by Will Mosley
“Fine.” Lucus released another long yawn, keeping Heather in seconds of suspense which seemed like hours. “They have them alright. Bri and I have been up since I last talked to you. We searched the entire hard drive and we found that Stuart Hunt, has several small businesses spread out all across the country. But that means nothing. What we figured is that he would have established a business with the sole purpose of housing these guys. Would it be a security company? Probably. So we called those companies and talked with their managers.”
“You didn't ask about the guys, did you?”
“No, silly girl. We talked about our security needs for Haskert Celebrity Entertainment. They'd tell us what services they could provide. When I asked how secure their facilities were, deeming our clients information to be of the utmost importance, they all said that all information was stored off site, on a database somewhere. When I checked the locations of these places on Google Earth, I saw that they were all in highly public areas like shopping centers! Hunt is a fool, I know. I realize that, because of the threat risk your guys pose to the public, he would keep them hidden far from any major towns. I continued checking the hard drive and found six companies that fit that mold. One in particular, Hunt Mining, LLC, located outside of Reading, Pennsylvania, fit perfectly, except that it was closer to a major town than the others. Why would he take the risk, right? Well, I call the other companies – S.H. Oil, Outovation, LLC, they specialize in finding different methods of capturing Geothermal energy,”
“Who knew Hunt was trying to reduce the global carbon footprint?” Heather said.
Lucus laughed. “Yeah. You keep believing that. Then there's the S.H. Wildlife Preserve Foundation, a company in North Dakota that takes DNA from endangered species, breeds them, and allows these animals to roam free across 11,000 acres of pristine wilderness.” Lucus changed his tone and sounded like an overly anxious game show host. “Now you can stalk, hunt and mount your own Bald Eagle! And imagine the look on your friends faces when they see the head of an African Elephant mounted in your great room.”
“This guy is mad!”
“Yes. He is mad. I figured the preserve would definitely be the right location – so much land, ya know. However, when I called Hunt Mining, figuring I'd go ahead and cross them off the list, a guy named Joe answers the phone. The entire time I'm talking to him, he hardly answers a direct question and tells me that all questions will be directed to headquarters. When I ask the location of headquarters, he says, 'I don't have time for your games. I have issues that need to be addressed.' and hangs up. Hunt Mining, I found in the accounting files of the hard drive, produce something called Anthracite coal. Never heard of it until now. The weird thing is that all of Hunt's companies are profitable – some more than others, obviously – but Hunt Mining operates at a loss. And it always has! Who runs a business that doesn't earn money?”
“Unless there's something else going on.” Heather said.
“Right! After I found that out, I remembered that every employee of every Stuart Hunt company is on a database on this hard drive. At Hunt mining there are only two employees listed: A Joe Corrigon and Billy Greeleaf. I assume since Joe answered the phone, that he's either the manager of the place or maybe an administrator. That leaves one other employee. Is he doing all the work by himself?”
“You think that the work is being done by my guys?”
“I don't know. It just seems strange that all of these other companies have a director or manager, executives – several of them at the larger firms – and a list of employees, except Hunt Mining.”
Elation rose in Heather's chest like flood water. “Can you rent me a car?”
“I can do better than that. I was about to purchase tickets on Priceline. Three of them.” Lucus said.
“Tickets?” Heather blinked hard. “Three? Luke, listen. I cannot carry my sidearm on a plane, and you and your weird friend cannot go! Rent the car and I'll give you back the money, of course –,”
Lucus groaned since sleep deprivation had weakened his resolve. “Maybe we could discuss this after I –,”
“No, Luke. It's over.”
“Whatever. I didn't want to go anyway.” He muttered. “I don't know where you're staying so I need the address to bring –,”
“Meet me in town. The Starbucks.”
“You're so paranoid.” Lucus laughed. “Fine. I'll be there.”
“You'll need to keep me posted. Oh, and get some sleep.”
Heather didn't wait for Lucus to hang up, instead she ended the connection and immediately called PK on his personal phone. When he answered, she simply said.
