Playing God

by Douglas Moore

  “Can he talk?”

  “Not anymore. PI got out of his vehicle and put three in his chest.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Plus one in the face.”

  “Remind me not to tailgate that sonuvabitch.”

  “Yes, sir. Lifted the PI’s prints off both doors, so he musta found the driver dead first and then went ‘round to check on the passenger, who blasted him three times.”

  “They shot each other?”

  “PI’s a big ‘un. Overpowered the passenger post injury and took his Glock.”

  “Tough guy.”

  “You can say that again. Took one in the shoulder. One through his right hand and another one in the gut. NSA goes for his backup. PI sees it and lets him have it three times in the side and the shot to the face.”

  “Musta been a fuckin’ mess.”

  “Brains and blood all over the headliner.”

  “Nice.”

  “So. The P.I is bleeding badly, but he manages to make a phone call to another cell phone owned by a Jake Miller.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Jake Miller lives in Spring Lake out on Kristin Ave. One-eighty and a half.”

  “Now wait just a goddamn minute. I had a call come in today. Fellah says his neighbor’s garage door was open and he knows the owner left after dinner the night before, and it was closed. One-eighty and a half Kristin.”

  “Your men been there yet?”

  “Let me check.”

  Chief Tom Mederack had been Fayettville's police chief for almost eight years. He was a serious man, and very meticulous in his work. He’d made chief at forty-three, which was relatively young in these parts, where some men spent forty years on the same force without their boss ever retiring.

  Tom had joined the force after high school, forgoing college for the chance at an instant paycheck and benefits.

  Over time, life behind the desk had changed his appearance. Subtle differences that weren’t noticed by those who saw him every day bothered him in the morning mirror. He still had a full head of hair, but the gray was creeping into his moustache and sideburns. Six foot one, two hundred twenty pounds. His midsection had fattened up and he could stand to lose a few pounds.

  He still ran every morning and played slow-pitch with the department’s team in the summer, but at fifty-one it seemed everything he ate inflated the spare tire above the recommended PSI.

  “Pat.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “My men are there now and I'm heading out. The house was ransacked and the garage door was kicked in. There’s blood on the floor, and it looks like someone was tied up on the workbench with an extension cord.”

  “Mind if I meet you there?”

  “No. In fact glad to have you. Any theories that might help us?”

  “I don't know whose blood it is. Possibly Jake Miller’s. The four NSA agents that came to Loop Road last night were scary customers, like looking in the eyes of the four horsemen. They were in a new Bell helicopter headed to Fort Bragg to refuel. If I were a betting man I'd say they’re mixed up in things. I’ve got a bad feeling about this. NSA in town, PI, three DBs, and now a break in at Jake Miller’s place, blood on scene. It stinks, Tom.”

  “To high heaven. I could use a good man, Pat. Especially if your instinct’s right. Come on down and help me chase this thing.”

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?” Micheals asked.

  “Mouse pox?”

  “Awful big coincidence.”

  “What's your 10-26, Pat?”

  Sergeant Pat Michaels looked at the clock on his desk. It was a heavy crystal picture frame with a small clock inset. There was a picture of his wife Helen, Matt, and Brandy, tanned and smiling in front of the Tree of Life at the Animal Kingdom Theme Park. He remembered that vacation. A Bug’s Life was shown inside a fourteen story, fifty foot wide, hand carved tree. He remembered the 3D show and the kid’s reaction to being sprayed. The realism. The sting of the seats.

  “I should be on Kristin Ave by ten-thirty.”

  Tom said goodbye and hung up. What in the hell was going on?

  *

  A young man about twenty-four walked through the parking lot at Edward Mentor Memorial Park with his wife. A blue dog leash was wrapped around his right hand, dangling at his side.

  “Sampson! Delilah!” he yelled.

  His two black labs had run off again. Along the parking lot, past the third ball field they’d run, finally disappearing into the tree line at the back of the park.

  “They never come when you call them.” he groaned.

