Flight of the Fox

by Gray Basnight

  There were fourteen messages in his Junk folder. He clicked on that file.

  Six of them were sales pitches from online merchants. One was from Stuart Shelbourn, a former colleague who taught calculus at George Washington University. That one had an attachment. Six were from his students at the state pen where he taught every Saturday morning in the summer. That was routine. After each class, it was normal for inmates to stand in line to use one of three desktops in the prison library to work on their homework. Their e-mails were usually a pretense. What they really wanted was communication with someone on the outside. It was his practice to respond to them all, while ignoring relentless digressions upon subjects like “guilt vs. innocence,” “trumped-up charges,” “faith in God,” “proof of a reformed heart,” and “sex.”

  Sex, sex, sex.

  Their favorite subject was the assertion that none of them belonged in prison. After that—it was sex.

  Finally, there was this: From: Harry’s Heating and A/C Repair. Subject: Sam Teagarden.

  The subject line pumped a surge of icy cold up the center of his spine. He drew a breath and clicked. There were two short lines of type and a URL address to another website. The e-mail read: thx, more fun this way, and btw, nothing personal.

  He clicked on the URL. The screen jumped to the image of a digital clock with the words, “I will find you in….” At that moment the clock began counting down: 10:00, 9:59, 9:58, 9:57…

  “Oh damn!”

  The plastic mouse broke apart when it skidded off the tabletop; the cord yanked from the back of the clunky computer box.

  Teagarden caught himself. The image of the clock spooked him badly and he cursed loud enough to be heard by occupants of other bungalows. He listened for the sounds of approaching footfall. Thankfully, there was nothing.

  I will find you in 9:02…9:01…9:00…8:59…

  So, he was correct that the killer would goad him. It was unquestionably a taunting e-mail. He watched the clock: I will find you in 8:45…8:44…8:43…8:42…

  And this Harry man, whoever he was, was as nasty as they come. A real five-star sociopath. He leaned over to pick up the mouse to reassemble it and reconnect the cord to the computer box. In the time it took to do so, a new message appeared: From: Harry’s Heating and A/C Repair. Subject: Tick, tick, tick.

  Oh Lord have mercy. Who is this guy?

  That message meant he was also correct about the sophistication of the surveillance. They were tracing his phone whenever it was on. Now he knew his e-mail log-on was also being monitored in real time.

  He let Harry’s second message go unopened. It was time to turn off the ancient machine and tip-toe from the bungalow when he noticed something odd about the message from his friend at GW University. First of all, it should not be in his Junk folder because they communicated all the time. And second, the return address was not gwu.edu.

  It was from fbi.gov!

  Hi Professor Teagarden,

  Dad recommended you as someone who may shed light on the attached mystery. It’s a series of encoded entries handwritten in an old spiral notebook that’s been collecting dust in the FBI library, where I am archives librarian.

  The file is titled CAT 38-CAT 72, though no one knows why, as that matches no proper coding system at the bureau. No one has ever deciphered it, and the bureau lost interest decades ago.

  As a fellow math professor, Dad says you’re a cryptologist who once worked for the CIA, and may want to take a look.

  Regards,

  Stuart Shelbourn, Jr.

  P.S. I backed up with a hardcopy snail mailed to your summer address in Bethel, NY.

  That explained why the message was in his junk box. It wasn’t from Stuart Shelbourn, Sr. It was from his kid, Stuart Jr. Teagarden remembered that Shelbourn’s son had degrees in criminal justice and library science.

  Could it be?

  He decided to take a chance. His instincts kicked in. Something about it dovetailed. He remembered now that when he picked up the contents of his P.O. Box the previous morning, there had been a thick manila package with a return address from Shelbourn. He was set to open it when that first demonic hummingbird drew his attention. It seemed reasonable that this e-mail had something to do with the sudden horror movie he was living, a horror movie where he had a starring role. If so, he needed to risk expending what valuable safe time remained in the bungalow before they zeroed in on him.

