Chapter 29
Led Zepplin’s “Good Times, Bad Times” blared over the Mercedes eight car speaker system, making it virtually impossible for Whiteside to hear anything other than the music. The only pounding that surpassed John Bonham’s thunderous drumbeat, resided in the middle of his chest. His heartbeat pulsated through every perceivable avenue in his body. His chest almost shook with each beat, his temples throbbed, and even his fingertips trembled as his surging blood pressure and booming heart rate coursed through each artery, vein, and capillary in his body. He heard only the music.
The vehicle’s superb engineering and performance capabilities made navigating the winding country road a less complicated task for any driver, let alone a well-trained one like Surey Whiteside. Years of paramilitary government training left him with considerable skills. He did not possess the knowledge to fly aircraft, but he excelled at anything on the land or water. His true passion, though, remained with four wheels on any hard top surface at high speeds. He used the car to separate himself from all extraneous environmental stimuli, as the vehicle became a physical extension of himself. He heard only the music and felt the car.
As he drove through the night, he employed relaxation techniques to regain self-composure. Mental focus on specific non-threatening imagery for specific second increments and breathing regulation techniques caused his thumping heartbeat and racing heart rate to lessen. The music’s high volume, his navigational focus with the Mercedes, and his mental relaxation techniques returned his mind and body to a closer state of equilibrium. He heard only the music, felt only the car, and mentally focused only on his personally adapted mantras designed, tested, and proven to ease his mind.
As he regained a sense of normalcy, he scanned the surroundings in an attempt to reclaim his bearings. In the distance, to his right he could detect the glow of city lights on the horizon. The moonless night gave him no indication that the Rocky Mountains loomed to the west as he gazed out the passenger window into the blackness. He did not know what road he traveled, but he knew that he was heading south, parallel with Pine Valley to the east. He operated the car’s built in navigation system and set a course back to where he’d fled just a short time ago. He killed the radio and settled back into his seat, waiting for the directions. Much better he thought. He never cared much for Robert Plant’s high pitched screaming voice, despite the general public’s love affair with the band. He was more of a blue’s man, better suited to John Lee Hooker, Howling Wolf, Albert King, and Robert Johnson. Those old time black blues men knew what suffering meant, and you could feel it in the music.
Although it gave him an indication as to Gionelli’s mindset, meeting in Pine Valley was wrought with potential dangers and pitfalls. Even in the middle of the night, the threat of an unsuspecting witness grew exponentially in a populated area. That would create more loose strings. What if Schwartz recognized his car, or worse, spotted him and Gionelli together. Would he be forced into confronting the one person from his past whom he once trusted? And, if so, what would he do? What would Schwartz do?
“Turn right in 1.5 miles at highway 152 and head east 12 miles,” the computerized voice directed. Whiteside followed the instructions and began traveling back to the city limits when his cell phone rang. He recognized the number and gave it a wry grin.
“Yes,” Whiteside said.
“Our meeting will be slightly delayed,” Gionelli said. “I’m having some issues with the rental car.”
Whiteside detected the lie immediately, but hesitated pushing it at this juncture. He welcomed a little bit of extra time. He’d use it to conduct some reconnaissance at the baseball stadium parking lots. A little extra preparation couldn’t hurt.
“Quit stalling and get there or the deal will slip through your fingers,” Whiteside feigned. It was becoming a game of lies between them, almost a battle of who was the better conman.
Ice ran through Gionelli’s veins. He calmly responded in deadpan monotone, “You walk away from this or blow the operation somehow and the money and your reputation all go down the shitter. A loss of reputation will also affect your future earnings might I remind you, so cool your jets.” Before he allowed a response, Gionelli disconnected the call.
Whiteside heard the click followed by the muted silence and knew Gionelli ended the conversation. Whiteside had no intention of walking away, but he did recognize the importance of how reputation could enhance or deter future contract work. But he tired of the life. He wanted out, but outside employment options were limited for men in his profession. Not many fortune 500 companies looked to employ former clandestine government operatives who possessed the knowledge of how to take another human being’s life a thousand different ways and never get caught. And besides, the money was good.
“There’s more to life than money, Partner,” a disembodied voice resonated inside the car. Whiteside reached for the volume dial to turn the radio down when he realized it was not on. His fingers remained fixed to the knob as he processed the voice’s slow southern drawl. “Heck, you didn’t think I was going anywhere, did you?”
Blasting rounds off into open, sprawling fields of unsuspecting bovine occupants had not driven the voice away. Heavy metal rock and roll, driving well in excess of the posted speed limit, and a series of relaxation techniques had done nothing other than delay this moment. The question that remained was basic. The voice came from the dog or he had completely lost his marbles. If he started talking to the dog and expecting a verbal response in return, one could argue he was in fact crazy. He’d buy that conclusion. He gripped the steering wheel tighter and rolled his knuckles forward and hunched his shoulders up as he dropped his neck.
