Night Road

by Brendan DuBois

  Gordon Simpson was a tired old man who had some sort of illness that no one knew anything about, but which caused him to spend many an afternoon at Mass General. His dark pin-striped suits were baggy about him, and his face sagged, like a frog whose muscles and tendons were failing at their work. He stared at her from across the table, his wrinkled and freckled hands on the table.

  “Tanya,” he said.

  “Gordon,” she said.

  He raised up a hand, looked at his yellow fingernails. “You’ve been quite active these past few weeks. Conducting after-hours meetings, traveling to New Hampshire, Maine, Vermont. It’s quite an impressive output, Tanya, save for one thing. You haven’t filed any progress reports, any after-meeting memos … it puts me in a very awkward position.”

  She gave him her best smile. “My intent is not to put you in an awkward position, Gordon. Or any other position. My apologies.”

  Gordon sighed and looked at his fingernails again. Tanya looked over his shoulder, through the sixth floor window, out towards the Boston skyline. Near as Tanya could figure, Gordon had been drifting along from one government job to another, from the US Navy Reserves to Department of Defense to a single term as a Congressman in New Hampshire—where he had lost re-election, in a state where incumbents were practically guaranteed a job for life, now that was an accomplishment!—and after some lobbyist work, here he was, head of Region One, after some favors were called in and strings were pulled, no doubt. No counterterrorism background, no immigration experience, just a gray bureaucrat who had bobbed along the currents of political decisions and events.

  Just like the type of gray bureaucrats prior to a certain September day who thought they were doing a good job protecting the country, protecting Tanya’s best friend Emily and thousands of others.

  He said, “You need to keep me in the loop for what you’re doing, Tanya. It would make my job that much easier. Especially since we’re having a GAO audit coming due here next week. How would it look if they discovered I was letting you operate without proper supervision?”

  Tanya moved her legal pad over three inches. “I see. Gordon, those are all valid observations. I appreciate you bringing them to me. In fact, to show you my level of cooperation, I’m planning to have an unannounced drill with members of the New Hampshire State Police in a few days, along with other local law enforcement agencies.”

  “Unannounced? Why? And what kind of drill?”

  “Unannounced so they don’t get ready for whatever I’m throwing at them,” she said. “The drill will be a rapid-response to a border incident occurring at their northernmost county up there, Washington County. A cross-border incursion from Canada.”

  “What kind of cross-border incursion?”

  Wouldn’t you love to know, she thought. She said, “Not sure as of yet. Might be something as simple as a group of Middle Eastern illegals coming over via a stolen van.”

  Gordon pursed his thin lips. “You’ll show me the drill protocol? Give me a heads-up on participants? And a thorough debriefing afterwards?”

  No, no, and no, she thought, thinking of her dead Emily. What was deceit to protect the other Emilys out there? “Of course, Gordon. Of course.”

  He winced for a second, like something inside of him was burning and hacking its way through his digestive system. He belched, didn’t apologize, and said calmly, “I know what you think of me, Tanya. You don’t think I’m up for the job. You think all I care about are budgets, forms, protocols.”

  She took a breath. “I think we have a vital role here in this Region, as a gateway from northeastern Canada, to protect the people here and elsewhere.”

  “You don’t think I’m doing my job?”

  “With all due respect, Gordon, I think there’s a lot more we can be doing. Including you.”

  “You may use the words with all due respect, but I’m not hearing it in your voice.”

  Tanya said, “Then I’m afraid I can’t help you, Gordon.”

  He stared at her and said, “I see. Because I’m slow, I’m old, because I don’t know my way around computers, Blackbirds—”

  “BlackBerrys,” she corrected, instantly regretting having done that. Damn it, she thought, no need to irritate him further.

  But she was wrong. He didn’t seem irritated at all. He just blinked at her, like that damn frog again, like she was nothing more than an insect to be observed. Or eaten.

