“Why do you say that?” I said.
“I asked them why they wanted you, and they said they owed you something. They weren’t talking about money. Then they threatened to make things uncomfortable for me if I didn’t give them the information they sought.”
That didn’t sound like Mike’s guys at all. The ones I’d met practically sirred me to death.
“Just look at the emails, will you? Then maybe you’ll see.”
He told me an email address and password.
I turned to get a notebook I keep in my smoking bag. A sudden breeze brushed my hair.
Mr. Charles Ivo Simon didn’t say anything more. His head tipped back as a bullet plowed a hole through his brain.
Little Sister Speaks
Gentle children of the Far Forest,
Tenders of the midnight flower,
Wealth of the Mother Soil,
People of the Spider Spirit.
Pay heed to Empaya Iba
And to Little Sister, his messenger.
Empaya Iba, spirit of us all,
Giver of the Long Sleep, seer of the Many Eyes, mage of the Many Legs.
Empaya Iba has chosen us.
We are his people.
He protects us
And gives us a shaman to watch over us.
Pay heed.
Obey Empaya Iba.
His patience is not without limits.
His displeasure is severe.
So, says he, Empaya Iba, spirit of the Black Orchid People, guardian of the Mother Soil, giver of the Long Sleep, seer of the Many Eyes, mage of the Many Legs.
Chapter 32
Run
I scrambled through the cabin door on my hands and knees as a trickle of blood inched toward the dead lawyer’s eyebrows.
Lying on my back behind the cast iron stove, I gritted my teeth and wished and dreamed and hoped the shooter dead. I had no idea if the demon spell worked, but if I really had the power, there wouldn’t be any more bullets invading my space.
But I also wasn’t going to wait around to find out.
Slipping behind furniture, I grabbed the Webley pistol and my camera bag from the kitchen. I crawled to the basement door and slid headfirst down the stairs.
I pulled the battery and SIM card out of my cell phone and stomped the phone until it broke apart on the concrete floor. In under two minutes I’d ripped my new emergency fund—$5,000 in small bills—from its hiding place in the insulation and was dragging my bail-out bag and camera pack out through a basement window on the side of the house away from the porch.
A cluster of redbuds covered my exit, but thirty feet of open ground above the septic field separated me from the forest surrounding my place. I didn’t bother to look for the shooter; he’d be too far away and too well hidden. I gripped my bags, took a deep breath, and scuttled toward the tree line.
I didn’t die.
Either my demon magic worked or the sniper didn’t see me.
I had to move fast. As soon as Mike’s sensors reported a break in the security barrier, one of his boys would come checking on me. If they were part of this, whatever this was, I had to be gone before they found me missing and Simon dead in my place.
Ten minutes later, I emerged from the trees a quarter-mile away at the rear of an isolated, weathered outbuilding with an overgrown dirt road leading to it. I peeked through the broken glass window; my luck was holding. The 1998 F-150 was parked inside.
I owned the old Ford pickup with a local guy named Sonny Ardo. Just after Sarah died, I buried myself in West Virginia, drinking at the Four Corners Tavern by day and in my cabin by night. Sonny had a similar thing going on. He needed money to fix up a used truck he’d just bought; I hadn’t started worrying about paying my bills. And so, I became co-owner of a dinged up black pickup, totally nondescript here in the hills. Sonny used it to run moonshine and God knows what else; I kept my interest for the day when I might need a second vehicle. This was that day.
I listened hard; the birds and bugs made their contented noises. No one was around to disturb them. I scurried around to the front of the shed and swung the rain-blackened door open on hinges that Sonny kept well-oiled. I tossed my bags onto the bench seat, slid behind the wheel and started the engine. The motor purred. I eased out of the building, over the dirt road and down into a gully that leads to Washington National Forest.
As I bounced over abandoned logging roads, I called my fire chief friend on a throwaway phone Sonny and I kept in the glove box and told him where to find Charles Simon’s body. He asked no questions; people in the hills know how to be discreet. He promised to look after my place, and I promised to get in touch with the sheriff soon.
I hung up, turned the cell off and drove like I was being chased by a man with a gun and a deadly attitude.
*
I chose my moment to act carefully—just before quitting time for the overachievers at the Pentagon. I whispered into the phone.
