The Missile Game (The Dr. Scott James Thriller Series Book 1)

by Glenn Shepard

  Brushing past her worktable, I saw a canvas shopping bag filled with documents, lying on its side, next to two TV screens and an electrical circuitry diagram. There were several papers splayed over the carpet beside the bed, too, including some official looking documents that she’d obviously wadded up in anger, and flung off the bed. In the middle of the debris, I saw a page of rough brown stationary, with handwriting on it: “Celena, Bombings resuming in Islamic State. Hormand is ready to proceed. Target must be located soon. Our missiles are ready to fire. Quasart.”

  I stopped in my tracks.

  There was another handwritten message in what looked like Arabic.

  I couldn’t help but start to look around.

  I knelt down and picked up a blurry memo that had been photocopied numerous times. It was from a CIA director in Langley, Virginia: “Terror alert red. Target, Mid-Atlantic region. Pakistani Operatives possibly assisting ISIL/ISIS.” It was dated four days ago.

  My mind started racing.

  I looked nearby for anything that might explain what I was looking at, but found nothing. Standing up, I looked around the room and spotted a shredder next to the dresser filled with strips of stationary of the same type as the intact message from Quasart. In the jaws of the shredder I found a business card made of a thicker version of the coarsely textured paper. The shredder had chewed away only a third of the card. After flattening the ridges created by the shredding, I could decipher the printed name: “Harold Simpkins,” and a phone number. Below it was a handwritten address. It was hard to read, but I finally made it out. It was in Chapel Hill, 4360 Emmaus Church Road. There was another phone number, but I could read only five of the numbers: 919 55. The rest was smudged.

  What does Keyes have to do with bombings in Pakistan? Why does Keyes have a CIA memo? Target? I cringed. What target is this Quasart going to strike?

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Keyes’ Apartment

  4:02 pm

  I HAD TO GET out of that apartment. I grabbed the business card from the shredder, went to the guest bedroom, got a few things, and then ran out the door.

  I jogged down the street. I didn’t know what was happening to my world. After about ten minutes of simply running, I sat down at a bus stop and buried my face in my hands.

  I sat there thinking. My life was in the hands of this woman, Elizabeth Keyes. I didn’t know her, really, but since I’d gotten out of jail we’d become very close. I couldn’t help but feel real affection for her. She’d saved my life. But she’d lied to me, several times, and now something was clearly wrong.

  Keyes claimed that she was an experienced medical office manager, that she’d received her training at St. Mary’s hospital in Texas. Harold Garner, the chief of the medical technologist program at St. Mary’s, had personally written a letter of recommendation for her. I took out my smart phone and began to look up phone listings for the administrator of St. Mary’s Hospital. After one ring, the main operator at St. Mary’s said, crisply, “Mr. Garner will be with you shortly.”

  Garner answered on the second ring. He said that Keyes had been in the office manager’s program for three weeks, moving into the advanced courses after the first week and making perfect scores on all the exams. She’d even taken night classes in the OR tech school, and after ten days, she’d passed the final exam given to the second-year class.

  “No wonder you wrote such a glowing recommendation of her,” I said.

  “I didn’t write a letter of recommendation for Elizabeth Keyes to anyone,” Garner responded. He explained that Keyes had spent so little time in his class, he didn’t feel qualified to evaluate her.

  “But Herb Waters sent me an email. He said it was your personal recommendation.”

  Garner paused. “It’s his hospital. He owns Saint Mary’s. He can say or do anything he wishes.”

  Waters owns Saint Mary’s?

  On a hunch, I asked Garner if he’d ever heard the name ‘Harold Simpkins?’

  “Uhm … It seems like Elizabeth brought a man named Harold to the hospital a few times. But I’m positive she said his last name was Simpson, not Simpkins. He was a small guy, balding a bit. Said he lived in Taylor, Texas, with his mother. I think he was some kind of actor, like a bad TV spokesman or something.”