  “Thank you,” he said. “BlackBerrys. So I don’t know much about current technology, all the satellites and zoom-bang stuff, but I know people, Tanya. I know what makes them tick, I know what makes them want to work twelve hours a day, or be sent away overseas for six months away from home, or work in obscure and dangerous parts of the world that will never get them a headline or a medal, but only a cold grave.”

  Tanya said, “I appreciate that Gordon. But it seems we spend most of our time here coordinating with New England state bureaucrats, seeing if we can get them surplus radiation monitors, and doing play drills in Boston Harbor or at the nuclear plants, instead of doing real work. No offense, I don’t see many people here working twelve hours a day, or worrying about being shipped overseas. We both know the most dangerous place to be in this building is in front of the elevator banks at 5:01 p.m.”

  “We do the work assigned to us.”

  “True, but I also think we need to focus on the second word in our department. Security.”

  Gordon said carefully, “Tanya, we’re part of a larger organization, and we have to follow the proper directives from the Secretary. Procedures and protocols must be followed, even if you personally disagree on the direction she has given us. Or if some of your coworkers take offense. Or if your uncle, Senator Warren Gibbs, has other ideas of how we should operate.”

  “My uncle has nothing to do with me, or Region One, or how I operate. And I haven’t spoken to him in many, many months.”

  Another slow blink of the frog eyes. “Perhaps, Tanya, but it’s no secret that your uncle, if elected, proposes some drastic changes in the way Homeland Security operates. Changes that many of us oppose, including those in Congress. To make the agency more of an offensive organization, more of a paramilitary force, to—”

  “To make it do what it was designed to do,” she said, feeling the heat rise in her face and hands. “To protect the innocents.”

  “Like your college roommate? Lord knows, you do seem fixated on her. Tell me, were you … particularly close in college? Is that it?”

  She took another deep breath. “That’s a cheap shot.”

  “A true shot?

  Tanya said, “Gordon. Please. I’m just here to do my job the best I can, and if it makes you happy and feel less awkward for me to file the proper paperwork and memos—instead of working to protect the people of this region and the nation—then fine, Gordon, that’s what I’ll do. That way, you’ll be happy, the GAO will be happy, and the American people definitely won’t be happy if we’re so focused on following procedures that we let something bad happen on our watch.”

  Gordon said, “Whatever you say. You may go, Tanya.”

  “Good,” she said, standing up. “I was about to leave anyway.”

  In her office, Tanya made a phone call to Concord, New Hampshire, to the Department of the Safety, which was in charge of the State Police. She was eventually connected to a Major Carl Kenyon, whom she had met years ago at a police convention in Trenton.

  “Carl? It’s Tanya Gibbs, remember me?”

  An intake of breath. “Tanya … it’s been a very long time. How have you been? Still in New Jersey?”

  She swiveled in her chair. “Doing fine, Carl. I’m now with Homeland Security, in Region One in Boston. Involved in a variety of matters, most of them classified. Tell me, they treating you all right in Concord?”

  “Can’t complain, much,” he said. “But, if you don’t mi
nd, I’m kinda pressed for time and—”

  “Now, Carl, speaking of time, I was hoping you could make time for me. Say, tomorrow afternoon.”

  “About what?”

  “We’re planning an unannounced drill up in Washington County in the next few days. Responding to a cross-border incursion. We’d like your assistance in setting up this drill with other agencies in the area.”

  The State Police major laughed. “That’s a good one, Tanya. You know it takes months of planning to set something like that up. Hah. No, seriously, when do you want to this. This summer? This fall?”

  She swiveled the chair back and forth, hating what she was doing, knowing it had to be done. “How does Friday, Saturday, or Sunday night sound?”

  “Tanya, this is goddamn impossible.”

  “Tell you what, Carl. Why don’t you set up a time for tomorrow afternoon. We’ll get together, go over the plans for this drill. Then we’ll have a nice dinner and retire to a local bar. We’ll have a reunion of sorts. You remember that night in Trenton, don’t you? At the Hyatt? When I ended up in the wrong hotel room, with a duplicate of your room key? You haven’t forgotten that, have you?”