“PK, I will need some help after all. Just two pieces. Not Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dumb either. Now.”
Phil said nothing at first. Then, Heather heard the background noise of low voices in a meeting. “Hey, Honey!” He said. “Uh, huh... uh, huh... Okay, I think I can do that. Just two loaves?”
Heather didn't know whether to speak since he had already covered the conversation so well. But words did slip from her mouth as if by accident. “Just two.”
“Okay, sweetheart. The children are that hungry, huh?” He laughed. “Okay, okay. I'll get them on the way home. Uh, huh... they don't want it toasted?”
Toasted meant heat. Heat meant heavy weapons. “Yes. Toasted. This is not a want. This is a need.” She emphasized 'need'. Need meant that her intelligence was accurate and that she would be proceeding. “Not just toasted, blackened.” The word had a double meaning which she knew he'd understand at once.
“Oh.” There was an imperceptible queerness to his voice that no one around him – no one who hadn't worked closely with him – would pick up on. That wasn't a code, but she knew it meant that he didn't want her to go without him. “Well, can't they wait?”
“No.”
“Hmm.” Phil said, and all jubilation left his voice. “Well, I'll pick that stuff up on the way home. I'll bring some pears home, too. I know how the kids love'em.”
Pear She thought. A word exchanged for the acronym P.A.I.R – Pieces Are In Route.
“Thank you, Phil.”
“Be careful, okay?”
“I will.” Heather said.
“I love you.” PK said.
Heather ended the call.
She packed one duffel bag with a toothbrush, toothpaste, one dress, her Glock, four full magazines and her personal cell phone. Her company phone she left on the dresser since it could be tracked. This evening, her black Tahari Kayla seemed more than appropriate because in just a few hours, after years without contact with the members of her project, she'd be talking with five men who'd been through the process that Whitewash, LLC and the executives therein had aptly named, Blackened.
The coffee was far too expensive for her, but the low light and easy chatter, the soft indie rock that whispered over the speakers and the rich cocoa aroma soothed her on an innate feminine level, awakening her senses before walking into an unknown situation with unknown quantities and an unknown outcome. Since she looked young, she could easily mingle – well, sit unnoticed amongst – the pretentious teens and tweens in the Starbucks, but if someone were to ask her about the latest pop groups, the only thing that would come to mind would be the Spicegirls, or maybe The Jackson 5.
Just five minutes after she arrived, two men walked into the Starbucks. The heads of every young girl turned. Every eye of every man, including the dates, loathed them, but cowered nonetheless as the men examined their surroundings. Some guys even made posturing, yet, softly whispered comments. “They don't look so tough.” The blond kid who sat at a table with three pretty high school girls across from Heather, said to himself.
But they were indeed tough. Very tough. Whether it was in their walk, the absolute erectness of their spines or the character in their scarred faces, everyone in the establishment knew that these two men were not like the others.
“I'd like to get a tall mocha latte, please.” The American, the shorter of the two men said
to the cashier, a tiny brown-eyed brunette who smiled and darted her eyes entrancingly between the two men.
“And, uh, for your friend?” She asked.
“I am not this man's friend,” The taller man, the Russian, said to the cashier. He was joking, as Heather knew, but his hard accent made everything sound serious. “I picked him up outside begging for chocolate candies! How do you call it... 'M'-'M's?... emanems?” It wasn't funny, but the girl smiled anyway, hoping to gain his endearment. The American punched the Russian in the shoulder and laughed. “I will have only a small black coffee.”
“That was stupid, Pavel. No one's laughing except her, and she probably wants your phone number.” The America said.
“Hmm?” Pavel recoiled.
The American nodded. “Why don't you ask her?”
Pavel turned to the girl and ignited her with his blue gaze, his eyes more sharp than round. “Is this true, madam?”
The girl laughed in a way only a high school girl could. “Okay, guys, your total is $4.68.” The American pulled out his wallet and removed a ten dollar bill.
