Kill Devil

by Mike Dellosso

  After getting back on Interstate 80, Karen drove another two hours before she glanced at the gas gauge and noticed the Silverado needed a fill. Her mind had been on other things: Jed and Lilly. Their whereabouts. Whether they were safe or not. And the thumb drive in her pocket. More than likely, Murphy had already found out the one they’d given him was a dud, and Karen knew what was coming. They’d figure she had the real one and track her down. She had to be diligent; she had to be cautious and smart about every move she made.

  The outside world seemed to not even exist. Morning commuters rushed along and beyond the traffic; trees whizzed by in smudged blurs. But she hardly noticed any of it. The hum of tires on the road and the thoughts that circled in her mind lulled her into a trancelike state. She’d also thought of Emma, the farmer’s wife, and how strange it was that the woman had simply appeared, shared what she shared, then left just as abruptly as she had arrived. Her words, though, resonated through Karen’s mind like a voice through the hallways of an empty building.

  “God’s been down this road before with countless other folks. He knows the way. Trust him to lead you through it.”

  Was she allowing God to lead? Was she following him, working off of his cues? He knew the way. Did she really believe that?

  Now the gauge was nearing empty and telling her she needed to stop. She scanned the area and noticed signs for Joliet, Illinois. Passing the town on her left along 80, she veered off onto US 30 and found a filling station and convenience store a few miles outside of town.

  The store was newer, like it had been built in the past couple years, and showed no evidence of aging yet. The glass was clean and clear, the signage bright and crisp. The pumps were all new as well and showed no indication of overuse yet.

  Parking along one of the pumps, she left the truck and entered the store. The pumps were prepay only, and she needed food and drinks for the trip. The interior was clean and organized. Bright and roomy. A few other customers were present. Karen surveyed the store. A college-aged woman in a trendy beret paid for some items at the counter. A dark-skinned barrel-chested man with a goatee and round eyeglasses perused the snack food aisle, and an older man and a small child helped themselves to hot dogs.

  She grabbed a premade sub, a container of fresh fruit, a gallon of springwater from the refrigerated section, and a bag of chips from one of the shelves.

  Crossing the store to the counter, she noticed the man with the goatee put his phone to his ear. He glanced at her, then quickly looked away, focusing his attention back on the packaged cakes and cookies. Karen hurried to the register and paid for her items and the gasoline. Her heart rate had jumped into overdrive, and she found her hands trembling when she handed her money to the cashier.

  As she left, she stole another glance at the man. He was still in the same aisle, phone to his ear, but he wasn’t speaking and he didn’t appear to be listening to someone else speak. He shifted his eyes to her, then away again.

  Karen picked up her pace. She wished Jed were there. He’d know what to do. Reaching the truck at the pump, she tossed her items on the passenger seat and hurriedly removed the nozzle and shoved it in the vehicle’s fuel receptacle. She couldn’t see past a glare on the plate glass of the store, but she could feel the man staring at her, watching her, informing whoever he was on the phone with of her exact location, of what she was wearing, what she was driving.

  How had they found her so soon? She was a dead woman. If goatee man in the store didn’t kill her himself, she’d surely be tracked down and eliminated at some rest stop or maybe whatever hotel she chose to spend the night in.

  Her mind spun in wild circles; she had no idea what to do. Should she drive through the night? Sleep in the car? Should she get off the highway and try to get lost along the back roads and in the small towns of America? People did it all the time. Stay out of public view and you can become invisible.

  After stealing a quick glance at her watch, she returned her attention to the storefront. The pump seemed to be working in slow motion; it was taking too long to fill the Silverado’s large gas tank.

  C’mon, c’mon. She bounced her leg and squeezed the nozzle harder. She could feel her pulse all the way into her wrist and palm.

