Zero Option

47

Carson sat in the cabin and studied the cylinder, which was sitting partially on ice in the white plastic cooler in the middle of the room.

It was going on midday, and the sunlight filtering through the trees along the creek was getting stronger. He had a mild headache, which he thought might be attributable to a low-grade fever. His upper back had settled into a throbbing pelt of low-level pain, but as long as he didn’t lean back on it, he was reasonably okay. He was counting on an antibiotic cream to knock down any infection.

After leaving the shopping center, he had traveled north on the state road, climbing into the Georgia foothills. He’d passed several places with vacation cabins, all filled, until he found one near the bottom of a long canyon that wasn’t’ very big, or very nice-looking, for that matter. This one had only ten potty-looking cabins, all ranging along a crooked small creek that came tumbling down a rocky, tree-covered hillside. The complete absence of beautiful mountain views meant the place had several vacancies.

The owner-manager probably had something to do with the vacancies: He was a scraggly-faced old man with tobacco-stained teeth and a disposition to match, who kept complaining about Floridiots, apparently in reference to the many Florida license plates in the area. Carson had asked for the last cabin on the row in order to put himself as far back from the road as possible. He had flashed his cash roll when he went in to register in order to make sure the manager had something to look at besides his face and truck. Only one of the other cabins appeared to be occupied.

There were no phones or televisions in the cabins, and the nearest grocery store was in Graniteville, about eight miles farther up into the mountains. The cabin had cooking facilities, a single bedroom, a living room and eating area, and a tiny porch overlooking the ravine where the creek ran. Carson had paid in advance for three nights.

Now he sat in the bare cabin, his shirt off, with the motel towel still pressed over the salve-covered wound. His revolver lay out on the table as he watched the sunlight reflect off the smooth sides of the cylinder.

The top of the stainless steel cylinder still felt warm to the touch, but the ice was helping.. He’d been doing a lot of thinking since he’d holed up in the cabin. The Army had to know by now that Wendell Carson had been trying to shop a stolen chemical weapon. He didn’t know if that guy from Tangent’s team had been consumed by the Monster, but that wasn’t his problem. The authorities wouldn’t care: just one less bad guy to prosecute. The big thing was that mere had to be a massive manhunt in progress by now. They could not know where he might run, because he himself did not know. He had simply bolted out of Atlanta and gone to ground like a harried fox at the first available hole. He also had to assume that the bearded man in the van would report his signs and plate missing, and that the cops would eventually make the connection with the rest area. That discovery would narrow the search down to the I-85 corridor northeast of Atlanta. They might assume he would keep going north on the interstate into North Carolina, but they would surely sweep both sides of it, using the Highway Patrol and the network of local county sheriffs.

Face it, he told himself: This is only a matter of time. Hours, maybe.

Even up here in the mountains, some deputy sheriff will eventually come nosing into the driveway up there by the state road. And it wasn’t like he could slap on a backpack and take off up the Appalachian Trail. He had never been much of a Boy Scout And he couldn’t go back to normal operations, because every aspect of his former life would be crawling with feds right about now. The

FBI would have the damned IRS seizing his bank accounts, and there were probably federal marshals camped out at his house by now. He face twisted in a smile at the thought of Maude dealing with federal marshals, and federal marshals having to deal with Maude.

Face it, man: It’s over. It’s all over. Your only buyer is in custody, and probably singing his lungs out. All that money went up in smoke, and the whole world is now searching for Wendell Carson and the Army’s precious damned cylinder.

He thought about Stafford, coming on the scene just as Wendell Carson’s main chance was dropping into his hands. He went back through the familiar mental litany: How had goddamn Stafford found out? He stared down at the gleaming steel cylinder. Stafford had even been able to describe it. How the hell could he have known that? And then a new possibility came to him: Tangent had said that Stafford had been shit-canned from his Washington assignment over some unspecified, problems up there. Could he be a dirty cop? Could Tangent have paid Stafford off to verify that Carson really had the weapon, and maybe to scope out the DRMO, before Tangent came down there with a million in cash? They were both from Washington, and everybody paid off everyone in Washington. But then he reconsidered: That didn’t work, because he was pretty sure he had never told Tangent exactly what the thing looked like, only that he had the guts of a chemical weapon.

No, Stafford had been freelancing. He’d stumbled onto knowledge of the weapon somehow and then told the Army, not Tangent. That’s right, because Tangent had almost backed out of the deal when he heard the Army was coming to have a look. But this still took him back to Stafford: How had Stafford known Carson had the weapon, as well as what it looked like?

More to the point, he told himself, what options do I have now? He couldn’t bring himself just to ditch the thing. He did not know precisely what was in it, but he sensed that it was beyond dangerous.

But therein might lie his one chance to help himself. The cylinder was his only leverage with the authorities. Maybe he should call them on the cell phone. Offer to give it up in return for what, a reduced sentence?

No. Hide the damn thing, get a deal in writing, signed by a judge, and then tell them where it was. But if he called them, especially on a cell phone, wouldn’t they just come pounce on his ass?

