Playing God

by Douglas Moore

  “Maybe the local paper picked it up.”

  Paul finished up with the Ford and walked over. “Or the NSA’s covering it up.”

  “Somebody must know about it,” Jake said. “I could call Derek tonight or we can make an anonymous call to the Fayetteville PD. Better yet I think there's a highway patrol detachment in Lillington.”

  “That sounds like the best plan. It happened just outside there. Do I have five minutes?” Leslie asked.

  “Yeah, go and make the call,” Paul said. “We’ll finish up and get some drinks for the road. If they have any left.”

  “Use the payphone,” Jake shouted after her. She turned and gave him a look and laughed.

  “Good thinking,” she said with a sly smirk.

  Jake watched as she weaved through parked cars to an isolated phone booth on the fringes of the lot. To him, she still looked like an innocent kid, wide-eyed and playful. But like gas, food, and everything normal, Jake knew that innocence would soon be in short supply.

  Chapter 21

  “Highway Patrol, District Eight.”

  “Hi. I'm trying to get some information on a friend who was involved in a shooting off the 210 yesterday,” Leslie said into the payphone.

  “Who am I speaking to?”

  “John Rolston called us from his cell phone. He said he'd been shot.”

  There was a discernible pause on the other end.

  “Just a moment, please.”

  Leslie could hear phones ringing and sounds of activity before being put on hold.

  District Eight was housed in a long, low-slung brick building about a mile from the freeway in Lillington. It was off the beaten path and shared accommodations with the Harnett County Sheriff’s Office and the jail.

  “Corporal Dennis speaking. I was told you we’re friends with John Rolston.”

  The voice on the other end of the line was younger now, his drawl not as distinct as the first man. Leslie had moved around so much as a kid she never developed a distinct accent, but she loved the various southern dialects, and she guessed at this one as coming from South Carolina.

  “John was a friend of the family. He called us and said he’d been shot. Then the line went dead.”

  The trooper wasn’t buying her misdirection. “Ma’am, I need to know your name to give you any information.”

  Leslie struggled with the decision for a moment, but she knew she had to trust someone. “Leslie Sardis. My father’s name was Robert Williams.”

  Her father had been well known and liked in Spring Lake, but it didn’t seem to strike a sense of recognition.

  “Mr. Rolston made a phone call to a Jake Miller.”

  “Yes. He's part of our family. Is John all right?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Sardis. Mr. Rolston died of his wounds.”

  Leslie tilted her head back and closed her eyes. She felt sick. There was an ache in the pit of her stomach as she fought to control her emotions. She and Jake had suspected as much, even discussed it at length, but still it was a shock to hear the words.

  She had clung to the hope that John was somewhere in a hospital emergency room fighting to hang on.

  “Miss Sardis?”

  “It’s Mrs.,” Leslie said. For some reason, the news he had imparted made it important to tell this nameless, faceless state trooper that she was part of a family that she wasn’t, like John, all alone in the world. John’s wife had died some years back, and they’d never had children. That should have been a comfort since there would be no one to mourn, but she felt drowned under waves of sadness. No one to mourn.

  Maybe that was why he was such a tenacious PI. His job had been his life.

  “Of course, Ma’am. I’m sorry. My first Sergeant has taken a special interest in this matter, Mrs. Sardis. He’s out in the field, but I know he’d like to talk to you. Is there a number where you can be reached?”

  “Not at the moment. We’re kind of on the move. I’m calling from a payphone.”

  The trooper betrayed no reaction to that strange bit of information. Nowadays everybody over the age of three seemed to have a cell phone.

  “He could call you back immediately, Ma’am.”

  Leslie was silent, thinking it over. She was already starting to wonder if it had been a good idea to give out her name.

  The trooper seemed to read her silence. “You can trust him, Mrs. Sardis.”

  Leslie looked out the side glass at Jake and Paul, who had pulled the vans to the far end of the little parking lot near her.

  “I don’t know.”