  “They just want to explore,” his wife said rubbing her husband’s back.

  The couple walked into the woods, under barren trees with fallen leaves crunching and rustling under their feet. They made their way through the underbrush, trailing the echo of the barking dogs. The dogs didn’t seem to be moving now, but their excitement level had definitely increased. Must have homed in on some poor squirrel.

  As they got closer, it looked like Samson and Delilah had been following what appeared to be an animal trail. The young couple came to the crest of a small rise.

  Still angry, Kevin barely got out the dogs’ names before his face went pale and he doubled over, heaving up the Denver omelet his wife had made special for him that morning, just the way he liked it.

  But his wife didn’t notice.

  She was fixed on the body that lay at the base of a large Dogwood.

  Chapter 20

  Tombs knocked on the wooden door to the office Major Folkstone had borrowed.

  “Come in.”

  Folkstone sat in the mute light. His wallet lay open; a picture of his daughter was flipped open in front of him.

  “Major Folkstone.”

  “Turn the light on Toombs.”

  Toombs turned and flicked the switch.

  “We located the Escalade,Sir.”

  “Where?”

  “Spartanburg.”

  Toombs was proud that it had been his idea to contact OnStar and restart the service, but if Folkstone was impressed, he didn’t show it. The Major cared about one thing: results. He didn’t concern himself with methods as long as the job was done.

  The office had several secure land and fax lines. Folkstone picked up a short stack of paper from the tray of the fax machine.

  “Chopper's ready?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Updates from OnStar?”

  “Every half hour, sir.”

  “Why the fuck can’t we patch in to their GPS locaters?”

  “Working on it, sir. The carrier is being a little difficult.”

  “Verse them on the Patriot Act!”

  “Already on it, sir.”

  “Where are Borda and Jones?” asked the major as he put his coat on. He gathered some paperwork from the desk and placed it in a black leather briefcase, a gift from his daughter Emily. Folkstone carried it everywhere.

  “They're at the helicopter pad, sir.”

  “We have clearance.”

  “Already taken care of sir,” said Toombs.

  “Good.”

  That’s why the major had taken Toombs under his wing. He was efficient, tough, and a superb strategist and tactician. Folkstone knew Toombs would find the vehicle and faster than anyone else on the team. He was grooming the kid for his own job someday, and he needed him to be tough and ruthless.

  Toombs was like the son Folkstone had never had but always wanted, but he’d never tell him that at this stage. Maybe when the time was right, but that was years away. There was no room for sentimentality in their line of work.

  He’d even toyed with the thought of Toombs marrying his daughter one day, but scrapped the idea. His daughter deserved better, someone who could give her a normal life although the possibility of that was looking less and less likely.

  Folkstone would never have believed he would end up doing the sort of things he’d done in his career when he started, but he was like the prover
bial lobster in the pot of boiling water. Little by little, as the water heated, Folkstone was losing his soul. Had he known what the job entailed all those years ago, he would have turned it down flat. But each time he was asked to do something just a little more abhorrent, just a little more immoral, and each time he succeeded beyond even his own expectations.

  And the heat got more intense.

  The symbolism was not lost on Folkstone; he was an educated man, a critical thinker. But somehow he’d been able to slowly build a wall between his intellect and his emotions, until nothing was beyond his abilities.

  The only person who could breach that wall was Emily.

  Emily’s mother had died due to complications during child birth, but his daughter had survived. Folkstone was in too deep to quit, but he tried to shield her from the harsh reality of his work, even while dragging her around the world from base to base. It was tough being a single father, let alone a single military dad of a baby girl, but in an odd way, that little girl had toughened him up. She had also made it possible for him to succeed at the most brutal parts of his job. As long as she existed, he was able to make peace with all of the terrible things he had done.

  As long as he could come home at night and see her angelic face, he could endure anything.

  She was all he had, and he was all she had.

  “Let’s go!” barked Folkstone.

