Zero Option

25

It was going on sundown when Stafford got back to the motel. He had stopped for a late lunch in Anniston, then spent a long time crawling through the Saturday-afternoon traffic getting down to Oxford. He parked the government sedan reasonably near his room in the fourth building and was unlocking the door when a voice behind him said his name. He whirled around and found a black man there.

“Yes?” he said, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice. It was times like this that he really missed the use of his arm.

“I’m Kevin Durand. I was in the provost marshal’s office this mornin.”

Heard you asking’ if there was something’ going’ on ‘bout chemical weapons and shit. Heard you say you were a federal agent and that you were stayin’ down here.”

“Is there something going on, Mr. Durand?”

“Yeah, I think there is.” He looked up and down the line of doors, as if uncomfortable talking about it out in the open. Stafford decided to take a chance.

“Come on in then,” he said. “Tell me about it.”

Durand went in with him and sat down in the chair by the television. He told Stafford a story about his girlfriend, Specialist Latonya Mayfield, who was reportedly being held in the disciplinary barracks, which is why he had been at the provost marshal’s office that morning. The word Durand was getting through the grapevine was that she and some other enlisted were being held incommunicado because of some flap having to do with some missing materials over at the depot. He hadn’t succeeded in getting any answers.

When Durand had finished, Stafford asked him what Specialist Mayfield’s assignment was. When Durand told him, Stafford nodded thoughtfully.

Durand’s story had essentially confirmed one element of the puzzle: It really did sound as if the Army had lost something, and it was probably Durand’s girlfriend who had discovered it in the first place.

“Are you able to talk to her?” t “No, sir. I’ve tried to call, and I even went to the depot to see if I could get in. All’s I’ve had is one message from some elerk, who says she’s okay and for me not to worry about her. Says she’s on some special detail. But that’s not what I’m hearin’.”

“But you are worried about her, right?” “Yes, sir,” he said. “There’s definitely some kinda shit going’ down over there.”

Stafford thought about what to say next. He wasn’t sure he wanted to share what he knew — correction, what he suspected — with a civilian. Even though the civilian had had the grace to share what he knew with him, his conscience reminded him.

“Mr. Durand,” Stafford said, “I happen to think you’re right. I suspect they’re holding Specialist Mayfield until they get their problem sorted out, whatever it is. And somehow, this all ties in with something I’m working on back in Atlanta. Tell me, you have somewhere to go?”

Durand stared at him. “Say what? You mean like get out of town?”

“Yeah. That’s exactly what I mean. Lower your profile. Take a short trip.”

“What about Latonya?”

“If what I suspect is happening is indeed happening, they’ve got much bigger problems than Latonya.”

“And you think I oughta just split!”

“Yes. Can you do that without too much trouble?” Durand smiled. “Can a black man disappear in Alabama? You kiddin’?”

“Okay. Then I’d get out of sight if I were you.” Durand shook his head.

“But what’ve I done?”

“Nothing, Mr. Durand. It’s what the Army thinks you might know that could get you in trouble.”

“But I’m a civilian!”

“Would you call this an Army town, Mr. Durand?” Durand pursed his lips and thought about that. He nodded. “Oh yeah. No doubt ‘bout that.”

“Well, then.”

Durand thanked him and then left. Stafford looked up the number for Ray Sparks’s office. He should be at home, he thought. It’s a Saturday, and it’s almost six o’clock, but I better check the office, just in case.

The phone was answered on the first ring. “DCIS, Sparks. We’re non-secure.”

“Ray.”

“Dave! Where the hell are you? You were supposed to come in here this morning.” Stafford thought he could hear someone else in the office, but then Sparks apparently hit the mute button on his handset.

“Thought you meant Monday, Ray,” Stafford said, trying to keep it light.

“Never knew you to work Saturdays.” “I said this morning. So where the hell are you?” Definitely key-set mode, Stafford thought. Sparks was having to press a key to talk, which meant he wanted to keep any background conversations in the office off the line.”

“Anniston, Alabama.” “Dave, Dave, Dave: I told you to leave that Army thing alone.”

“I know, but let me tell you what I’ve found out.” He went on to describe the essence of what Kevin Durand had told him, naming Durand only as a confidential informant. “They’ve lost a weapon, Ray. I just know they have. And. I’m willing to bet that slippery bastard Carson has it. We can’t just sit on something like that.”

There was a pause. Stafford wondered if Sparks was talking to someone else. “Where exactly are you in Anniston, Dave?” Sparks asked.

Stafford felt a chill. “Exactly? In a motel, Ray. Why?” I “Which motel, Dave? Got a number so I can call you back? A room number?”

“You sound like I’m a fugitive from justice, Ray. You getting some help with this matter?”

“Dave, don’t be cute. Where are you? Which fucking motel?”