  “He’s with the police chief from Fayetteville investigating a call at 180 Kristin Avenue.”

  Leslie’s mind raced. What could they be investigating at her mother’s house? Have they found us already? Leslie sensed the NSA on their trail for the first time, closing in.

  She gave the corporal the number to the pay phone and wiped her eyes. Leslie knew she had to put on a brave front. The children were watching. The vans sat idling, waiting. Leslie debated whether to go tell them what she learned when the pay phone rang. How long was I standing there? She grabbed the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Leslie Sardis?”

  “Yes!”

  “This is Pat Michaels. District Eight Highway Patrol.”

  Leslie could tell he was calling from a cell phone. She heard the wind whipping in the background and people talking close by.

  “Are you with Jake Miller?”

  “Yes,” she said, swallowing hard. You have to trust someone.

  “You guys are in pretty deep, Leslie.”

  “I know.”

  “I want you to come in and tell us what's going on.”

  “They killed John. I don’t like our chances in that scenario.”

  “You have to trust someone, Leslie.”

  There was that phrase again. True enough, but whom?

  “We’re going public. After that we might come in, but by then it won’t matter.”

  “Why?”

  It was a simple question, but something about the way he asked it caused Leslie to let loose. Emotion took over and she burst into tears. She knew she had to get the story out. Paul and Jake came to her side when they saw her reaction, and listened in silence as she told the story about Panama in vivid detail to someone she’d never met.

  She explained about the doctors, their deaths and disappearances and John’s meeting with Dr. Evans at Walter Reed that had set everything in motion. The entire time Michaels listened patiently on the other end, never interrupting or reacting.

  Leslie told him she would fax him a list of the doctors’ names and the relevant pages of her father’s journal. It was the same material she had sent to her friend at the paper, but she wasn’t yet ready to tell him that. No sense putting anyone else in jeopardy more than she already had.

  Sergeant Michaels found the story overwhelming, especially with the missing pieces that he was privy to. He had always listened to his gut, and something told him Leslie was one of the good guys. He could sense she was ready to give proof, so he decided to take a chance. He chose sides.

  “Leslie, I shouldn't be telling you this, but I have a feeling about you. You trusted me, so I’m going to trust you. Do you know a Derek Kelly?”

  “He’s my mom’s neighbor. He and Jake are good friends.”

  “We found a body out in the woods not far from your house. We believe its Derek Kelly. He was shot in the head and had injuries that suggest he may have been tortured.”

  “Oh, my God!” Leslie exclaimed. She thought she might faint.

  “I’ve been to your mother’s house. A friend with the Fayetteville PD was investigating a possible break in there, but I had other reasons.”

  “John's call log?”

  “That’s right. Leslie, there was blood on the workbench in your mother’s garage. It looks like that was where Mr. Kelly was...beaten.” He left out the details like his knee damage and the extension cord still wrapped around the benc
h. Habit from when he was a city cop.

  “Why would they hurt Derek?”

  “Leslie, did he know where you were going?”

  She looked at Jake, whose eyes said it all. Derek was dead because they had confided in him, because he was a friend.

  “You can be sure he told them your plans.”

  The implication, unspoken, was that the older man could not have withstood whatever they had done to him. Leslie felt sick.

  “I don’t think we’re going to be coming in, Sergeant Michaels.”

  Pat didn’t argue the point. He understood.

  “At least change your planned route. The NSA agents I met are coming as sure as this mouse pox and they look every bit as scary. They're in a helicopter that left Fort Bragg this morning.”

  “How do you know that?” Leslie asked.

  “We want to talk to them about Derek Kelly. At the crash site on Loop Road, the lead agent let it slip they were going to Fort Bragg to refuel, so I called a friend who told me they lit out of there like a shot around ten. Something got them moving.”

  “We used our bank cards. They froze all Jake’s accounts.”

  “What time was that?” Michaels asked.

  Leslie pulled out a receipt from the bank. “Nine thirty-two.”