“You killed the wrong guy, Mike.”
“Sebastian?”
“You’re very lucky to be alive.”
I kept my voice low out of fear for what might happen if I vented my fury at Mike Owens. I would go crazy; I suspected the demon might, too. I didn’t want that for Mike. Not until I knew more.
“Where are you? The guys said you left without a trace,” Mike said. “Your cabin is wide open, and there’s a body. The place is crawling with volunteer firefighters and sheriff’s deputies. What’s going on?”.
“I told you. Your sniper missed me.”
“Sebastian, where are you? This isn’t your cell number.”
“Of course not. You’ve got me so paranoid I was almost prepared for something like this. I’ll bet your boys are lost in the middle of nowhere with no cell coverage and no tracking chips to follow.”
“Sebastian, listen—”
“Why’d you do it, Mike? What made you finally move against me? Was it something you thought the lawyer would tell me?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. What happened at your place?”
“Don’t play dumb, Mike. You know what happened. Don’t you remember Abu Dhabi? You said that if the government thought I was a threat, you’d have someone take me out. Remember?”
“Of course, I do. But we haven’t done anything. You’re too valuable to—”
“Your sniper tried and missed.”
My knuckles were turning white from my death grip on the steering wheel. I was parked in a farmer’s turnout on a mountaintop on the far side of West Virginia. I wanted to scream, but my voice held steady.
“It wasn’t my sniper, Sebastian. You have to listen to me. If someone shot at you, it wasn’t us. My orders are still to keep you safe.”
“Somebody must have changed those orders and forgot to tell you. Maybe you’re not in control, just like me.
“You’re lucky, Mike. Lucky I didn’t think of you as a corpse when Charles Simon keeled over with a big red bullet hole in his head. But you know what?
If my thoughts really can kill, one of your boys is gone—gone forever. You might want to do a roll call.”
“Charles Simon. Amanda’s lawyer? I just spoke with him—when was it? Yesterday morning?”
I had to hand it to Mike. The guy was good. Maybe he got that way from dealing with tribesmen during his tours in Iraq and Afghanistan.
“Charles Simon is dead. Your shooter missed me and killed Charles. I only wish I could be there when you explain that to Amanda.”
“Sebastian, listen to me. I didn’t do it. We didn’t do it. But if somebody shot at you, you’re in danger.”
“I’m a step or two ahead of you, Mike, and I intend to stay that way.”
“Listen, don’t trust me right now,” Mike said. “If someone shot at you, they know about me and could be tracing this call now. Go somewhere safe. Contact me when you can, but not on this phone. I’ll work things from here.
“Sebastian, run!”
Chapter 33
>
Repositioning
TOP SECRET OMEGA
DESTROY AFTER RECEIPT
FROM: MAJ WALKER STURGEON, 348TH GENERAL SERVICES, CHIEF OF STAFF
TO: OPERATIONS TEAM CHARLIE
RE: ORDER TO DISABLE CONTACT - SUPPLEMENTAL
IN ABSENCE OF DESIGNATED COMMANDING OFFICER, CHIEF OF STAFF CONTINUES IN COMMAND PER REG. 14-37-B, REV 09/2015.
ATTEMPT TO DISABLE CONTACT US CITIZEN SEBASTIAN ARNETT, PASSPORT 774872778, REF Y0071-12-14284-R CMS, FAILED RPT FAILED THIS DATE.
TEAM CHARLIE ASSET ECHO KIA RPT KIA. REMAINS AND WEAPONS NECESSARILY ABANDONED IN SITU.
TARGET ARNETT FLED. WHEREABOUTS UNKNOWN. TEAM CHARLIE ASSETS TO PURSUE. IDENTIFICATION BY SPECIFIC FACIAL FEATURES / SCARS MAY BE POSSIBLE BUT ALL MEANS TO IDENTIFY, LOCATE AND DISABLE SHOULD BE USED.
NOTE US GOVERNMENT SURVEILLANCE INITIATED AGAINST CLOSEST KNOWN ASSOCIATES.
DISABLE ACTIONS MAY BE TAKEN INDEPENDENTLY BY EACH ASSET TEAM CHARLIE. RPT DISABLE ACTIONS MAY BE TAKEN INDEPENDENTLY.