  After the conversation with Garner ended, I was no longer sure of anyone or anything. Why had Waters led me to believe that Garner had written Keyes’ recommendation? And why had he said Keyes was qualified to be a medical office manager when her training was as a medical technician? It had been the letter of recommendation that had gotten Keyes the job in my office. Why did Waters want Keyes in my office?

  I started thinking that I was paranoid, like Frances Fowler, Andy’s wife.

  I sat staring for a long time at the half-shredded business card. Emmaus Church Road. I searched Google Maps with my phone. It was local—in Chapel Hill, just eighteen some odd miles away.

  Harold Simpkins.

  I sat and thought for no more than five minutes.

  I walked to one of the nearby strips of thrift shops that dotted Keyes’ neighborhood, and with what money I had, bought a cheap mountain bike. I purchased an old baseball cap and sunglasses, as well, and began pedaling to Chapel Hill.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Emmaus Church Road

  Chapel Hill, North Carolina

  6:40 pm

  THE SKY WAS OVERCAST and the sun was setting as I biked north on Fordham Street and then turned west on Emmaus Church Road. With the waning light and poorly marked houses in this rural area, I had to look hard to find the address, 4360, which was barely visible on the dilapidated mailbox. The yard was so overgrown with small pines and untrimmed hedges that I had a hard time even seeing the house.

  I slowly pedaled by the property and saw a dim light in one of the first-story windows. The blinds were partially drawn. I couldn’t really make out anything from the street. I kept riding until I reached a dirt road about a quarter mile away, where thick woods stood on both sides and afforded good concealment. I stopped and quickly stashed the bike in a thicket.

  I began trekking back toward the house. A hundred yards short of the property, I left the road and ducked into the tall weeds. I crept up to the house, and, hiding behind an overgrown juniper next to the window, peeked in. The large living room was furnished with only an old sofa, an end table with a small lamp on it, and a television sitting on a crate. The sofa was at an angle in front of the TV, with part of the sofa’s back facing the window. I had to position myself at the corner of the window to see who it was that was sitting there. It was a man, reclining on the sofa, and watching TV. He wore a sleeveless undershirt, black boxer shorts, and sandals. He had dark skin and black, closely cropped hair. Lying next to him on the couch was a phone—a landline.

  I moved carefully around the exterior of the house, looking in all the other windows, but it was too dark to see in. When I reached the side of the house, I noticed that the door to the detached garage was partly open, and I quickly walked the twenty paces or so over to it. Two vehicles were parked inside: a gold Cadillac and a black pickup. I moved past the Caddy to the Ford F 150, noting its tinted windows, chrome running boards, whitewalls, and fog lights.

  The truck faced outward, like it was ready to go. Standing in the dark, letting my eyes adjust, I noticed that mud covered the truck’s rear license plate.

  A license plate number. Hard data. Something I could take to the authorities, along with all the rest I knew.

  But to read it I’d have to creep around and lean over to wipe it clean.

  That’s when it all went wrong. I crept closer to the license plate and felt my foot squish into something soft and wet, like pudding: a plastic bag, I could see, with the outline of a decomposing human being in it—a disintegrating body, slowly turning to liquid.

  My head jerked upward! I knocked a metal
pot from a shelf! It hit the ground with a loud clang!

  Dammit!

  I started to run. Lights began to come on—illuminating the yard. I heard a door slam. Five men who looked a lot like the television watcher ran from the house. The first three had guns.

  I bolted across the brightly lit yard and down the road. I tore down the road as fast as I could, headed for the protection of the thick woods where I’d stashed the bike. I could hear them after me, on foot, and then there was a boom!—a shot—just as I reached the protection of the trees.

  Suddenly I felt a sharp burning sensation in my left shoulder and reflexively put my hand over my ripped shirt and felt the warm, sticky blood oozing from a fresh wound. I glanced over my shoulder. The men were close behind. I darted to the left, away from the bike. They followed. I kept running, pumping my legs as hard as I could until I reached a ravine. Without breaking stride, I jumped in, changed direction, and doubled back toward the bike.

