Zero Option

53

Stafford put a jacket on this time when he went out with the sheriff to check the grounds. The skies had cleared somewhat and there was more starlight, which ended abruptly where the mountains created their own high horizon.

They made one circuit of the yard, the pond, both groves, and the barn area. They walked quietly, the sheriff smoking another cigarette, and Stafford thinking about what the sheriff had told him.

They were headed back toward the side of the house from the barns when the sheriff stopped and put his hand up in the air, signaling for silence.

“Listen,” he said.

Stafford listened, and he heard it immediately — the sound of a large vehicle climbing the mountain road that’ ran in front of the house. No, not one, but two vehicles. Powerful engines, but not trucks. He thought he recognized the sound. “Those sound like Army vehicles,” he said softly. “What the hell are they doing here? I thought it was just to be the FBI.”

“It was,” the sheriff declared, dropping and mashing out his cigarette.

Together they walked around the pond side of the house as the Suburbans slowed down out on the road and then turned into the driveway, their headlights on bright, momentarily blinding both men. The vehicles came up the driveway and then turned into the circle, parking in an echelon next to the sheriff’s car before shutting down. Stafford recognized the shape of the tall man getting. out of the lead vehicle.

“Mr. Stafford,” the general said. “We meet again.”

“General Carrothers, I presume,” Stafford replied.

“This is John Lee Warren, the sheriff of Longstreet County.”

Carrothers approached, his combat boots crunching on the pea gravel of the driveway, and shook the sheriff’s hand. He was about an inch taller than the sheriff, and the two big men sized each other up for a second as they shook hands. Stafford explained who Carrothers was.

“We weren’t expecting the Army,” Stafford said. “You’re not really part of the deal. In fact, if Carson—”

“Deal?” Carrothers. “What deal?”

“Ray Sparks didn’t tell you? Carson called me. He’s agreed to turn himself in. As soon as he’s convinced he’s physically safe, he’ll turn over the cylinder. Or tell the FBI where it is.”

The general exhaled softly. “Son of a bitch. No, I was not told.”

“Well, your being here is a complication. Carson’s scared shitless you guys are out to kill him. He sees these vehicles, he says the deal is off. He’s supposed to come in at eight. That’s about thirty minutes from right now.”

“He’s coming here!”

“No. Into Graniteville. At eight.” ‘

The phone in the sheriff’s car began to chirp. The sheriff went across, opened the driver’s door, and picked it up. He listened, spoke for a minute, and then hung it up. “The FBI’s here, General. I told them you were here. Some guy named Kiesling wants you to call him. He sounded some agitated,”

“I don’t care to talk to him just now, Sheriff,” Carrothers said.

“Well, then, what do you say we stash you and your vehicles up at the quarry above town. You’ll be close by but out of sight. You got radios in those things?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then I suggest you hurry,” Stafford said. “I’m going to stay right here while the deal goes down.”

“Why?” Carrothers asked. “If he called you, I’d think he’d want you there.”

“He did. But I don’t trust him or the FBI. I believe I know more about this little mess than is healthy for me.”

“You’re a very perceptive man, Mr. Stafford,” Car rothers said. “I came here to talk to you, but I guess we’d i; better get going. Later, perhaps.”

Stafford nodded. The sheriff and Carrothers got back into their respective vehicles and they all drove off. The sudden silence was almost deafening. Stafford sat down on: the front steps of the big house and listened to the assorted vehicles go humming down the road back toward town. If the plan works, he thought, this whole mess ought to be i over in about forty minutes.

He looked up at the bright stars twinkling along the: ridgeline of the mountain across the road. Now that the vehicles were gone, he could hear the night sounds from the willow grove, dominated by a chorus of peepers serenading the pond. There was quite a bit of starlight in the clear mountain air, and he could see surprisingly well. It was a very romantic setting, leading him to wonder where Gwen was. Safe, from all appearances, among her people, who could never be his people. A large mosquito banked noisily past his right ear, and he slapped the air. So much for the romance, he decided, and got up to go back into the house.

Wendell Carson watched from the edge of the pecan grove as the Army vehicles and the sheriff’s car left Willow Grove. He was crouched down behind a tumbling-down stone wall, about fifty feet in from the pavement. His truck was parked a quarter mile back up the road, hidden in some trees on the opposite side of the highway.

