by Ward Larsen
With a backpack full of cash in hand, he crossed the street and entered the office of the Calais Lodge. It was a small place, designed decades ago in the image of an Alpine lodge, three stories of siding that had once probably been white, and an A-frame roof capped by weathered shingles. He found a neat front desk, and behind it a woman in her fifties who wasn’t wearing any kind of uniform. She smiled in a familiar small-town way.
“Do you have any vacancies?” he asked, having already seen the empty parking lot.
“Nothing but vacancies,” she said. “How many nights?”
“Two,” he replied.
She situated herself behind a keyboard and screen. “It’ll be ninety a night.”
DeBolt was naturally frugal, having grown up in a home with limited means, and later making ends meet on an enlisted-ranks paycheck in the service. That being the case, there was a brief hesitation, belying the fact that his pocket was stuffed with hundred-dollar bills. “That’ll be fine,” he finally said.
“I’ll need a credit card and driver’s license,” she said, her fingers hovering over the keyboard.
“That could be a problem,” he said. “My girlfriend has my wallet, so I don’t have any ID right now. She was supposed to meet me here, but her car broke down and she won’t arrive until later.” The woman looked crestfallen until DeBolt added, “But I can give you cash up front.”
She eyed him more closely, a clear risk-benefit analysis. DeBolt had not shaved in forty-eight hours, and after a long day on the run he probably looked as weary as he felt. He apparently passed the inspection. “Name?” she asked.
DeBolt was prepared. He gave her the name Trent Hall, an old high school friend, along with a fictional Colorado address. He followed that with two hundred-dollar bills. She faltered in providing change, and was forced to go to her purse for a twenty to complete the transaction—who paid cash for hotel rooms anymore? Minutes later DeBolt had a key in hand.
“We don’t serve dinner this time of year, but the Melodee next door is good. We offer breakfast from seven to nine, a buffet if we have enough guests.”
“Thanks.”
DeBolt found the room near the second-floor landing. Outside his door was a knee wall in need of paint, and on the abutting stair rail he saw a loose post that had fallen free. Happily, things inside the room seemed in better shape. The first thing he did was look out the window. He saw the Caddy across the street, and had a good view of the pharmacy and the Melodee restaurant. There was little traffic, and the few cars he did see moved at a distinctly local pace. On the distant river a small boat plowed seaward leaving a chevron wake behind. The extended dusk reminded him of Alaska, and he wondered how much farther south Calais was than Kodiak. Unnervingly, DeBolt realized an answer might come, and he pushed the question away. There were advantages to having all the world’s information for the asking, but at that moment it seemed heavy and onerous.
This is going to take some getting used to.
Feeling dog-tired, he closed the curtains, which brought the room to near darkness. He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. The last twenty-four hours began rewinding in his mind. He fell distracted by the empty screen in his vision—blank now, but waiting with unending patience, ready to blink to life with facts and figures. Was there any way to ignore it? Would it ever go away? He hoped there was some command he had not yet imagined, a mental switch he could throw to suspend operations.
He thought: Power off. Disable.
Nothing changed.
He wondered what would happen while he slept. There was a fine line between sleep and consciousness: who hadn’t startled awake with arms outstretched to avoid an imaginary fall, or talked in their sleep? In that limbo would his dreams interact with his personal supercomputer? Network into his nightmares?
Or was none of it real at all?
For the first time DeBolt considered an alternate scenario: Was he simply going mad, his “connection” no more than the psychotic imaginings of a brain-damaged crash survivor? No, he decided. Part of him wished it was so simple, but the evidence was incontrovertible: the car outside, the money in the backpack, all made possible by his strange new aptitudes.
A few weeks ago DeBolt had been at the crest of life, no worry beyond the next mission, the next round of Natty Light at the Golden Anchor. He’d had friends and college and a job with a mission. Now he was hunted, wandering, alone. He had all the world’s information in his head, but no idea what to do with it.
Minutes later DeBolt was fast asleep.
As he drifted off, not fifty yards from where he lay, a dark blue Toyota SUV cruised slowly past in the long New England dusk. Its brake lights blinked once in front of the pharmacy parking lot.
* * *
Lund hit a wall trying to find out where the Learjet had gone. She had no FAA contacts in the upper Midwest, and didn’t feel like there was enough evidence to launch a formal inquiry on the issue of where Trey DeBolt had been taken. She simply needed more.
She was at her desk, contemplating how to proceed, when her work cell rang. The number didn’t register as a contact.
“Hello?”
“Hello, is this Agent Lund?” The voice was male, bass-toned, and made her think of New England.
“Yes, this is Shannon Lund.”
“My name is LaSalle. I work for the sheriff’s department in Washington County, Maine. Something has come up in an investigation, and I was hoping you might be able to help.”
“I’d be happy to try, but you realize I’m in Kodiak, Alaska—not exactly your neck of the woods.”
“Yes, I know. But you’re with the Coast Guard there, right?”