  Before she reached the prepaid limit for gas, the man exited the store, looked around the lot, then settled his eyes on her. Karen’s heart suddenly jumped to her throat. He crossed the macadam, heading directly toward her. Nothing about him appeared sinister or threatening, yet Karen’s internal alarms screamed. She released her pressure on the nozzle and replaced it on the pump. She had every intent of jumping into the truck and tearing off, but the man reached her before she could get into the vehicle.

  “Ma’am?”

  She stopped. Froze. This was it. He was going to call her ma’am, play nice, put on a cordial, decent demeanor, then murder her right in the parking lot. Maybe put a gun to her head and end it quickly. Or thrust a knife into her back and twist. Or opt for a more hit man–like method and use a ligature on her.

  He spoke again and this time she noticed he had an accent. Latino. Maybe Mexican. “Ma’am?”

  Slowly, her chest thumping from the pressure of her banging heart, she turned to face him, bracing for whatever would come next.

  The man’s face was soft and kind. There was no murder in his eyes. He held out a dollar bill with a worn, weathered hand. It was not the hand of an assassin. “You dropped this.”

  Her hand trembling, she took the bill from him.

  The man smiled and backed away. “Lo siento. I did not mean to scare you.”

  She said nothing. Her mouth was too dry, her muscles too rigid. The man turned and left, and she watched him until he got into an old Ford F-150 and drove off.

  Karen climbed into the cab, shut the door, gripped the steering wheel, and let the tears come. Floods poured from her eyes and sobs shook her whole body. She couldn’t do this, not on her own. She should have never left Jed. She was too vulnerable, too inexperienced. If they were looking for her—which they would be eventually—they’d find her; they’d kill her.

  God, help me.

  • • •

  San Francisco’s Pier 33 was crowded when Jed arrived. He’d been careful during the drive to make sure no one had followed him. Just outside Monte Vista, California, he’d pulled into an empty parking lot and around the back of an abandoned warehouse to catch a few winks. He’d dreamed there, disturbing scenes of war and violence and death. Images and nightmares that stirred him several times, pulled him into a kind of trancelike wakefulness, only to plunge him further into the horror of that world, that hell. He’d dreamed also of Karen and Lilly, frightened, wounded, on the verge of death. He’d sensed such great pain, such suffering, such loss. He’d awakened at nearly 8 a.m. with the sun bright in the sky. The warehouse sat in a clearing along a local road and was surrounded by towering pines that jutted from the ground like arrow tips. It had reminded Jed of the clearing where their cabin was located back in Idaho. Jed had also changed out of his shirt in the car and donned the Alcatraz Island polo shirt that had been supplied for him. Not surprisingly, it fit as if it had been tailored specifically for him. The hat fit perfectly as well.

  Now, standing in the middle of a crowd on the pier, waiting for the ferry, ball cap pulled low on his forehead, Jed assessed his surroundings, the buildings, the entrances and exits, the security cameras, the people. Most were tourists, families, couples, middle-aged men toting old-school cameras, children talking excitedly. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just everyday people doing everyday things. And even to Jed’s trained eye, nothing seemed out of place. No goateed men in blazers, no snipers with rifles, no black-suited federal agents from space.

  THIRTEEN

  • • •

  Jed moved across the pier to position himself with his back against the wall. It would give him a better view of the crowd so he could watch for any movements that appeared trained, practiced, or out of place for such a gathering. A
ssemblies like this had certain characteristics about them, a certain rhythm about the way they moved. Psychologists and anthropologists had studied group dynamics for decades. Typically, groups had predictable behaviors and patterns of movements. Individuals among a group operated within certain norms that had been studied and established over years of research. Anything outside the norm, anything beyond the predicted behavior, was cause for closer inspection and attention.

  Jed’s mind went to Karen and Lilly again. He wondered if someday they might be able to enjoy a tourist attraction like this as a normal family. Just the three of them without the threat of assassins and secret government operatives.

  A memory came to him, making its way slowly out of the past, out of the far reaches of his mind.

