The Fog of Dreams
Page 7
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Strickland's casual jog grew even slower as the trees gave way to houses and he found himself trotting along a concrete sidewalk instead of a dirt path beside the road. He hadn't been jogging for very long, surprising him that he'd gone five miles in such a short amount of time and with such relative ease. The houses along this main street were nice, a sign of the relative affluence of this small town Vermont neighborhood. Ironically, he wagered that most of the homeowners throughout this stretch of pavement likely had come north from Massachusetts, Connecticut, and New York drawn by the desire to live a simple, small town life. Life in this small town sure didn't seem
simple to him right now.
Up ahead, he spotted what looked like two fuel islands in a parking lot. The roof of a small convenience store slowly came into view as he passed a yellow house on his right. Cars were milling about, preparing for their early morning commute, and it was the normal hustle and bustle. With slight hesitation, he approached the store, keeping on the sidewalk. This was a small town, after all, and certainly someone here had seen him or talked to him before. Better yet, certainly they knew his family. His mailman, his doctor, even the guy who mowed his lawn. Someone here, had answers, he was sure of it.
However, the reception was surprisingly non-existent. He weaved through parking lot traffic and a rush of people converging on the small single entryway to the store, and even walking up the slight concrete ramp into the building offered no hint of recognition. Scanning the eyes of every person he passed along the way, he searched for some sliver of recollection; anything that could prove to him that he really existed and wasn't just some strange phantom mingling with these normal people. Nothing happened.
Strickland filled up a small cup of Green Mountain Coffee and grabbed a copy of the local newspaper, dropping some cash on the belt and leaving with a nod of thanks to the cashier. Just another nameless face he could not remember. Soon he was back out on the sidewalk facing the town green, and the small elementary school sat in a proud brick building behind it. It had the brickwork of a century's old single schoolhouse, with its multiple expansions in the decades since. He knew there must have been parent/teacher conferences in this small building, but this entire scene before him might as well had been on the surface of Mars.
Casting his eyes to his right, he noticed a small wooden bench, so he sat down, eased the cup of coffee onto the sidewalk at his feet, and flipped open the local newspaper. Just above the flipped newspaper, Strickland's narrow eyes scanned the immediate area, searching for anything that could answer any of the questions bumping around in his brain. There was, however, one building that stood out from the others. Just across the street from the bench was a large town hall, and in small town Vermont, such a building held many secrets. For a few moments, he sipped at his coffee and watched the town hall above his newspaper, casually flipping the pages as if reading. The passersby took no notice, but the two men dressed in black within a nearby sedan certainly were paying close attention. As they watched, the man appeared to finish his coffee, then stood and shoved both the empty cup and the newspaper into a nearby trashcan. Proceeding across the street, his glare focused intently on the building in front of him, and then seconds later, he was inside.
Burndock dialed up the familiar number yet again. "Agent Grace, subject has just entered the local town hall. Please advise."
"What are you afraid of, Agent?" Grace asked, trying to temper his irritated tone. "What can he possibly find in the town public records that could harm us?"
"Understood, sir, but our prime directive is to keep him on a certain path. He's been at this for less than 36 hours and he has greatly deviated from that path."
"This is the entire point of this exercise, Agent. Let it ride. Do not interfere unless there is potential harm to our program or the general public, in that order."
"Yes, sir."
Grace tapped his earpiece silent and shook his head. These field agents were nothing like he was back in the day, very incapable of thinking on their feet. In his mind, this operation was fluid and a fascinating experiment in the human condition. Every decision that Strickland made spoke volumes about the way the human mind worked, and Grace relished every moment. This op could get him kicked straight up top.
Burndock crossed his thick arms over his broad chest that had served him well as a linebacker for Ohio State University. Unlike many of his peers, his impressive academic talent evenly matched his athletic skill, and both served him well in his current employment with the NSA. Sure, his physical state landed him more field duties than a normal analyst might end up with, but he was okay with that. He had to admit, though, the Strickland op was getting under his skin. Knowing just a little bit of the background of what happened to William Strickland gave Burndock an uneasy feeling. What bothered him most about the operation wasn't what Strickland was being put through; it was more the casual way in which Agent Grace handled the potential negative impact on the agency. Strickland was given a long leash, and the operation hinged on this one unstable guy whose next move was wholly unpredictable. How could that be a good thing? His trust in his boss and confidence in his intelligence were the only things currently keeping this operation on track.
Inside the town hall, Strickland made a quick path to the town clerk and smiled skillfully at the large woman who stood behind the counter looking mistrusting. As he approached, walking through a narrow doorway just to the left of a large hall window, his eyes scanned the area cautiously. Almost immediately, they had locked in on a small door at the end of the hallway marked "Private - Authorized Entry Only."
"How can I help you, sir?" the large woman behind the counter asked with a glare.