CHIEF OF STAFF / TEAM CHARLIE ASSET GOLF AVAILABLE IMMEDIATELY TO SUPPLEMENT FIELD OPS AS NEEDED / REQUESTED.
ALL OTHER TEAMS STAND BY FOR IMMEDIATE ACTIVATION THIS OPERATION.
BE ADVISED SUBJECT TARGET CONTINUES UNDER SURVEILLANCE US ARMY SPECIAL WEAPONS COMMAND, USMC LTC MICHAEL OWENS, COMMANDING. INTERFERENCE BY THIS COMMAND OF TEAM CHARLIE OPERATIONS NOT LIKELY BUT TEAM CHARLIE ASSETS WILL DETERMINE RESPONSE WITHOUT REPERCUSSIONS.
OPERATIONS AUTHORIZED IN HOMELAND AND ABROAD. NO RPT NO AUTHORIZATION LIMITS.
ENDIT
TOP SECRET OMEGA
Chapter 34
Impedimenta
I didn’t need Mike Owens to tell me what to do next. I was already on the way. Destination: North Carolina, specifically the hills around Asheville.
I’d shot pictures at George Vanderbilt’s magnificent gardens at Biltmore. The surrounding area was littered with cabins and houses belonging to retirees, and there were always some that weren’t occupied. I had no qualms about borrowing a property to hole up in while I figured my next move. I avoided the obvious route south on I-81 and struck out west on twisting two-lane highways through West Virginia and into Ohio toward Cincinnati. Sonny Ardo was the only other person who knew about the pickup; I figured I would know pretty quickly if someone was trying to follow me on the back roads.
I stopped a couple times for gas at places that hunters would frequent for supplies. I shelled out cash for several cheaper throwaway phones and a truckload of nonperishable food, some new clothes, camping supplies, and enough camouflage tarps to completely cover the truck.
Several times I noticed someone looking my way, and I had to fight not to look over my shoulder. They’re just looking at the tattoo, I told myself.
In the Cincinnati suburbs, I hit a big box store just before closing and bought the cheapest computer tablet they had. Cash only. I hoped I wouldn’t have to buy too many more throwaway computers.
I was exhausted, but I kept driving, turning southeast to backtrack through Kentucky and Tennessee. Twelve hours and 700 miles from my starting point, my adrenaline wore out and I stopped at a mom-and-pop motel north of Knoxville. After I checked in, mom turned off the welcome sign. I was gone the next day before she awoke.
I reached the outskirts of Asheville in time to join eastbound morning rush-hour traffic. While commuters fumed over the crush of cars, I relished the anonymity it provided. After a drive-through fast food breakfast, I cruised through half a dozen middle-class developments with wooded lots, behaving like I belonged, driving with the window down, giving the two-finger wave to everyone I passed and keeping an eye out for a vacant place to hide.
Late in the afternoon I settled on a development several miles outside the city limits where the woods seemed a little thicker, the hills a little steeper and a sign at the entrance warned, “Private Drive—No Trespassing.” The asphalt access road made a complete loop of the twenty-plus properties on five-acre lots.
A two-story log house barely visible from the road looked like a promising target. The blinds were drawn; a barbecue grill and fishing boat in the carport were both covered; and the grass on either side of the gravel drive grew knee high.
The only drawback was the road: There was only one way in and one way out. If anyone found me, I’d be trapped. It didn’t matter. Two days of hard travel had wiped me out; the adrenaline had drained away. I needed a refuge.
At dusk, just before it was dark enough to need headlights, I re-entered the development, followed the loop and swung into the gravel drive. I pulled up to the car port, got out and stretched, looking for signs of inhabitants as I bent and twisted myself to loosen up. I couldn’t see any of the neighboring houses, but just in case, I made sure that anyone watching would see a tired man limbering up after a long drive.
I put a friendly smile on my face, walked up to the door and knocked. I was relieved when no one answered. I knocked again and waited. Still no response. The knot between my shoulder blades loosened a bit. Keeping up my act, I looked around, then stepped down from the porch and walked around the side of the house.
The ground sloped steeply toward denser woods in back. A deck off the first floor sheltered what I had been hoping to find: A basement door. I knocked, got no response, and moved on to finish my circuit of the property. Except for the development’s sole road, it was perfect.