  He turned on the nearby printer, watched it buzz to life, clicked open the attachment, and cued the computer to print one copy of all thirty-four pages. While they were slowly spitting into the plastic catch tray, he explored the rest of the small room.

  There wasn’t much. A small bedside table held a Torah. Beside it, the Spartan single bed was covered by a knitted throw blanket. A caftan lay at the foot of the bed, which Teagarden guessed was leisure wear for the bungalow owner. And judging from the nature of the two rooms, that owner was male, single, and elderly.

  The only other furniture was an antiquated free-standing wardrobe cabinet. The door squeaked when he opened it.

  Yes!

  He knew the moment he saw the contents that he was going to be stealing more than thirty-four pages of paper and some printer ink.

  He selected what he needed from the clothing rack. The outfit was too big for him. Whatever else the owner of this bungalow was, he was a little on the chubby side. But that worked. Teagarden simply pulled each part of the outfit over the top of his shirt and khaki slacks. It was the traditional garb of a Hasidic Jew: baggy black slacks, white shirt buttoned to the collar, tzitzit vest complete with dangling prayer strings, long black silk overcoat, and lastly, a wide hard-brimmed black hat.

  When the slacks drooped, he transferred the belt from his khakis to the black slacks and tightened it. The only item that fit perfectly was the hat, what might be called a fedora, except that it wasn’t. It was the easily recognized headgear of the Hasidim.

  Inside the wardrobe door was a full-length mirror. Teagarden regarded his reflection. With his beard, he was nearly a natural, though he had no side curls. To make up for it, he mussed his beard to make it appear thicker and pulled his hair down his temples as far as it would go, then adjusted the hat to hold it firmly in place. Except for the tzitzit strings and incongruous brown shoes, he looked like a Wild West buffalo hunter, like some Wyatt Earp-type character. All he needed was a Winchester rifle to complete the appearance.

  But there was something else. He also looked like a Hasid.

  “Sir, I apologize to you,” Teagarden said, speaking to the bungalow owner. “Whoever you are, wherever you are, if I can, I will repay you some day.”

  When the pages finished printing, he fished a black clip from a box of pens and rubber bands. He bound them together, folded them lengthwise, and inserted the packet into the inside breast pocket of his new coat. As he did so, the computer screen returned to his e-mail address. There was yet another message.

  From: Harry’s Heating and A/C Repair

  Subject: You’re welcome.

  now it’s even more fun…

  Oh my God. It means Harry knows I just printed the file. How could he possibly know that?

  At that moment, without being prompted, the computer jumped to the URL with the digital clock: I will find you in 4:34…4:33…4:32…4:31…

  He had no idea if Harry really was less than four-and-a-half-minutes from Camp Summer Shevat. But he had no intention of waiting to find out. On a lark, he snatched up the Torah, tucked his chin into his neck, and departed the bungalow. At the lonely intersection in the woods, he turned and strode briskly toward the giant parking lot encircling Bethel Woods Arts Center.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It seemed the logical thing to do.

  It was midday and he needed to avoid appearing like a loitering misfit. He entered the museum that paid homage to three days of peace, love, and rock music that took place on the adjacent hillside nearly
fifty years earlier.

  He idled about the lobby where he monitored the parking lot for Harry’s truck, the sky for helicopters, the distant approach roads for patrol cars. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Fearing unwanted attention from museum guards, he took the only additional option. He stepped up to buy a museum ticket, which should have been simple. It wasn’t.

  Uh-oh.

  “Sorry, ma’am. I appear to have misplaced my wallet. I’ll be right back,” he told the lady at the admissions counter.

  That was stupid.

  He’d forgotten to transfer his wallet from his khakis to the baggy black slacks covering his khakis. He could hardly stand there, undressing and looking like he was digging into his underwear to find money. Fixing the problem required a quick trip to the men’s room. If the ticket lady thought it odd, she kept it to herself.

  “Found it. I’ll take one ticket please.”