  Behind me, I could now hear the men shouting at each other in confusion. They’d gone past the ravine and I’d apparently disappeared.

  The bike was only fifty yards away. I could get on it and escape. I yanked the bike out of the bushes and jumped on and started pedaling down the road. My heart was thumping in my chest by now and I was panting like a triathlete racing for the finish line. I pedaled as hard and as fast as I could, standing on the pedals to get optimal thrust with each rotation.

  In the distance, back toward the house, I heard the truck fire up and charge out of the garage. It’s wheels squealed as it hit the road and turned in my direction.

  I could hear it coming from behind. Just seconds before the truck’s headlights illuminated the road, I swerved hard into the woods and darted left and right through the thick stands of trees. I was in the dark and veering around fallen logs and rocks. I was trying to take routes I thought no one could follow. Briars ripped my arms and low-hanging limbs slapped my face, but I kept going.

  I could hear the truck turning into the woods. It’s lights came on and cast a flying, flashing light through the trees. The men on foot had clearly regrouped and were somehow in coordination with the truck now. I could hear them moving in the forest.

  Then I heard it: the sound of a flowing creek. It was the best way.

  I raced toward the sounds of the creek. It was my only hope. I found an opening in the trees and flew down the bank and into the water. The flowing creak reached the middle of my wheels but the bike kept moving. Within seconds I’d crossed the water and had pedaled up the bank, dismounted, and was now carrying the bike.

  I glanced over my shoulder. On the opposite side of the creek, the front end of the truck had come barreling down the slope and was in the water, but its rear end was still up on the bank. I could hear the wheels spinning in the mud. It was stuck.

  I came to a path on my right. I hopped on the bike, and hoped it led to a main road. A few minutes later, miraculously, I came out on Emmaus Church Road.

  The house was no more than 100 yards away, on the opposite side of the street.

  I heard an engine turn over.

  Shit! The Caddy!

  Hopping off the bike, I ran into the bushes and hid by the side of the road, my head down. The Caddy whizzed by. I waited until it was out of sight, then pedaled as fast as could, taking country roads and back alleys all the way back to Keyes’ apartment.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Keyes’ Apartment

  11:00 pm

  THE MUSCLES IN MY legs cramped as I unlocked the door to Keyes’ apartment. I stood in the doorway, bent over for a full two minutes, then parked the bike in my room and headed straight to the shower. I was sweaty and exhausted from the chase through the woods and the thirty-six-mile round trip to Chapel Hill. I peeled off my shirt and appraised the deep, blood-encrusted, three-inch-long crease in the flesh where the bullet had grazed my upper arm.

  Could’ve been a lot worse, I thought with a shrug.

  I dropped my pants and stepped into the small shower enclosure, happy to be alive. With the water as hot as I could take it and lots of soap, I thoroughly cleansed the bullet wound as well as the scratches covering my body.

  An hour later I was drinking coffee and pacing the floor, trying to figure out what to do. That was a dead body in that garage. I’d been shot. I had to go to the police. A chill came over me. Oh, God. “The Killer Doc,” that’s me. How am I supposed to explain all of this? I’m going back to jail. The minute I open my mouth, I’m “The Killer Doc.”

  I was going over my predicament when Keyes returned. I looked out the window to see if anyone had followed her. I saw no one.

  She didn’t look at me as she sat down next to me in the kitchen.

  “Hey,” she said flatly. Her hands were shaking, and her voice was hoarse.

  I put my hand on her shoulder, and she flinched. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded but still didn’t look at me. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just tired.”

  I pretended not to notice the tears brimming in her eyes. She looked down at her hands for a moment, and then at me. “You’re still here,” she said, forcing her lips into a half-smile. “You’re not hanging by a necktie from a ceiling beam.”