“Coast Guard Investigative Service—I’m a civilian employee.” There was a pause, and she imagined LaSalle trying to wrap his mind around the idea of a civilian serving as a detective in a branch of the service. If the man had ever served, it must have been before the age of outsourcing. “What can I do for you?” she prompted.
“Well, we had an accident out here recently—although we’re beginning to think it wasn’t actually an accident. A cottage in a remote corner of the county blew sky high from a gas leak. It was owned by a local woman, and she was killed, but we’ve found a few signs of tampering and multiple ignition sources.”
“So you think the blast was an intentional act?”
“Could be—the FBI is looking into it.”
“Okay, but what does that have to do with Air Station Kodiak?”
“Ever heard the name Trey DeBolt?”
Lund went rigid in her chair. “Yes … I have. He was a Coast Guardsman who died recently in the line of duty.”
“Right—I found out that much from the official records. But the thing is, we found a doorknob about two hundred yards from ground zero here, and we were able to pull two solid prints from it, right-hand thumb and index. Mr. DeBolt, being a service member and all, had his prints on file in the national database—we made a match right away.”
“Are you sure about this? The match?”
“As sure as you can be about that kind of thing. Now since Mr. DeBolt predeceased this accident, we know he wasn’t involved, but the prints are fairly recent—we know because they overlay some others. What’s bothering me is that I can’t make any connection. DeBolt is originally from Colorado, and nobody around here seems to know him. I’m trying to figure out what he was doing out our way.”
“Well … I really couldn’t tell you. But I’d be happy to look into it.”
“That would be great. We do have a witness who saw a man near the cabin in the days before the blast. I figured if I knew a little more about DeBolt and why he’d been here, there might be some connection to help me identify this other fellow.”
“Do you have a description of the man who was seen?” Lund asked.
LaSalle hesitated. “You think he might have been from Kodiak too?”
Lund knew she wasn’t thinking clearly. “DeBolt was tight with a lot of the guys on station. May
be someone else here had an aunt or a girlfriend in Washington County.”
“Yeah,” said the detective, “I guess I see your point. The witness is a little girl, so her description is sketchy. She said the guy was maybe on the tall side, light hair.” LaSalle chuckled, and said, “Oh yeah, and he likes to swim.”
“Swim?” she managed.
“Yep. Jumped into the ocean every day and went for miles.”
Lund sat transfixed, the phone clamped to her ear. The next thing she heard was, “Miss Lund? Are you still there?”
“Yeah, sorry. I’ll look into this and get back to you.”
“Thanks. I know it’s a long shot, but I’m spinning my wheels over here.”
“I know the feeling. Tell me one more thing, Detective.”
“What’s that?”
“The owner of the home—what was her name?”
“I’m afraid I can’t release that yet; we haven’t reached her next of kin. I can tell you she was a quiet type, kept to herself. Apparently she was a nurse.”
* * *
“That’s it—that’s definitely the car!” said the man driving. They were on their second pass, and he slowed but didn’t stop.
They all looked at the Cadillac, and then the pharmacy. The second in command said, “Do we wait and see if he comes out?”
The commander thought about it. “No. When we first got the signal it was moving, but it’s been parked there for almost an hour.”
“If this car has GPS tracking, why didn’t we get a location sooner?”
“We’re not Delta Force, okay—things like that need approval. Approvals take time.”
“I’m betting he ditched it,” said the driver.
The commander considered it. “Maybe.” He looked all around and saw a bus stop shelter, a restaurant, and a lodge across the street. Plenty of options. He looked at his men. They were tired, none having gotten more than a combat nap in the last twenty-four hours. A tired unit made mistakes. He had made mistakes.
“All right,” he said. “We give it two hours, split up three and two. Let’s cover the area discreetly. Every bar and restaurant and transit point.” He went over the action plan in detail, including contingencies in case they found DeBolt.
“And if we don’t find him?” someone asked.
“Ask me in two hours.”
18
Since taking over the front desk from his wife thirty minutes earlier, Demetri Karounos had found plenty of time to ruminate—the front door of the Calais Lodge had not opened once.
They’d owned the place for two years now, and their dream of running a B&B in a small town—one whose tourist base was heavily seasonal—was fading with each utility bill. They’d done their best to make things right—the rooms had been refurbished, the lobby floor replaced, and they’d even found a Filipina maid who doubled as a cook, filling both squares admirably. Unfortunately, the roof was another matter, as was the crumbling parking lot, and their website was notorious for crashing on anyone who tried to book a room.
So it was, when three men walked in wearing heavy boots and work clothes, Karounos beamed a smile that could not have been more heartfelt. It was after eleven o’clock, the hour at which walk-in traffic normally went dead.
“Good evening!” he said.
“Hi,” said the man in front, a rangy sort with close-cropped hair. “We’re in town for a little survey work—the power company’s relocating some electric lines. Need a place for my crew to stay tonight.”
The other two men wandered into the lobby and gravitated toward the television, which was tuned to a West Coast college football game.
“How many rooms?”