“I do not live far from here.” Pavel whispered, looking eye to eye with the girl, leaning with his forearms on the counter.
The American laughed to himself, then said. “Pavel, she's in high school! I was joking, man. Look how young she is!”
“Hmm?” Pavel turned to the American. “What does this mean, high school?”
“Too young for you, you freak! She's a girl!”
“Yes. I can see this. She has two breasts. See?” Pavel pointed to the girl's chest. The girl, still smiling, covered her self. “There are two of them! Am I wrong about this? What more do I need to know?”
Heather stood up and grabbed her duffel bag with tears of laughter in her eyes. “Okay, guys. That's about enough. I think we need to go now.”
“Heady!” Pavel said with his arms spread. “Come to me, my friend!” She wrapped one arm around Pavel and he swallowed her up in his embrace, then kissed the top of her head.
“Hi, Pavel.” Heather said.
“It has been a very long time.” He took her by the shoulders scoured her body with his eyes. “You are like sunshine in a dress, little woman.”
“So are you! Loud, obnoxious sunshine.” Heather said. The American stuck his hand out to her and vigorously shook.
“Hey, Cal.”
“Heady!” He sang. “How ya been?”
“Very well –,” Heather said, but Pavel seized her and turned her toward the counter.
“Heady, please. Come.” He walked her to the cashier. “Now that you are here, maybe you can help me with a problem. Is this not a girl?”
“Yes, Pavel. But –,”
“Calvin! You are wrong! She is indeed a girl.” Pavel shouted and thumped his chest with a hard fist. “I triumph over you, my friend. I am Drago in the Russian adaptation of your Rocky movie! Therefore, I must continue with this –,” He searched for the word in his limited English. “this 'date', as you call it.”
“Is he still trying?” Heather asked to Cal. Then, she turned to Pavel as she opened the door. “No 'date'. Business. Let's go.”
Outside against the lower ledge of the building were two duffel bags. Pavel and Cal had driven a Whitewash company car to the Starbucks, a silver Chevrolet Aveo that was parked across the street at a dry cleaner, and had their belongings here. For obvious reasons that was not a car they could drive, but Heather noticed it anyway and didn't bother asking to whom the men had offered their expertise. After fifteen minutes of catching up, Lucus arrived in a Beige Toyota Avalon.
“A very unremarkable car! Luke knows me well.” Heather commented. The three of them loaded their meager luggage, Cal tossed the Aveo keys to Lucus, and they left. The only stop on the journey would be Reading, Pennsylvania and Heather prayed – now and before she had left home – that these five men, not only remembered something about the transmission, but that they were alive; their minds were supple as clay, but their learned gifts, forgotten.
Chapter 22.
Another one is gone! Again the thought had splashed through Joe Corrigon's mind like the controlled ebbing of the coastal ocean.
It was only minutes past noon and Bill, with a zig-zag of black thread stitched across his blued nose, slumped in his chair across from him in the trailer office.
“It's been two days, now.” Bill mumbled.
“Thanks for the reminder. I know.” One of Joe's hands laid on the receiver of the phone and the other nervously stroked his eyes and forehead. “You got any suggestions?”
Bill pointed to the phone. “Might as well make the call. You're halfway there.”
“Any other suggestions? Something that doesn't involve calling Kimble?”
Bill shrugged. “I don't know why you're getting yourself all worked up. What's he gonna do besides be pissed off? You might lose your job, but so what, you know? You'll find something else.”
Joe uncovered his eyes and stared blankly at Bill. “Something is up with these guys, alright? They're not... regular guys, Bill. Shit!” Joe shouted to the wall behind Bill, then offhandedly said, “What do you think the beer is for?”
“For the guys. They seem to like it a bit more than normal. I figured it was some incentive for work. I know you won't allow me to have any.” Bill leaned forward. “Is there another reason for it? Put me in the loop if there is. You don't tell me shit.”