  “That would do it. They probably left yours alone so they could track you. Don’t use them again. I could call my carrier and get your location, but let’s save me some time. Why don’t you tell me where you are?”

  “We’re at a truck stop north of Spartanburg at 26 and 176.”

  “Let us protect you. We’ll get your story out.”

  “I think we both know they would still get us. No offense Sergeant.”

  “None taken. At least tell me where you’re headed.”

  “St. Louis. One of the doctors from Panama has a son there. Dr. Andrew Bryce. He heads a research team there. He studies mouse pox like his dad.”

  “You can’t go there. They’ll be watching. At least change your route. I’ll find this Dr. Bryce and talk to him. Call me tomorrow at five on my cell.”

  He gave Leslie his cell phone number and assured her once again that he could be trusted. Jake couldn’t take it any longer, and motioned for the phone.

  “This is Jake Miller.”

  “Sounds like you could use a friend, Jake.”

  “You could say that. Leslie told you about John meeting Dr. Evans at Walter Reed?”

  “Yes.”

  “He told John they had a vaccine.”

  “When?”

  “The day John died. The day the President announced the mass vaccination program. That’s what set this in motion. What we don’t understand is why, if they were prepared to make this information public.”

  “Do yourself and me a favor, dig in for the night and ditch anything that would help them trace you. Give me and Tom a day to look into things.”

  “What was your name again, officer?”

  “Sergeant Michaels. Call me Pat.”

  “Pat, how many friendlies are with you?”

  “Three. Myself, Chief Mederack, and Corporal Dennis out of Lillington.”

  “I know what Tom Mederack looks like from the papers, but give me something personal about each of you as a precaution.”

  “Corporal Dennis has a three year old daughter named Macy. Tom plays short stop for the department’s softball team and his son’s name is Joseph. As for me, I guess A Bug’s Life.”

  “A Bug’s Life?”

  “Favorite memory from a family vacation.”

  “Thanks Pat, we’ll hunker down and call you tomorrow. You got a cell number?”

  “I gave it to Leslie but I’ll give you mine again and the Chief’s number as well.”

  Jake wrote down the numbers and hung up. He looked into the faces of his adopted family and couldn’t help but wonder what type of perverse vacation they were about to take.

  Chapter 22

  The vertical vector fluctuated with the rise and fall of the jagged terrain. The helicopter maintained an altitude that would ensure a clear and constant visual. Like a pendulum, the Bell 430 banked left and right of center. Angular acceleration, torque, and gravity. Some small oscillations. Some larger oscillations. The Bell 430 swung gracefully, from one amplitude to the next, mirroring the ribbon of blacktop as it threaded its way across the rugged spine of the Appalachian Mountain Range.

  Folkstone was playing a hunch, gambling that someone unfamiliar with the drive to St. Louis would access MapQuest to ensure the most direct route. They had caught up to the Escalade in Spartanburg. According to the car salesman, the major and his men were about two hours behind their quarry.

  Ninety miles an hour was the perfect cruising speed for their search. They could maintain a clear view of the roadway, cut the hairpins, no slowing on the steep hills and traffic areas. Folkstone figured that the best a loaded van and cube van could get would be maybe forty miles per hour. He was giving them fifty. If they averaged fifty and he pursued at ninety, the helicopter should overtake Jake and company in the second hour of flight. That would mean before Knoxville. Newport, Edgemont, or maybe Oak Grove.

  Interstate 40 twisted through the Pisgah and Cherokee National Forests, which draped the Smokey Mountains in remote, wooded, nothingness. Barren trees, wind-blasted cliff faces, and shadowy dark chasms. No vans running in tandem sporting North Carolina and Florida tags.

  Waterville Lake, rest stops, and information centers flanked by steep hills covered in dense forest. Trailers perched high in the surrounding hills. How they had been placed there might pose a mystery to passersby.

  Still no visual, thought the Major.

  A violent, rushing river snaked along the interstate, plunging out of the mountains and foothills, descending the natural ragged ladder and feeding the vast farmland below.