  *

  Jake and Paul had made Spartanburg in about three-and-a-half hours. US-74 was much busier than normal with military vehicles and trucks hauling trailers. A steady flow of traffic toward Charlotte and a heavier flow out of Charlotte headed east and Southwest on I-85 toward Spartanburg, South Carolina. There seemed to be a concentrated military presence at the Bank of America Stadium, and again at Spartanburg Community College.

  Probably vaccination centers. Jake surmised. Both were visible from the highway, bogging down traffic as the first day of the alphabet lottery kicked in. It seemed fast, almost as if the planning had started during the initial outbreak in China.

  They stopped in Spartanburg so the kids could eat. Leslie, Paul and June pulled their limits from a Bank of America again, successfully. “They must not have made the connection,” Leslie reasoned out loud.

  Leslie walked with everyone into the greasy spoon that Jake had picked. She grabbed a quick drink and went to call Felix. Felix was a friend of Leslie’s who was an editor for the St. Petersburg Times.

  She told him everything about Panama, the doctors’ deaths or disappearances, her father’s death and his journals. She went on and on…. and he never interrupted her once. He was too dumbstruck.

  When she got to John Rolston and the NSA agents, he was completely blown away. The implications were unbelievable.

  This was evidence that the United States was in direct violation of the 1972 Biological Weapons Convention. Article 1 of the provisions explicitly forbid any signatory from acquiring or retaining biological weapons under any circumstances.

  Felix knew there was no way the U.S. had started a war that no one could possibly win. Whether the mouse pox outbreak developed naturally or was acquired by terrorists, it was no wonder the NSA was after them.

  China was devastated but still had the capability of firing long range ballistic missiles at targets anywhere in the world.

  Leslie faxed Felix pages from her father’s journals from an office supply store so he could fact check the other information. Felix was a good journalist, and in spite of the source and the circumstances he needed at least a day for research. On her way out, she grabbed a copy of the Charlotte Observer.

  Jake, June, and the kids left the restaurant carrying coffees and a breakfast sandwich for Leslie.

  “Found a place to dump the truck,” Jake said.

  “Where?” Leslie asked.

  “It’s a small used car lot off 26 just North on the 176.”

  “Should we dump the Escalade?” asked Leslie.

  “It’d be smart, kiddo. If we trade for a couple of utility vans or a cube van we could really stock up on supplies.”

  “Could sleep in a cube if we had to,” Paul added.

  Jake nodded. “This place sells mostly commercial trucks and vans, a lot of government utility stuff.”

  “How’d you find this out?” asked Leslie, impressed.

  “Flirted it out of the cook,” he answered, smiling.

  Leslie doubted that since he’d been with her mother, but she understood he was trying to lighten the mood.

  “I saw her when we walked in, she’s definitely your type,” Leslie said, laughing.

  The kids joined in, and the levity felt good, lowering stress levels even if only for the moment.

  “I’m serious. Waitress told me the cook’s cousin owns the place.”

  Leslie looked through the window and saw the waitress, who looked about thirty-eight with a chest to match. Leslie pictured the waitress the type of hard living woman who’d find Jake’s older Marlboro man persona irresistible.

  She smiled at Jake, rolling her eyes.

  The steel blue in her eyes sparkled. They were so much like her mother's eyes. June’s eyes were what Jake called corn silk blue, soft and warm and whimsical. Leslie’s were darker and deeper, filled with strength and determination.

  The car lot was just off 26. They circled the cloverleaf, headed northwest on 176 Ashville Highway. It sat on a pie-shaped acre of land hemmed in by Campton Rd, Outter Drive and 176. It was an inconspicuous place. No signs, just several white utility vans, cube vans and pickups that looked like they were government owned or commercial vehicles, just as promised.

  Jake pulled into the gravel drive, kicking up dust and pea stone. Paul followed close behind, accelerating slightly as he crossed ahead of oncoming traffic, turning left onto Campton Road and in behind Jake.

