Zero Option

50

Carson sat in the pickup truck, trying to eat a seriously awful microwaved hamburger while he watched the state road leading up into Graniteville. Even though he had the windows open, it was hot inside the truck. Or his temperature was elevated. Probably both. He was perspiring freely, and the huge cup of Coke wasn’t helping very much.

The wound on his back was actually feeling better, although the stiffness was increasing. He reminded himself to change that bandage when he got back to the cabin.

He had pulled into the minimart twenty minutes ago, parking behind the store and near the pair of phone booths at the edge of the parking area.

He’d gone in and bought food, hiding most of his face behind a pair of opaque sunglasses and a ball cap. It was the middle of the afternoon, and fortunately there wasn’t much going on in and around the gas station. In the whole time he had been there, he hadn’t seen a single cop car come down the road, which hopefully meant the manhunt hadn’t reached the mountain towns yet. He needed just a few more hours.

He looked down at the piece of paper with the number of the Willow Grove Home on it. He’d been amazed that the woman down in Smyrna had just told him where Stafford was. Graniteville. Willow Grove, a school of some sort. “Yes, I can give you the number. He doesn’t really work here, you know,” she’d said. He had thought about calling the place, getting directions, and driving out there, maybe surprising Inspector Stafford, but it was a school. He didn’t like the idea of starting something in a school yard, not unless he could pin that on Stafford, too. Besides, he reminded himself, he was going to let the government do in Mr. Smart-Ass Stafford.

He looked at his watch, crumpled the remains of the hamburger into a greasy ball, got out of the car, and went to the phone booth, where he placed the second call. A woman’s voice answered. “-Willow Grove Home and School. This is Mrs. Benning.”

“I’m calling for a Mr. David Stafford,” he replied. “My name is Carson.”

“Just a moment, sir.” The woman put her hand over the mouthpiece and said something to someone else in the room. Then she was back, her tone breathless. “Just a minute, Mr. Carson. We’re getting him.”

He waited impatiently, very conscious of just how visible he was in the glass booth. But the road remained comfortingly empty, the old concrete shimmering in the midafternoon sun.

Stafford hurried through the hallway to Owen’s office, John Lee Warren right behind him. Gwen was standing by her desk, looking anxiously across the room at them as they came in. She held her palm tight across the mouthpiece.

“Can you trace this call?” Stafford asked the sheriff quietly as he reached for the phone.

John Lee shook his head. “Not without prior arrangements. The nearest manned central office is over in Reidsville.” Stafford mouthed a silent curse and took the phone from Gwen. “This is Stafford,” he said. The handset was slippery. It was warm and humid in the house.

“I want to make a deal,” Carson said without preliminaries. “I’ll hand over the weapon in return for a maximum five-year sentence at Club Fed.”

“Why the hell you calling me, Carson? I’m not a judge. How did you get this number?” “Your office in Smyrna told me where you were, Stafford. I figure I don’t have much time. I’ll turn over the weapon to you and only to you.

Up there in Graniteville. You arrange the deal with whoever’s on my trail. I’ll call you back in an hour.” “Wait!” Stafford said. “Why call me? Why not call the Army?”

“Did you see what they did to my DRMO? That was no accidental fire.

Those bastards are crazy. Besides, I want to see you one more time. For old times’ sake.”

“Sure you do. And what if I don’t want to play?”

“I can always find a suitable home for it, Stafford. I don’t know what’s in that thing, but I’ll bet it’s a little bitch with its top off. What do you think?”

Stafford relented. “Right. Okay, deal. I’ll make some calls. Where are you?”

There was no reply. Stupid question, Stafford thought. “Right,” he said again. “Scratch that. You call me back here in an hour.”

There was a click on the line and Carson was gone.

“What did he want?” the sheriff asked. “What’s this ‘deal’ all about?”

“He’s figured out that he’s dead meat and that the weapon is his only leverage. He wants to trade the weapon for a reduced sentence.”

The sheriff mopped his brow. Gwen was shaking her head. “This is the man in the airport, isn’t it? He wants to bring that thing here?”

Dave sat down at her desk. “He says he wants to turn the weapon in.