It was getting warm in the cabin. He got up, wincing at the sharp pain from his upper back, and went over to open the porch door. It isn’t as if I’ve gotten away with then-money, he thought bitterly, although they might not know that. He was actually more scared of the Army than of the FBI. If the Army caught up with him before the FBI or the local authorities did, they might just flatten him like they’d flattened the DRMO last night. He could not erase the image of that helmeted, faceless man walking purposefully down the aisles, almost casually dispensing his firebombs. That whole scene had shocked him to the core. Being manager of the DRMO had meant something to him. Even though he’d been stealing from it for years, he’d taken a sort of perverse pride hi running it well, despite the scam, but they’d burned the damn thing down without a moment’s hesitation, on just the chance that the cylinder was in there.

What would they do to him if they caught him alone out here in this cabin? Ruby Ridge part two, that’s what. Six monsters with green paint on their faces and branches and leaves hi then hair would come diving through the window, screaming

“Hoo-aah,” and cut Wendell Carson’s head off, that’s what.

The sunlight outside was definitely getting brighter, which was not helping his headache. Somewhere out there on the highways and byways there were hundreds of cops of all kinds looking for him. They’d have his picture by now from DLA security. They’d be stopping by convenience stores, Waffle Houses, Huddle Houses, Mcdonald’s, Burger Kings, rest areas, motels and minimarts, and at every gas station. “You seen this man? You seen this Army-green pickup truck?” Eventually, there’d be that deputy’s cruiser quietly pulling in at the front entrance of this little dump. Maybe not this morning, but certainly in the next twenty-four hours. And then what? He could visualize one of those standoff scenes he’d seen a hundred times on television, with a hundred cop cars flashing blue strobes all over the woods while a SWAT team aimed carefully at the cabin, and for a chemical weapon, they very well might just kill him first and ask questions later. Especially out here in these remote mountains.

If he had salvaged the money, there might be a reason for going on with mis thing, but now … now he knew he’d better make a deal while he still held some cards. But just once, just for a minute maybe, he’d like to have that fucking Stafford at the end of a gun barrel. Even if Tangent had been planning to double-cross him all long, Wendell Carson might have pulled it off if Stafford hadn’t tipped off the Army.

And then it came to him: Maybe there was a way to get back at Stafford, like contact the feds and tell them he’d give the cylinder back in return for consideration in court, but he would give it only to Stafford. And then when he had Stafford, do what? Shoot him? That might feel good, but it wouldn’t help his own situation. Suppose, just suppose, he could implicate Stafford? Tell the FBI, for instance, that Stafford had found out about the cylinder and then tried to horn in on the deal: He’d keep quiet about the weapon in return for a share of the money, which was why Stafford had been there when the Army team first showed up: He’d been protecting his interests. That’s how he had known what the cylinder looked like: He’d forced Carson to tell him. Stafford the dirty cop. From what Tangent had said, Stafford already had problems within DCIS. If he, already had enemies, Stafford could be well and truly fucked up.

He paced the room, thinking hard, sensing a weakness in his plan.

Calling the cops — would that work? No. The moment he called, they’d trace the call and come gunning.

They were focused on the cylinder; Wendell Carson was a secondary target.

Then he had an even better idea: Contact Stafford, not the feds. Tell him he’d turn over the cylinder in return for some consideration. And once everyone was focused on Stafford, then implicate his interfering ass. Tell the feds Stafford had the money. It almost didn’t matter what he told them, because they were probably pissed off at Stafford anyway.

Yes, by God, that would work. Wendell Carson was going down the tubes anyway, but this way, he could take that bastard with him. For free.

Forget Tangent: He was” already in the shatter. But what sweet revenge it would be to tar Stafford. The government would hound Stafford for the rest of his life, looking for that money, with IRS audits every year, twice a year, while Wendell Carson raked leaves at Club Fed. Yes!

But first, he had to find Stafford. He went out to the truck, retrieved his briefcase, and extracted his phone list. Yes, there it was: the number for the DCIS office in Smyrna. There was no phone in the cabin, and he didn’t want to use the cell phone yet, or the cabin manager’s office phone, not with that long-eared creep standing there. The manager had said the nearest town was Graniteville. He’d have to risk using the truck; the spray-paint job had been pretty effective on the serial numbers, but it wouldn’t fool an alerted cop. He could go to Graniteville, find a pay phone at a minimart, invent some telephone identity, maybe pose as someone from Washington, and call the Smyrna office. Then what?

He sat down. Damn it. His headache was getting worse, not better, and all this plotting and scheming wasn’t helping. Where would Stafford be after that fire? He should be’ at the DCIS regional office down there in Smyrna. There’d be a big-deal investigation in progress, and probably some degree of chaos at the DCIS office. So do what? Get him up here into the mountains? Make him come.where, to the cabin? To the nearest town, Graniteville? He knew nothing about Graniteville, other than that name was still tickling some memory.

And would Stafford come alone? Or would he say anything Carson wanted to hear, and then bring the whole world with him? Including those terrifying Army people?

He went over to the bathroom and washed his face with ice-cold water, trying to wake up, trying to bring some clarity to his thinking. The bandage across his shoulders felt tight and just a little bit hot. Tune was running out. If Wendell Carson was going to pull this off, he’d better get on with it, because if they found him before he made his move, he would have zero options left. He dried his face, pushed the cylinder down into the slush in the cooler, and went out to his truck.