  The three of them are at a carnival. Evening. The sky is dark as ink, but the area around the carnival glows with the lights of the rides and games and food stalls. Children laugh and scream. Adults chat happily. Carnies taunt men as they pass the booths, challenging them to “win one for the lady.” The smell of popcorn and candied apples drifts in the air. Three-year-old Lilly clasps Jed’s hand and earnestly looks into his face, all wide eyes and smiles and giggles.

  “Horsey ride!” she titters, pointing to the carousel in the center of the midway. “I want the white horsey!”

  Jed laughs and gives her hand a squeeze. How can he say no to that?

  The ferry arrived, pulling Jed from the past and back into the present. Of course, he didn’t know if the memory was even real. It felt like it was, but so had the others, the ones Nichols and his scientists had “imprinted” on Jed’s mind. His past was full of false memories, and working through them, weeding out the fabricated ones, had become an everyday chore for Jed. Multiple times a day he’d describe a memory to Karen and ask her if it was real or not.

  Karen. He wondered where she was, how far she’d gotten. He reached out to God and prayed for her safety, that she’d arrive at her destination without incident and remain safe there until Jed could find their daughter and join her again. He thought then of Lilly and prayed for her too. He wondered if they’d taken her to Alcatraz and if that was part of why he was being led there. Jed would have liked to formulate a plan for when he arrived, but he couldn’t. Murphy kept him in the dark each step of this journey. There was no way to know what was waiting around each corner. He might arrive at Alcatraz and follow the map he’d been given only to be led to yet another destination. But something told him this was it, the end of the line. This island, the Alcatraz prison, was where he’d get answers and find his daughter.

  As the tourists boarded the ferry, a bi-level boat with a large observation deck, Jed remained in the rear of the group. He was content to linger on the fringe and observe. But he wasn’t interested in the boat or the surrounding pier or the beauty of the bay; he was more concerned with the behavior of those around him. So far, nothing had raised alarm, though a few idiosyncrasies drew his attention. There was one couple—both appeared to be in their late twenties or early thirties—whom he watched carefully. Neither wore a wedding band. On the pier the woman had glanced at Jed several times and smiled. She was fit and thin with an athletic build. A yellow ball cap held back shoulder-length brown hair. The man with her also had a thin, muscular build and short-cropped black hair. He wore sunglasses but seemed uninterested in most of what was happening around him. On the pier his attention had been solely focused on the woman. Now, he stayed close to her as they found a place to sit on the far side of the ferry. Still, he seemed to not care one bit about his surroundings. Either he was a very devoted lover whose entire world revolved around this one lucky girl or he was trying too hard to ignore the people around him. The woman didn’t seem to be bothered by his attention but didn’t seem to be flattered by it either. She appeared more interested in sights around her, the pier, the boat, the bay, the people.

  Jed took a spot at the rear of the ferry and stood with his back to the railing, arms crossed, feet set wide to maintain his balance once the boat started negotiating the choppy bay.

  The bay air was chilly and damp and salty, and the ferry bounced around on the whitecaps like a toy boat in a bathtub. The trip took no more than fifteen minutes, but Jed was happy when they finally arrived at the island’s dock. He preferred solid land over the undulations of a boat any day.

  Alcatraz Island sat one and a half miles off the coast of San Francisco. The compound had been designed so the main cell house sat atop the island, 130 feet above the dock. The aged concrete-and-block buildings that dotted the island were surrounded by apple and fig trees, blackberry and honeysuckle bushes, and an assortment of grasses. A quarter-mile paved path wound around the rocky terrain, connecting the dock to the main cell house.

  Jed followed the crowd off the boat, lingering toward the rear. Brown graywacke rock rose before him, jutting upward as if it had been heaved out of the sea by some great unseen force millennia ago. The paved path wove along the face of the rocks, climbing the hill in a switchback manner.

  The couple Jed had been observing remained on the dock, watching the waves beat against the southeastern rock wall. The woman held the railing with both hands as the man stood close behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist.

  Jed moved on. He made a mental note to watch the two, but now he had to keep walking. He needed to get to the main cell house and find his way to wherever the map would lead him.