Stafford slowly hung up the phone and then stared down at it. What the hell is this? He thought for a moment

What had he told the clerk at the PM office that morning?

Enough, apparently. Durand had found him easily enough. Sparks wouldn’t be far behind.

He packed up as fast as he could with one hand, strapped his briefcase to his bag, and then got the hell out of there. He stopped at the door to the parking lot and scanned the area, but nothing out of the ordinary appeared to be going on. He walked as casually as he could to the Crown Vie and put his bags in. He looked around the parking area one more time, and then he got in and drove out of the lot. Diagonally across the four-lane highway was a Best Western motel. He drove down an access road to a stoplight, went across the road, and then drove back one block to the Best Western parking lot, turning so he could face the car toward the Holiday Inn, which was now diagonally across the state highway from him. He parked but kept the engine running.

Damn, damn, damn, he thought. What in the hell is going on here? He could understand Sparks’s earlier reluctance to believe his theory about a missing weapon, but when he called in with corroborating evidence, Sparks had acted as if he were setting up an arrest. My arrest, he realized. He recalled what Carson had threatened to do. Maybe Carson hadn’t waited until Monday.

Twenty minutes later, he saw what he had been waiting for: Three Army MP cars with flashing blue and red lights emerged from under the interstate overpass to his left and pulled into the access road across the way.

They sped into the Holiday Inn parking lot, and a dozen MPs in uniform spilled out and headed for the motel building. An Army sedan drove in behind them.

Dave didn’t hesitate. He backed up the Crown Vie, then drove it down the access road on his side to the intersection containing the ramps leading to the interstate. But then he had a thought. If Sparks is part of this, the MPs have to know what I’m driving, and they will expect me to be hauling ashes somewhere out on 1-20. So don’t do that. What I have to do is get rid of this very conspicuous car.

He thought fast, waiting for the light to change.

Where’s the last place they’ll look for me? Back on the base. Back at Fort Mcclellan, where there’s a base motor pool, and where maybe I can fake a problem with this car and get another one while the military police are out scouring the highways. He made up his mind as the light changed and he pulled out, turning left and heading north on the state road back into Oxford. He watched the red and blue police lights fluttering behind him in his mirror until the interstate overpass blocked them from view.

Thirty minutes later, in near darkness, he pulled into the base motor pool at Fort Mcclellan, thanking his household gods that the post gates were unguarded. He parked the Crown Vie in the lane nearest to the motor pool’s office. There appeared to be one person on duty in the small office. There were three lanes’ worth of trucks and sedans parked around him, probably because it was a Saturday night. He shut the car down and reached under the dash to find the fuse box. He discovered that the car had circuit breakers instead of fuses. Cracking the door, he scrunched down under the dash to read the labels by the light near the edge of the door. He found the breaker marked headlights and pulled the wires out of the breaker. Just to make sure, he used a pocketknife to cut them off where they disappeared into the fire wall.

He walked into the office and identified himself to the duty sergeant as a DCIS agent. He told him a story about his Fort Gillem car’s lights crapping out on him and said that he needed a replacement car right away. The sergeant insisted on checking out the problem with the lights, saying that he wasn’t sure if he could issue a replacement car, since this was Fort Mcclellan and the Crown Vie belonged to Fort Gillem. Dave blustered his way through all the bureaucratic objections. Fifteen minutes later, he was headed back out the southernmost gate in a very used black two-door Chrysler sedan.

He turned south on the state road and headed back through Anniston toward Oxford, watching for MP vehicles. Seeing signs for 1-20, he turned off me main drag onto Highway 78, which led him east toward another interchange. He did not fancy being in an Army car down near the Holiday Inn interchange, assuming they were still down there beating the bushes.

Once he got to the interstate, he headed east, back toward Atlanta, not exceeding the speed limit. He figured that this Army car would suffice for about one night. His plan was to go to the airport, park the sedan way out in economy parking, and then go into the terminal and rent a civilian car. He looked at his watch. It was an hour and a half to Atlanta, so he should be able to get to the rental car desks before they closed for the night After that, he had no idea of what he was going to do. At the very least, he had to warn Gwen Warren. Two people knew he had been to Graniteville. Sparks was one, and he knew why Stafford had been there.

Carson was the other, although he shouldn’t know about the girl, unless he remembered the airport incident and put two and two together.

He dreaded calling Gwen Warren after all his promises to keep the government away from the kids at Willow Grove, but he’d told Sparks about the girl, and now it looked like Sparks was working with the Army.

Would be tell them about the girl’s psychic vision of the cylinder? He swore as he thought about that. Gwen Warren would kick his ass for that.

The Army had to be going apeshit over the cylinder, the appearance of military police at a civilian motel was proof of just how desperate they were. Have to get rid of this car. He pushed it up to eighty, and watched for cops.