  He did a quick tour of the crowded museum, pretending to look at the exhibits. A boisterous group of Japanese tourists did plenty of staring at the Hasid toting a Torah, but gave him wide birth. It was an odd experience that increased his paranoia.

  The worst was confirmed when he finished reviewing galleries commemorating three days in the summer of 1969. Back in the lobby, he saw that the parking lot was loaded with cop cars. And the circular drive at the front door held two sheriff’s vans.

  Klumm is on the scene.

  It meant that Harry was feeding his surveillance data to local law enforcement.

  Could they be working together? Well—duh. They had to be.

  He was paralyzed with fear until a small opportunity presented itself when all the Japanese tourists exited as a group. He fell in and departed with them for the short walk to their giant double-decker Kanagawa Nyūyōku tour bus, parked on the circular drive. Near the bus door, he peeled off to the parking lot, careful not to make eye contact with anyone. When he dared a single backward glance between parked cars, he saw it all. The lobby was filled with cops, troopers and deputies. One of them was talking to the ticket lady, who he feared was telling them about the odd man who had to go to the men’s room to find his wallet. If so, she was describing his clothing as that of an ultra-Orthodox Hasid.

  Stay calm. Don’t panic.

  Behind a row of parked tour buses, he veered toward the main approach road, walking casually as though praying, head down, Torah open, which was in Hebrew.

  If they picked me up, it wouldn’t take long to realize I can’t read or speak the language.

  “Minyan or Walmart?”

  The deeply masculine voice came from the rear. Teagarden thought it was speaking to him, but wasn’t certain. Not wanting to take the risk it was a law enforcement officer testing him, he ignored it and kept walking.

  “Hello. Shalom aleichem,” it called out. “הלו, אדוני?”

  The mini-van pulled ahead of him and stopped so that Teagarden could no longer pretend not to see or hear. The man in the front passenger seat spoke in a third language which Teagarden guessed was Polish.

  “Dzień dobry, proszę pana.”

  Teagarden stopped. The speaker was Hasidic, as were the driver and two passengers in the middle seat. They were all dressed, more or less, exactly like him.

  “Minyan or Walmart?” the man asked again.

  “Oh, sorry,” Teagarden said. “I didn’t hear you. I’m a little deaf.”

  “Yeah, okay. So do you want a prayer minyan or a lift to the Walmart?” He seemed irritated, or maybe suspicious that Teagarden wasn’t what he appeared.

  “Uh, Walmart.”

  “Get in.”

  One of the men in the middle seat opened the sliding door and Teagarden climbed in. As he squeezed past the other passengers, he awkwardly mumbled appreciation with the only Hebrew word he knew. Or was it Yiddish?

  “Shalom, shalom,” he said, without making eye contact. He plunked down in a rear seat, and opened the Torah. Only one of the four men in the van responded.

  “Shalom,” the skinny, young one responded in a bashful voice.

  The driver gunned the engine, and they all snapped backward as the van jolted from a standstill. With four wide-brimmed black hats in front of him, he could barely see the road ahead, but knew it would lead to Route 17B, the two-lane highway that would take them to the nearest Walmart. About a mile away, they’d pass close enough for him to see his own home through the tree line, the split-level A-frame he’d built as a weekend house with his wife, and where he and Kendra intended to retire when the time came.

  The van slowed for the stationary patrol car with blazing flashers as a warning to traffic. On the other side of the trees, cop cars were parked everywhere, including in his driveway. Uniformed officers walked the woods around his house and the undeveloped lot that separated his house from Billy Carney’s. Their heads were down, as though looking for evidence in the underbrush.