Joe thought about it, then with his hand, flippantly waved the thought away. “Forget it,” he said trying to convince his hand that the call needed to be made. He put the receiver to his ear bracing it with his shoulder, dialed the 7-7-0 area code, then, “What's that?”
The weight of a car's tires on gravel sounded like gently rolling thunder. Bill turned toward the window, but as he stood up, two doors slammed before he reached the blinds, yet, the thunder still growled.
Bill peeked through the blinds, and parked between the Dodge Charger and the Martinez Maids PT Cruiser, was a champagne Toyota Avalon. He turned back to Joe. “You expecting someone?”
“No.” Joe placed the phone back on its base. “Who is it?”
Bill again split the blinds and looked out as the car shut off. A tall, well-built blonde stepped out and straighted her dress. “Holy fish paste, Batman!”
Joe scrambled from around his desk and stood behind Bill at the window. “Whoa! Who is that?”
“Hooker, maybe?” Bill asked with a grin. “I could put her to work!”
“Dressed like that?” Joe asked. “Besides, you're married, you rube.”
Bill shrugged and watched the blond until she stepped on the first step of the porch. Then, he and Joe scrambled back to their original positions.
She knocked three times and as Joe said, “Come in!” she was opening the door.
“Hi!” Joe said coolly, as if just moments ago, he were not contemplating making a call that he knew would cost him more than just a measly job. The blond nodded to both men as if she knew them.
“Hello, Gentlemen.”
“How may we be of service?” Joe asked.
“I am Heather Luzader, a field operations manager for WhiteWash LLC. I'm inquiring about five men who have been placed here at the behest of Thomas Kimble, our company's chief operation officer. ”
The confident sliver of Joe's upturned lips drooped away. “So then you know already?”
“Excuse me?” The blond asked.
“I figured they were keeping tabs on us, but...” Joe said.
Bill chuckled. “No need to call now!”
“Could someone help me understand?” The blond asked.
“I think it’s better if I just show you.”
Bill, Joe and the blond left the office and Joe locked the door behind him. The three of them walked to the center of the camp when Joe suddenly stooped. To their right was the quiet elevator that lead down into the Anthracite mine. The main road was to the left and directly ahead of them were five, evenly spaced trailer homes.
“Something like that.” Joe said. He then pointed to the first, and the fourth trailers from his left to right. “You see those?”
She nodded. “Yes. What about them?”
“Well,” Joe sighed. “I'll take whatever comes my way, alright? They were my responsibility and I –,”
“Were your responsibility?” Heather shouted. Riled, her palms instantly became moist, even though her lips were nearly blue with cold. “Sir, could you make your point?”
“Those two trailers are occupied.”
“And the others?” She didn't break eye contact with Joe, not even to blink.
“Those three,” He pointed to the second, third and fifth. “Those three are empty. They – they just got away from us.”
The comment seemed to knock Heather back on her heels, her thoughts whirred and vertigo wobbled her knees. Bill put his hand on her back.
“You alright?” He asked.
“Alright? No I’m not alright? How could you let them leave?”
“Let them?” Joe shouted. “You WhiteWash people didn't tell us anything about them! These bastards are not like any guys I've ever seen, and I served two tours in Afghanistan!”
“How – I mean, why couldn't you –,” Heather tried voicing her displeasure, but she knew that these two men were not capable of handling even one of her Trojan guys, let alone all five of the living ones, and she already knew their answers to the questions she would ask. Then, she whispered. “I figured they would have at least separated them.” She calmed herself and turned to Joe. “What do you use to suppress them – keep them inline?”
“Kimble told me that to make sure they're watching plenty of television. The company sends over a shit load of television shows for them to watch. I suppose they're doctored, huh? That would only make sense.”
“And beer.” Bill added. “They seem to like –,”
“Quiet, Bill.” Joe said, then turn to address Heather. “Kimble has someone bring beer up here and we make sure they drink it. He told me that they should have at least three beers a day. Whatever is in it helps to keep them calm.”