  She heard not a word, just heavy breathing on the other end of the phone. She went on. “I popped in, catching up on my voicemails with my BlackBerry, and my, it sure was some damn surprise. I remember it was like yesterday. You in bed with another police officer, from Alaska, I believe. This office was straddling you, riding you … and that officer was looking right at me. Straight on so I could see his face quite clearly, and his moustache.”

  “Tanya …” His voice sounded strangled.

  “So I left the room and about a half hour later, you met up with me at the lobby’s bar. You told me you were involved in an upcoming classified Northeast Regional FEMA training session that could really bump my career, and we made a deal, didn’t we. I mean, we were both adults, we both wanted something … so you got me that training slot. I promised not to reveal to your sweet, chubby, plain vanilla wife what I saw in that hotel room. After all, it’s not like she’s from Cambridge or Brookline and would be open-minded about such a thing. As you told me, she’s from a small town in western New Hampshire, and your nickname for her is Dr. Livingstone, because all she knows is missionary.”

  No reply. His breathing continued.

  “I also remember one more thing. After we made our agreement, you looked relieved. You said that if I ever needed anything else from you, to call. So here I am. Calling.”

  He coughed. She said, “So let’s have a reunion, you and I. It’s been a number of years. We’ll meet in Manchester, we’ll go over my unannounced training requirements, and then I’ll reaffirm my commitment to keep your secret.”

  His voice was shaky. “That sounds … well, that sounds all right, then.”

  “Good,” she cheerfully said. “You’re still married, right? To chubby, vanilla Miriam? Should I call to clear this with her?”

  “No,” Carl said, his voice strangled. “You don’t have to. I’ll take care of it all. The meeting, the liaison with other agencies, and dinner. I’ll set you up a room at the Center of New Hampshire in Manchester.”

  “Carl, that sounds delightful. I’m looking forward to it. What time do you want to see me?”

  “Let’s do four p.m. tomorrow.”

  Tanya said, “It’s a date,” hanging up the phone.

  Then she looked out the window to the buildings of Boston. Her stomach clenched and rolled, and she barely made it to her office wastebasket before throwing up.

  twenty-two

  After a restless night, Zach Morrow got up, showered—spending a few minutes trying to decide which tiny bottle of shampoo and conditioner to use, deciding to go with one that didn’t have twelve syllables in its name—and went downstairs to breakfast. He was hungry and was tempted to go see if the Bel Aire diner in Crowdin was still open, but the cooking smells kept him back.

  He sat at a wide chestnut table with other overnight guests, including two older men who talked quietly between themselves and who were impeccably dressed in pressed chinos and turtleneck sweaters, an older man and woman who sniped at each other throughout breakfast—“I told you I wanted tea, not coffee!” “Then speak up, woman.” “Turn up your damn hearing aid, then”—and a young couple from Maine who were apparently on their honeymoon. They ate and looked at each other and then broke out in giggles, like they were secretly recalling their overnight fun.

  The waitress was a cute girl with short blond hair and six or eight earrings in each ear, and after going through a short list of the different vegan, locally grown, and granola-type breakfast cereals, Zach smiled sweetly at her and gave her a five-dollar bill.

  “Honey, if you can get me three scrambled eggs with cheese, six pieces of bacon or sausage, white toast, and a jar of coffee, I’ll double this later.”

  She deftly pocketed the five-dollar bill, winked at him, and went out to the kitchen.

  When he finished breakfast, he gave the waitress a ten-dollar bill. As he was going up the carpeted stairs to his room, wondering what he was going to do for the day, the manager of the bed and breakfast—a woman named Stephanie Martin, who was cheerful, had short blond hair and black-rimmed glasses—called out after him.

  “Mr. Morrow? A moment?”