  Farther on, as the van stopped to enter 17B, Teagarden saw the truck again, the boxy gray, ten-footer with big tires. It was parked on the shoulder; the side lettering read Harry’s Heating and A/C Repair. And there was a number: 555-FURNACE. One man sat in the cab. Teagarden dared not crane his neck to steal a look, but did manage a brief sidelong glance under his hat brim. The man behind the wheel was about sixty-years-old, maybe older, with short brown hair and a receding hairline. His head was cast down as he looked intently into a glowing tablet or laptop. Though it was only a quick glance, Teagarden could see that he had a hideously thick scar on his upper lip. It could have been caused by botched surgical correction for a cleft palate, or a slipshod fix for a severe injury, possibly a bullet wound to the face.

  That’s Harry. Has to be.

  In the Walmart parking lot, he mumbled more “shaloms” to the Hasidim, departed their company, and hurried to the store’s lawn and garden entrance where a commuter bus was boarding. He guessed it was going either north or south.

  “New York City or Binghamton?” he asked the driver.

  “New York,” the driver announced. “Port Authority Bus Terminal is two stops and two-hours down the road.”

  Teagarden paid the fare in cash and took an aisle seat in the middle. Watching the lower Catskills recede, he caught his breath and tried to pull his thoughts together. He realized he was essentially a fox running from two distinct groups. One was the law, which wanted him because of Billy Carney’s murder. The other was still a mystery. The e-mail from Stuart Shelbourn Jr. may have something to do with it. He couldn’t be certain, but he knew one thing—because he’d escaped both groups, he was either the smartest or the luckiest fugitive there ever was. Either way, he feared his luck was about to run out.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sunday, July 21, 2019

  Encrypted Field Communication

  NSA Apache Code Ofc Baltimore, MD/Washington, DC/CoinTelSatOrbit53/Bethel, NY

 

  TO: ice skater

  FROM: deep field cmdr

  SUBJECT: operation dear john

 

  deep field cmdr to ice skater: telsat sees evidence file has been downloaded…

  ice skater to deep field cmdr: telsat evidence correct…can confirm…fox has hardcopy…

  deep field cmdr to ice skater: um, why?…

  ice skater to deep field cmdr: this fox is smart…as per bio, he once worked f/cia as cryptologist…

  deep field cmdr to ice skater: i was told all e-mail erased…

  ice skater to deep field cmdr: true…but he used primitive desktop…pre-cointelsat…not receptive to nsa viral code that erased recipient e-mail…pc was in private religious compound…

  deep field cmdr to ice skater: u yanking me ice skater?…

  ice skater to deep field cmdr: no sir…no offense, but i don’t go that way…

  deep field cmdr to ice skater: funnyman…no more f/u’s…this knock-knock worrying eyes-only on 10th floor…u now hav
e new job: make 10th floor stop worrying…get your fox now…and confiscate hardcopy…u on short leash…out.

 

  Chapter Sixteen

  Interstate 87, NY

  He drifted in and out of uneasy slumber on the bus. During one nod, he relived the car crash. It flashed back with nearly as much intensity as when it actually happened, sending him lurching forward.

  “Look out!” he shouted.

  It was the final utterance he’d spoken to his wife of twenty-eight years. The driver of the on-coming van was speeding and had lost control on the same four-lane interstate they were traveling at that moment. For reasons never determined, the driver crossed the median, crashed the guardrail, became airborne, and, in the final few microseconds, flew straight into the left side of their car. It was a maroon convertible BMW Roadster that she adored. Police speculated that the van driver suffered a heart attack, though the autopsy couldn’t verify it because there wasn’t much left after he was tossed into high speed traffic. In the end, the best guess was routine law enforcement verbiage: “driver distraction and loss of control while traveling at an extremely high rate of speed.”

  “Sorry,” he said to the passenger in the opposite aisle seat after shouting himself awake. She retrieved his hard-brimmed hat from the floor and handed it back to him.

  “Thank you.”

  “Have a nightmare?” she asked. “You must be very hot in your outfit.” Teagarden sensed she wanted to chat.

  “I’m fine,” he said with moderate curtness. He returned the hat to his head and looked away at the passing scenery of the New York State Thruway, the same scenery he passed that day with Kendra less than a year ago.