- lane freeway close to the metropolis. Right on time, he detected the almost solid line of white car lights heading north, a similar trail of red taillights heading south.
The scene was distracting, his mind playing airborne trivia instead of staying tuned and tight on his instruments and controls. Each unusual ground formation or cluster commanded his attention, curiosity consuming him with the vague images his eyes registered. It was one reason why flying at night was dangerous.
The next identifiable landmark was another highway, this one Texas 249. Dusty crossed the lesser-used road right on schedule, only a few miles from the destination airport.
He got lucky three miles out. Detecting the blinking lights of another aircraft, Dusty first made sure that he wasn’t on a collision course. That potential disaster eliminated, it then occurred to him that the other plane appeared to be lining up to land at Hooks. He decided to follow, hoping the other guy had more experience with the facility.
Not only did the other plane have more experience, it also had access to the remote lighting system. This new feature allowed an incoming aircraft to radio a specific code to a computer, which in turn illuminated the runway lights. This good fortune improved Dusty’s mood enorm
ously.
Wheels-down was smooth. Looking at the larger than anticipated facility out his cockpit glass, Dusty began scanning for a good place to hide the Thrush in plain sight. He didn’t have to look for long.
The sign above the large, metal-sided building read, “North Side Aviation and Storage.” In front of the main building, two rows of private planes stretched off into the distance.
The Thrush fit nicely in an open spot about a football field’s length away from the office. It wasn’t unusual for a visiting aircraft to use the facilities without permission. Normally, the pilot would call or stop by in the morning and pay for the parking, fuel or any other service needed. With any luck, the Thrush wouldn’t be noticed until he had put a lot of distance between himself and the plane.
As he emptied his belongings from the cockpit, a dark sadness came over him. He knew this was probably the last time he would see his old girl – at least for a very long time. Despite being a wanted man and feeling the urge to move out, he walked around the plane one last time – his throat tight and eyes moist.
Shaking it off, Dusty headed off on foot toward the edge of the airfield. He knew from the maps that a well-traveled roadway ran north and south along the airport grounds. He intended to use it as a guide.
Three hours later, Dusty had barely managed to travel five miles into Houston. Completely underestimating how difficult it was to follow the road while staying off it, he’d struggled with every fence, subdivision, ditch, and creek.
Wet, sweaty, exhausted, and hungry, he finally found himself in an urban area dense enough where he could walk along the sidewalk and not draw attention to himself. Cars zipped along the thoroughfare, paying him no heed. He’d hiked another mile before a neon sign flashing “Vacancy” drew his eye.
At the late hour, the lobby was locked. The clerk, summoned by the door side buzzer, gave Dusty a hard look before letting him in. When he saw his reflection in the mirror, he understood why. Muddy boots, a small tear in his jeans, and a mismatch of clothing wasn’t indicative of his normal personal presentation.
“Do you still have a vacancy, sir?”
“Yes, it’s $80 a night with tax.”
“Okay, sign me up.”
“Could I see your ID, please?”
The question froze the fugitive. While his driver’s license was still inside his wallet, he didn’t know how sophisticated the law enforcement computer systems were. Would they be immediately alerted if his real name went on the register?
“My wallet’s been stolen, sir. That’s why I’m here in the middle of the night. I stopped down the street to eat, and when I came out, my car had been broken into and my billfold was gone.”
The man behind the counter seemed to ponder Dusty’s fake predicament. As an afterthought, the West Texan pulled out his significant wad of cash. “Fortunately, I hadn’t left my money in the car, or I’d really be screwed,” he offered.
“Eighty dollars for one night,” the man repeated while sliding a form across the counter. His intent was clearly for Dusty to fill it out.
Again, he hesitated. The hotel wanted his name, address, phone number and other information. Picking up the pen, he decided to become George Dunlap, the high school shop teacher’s name the only one he could conjure up.
Ten minutes later, Dusty was inserting a magnetic key card and opening the door to the “mini-suite.” Setting down the backpack, he explored his new residence. “Sure beats sleeping in the barn,” he mumbled. In reality, it wasn’t a bad place to hole up for a few days. There was a small kitchenette, queen size bed, and free cable TV. What more could any outlaw need?
A shower was the first order of business, the small bottles of shampoo helping eliminate the layer of grit, stress induced sweat, and nervous grime that covered his body. Wrapped in a towel with the rail gun lying next to him, Dusty fell asleep without even pulling back the bedspread.
Day 4
He woke up not knowing where he was for a moment. Gingerly rolling off the bed, Dusty made for the windows, partially curious to see if the parking lot were full of police cars, mostly wondering what his surroundings looked like in the daylight.
There were no police cars, the weather looked hot, and he was smack-dab in the middle of an urban shopping area. The view offered no surprises.