"I need access to some public records, please," Strickland replied, knowing somewhere in his mind that Vermont's Freedom of Information regulations were incredibly transparent.
"Can I ask the purpose of this request, sir?" the woman asked, making no sign that she intended to comply with this random request.
"I'm looking for minutes from the school board meetings. The recent budget they passed doesn't jive with what we've heard in the past." Even as he was speaking the words, Strickland was impressed with his on the spot thinking.
As for the woman? She was suitably unimpressed. "Sir, we need a written request and at least two separate forms of identification. Can you provide those to us?"
Strickland flashed a grin of embarrassment. "Ah. I was afraid of that. I was just out for a jog and left my identification at home," he motioned to his running attire still patched with marks of sweat.
"Well, honey," the woman said, with a clear echo of superiority and false kindness, "you just come on back when you can bring me those things, 'kay? Then we'll talk."
Strickland smiled sheepishly and turned around, then walked down the hall towards the small door marked "Private" that he had seen earlier. It was a simple oak door with a regular lock in the knob, no deadbolt or padlock, and no clear sign of electronic alarm.
"Hey, honey!" came the voice behind him.
Strickland turned. "Is there a men's room in here?" he asked.
The woman nodded and pointed towards the ceiling. "Upstairs. There's nothing for you down there."
He acquiesced and walked back towards the town clerk's office, then continued, walking up the small flight of stairs he had come down and straight for the exit.
"All right, he's moving," said Burndock quietly to Agent Halifax who sat in the seat next to him, blond hair swept over his forehead.
"Are we pursuing?" Halifax asked, but Burndock didn't immediately reply. He watched Strickland closely as he left the town hall and walked back up Main Street. His look was focused and intense. Something about it made Burndock more than a little unsettled.
"Hold back. I think he's heading back home. No use in pursuing right away. We saw how fast this guy moves. Give him about twenty minutes then head back to post. Mathis is back at Day Watch already, so he'll give us the heads up w
hen he arrives."
"Twenty minutes? It must be a ten-mile trek back to his house. You think he'll get there that soon? The dude is obviously fast, but?"
The look on Strickland's face burned into Burndock's mind. "Yeah. I think he will."
Sure enough, less than twenty-five minutes later, Strickland's pounding feet brought him up the dirt road to his gravel driveway and carried him to his front door, sweat pouring over his white running shirt in slick streams. He slowed to a walk as he reached the front door and halted for just a minute to bend over and grab his knees, taking a moment to catch his breath. Amazingly, a moment was all it took, and then he swung the door open and went inside.
The first place Strickland went was the secret arsenal in his basement office, which was quickly becoming the place he felt most at ease. For the next several hours, he sat on the floor, disassembling and reassembling his weapons. His hands travelled over the smooth metallic surface of the guns on their own accord, as if he had done it a thousand times before. The irony was not lost on him that he had no idea where his kids went to school, but he could field strip a SCAR 17 assault rifle in less than ten minutes flat.
He wasn't sure how long he sat there working through every pin, screw, and chamber of the weapons in that room, but the sun had set and the birds had stopped their crooked chirping. Realizing that he should get something to eat, Strickland rose to his feet and walked up the stairs to the kitchen, but he could only stare aimlessly at the assortment of food in the refrigerator. All he wanted was sleep. Rubbing his temples, he staggered to his living room couch, tumbled onto it, and fell into fitful rest.
"Jesus, what is with this guy?" Breer lowered his night vision goggles as he stared at the Styrofoam cup sitting in the holder beside the steering wheel of his sedan.
"What?" The second man in the car asked, lowering his own cup and scowling down at it. "Christ, this town doesn't even have a friggin' Starbucks."
"Dude just spent the last four hours field-stripping machine guns and crashed out on the couch," Agent Breer said to Jackson Lewis, the field agent sitting next to him. "Hasn't slept in his own bed in two days."
"Train wreck is what he is."
In some cases, the NSA contracted out to a third party to take care of their "light work" and now, Night Watch at the Strickland house was considered light work.
"We got any backup tonight?" Lewis asked the man in the driver's seat as he pressed the button and slid down his window.
"Just us two, Jackie."
"What's the deal with this shmuck?" Jackson asked as he dumped his lukewarm coffee out the window and onto the grass.
"They don't pay us ta know. Just ta watch."
Jackson hit his seat lever and leaned back, closing his eyes. Both he and Breer worked for a private security company out of New York City. Honestly, they hadn't been crazy about picking up this detail in the first place. The money was great, and the travel wasn't terrible, but they were both city boys and working up in the wilderness was enough to drive them both nutty. Lewis held out his hand and Breer flopped the night vision goggles into it as the passenger pushed open his car door and stepped out into the brisk early morning air. Glancing at the clock on the car dashboard as he stepped out, he noted the 3:45 a.m. time and once again wondered exactly what had brought him to this point. Three more hours? only three more hours.
"This shit is worse than police work," Breer growled.