  She then turned her eyes away and walked directly to her bedroom, closing the door behind her. I went in and took her by the arm. She turned to face me.

  “You’re in danger, aren’t you?” I said more than asked.

  She looked at me and began to cry.

  “Tell me what’s going on.”

  She put her finger to her lips and beckoned me outside to the stairway. She spoke in a whisper. “Someone bugged my apartment. There’s one in my phone and one in each room, in the light fixtures.”

  I tried hard to keep my voice down. “For God’s sake, clue me in. I want to help you!”

  Keyes looked me in the eye and then looked away. “Listen, I don’t know what’s going to happen over the next few days, but … well, there are things in my past that I’m not proud of that might come out. It’s very complicated … I need you to always remember that whatever I may have done, I had a good reason to do it.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Is there anything you want to tell me now?”

  She looked me in the eyes. “Just that … I’m in as much trouble as you are, maybe even more.”

  I looked into her eyes for a long time. She was stalling. “Are you Celena?”

  “Just remember, no matter what you hear, I’m really one of the good guys.”

  She was stalling again. I just stared.

  “There is a terrorist attack coming in America, Scott. I’m trying to learn when and where the attack will be.”

  “You are.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why you? Are you Celena?”

  She hesitated before saying, “No, Scott. The CIA has me posing as an undercover courier for ISIS. I delivered that message to Celena, who is ISIS. There’s a civilian contractor, code named Alpha Charlie. He operates drones from somewhere in the southeastern United States. He kills targets in Afghanistan and Pakistan and now Iraq and Syria. When Celena finds Charlie, ISIS will send missiles, big ones, to wipe out Charlie and his headquarters. I have to find where ISIS keeps its missiles and report it to the Agency, so they can stop the attack.”

  I thought for a moment. I wanted to believe her but it just seemed all too unbelievable.

  “If you’re with the CIA, what are you doing working in my office? And, why did you bother helping me?”

  She hesitated … “Because Herb Waters launders money for ISIS—”

  “Waters?”

  “We think he does. We’re not sure. We think he makes a lot of his money that way. We believe he may have laundered some money for Al Qaeda at one time. We’re tracking him. He may know about the ISIS operation. You’ve done a lot of research on Waters and his
financial dealings. Maybe more than us.”

  “Thanks, but . . . “

  She paused. “You’re also at war with him.”

  “How could he possibly launder money for a terrorist organization?”

  “Easy. Through the hospitals. He’s arranged the finances so that only he knows them. He can move millions through a hospital and then convert it all into innocent-looking payments.”

  “Who’s Celena?”

  “Scott, I can’t divulge that to you.”

  A shock went through me. “Hold on. Is Jackson City Hospital in any danger of being bombed?”

  It took a moment as she contemplated her answer. “Waters has connections. On both sides. His hospital is safe. Any more questions?”

  I shook my head. I knew she was lying. I knew there was something wrong. But still, I wanted to believe her. “Is Anna Duke ‘Quasart’?”

  “Let’s just say that she and I are working together on this. That’s all you need to know for now. I’m quitting the CIA job when this is over. My job ends with this mission, and I’ll be leaving in two days.”

  “Who paid my bail? If you’re really CIA, you’ll know that.”

  “Let me just say this: I know who paid your bail, okay? I want to help you, Scott, okay? I want to prove your innocence.”

  I relaxed a little, or maybe I was worn out from all of the trauma. I said, “I’ve been wondering: Just how, exactly, does a medical office manager know how to resuscitate a person?”

  She was very close to me. I could feel the heat from her body. Avoiding the question, she reached up and suddenly kissed me.

  I didn’t know what to do. It stunned me. I liked it, but …

  She looked me in the eyes for a long time before answering, “It’s just CPR. It’s no big deal. It’s a part of the classes I took at St. Mary’s. Every person who works in a medical office should know that kind of stuff.”