Confident the house was empty, at least for the moment, I pulled the truck around the back and parked against the house. Using a crowbar from a tool box Sonny kept in the truck, I broke through the deadbolt, splintering the door frame.
I breathed in stale air, which further suggested the owners were gone for a while. I confirmed that with a quick inspection of the two floors above the basement. I found clothes in the closets and food in the pantry, but no fresh food in the fridge. I hoped the owners were somewhere else for the season, although I didn’t like it that they’d left the boat. I hauled a bare minimum of supplies into the basement and covered the truck with the camouflage tarps. Up close, no one would be fooled, but I was hoping no one would come any closer to the property than the road out front.
The house had a dish on the roof pointing south, which was promising. The two upper floors each had a TV, but there were no computers or evidence of an Internet hookup.
Great. I’d picked the only house in the neighborhood without a connection to the Internet. I had to get access to the email account Charles Simon had set up for me and find out what he’d so urgently wanted me to know.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t taken his warning all that seriously until he was dead; I couldn’t remember the email address or password.
*
I set out that night around 2 a.m. My plan was simple: Find the closest house with an unprotected Wi-Fi account. Pirate the Internet access and use my new tablet to find Charles Simon’s email account and password. It might take a night or two—maybe three or four—but that didn’t matter because I had nothing but time on my hands. I briefly considered using public Internet sites, but I’d gone to a lot of trouble to disappear. It made no sense traipsing around libraries and coffee shops.
Armed with a power bar, water bottle, flashlight and my tablet, I slipped out the broken basement door and headed off through the woods toward the house next door.
In moments, I found myself within fifty yards of the place, a log house even bigger than my borrowed shelter. A dog barked, then a second, and I ran like hell back to my hidey-hole.
Dogs. Just what I needed, and right next door. I could do what I needed to do—hide, rest, check the Internet—only as long as no one could find me. I could not afford to have a nosy neighbor checking out this place because dogs barked at me.
After catching my breath, I checked my watch—a half-hour lost—and set off in the opposite direction. One by one, I sneaked as close as possible to each house in the development, opened my tablet and searched for Wi-Fi.
The sky was turning to purple by the time I returned t
o the basement. Everything looked as I had left it. I’d found six Wi-Fi signals, but four of them were password protected. Another came from the house next door, which turned out to have at least two dogs penned in back. The other open Wi-Fi was two doors from the neighbor with the dogs, about as far away as possible. I’d have to hike all the way around the loop—about a mile and a half each way.
All that walking would reduce the amount of time I could work at the open hot spot. That meant starting earlier than I wanted and working closer to dawn. More important, it increased the chances of my being seen or running into someone who actually belonged.
Exhausted from my explorations, I flopped onto the sofa in my clothes and fell into a dreamless sleep.
*
Late in the afternoon, I awoke slowly, my back muscles knotted from the sofa. I opened a camper’s meal, heated the mac and cheese on the stovetop and pondered the email problem while I ate at the kitchen table.
Simon told me he based the account name on the ancestor who had established the foundation of Amanda’s wealth. She had told me that her great grandfather had mined for silver on the Front Range of the Rockies northwest of Pueblo and struck it rich. He got so rich that he went from being a solo miner to a mine owner and helped put down the 1894 miners’ strike at Cripple Creek, Colorado. That was my clue on the email address: It had the words “Cripple Creek” in it.
To find the complete address, I’d have to try to create a new email account for the address I suspected. If the email provider let me create it, then it couldn’t have been the name Charles had used. If the address was already taken, well, then I’d have to try to work out the password. But first things first.
I set out on my hike around the loop road that night at 10 p.m., hoping for a long, productive outing. Unfortunately, the neighbors with the unprotected Wi-Fi were night owls, and I watched their glowing lights for hours. At least the bugs weren’t biting as I sat against a tree with a view of the house.
When they finally doused their lights, I crept up to the shadow of their shed and started work. With a poncho draped over me to block the glow of the tablet, I tapped in one email possibility after another as sweat dripped off my nose and onto the screen. By 4:30, I had only covered half of my list of potential addresses. This was going to take time.
The Mark of the Spider: A Black Orchid Chronicle Page 18