He’d noted that a free breakfast was offered in the lobby, and after verifying he could still make the cut-off, he dressed quickly and proceeded on a determined quest for gratis coffee.
An orange, two cups of java, and a bowl of cereal accompanied him back to the room – the food energy renewing a positive outlook on the day. As he savored each bite, he began scribbling a “to do” list on the free hotel stationery, the cheap pen protesting actual use.
While his A&M pack fit in well within the backdrop of College Station, here it might be more obvious for an older man to carry such an item. Besides, it wasn’t big enough for a criminal who was required to carry all of his belongings everywhere he went.
He also needed spare clothing, including underwear and socks. Adding food, instant coffee, a razor, toothbrush and other hygiene products to his list, Dusty felt ready to go shopping. The problem was where to go and how to get there. Walking along the street after dark was one level of risk, doing so in broad daylight yet another.
Staring out the window in an effort to gauge the neighborhood, he saw a solution to part of his problem. A large, brightly painted, metro bus was unloading passengers just a block away. With the transportation issue resolved, the next question was where he could locate the commodity items on his list.
The older woman working the lobby-clerk position that morning provided the answer. Down the road, less than two miles, was a huge shopping mall. The bus line stopped right in front.
One dollar and 20 minutes later, Dusty climbed down from the public transportation and began eyeing the plethora of stores, shops, and restaurants within easy walking distance. Not far away he spied an enormous building, a sign over the door advertising “Atlas Sports and Outdoors.”
He soon found himself inside the biggest sporting goods store he’d ever seen. Aisle after aisle filled with clothing, hunting, camping, and shooting supplies that seemed to stretch out forever. Smiling, Dusty thought, I can spend the entire day in here, and no one would ever find me. I might just move in permanently.
As he stepped forward, an alarm went off, the sudden alert causing Dusty to freeze mid-step. A smiling young lady approached and asked, “Excuse me, sir, but are you carrying a firearm by any chance?”
He started to lie, but then saw a sign declaring all firearms must be unloaded and checked at the courtesy counter. It made sense, given the facility claimed to offer the services of an onsite gunsmith, as well as trade-ins.
“I’m sorry, but yes, I have a rifle I want appraised in my pack.”
“No problem,” she chimed. “Let me put a tag on it.”
Dusty unzipped the backpack, exposing the rail gun’s stock. If the girl noticed anything unusual about the weapon, she didn’t comment. Wrapping a lime green piece of tape around the grip, she nodded and said, “Thanks for shopping at Atlas. If there’s something I can help you find, please let me know.”
Wait till the boys back in Fort Davis get a load of this, he mused. A big city store that welcomes a man carrying a rifle. No one will believe me.
Dusty located everything on his list, and then some. There were so many backpacks on display, he had a hard time making a choice. The camping section offered freeze-dried everything, including stew, bacon and eggs, and even blueberry pie. He also picked up an assortment of hygiene items, intentionally designed to be used on extended outdoor adventures. He even discovered pintsized containers full of laundry soap, the diminutive packets usable in a hotel sink if he needed to hand wash his duds.
Clothing wasn’t an issue either. Rack after rack of every imaginable type, brand, and color of active wear was available for purchase. The quality was high, as were the prices, but he didn
’t care. It would be good to have a change of underwear and fresh socks.
As he meandered up and down the aisles, he came across a display of cell phones that boldly advertised “no contract.” Mobile phones were essentially useless in Fort Davis, the mountain-blocked reception spotty at best. But here… could he use one of these devices to contact Mitch?
A young man wearing a store name tag offered a nicely toned, “Finding everything, sir?”
“My wallet was stolen a few days ago,” Dusty began. “My cell phone, too. Do I need any sort of identification to use these phones?”
“No, sir. You can buy one and use it almost immediately without any ID or credit card. The purchase price includes a pre-loaded number of minutes.”
Anonymous calling, reasoned Dusty. I bet these would give those television detectives fits. How would the cops trace calls? Living in a remote area of West Texas, Dusty had never bought a cell phone. Not only did the mountains interfere with the signals, Fort Davis was not a large enough community to warrant its own tower system. He just didn’t have the need for such a device, especially since it would only function part-time at best.
But now his location and needs had changed. Thinking of calling his brother after things had settled down, he selected the most user friendly-looking model and threw it in his shopping buggy.
Wandering into the firearms section, a look of enchantment soon covered his face. It wasn’t the seemingly endless row of rifles and pistols along the back wall – he’d seen most of those before. Nor was it the tremendous assortment of ammunition. Dusty was enthralled by the accessories. The internet had shown him pictures of many of the cleaners, optics, slings and other items – but to see them in person! He slowly pushed his cart through each aisle – reading practically every label and pitch.