  Newport and Edgemont lay ahead.

  Still no visual.

  A huge expanse of steel webbing bridged Douglas Lake at Oak Grove. It had to be near five-hundred yards long, peppered by cars and trucks. A heavier than usual flow of traffic appeared to inch forward.

  “Still no goddamned visual.” Folkstone grumbled.

  “Maybe they’ve stopped or taken another route, sir.”

  Folkstone gave Jones a look that could cut granite, but it was a possibility the major had already been considering.

  “No, they're running. The only thing they’ll stop for is food; gas and lodging, maybe a bathroom break now and then. We'll find them.”

  The aft passenger cabin and the cockpit were separated by a privacy window. Folkstone slipped on a headset, manipulating the ear pads into a comfortable position. They were a set of Avcomm Freedom Wireless, a black and bulky behind-the-head unit with dual padded covers that enveloped his ears, providing total noise reduction.

  “How are we doing on fuel, Captain?”

  “We're going to have to put down soon.”

  “Can we make McGhee in Knoxville?”

  “On fumes, sir.”

  “Get clearance.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fuelling up in Knoxville, sir?” Toombs asked.

  Folkstone ignored the question. Wasn’t that what I just said, dumbass?

  “They’ll probably take 640 skirting north of the core. We can refuel, hop back on the interstate, and give them a half hour so we don't miss them.”

  “Lot of intangibles,” Toombs said.

  “With one certainty. We know they’re headed to St. Louis.”

  *

  Both Jake and Leslie found Pat Michaels very compelling. He came off as an honorable man.“At least change your route,”he’d said.

  “Leslie, are you there?”

  It was June on the CB.

  “Go ahead, Mom.”

  “Are the children awake to see this?”

  “Yes, they are. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “I thought it might help take their minds off….You know.”

  “Thanks mom.”

&
nbsp; They passed through hidden gems, with fitting names like Sapphire Valley. Quaint villages, small town America at its most expressive, lay unattached in time, moving at their own pace.

  Leslie wonder how long until the reality of the times would catch up with small town America.

  Chatuge Lake was expansive. Long fingers stretched out as if trying to wrap a watery hand around highway 64. Its spiny rock shoreline spiked south into Hiawassee, Georgia. Shimmering sparkles of sunlight winked in the crest of waves that broke against the ragged shoreline. The waterfront was dotted with high-end executive homes.

  The radio beeped, dragging Leslie from her sightseeing.

  “Leslie, Jake says he’ll need fuel soon. He says these steep winding roads are really stressing the gas mileage.”

  June’s voice crackled over the radio.

  “When?” Leslie asked.

  “He thinks he’ll make it as far as Isabella, just across the Tennessee state line.”

  “The kids could use a bathroom break, and Paul could use a Red Bull and a stretch.”

  She smiled at her husband, who patted her leg and nodded.

  *

  The urban sprawl of Knoxville crept over the horizon. Sevierville, Morristown, and other neighborhoods ran together in an endless stream of suburbia. The metropolitan area boasted a population of over one million people.

  “Major, FAA TRACON is directing us to Island Home Airport,” the pilot reported over the intercom.

  The Federal Aviation Administration Terminal Radar Approach Control was the authority that managed a 30 to 50 mile radius around the airport, from ground level to 15,000 feet. Only military and government flights were permitted, making air traffic relatively light. The major slipped his headphones back on.

  “What’s the reason, Captain?”

  “The military has McGhee tied up.”

  “Take us on a brief tour then proceed to Island Home, Captain.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Below, traffic was heavy on I-40. RVs, trucks with campers, cars with cargo tethered to their roofs, vans, and motorbikes fought the massive gridlock. Trucks piled high with everything but granny strapped to them.

  Fires burned throughout commercial and retail areas. Brown and yellow clouds wafted through the maze of buildings. Pillars of dark, toxic smoke towered into the skies drifting west in the gentle breeze.