“I hoped you’d stayed back on the side of the road,” Whiteside stated. “Why are you talking to me?”
“Why? Are you afraid people will take up with some wild rumors about you and me? Most people start off with how come you talk so well.”
“I think you sound like a hick, so it appears that question’s off the table.”
“Whooowee! I knew you had spunk, but hell, that was funny stuff!” Whiteside actually heard laughter. He looked in the backseat. The St. Bernard sat upright and stared a hole through him, but showed none of the emotion that the voice expressed. The dog simply maintained eye contact, which Whiteside sensed as oddly hypnotic in nature. As he studied the canine eyes through the rearview mirror he began to feel a sense of floating, a mild separation from his body, but he was still in the car. Normally, he did welcome a loss of control concerning his faculties, but not this time. It was a pleasant experience. He felt as if he didn’t have a care in the world, and there were no worries that even remotely needed his attention. This actually felt phenomenal.
The car steered along the winding country road without so much as the slightest deviation along the two lanes. The GPS advised of an upcoming change in direction 200 feet ahead. Whiteside couldn’t care less, but the vehicle slowed and even signaled before the turn. He wasn’t sure if he was still driving the car, and he didn’t care. He didn’t see the road before him, the rural surroundings, or even the St. Bernard. The dog’s two eyes staring into in the rearview mirror evolved into two swirling orbs of a brown and yellow gas-like mixture. They blurred and formed a sole, homogenous cloud of tranquility. He felt absolute peace.
“You don’t really want to hurt any of those people, do you?”
“I don’t have a choice,” Whiteside whispered, barely audible. “I have to do what I have to do,” he continued, not feeling overly convicted by his words. “It’s what I do. It’s who I am. I decided what would be necessary before I ever came here.”
“Everybody’s got a choice, Son. And yours is just beginning. Trust me, and I’ll take you where you want to be. You’ll like it there, well enough. Ain’t never seen anyone complain before.” The Mercedes made its turn and accelerated as it headed east on Highway 152. Blanco assum
ed he navigated the machine, but had no sensation of operating the car. Without any reservations or fear, he continued with the conversation.
“Where are we going? France? I really liked Marseilles.” Whiteside spent nearly three months there over a decade earlier, in between jobs. He kept his distance from the locals at first, but the small community outside the city seemed to accept him, despite his striking physical anomalies. Initially, he resisted, but his instincts told him the response he received was genuine. For the first time since he was a kid, he felt at home.
But it wasn’t long before the French respite ended, and the black operatives world dragged him back under the waves of indecency and immorality. He fought to keep his head above water, but the currents of his world were too strong to battle alone. He eventually gave in to what he knew best and to the people who made him who he was. France became an aberration, a moment in time that would never be repeated. Enjoy it now for tomorrow will wash away the past, forever.
Even in quasi-retirement, he maintained his underworld contacts. The subterranean world he lived in seemed only inches below the surface of Mr. and Mrs. John Q. American. His relationship with Gionelli exemplified how he teetered between the two worlds. He lived alone in a high-rise condominium in Phoenix, Arizona. The high volume of traffic in the building with the thousands of residences helped him blend into obscurity. But he lacked a specific purpose now. Sure the work before was seedy at best, but he was a highly skilled employee of the United States government, whether they chose to recognize his existence or not. But he was totally separated now. This was the most he’d ever felt alone. France sounded nice.
“That’s great, but let’s get that dern thought out of your head, ‘cause France ain’t what I’m talking about.” Mildly dismayed, but not heartbroken at his wish’s denial, he continued floating inside his car and hanging on each word he believed came from the St. Bernard.
“Recalculating,” the computerized female GPS warned. “ In 100 feet, make a legal u-turn.” Whiteside stared at the navigation device until he realized he’d missed a turn that took him back to a main artery that ran through Pine Valley. As he focused on the navigation system, he realized the sensation of floating through the car was over, and he once again felt the contours of the driver’s seat and his grip on the steering wheel. After several seconds he was back in his body. The euphoria diminished, but he still sensed something positive moving from within. He had never experienced anything like it before and was at a loss to describe the feeling. He did know that he liked it.
“Damn,” he said to himself. “I was beginning to really enjoy insanity.” He looked in the back seat at the dog, but heard no voice in response. He returned his eyes to the road and pondered whether anything he just experienced was real. He decided that whether it was or not, he preferred that world to the one he existed in today. “I don’t know where you want to take me, but I’m ready for the journey.”
“Now you’re talking, Son. Just listen real close, and I’ll tell you how this is all going to play out. You with me, Son?” Whiteside nodded his head in agreement and waited, mesmerized by the canine instruction. His cell phone rang, but he ignored it.
The Bernie Factor Page 37