It was exactly as he had thought. No FBI. Just those damned Army goons, being helped by the sheriff. He hadn’t been able to see too clearly in the darkness, but the third man standing by the cars had to have been Stafford. Everything Stafford had told him about the FBI and their deal had been a lie. He nodded to himself in satisfaction. Thought they’d put one over on old Wendell Carson, but he’d figured it out. The question now was what to do about it. He shifted his position behind the wall to try to ease the pain. The muscles in his upper back now felt like football pads, swollen, hard and tender all at the same time. He’d taken more Advil to keep the feverish headache at bay, and he’d used up all but one of the six-pack of bottled water he’d swiped from the cabin office before he left. And still he was thirsty.

It was so hard to think. Every tune he tried to arrange his mind, the pain in his back and his head intruded. He was perspiring, even though the surrounding night air was almost cold. His clothes stank and he stank. He’d tried a shower in the cabin and had ended up nearly falling out of the tub. He tried to resurrect the plan. Turn himself in. Verify the government’s deal. Tell them where the cylinder was, which right now was in the back of the truck in its cooler. Implicate Stafford in the theft of the cylinder.

But Stafford had lied. There was no deal waiting for him down there in Graniteville. Just the Army, waiting in ambush for him to show his face, which they would then proceed to blow off. They wanted the cylinder, and they wanted it in secret. He exhaled a long, hot breath. He was sick, his body probably infected by the untreated bullet wound. He did not want to die out here in the woods like some gut-shot deer for this damned thing, but that’s what was going to happen unless he did something. The Army was waiting for him in town. Once they figured out he wasn’t coming, what would they do?

He closed and opened his eyes. He had no idea of what they would do. He had no idea of what the hell he should do. He looked over at the house.

It “was a school and an orphanage. There were lights on upstairs, which meant there were kids in there”. Stafford had stayed behind. Suppose he went in there, got the drop on Stafford, took the place hostage.

Threatened to open the cylinder. Then called — who? The sheriff? No, he was in league with the Army. Better: Threaten to call the media, some Atlanta television station, unless the Army backed out and the FBI came back into the picture to make the deal Stafford had promised him.

Yes, that was right, that was his leverage: The Army couldn’t stand any publicity. Take some hostages, threaten to tell the media, and if they tried some shit, threaten to shoot a kid or open the cylinder. Get a hundred cops and three TV trucks up here, and then let them find out the bad guy inside had a nerve-gas bomb.

The question was, Could he do any of those things? Shoot a kid? Open the cylinder? He didn’t think he could, but then again, they couldn’t know that, and they’d have to assume he could and would. What he did know was that he didn’t have much time.

He looked back over the wall at the big house. The front porch lights were on, and there appeared to be lights on in the back, maybe in a kitchen area. There didn’t appear to be any dogs. Stafford was in there, and some kids upstairs. Maybe a nurse or someone to take care of the kids. How many kids? Doesn’t matter. Stafford matters. Going in circles here. So go get the cylinder. Then creep over there, find Stafford, and go surprise his ass. He straightened up and his back shot lines of fire up and down his spine. Go fast, he thought, staggering a little. James Bond you are not. Go fast while you still can The phone in the kitchen rang at quarter to nine. It was the sheriff. “He’s a definite no-show,” Warren announced.

“Damn,” Stafford replied. “The Bureau, people were there on time?”

“Oh yeah. Three cars’ worth. Coats and ties, real stern faces, the whole bit. They’re not happy. The boss man thinks you are not Mr. Clean.”

“Yeah, well, Ray warned me about that. They being civil?”

“In a manner of speakin’. They say ‘sir’ a lot.” Stafford laughed.

“Well,” he said. “I don’t know what to do but wait. I think he meant it — about coming in. He knows that cylinder is all he’s got to trade:”

“Okay. They’re all set up outside. He shows, they’ll take him, and from the way they’re actin’, he better not twitch a whole lot. We’ll wait some more, but these feds want to start the statewide search up again.”

“I can understand that,” Stafford said. “They know the Army’s there?”

“Yeah. I told them. The Army’s been waiting up at the rock quarry.

They’ve been calling, too. The general’s on his way down here now.”

“Okay,” Stafford said. “Carson contacts me here, I’ll let you know immediately.” “Everything okay there?” the sheriff asked casually.

“You mean is Carson here with a gun at my head? No such luck. No, all’s quiet here.”

They hung up and Stafford went to make some more coffee. That dumb bastard was going to screw this thing up. He wondered again about the weakness in Carson’s voice, and whether or not he’d been injured. He also did not like the sounds of the FBI thinking he was part of this, especially now that Carson was a no-show.