  He went over to the B&B’s office, a cubbyhole with a small desk, filing cabinet, and chair, which Stephanie was occupying. “Mr. Crowley called while you were having breakfast. He was hoping you would join him in an hour.” She passed over a slip of paper. “That’s his cellphone number. He said he would pick you up, if that’s agreeable. If not, he said you could call him.”

  Zach folded the paper, slipped it into his pants pocket. “Sounds agreeable all around.”

  “By the by, are you enjoying your stay? Is your room fine? And how was breakfast?”

  “Stay is enjoyable, room is great, and breakfast was filling.”

  She turned back to her desk. “So glad to hear it.”

  Then he thought for a moment. “Excuse me, but I was wondering. Do you have a computer I could borrow? Just for a moment?”

  Stephanie said, “I don’t see why not. Need to check your e-mail?”

  “Need to do something, that’s for sure.”

  Duncan Crowley walked along an overgrown logging road with his brother Cameron. The air was crisp and cold, and the way was wet and covered with last year’s fall leaves. Sometimes he liked coming out here to have sensitive conversations, just to jazz things up. Keeping a pattern meant opening yourself to being watched or listened to by anyone interested in your activities. He didn’t like keeping patterns.

  Cameron said, “This is what I know about Zach, the guy who waxed your ass in phys ed.”

  “You sure like harping on that,” Duncan said.

  “Gives me pleasure, why the hell not.” He produced his small notebook, went to the last page. “Born and raised here in Turner, went to our regional high school. Nothing out of the ordinary there. But his dad was Monty Morrow. Remember? The executive councilor for this district. Former Turner selectman.”

  Hands in his coat pocket, Duncan kicked at a rusting piece of equipment on the ground. Decades ago, this whole area was logged and re-logged, with lots of forest fires and erosion along stream banks. “Yeah, I remember now. Seemed to have his fingers in everything political, from road agent elections to congressional races.”

  “Yeah, well, he had his fingers and his dick in a lot of other things as well. You’d think the guy’s last name was Kennedy, the amount of tomcatting he did.”

  Duncan said, “Funny, don’t remember hearing that when we were kids. Go on.”

  “So I found out that, after he graduated, Zach had a job lined up, working down at the State House in Concord for some legislative research committee. Guess dear old dad wanted to start grooming him, mayb
e set him up to do his own political career, follow the family business. Never happened. Zach left Turner and joined the Coast Guard. Near as I could learn, him coming back the other day was the first time he’d been back to Turner since he joined the Coasties.”

  “Zach told me he was dishonorably discharged. True?”

  “Quite true. Just under a year ago. Funny thing, my guys say his record is just bare bones. All they found out is that he was involved with something to do with port and river security. There’s hints of other things—deployments overseas to Africa, the Middle East—but just dates, no details of anything he did. Then his dishonorable discharge, supposedly for disobeying direct orders on a deployment. No details of the deployment in question. That’s it.”

  “His house burn down in Purmort, like he said?”

  Cameron laughed. “Like I said, easiest thing to check out. Yeah. Double-wide he lived in burned right down to the concrete mat. Fire department got there in time to save the concrete. Cause under investigation.”

  “Glad to hear that. What did Stephanie at the bed and breakfast say?”

  “Quiet guy. Went into his room. Lights out about eleven p.m. Didn’t use the house phone, but he did make a cellphone call about thirty minutes before going to sleep. Oh, and this morning, when he had breakfast, he didn’t like any of the offerings, so he paid off the waitress to get something off the menu.”

  Duncan walked a few more yards, sniffed the air, tried to imagine a time when men and machines roared through here, cutting down trees, raising up sparks, digging in the dirt. Funny what time did, to even something that now looked like wilderness.

  “What’s your gut say, Cameron?”

  His brother exhaled. “He’s got the skill set, that’s for sure. He’s also hungry. When you get dumped like that with bad paper, it affects everything. These troubled times, companies aren’t going hire somebody like Zach Morrow. Too much baggage. Plus, you don’t get your pension, don’t get medical coverage. Then you have his house burning down … Yeah, I could see him coming back up here, back home, maybe start out new.”