Getting that weapon back under government control is more important than hanging the guy who stole it. I’m sure everyone involved is going to think that way. It sounds like he’s ready to come in after that, preferably before some Army sniper team finds him. I’ve got to call Atlanta.”

“Why doesn’t he take his damn deal to Atlanta?” the sheriff growled. “We don’t need any chemical weapons here.”

“He insists on dealing through me. Look, I’m just going to tell them what he told me. Let them make the decisions. He’s afraid of the FBI and the Army, as well he should be.” “I wonder where the hell he is,” the sheriff said.

“This is the age of cell phones, Sheriff. He could be anywhere. He could be here already. Now let me get on this.” He called Ray Sparks.

Afternoon shadows were gathering along the creek when Carson made his second call to Willow Grove. He decided it was okay to use his government-issue cell phone this time, figuring there was no longer any need to hide the transmission. This time, Stafford picked up, ready to offer what he’d discussed with Sparks.

“Where do we stand?” Carson asked.

“I’ve talked to Atlanta. I’ve got the deal. Club Fed. Five years.

There’s an FBI team coming up with the papers. I expect them by eight o’clock tonight.”

“That’s over four hours from now. Why so long?”

‘ They have to get a federal prosecutor and a judge to sign’ off on the deal. Then it takes two, three hours to get here. The guy heading up the FBI team is named Kie sling.”

“Why don’t they fly up? Use a helo?”

“Probably don’t want to do that in the mountains at night. I don’t know.

The FBI isn’t into explaining.”

“Okay. We meet where?”

“The sheriff’s office, at the county courthouse in Graniteville. His name is John Lee Warren. You come into town, you’ll run right into the courthouse square,” Carson thought about that. “All right,” he said. “I assume the whole world is looking for me right now. If I come driving into Graniteville, I expect this to be civilized, right? I’m not looking to be put on my face in the street by a bunch of Georgia no-necks with sticks and dogs.”

“You’re turning yourself in as part of a federal plea bargain arrangement. You come in alone, and you come in unarmed, and everything will be businesslike. You do understand that the government is more interested in retrieving that weapon than in busting you, don’t you?”

“I do. I also understand my government might be very interested in silencing me. Permanently. So you understand that I won’t have it with me, right? That I’ll want to see civilians in coats and ties, not soldiers in chem suits when I get there?”

“Yes.”

“Because if I see any sign of the Army, the deal’s off.

Those fucking Army guys are acting like a bunch of psychos.”

“Maybe that’s because they’re scared of what’s in that cylinder, Carson.” “Then everybody better play by my rules,” Carson said. “Here’s the rest of it. I want an attorney. Any Shylock will do. Waiting on the courthouse steps. He will go with me into the sheriff’s office, where he will swear in writing that the FBI’s paper is legitimate.” He had to pause to get his breath. “Then I want that attorney to go with me to wherever they take me in Atlanta. To witness the fact that I was alive in federal custody when I left Graniteville, and still alive when I got to Atlanta. After that, I’ll take my chances, and I’ll tell you where the weapon is.”

“They’ll probably go along with most of that,” Stafford said. “Except for two things. Make that three things. First, I don’t think you’re going to leave here until they have that weapon in federal custody. I understand you won’t bring it with you, but they’ll want to see it as soon as you sign the paperwork.” Carson thought about that. It was hard to think; his head was really pounding now, and that greaseburger was not going to remain down for much longer. Getting the deal was important. But what else? “Okay,” he replied.

“And the second is that the attorney cannot know what this is about. You tell him, or anyone else, and your deal goes south.”

“I can live with that,” Carson said. “What’s the third?”

“I’m not going to be there. You’ll have to deal with the FBI. I’ve set the deal up, but then I’m out of it.”

Carson frowned, trying to concentrate. Then he remembered what he was going to do to Stafford once he was in custody. “Why?”

“My agency doesn’t love me anymore, so I’ve resigned,” Stafford said.

“They’ve told the FBI that, so they don’t want me involved. So you deal with them.”

“That’s not what I wanted.”

“Way I see it, it’s them or the Army.”

Carson thought about that. He really didn’t have any other options, and then he realized he could still implicate Stafford. “Okay,” he said. “We have a deal. I’ll be at the Graniteville courthouse at eight P.M. And remember, no fucking Army.”