“Only one. We’d prefer the one in front, on the third floor—it might actually help with our survey. How many beds in that room?”
“Well, that unit has two doubles. But I’m sure you’d be more comfortable with two—”
“That’ll be fine. Like I said, we like the view.”
Karounos stared dumbly at the man, then at his two burly compatriots who were glued to the game—they’d each taken an apple from a welcome bowl on the coffee table. The view from 306 was decent, looking out across the river, but nobody had ever asked for it with that in mind.
“Are you sure I can’t—”
“I’m sure,” said the man, this time insistently.
“Of course,” Karounos agreed.
He was sure these men were private contractors—or consultants, or freelancers, or whatever they called themselves these days. Karounos was familiar with the type, and they were not his favorite. They didn’t have the backing of corporate expense accounts, which meant they did everything on the cheap. He was sure all three would show up at the free breakfast—it was advertised on the marquis outside, so he had to provide it—and eat everything in sight.
“There are two other guys who might come later with some equipment,” the front man said.
Here Karounos laid down the law. “Sir, fire regulations do not allow more than four to a room.”
“And we won’t ever have more than three.”
The guest handed over a credit card, and out of ideas, a defeated Karounos took it. While he ran the card, the man asked, “Looks quiet around here. You have any other guests tonight?”
“Only one other room,” Karounos said, trying not to sound embarrassed.
“It’s not a young guy with light hair, is it? We were expecting a power company rep to meet us.”
Karounos repeated what his wife had told him, “I only know it is a young couple.”
The man nodded. “Well, then … that wouldn’t be our rep.”
When the men disappeared minutes later, a resolute Karounos thought, If all five raid the buffet tomorrow, I am going to charge them extra.
* * *
DeBolt was awakened by a herd of buffalo. That was what it sounded like, anyway, heavy boots stomping around the room above him. He looked at the bedside clock. 11:21 P.M.
He pulled a pillow over his head.
They began rearranging the furniture.
“You’ve gotta be kidding!” he muttered to no one.
He had an urge to bang on the ceiling. Or he could pick up the phone, call the room, and tell whomever it was that people were trying to sleep. Better yet, he could call the front desk and complain, let them deal with it. Any of that would feel good. But he knew better. The last thing he needed was to get caught up in a shouting match with strangers. Or worse yet, have the night manager, or even a sheriff’s deputy, come knocking on his door.
So DeBolt rolled over.
The noise kept coming.
He distracted himself by imagining less conventional responses. A year ago he’d taken an online class on network systems, an elective overview course for nonmajors. Among the subjects covered was SCADA—supervisory control and data acquisition. SCADA was an operating structure, both software and hardware, used to control complex industrial and commercial systems. As an academic subject it had been dry and tedious, but now, given his new talents, DeBolt saw SCADA in an all new light. It seemed a veritable playground of possibility. Of course, he doubted that a small bed-and-breakfast in Maine would have such a network in place. All the same, he imagined commanding the doors on the room above to lock. Imagined cranking the heater full blast and lighting the gas fireplace. He could turn out the lights … or better yet, cause them to blink on and off at some seizure-inducing hertz.
His mind began to drift, and the noise above lessened. Soon DeBolt was asleep again, a scant trace of amusement on the margins of his lips.
* * *
So energized was Lund, she stayed at the office until nearly midnight. As a civilian, she was expected to be on duty no more than eights hour a day. Unfortunately, the demands of law enforcement rarely meshed with any kind of civilized nine-to-five schedule. In truth, she hadn’t looked at a clock since getting off the phone with LaSalle.
Washington County, Maine.
She’d looked on a map
to see where it was, and had no trouble finding the place. Unfortunately, that added nothing to her understanding. Trey DeBolt? Was he really still alive? Swimming at a beach on the other side of the lower forty-eight?
Late that afternoon she’d gone into town, and reached the credit union as the manager was locking the door. He made the mistake of letting her in, and she made an inquiry about DeBolt’s account. Lund said she was on official business, which wasn’t quite true, but the branch manager, a suit-clad bastion of procedure named Norm Peterson, had surprisingly shown her the records. He probably shouldn’t have, since she didn’t have a specific warrant, but she knew Norm from previous investigations, and anyway, Kodiak was Kodiak. In the end it had amounted to nothing. DeBolt’s last outflow had been the day before he’d died, a charge for $12.61 at the Safeway on Mill Bay Road. There had been no mysterious withdrawals since, say from an ATM in Maine. The truth was never so easy.
AT&T was more troublesome—the phone company declined to give up DeBolt’s records without official authorization. Not sure if she could get it, Lund took a more direct course, going straight to his unit and meeting with his skipper, Commander Erin Urlacker. Urlacker was happy to help: DeBolt had left his phone in his locker, she said, and it was still there waiting to be claimed. After a month the handset was dead, of course, but it used a universal charger, and within minutes Lund was able to access the call log. The last time the phone had been used was on the morning of the accident, and there had never been a call placed to a Maine area code. A look through the contact list was equally unproductive—no connections to Washington County.