  A large man, easily two hundred-eighty pounds on a five foot, nine inch frame hustled out of the tiny office at the far end of the lot and huffed and puffed his way over by the time they were out of their vehicles. He had olive skin and dark, greasy hair. He was definitely related to the cook, much to the children’s delight.

  “You the folks just ate in Spartanburg?” he said with an unsettling smile.

  “Your cousin sent us,” Leslie said, taking the lead.

  “Yeah, she called.”

  Both parties stood there in the dust, watching each other like wary boxers.

  Finally, Jake broke the silence. “We’d like to make a trade.”

  The rotund man raised an eyebrow and looked over Jake’s shoulder at the Escalade.

  Jake glanced at Paul, who nodded.

  “Both vehicles?”

  The rotund man smiled. “Have a look ‘round. Give a yell when you’re ready.”

  There were maybe a dozen vehicles on the lot, but only four or five that fit their needs. They settled on a ‘93 Ford Cube Van with a 16’ box. It had nearly 260,000 miles and a 2006 Ford E 350 Econoline Cargo Van with under a hundred thousand miles on it. Both were white with recent body jobs and fairly clean.

  “Looks like y’all found what you wuz looking for!” the rotund man yelled from his window as they walked toward the tin office.

  “Need to hear ‘em!” Jake said.

  The man threw two sets of keys from the window. He knew which vans they’d pick before they did.

  Jake fired up the cube van and Paul took the Ford. Both started up nice and idled smooth. Jake and Paul looked at each other and smiled.

  They weren’t smiling in the office.

  “Straight up?” Paul said, visibly irritated. “That’s a two year-old Cadillac Escalade with less than forty thousand miles on it.

  “Two for two,” the rotund man said once more, his expression the same as if Paul had offered him another plate of ribs. “Straight up.”

  Jake stepped in between the two, which wasn’t hard to do in the tiny office.

  “We’ll be right back,” Jake said, gently pulling Paul toward the door, which lucky for them all, opened t
o the outside.

  They stepped down onto the single wood step and into the gravel drive.

  Jake lowered his voice. “You saw the highway, Paul. Everyone’s either running from the pox or to family, or both. When that mouse pox really hits, it’s gonna get hairy.”

  Paul looked at Jake.

  “It’s an Escalade,” he said, without conviction, knowing they had to take the deal or leave it, and leaving it wasn’t an option.

  “Exactly. It’s an Escalade,” Jake repeated, and they walked back into the office.

  It took less than a half hour to load the vans and complete the paperwork. They put their old plates on the vans, which were illegal and risky, but Jake had to believe the police were going to be too busy to worry about such things.

  Besides, if they registered the new ownership at the DMV, the NSA would find them for sure.

  Soon enough they’d have to take a chance and maybe steal some plates off a junker or abandoned vehicle along the way. But for now, Jake just wanted to get back out on the road.

  Giving Paul a wink and a nod, the man brought out a dealer placard and pitched it onto the Escalade’s dashboard just as they were about to pull out. Jake looked over at him in the other van and had to feel for him. In normal times Paul could’ve gotten a couple vans for the Caddy and probably some cash to boot.

  They gassed up at a station off the cloverleaf at 26. As Paul filled the tank on the Ford, he saw the man blow by in the Escalade, heading toward Spartanburg.

  He sighed and shook his head in disgust. He felt eyes on his back and looked over at the other set of pumps, locking eyes with Jake, who had obviously seen the Caddy, too.

  After a moment, they both busted out laughing.

  Leslie and June took the kids inside to use the restrooms while Paul and Jake topped off the tanks and checked the oil, water, and tire pressure.

  Leslie came out of the little store and walked over to Jake. “They were out of cell phones. And flashlights and duct tape and newspapers.”

  Jake nodded. He figured as much.

  “I grabbed a copy of the Charlotte Observer while we were in Spartanburg. There wasn't even a mention of what happened in Lillington. No mention of an accident or shooting,” she said.