  Arriving at the cell house, Jed entered with a small group of French-speaking tourists. As he walked through the main doors, a man in the group, short but thick, stepped back and bumped into Jed, nearly knocking him off-balance.

  “Désolé,” the man said. “Excuse-moi.”

  “Ça va,” Jed responded. “Pas de problème.”

  The man blocked Jed’s way and stared at him as if he either recognized Jed or was just surprised that Jed had spoken French.

  Jed smiled. “Excuse-moi.”

  “Oh.” The man looked around nervously as if embarrassed. “Désolé, monsieur.” He glanced over Jed’s shoulder, then met Jed’s eyes and smiled, nodded, and stepped out of the way.

  Jed turned to see what the man had glanced at. In the courtyard of the cell house stood the couple, hand in hand. The man had removed his sunglasses and looked directly at Jed before turning toward the lighthouse.

  Jed, heat now rising in his cheeks, looked at the Frenchman. The Frenchman averted his eyes, turned, and rejoined his group. In the courtyard, the dark-haired man headed toward the cell house. Jed’s internal alarms blared like a fire siren. He’d stumbled into a trap. Quickly he removed the map from his pocket and studied it for a few brief seconds. The man outside neared the main doors; the woman was no longer with him.

  Jed crossed the lobby with rapid steps. He passed through the main gate and into B Block, where he turned right and headed for the next gate. Most of the tourists lingered outside the cell house or at the entrance, so the interior of the prison was not overly crowded, just wandering pairs or family groups. Passing the corridor between B Block and A Block known as Michigan Avenue, Jed picked up his pace, weaving around scattered tourists. The cells in Alcatraz were small, just nine feet by five feet, and each contained a sink, latrine, and small wooden desk. Three walls were concrete with the corridor-facing wall made of iron bars. Cages where society’s animals were once kept.

  Jed fought off an image that knocked on his mind’s door.

  A home in Afghanistan where the Taliban keeps prisoners. One room is barred off. Behind the bars are starving children, women, and men who have been beaten and maimed so severely they barely appear to be human. The stench of death and feces and body odor stings his nostrils.

  But those bars . . . Jed forced the images back into the dark places where they hid.

  Coming to the end of the hallway, Jed turned left onto what was known as Sunrise Alley. As he rounded the corner, he glanced behind him. The man was not in sight. Either he had given up pursuit through the prison or he had nev
er been in pursuit, and the perceived threat was nothing more than Jed’s overcautious imagination.

  Jed followed the corridor lined with cells on one side and concrete walls with barred windows on the other side to a set of doors installed in the floor itself. The map he held indicated that the doors covered a staircase that led to the dungeon tunnels under the prison. On the far end of the corridor an older couple held hands and walked away from Jed. He waited for them to turn the corner before he reached down and tugged on the doors. They were locked. On the wall was a keypad. Jed remembered the five-digit number scrawled on the map in red ink. After checking the corridor and finding it clear of visitors, he wasted no time punching in the number. The lock disengaged with a quick, solid clunk.

  Without hesitation, Jed lifted the doors and stepped onto the concrete staircase. When his head had cleared the floor, he closed the doors behind him, entombing himself in the darkness of the dungeons beneath the cell house.

  Down the steps he walked, carefully feeling his way along a cool, damp concrete wall. The bottom steps were lit by dim, dusty light filtering through the stale air from a wall-mounted enclosed yellow bulb. Similar sconces were mounted every thirty feet or so, casting the entire area in a murky yellowish glow. The air was cool and the smell of mildew and mold hung heavy.

  Jed walked forward, senses alert. To his right were the remnants of solitary confinement cells. Smaller than the enclosures in the main blocks of the cell house, these rooms were more like tombs. A place where men either went mad or stayed mad. There was nothing rehabilitative about the dungeon. It was cold, wet, and dark. Men were deprived of light and sensation, chilled to the bone, and entombed for days, even weeks, with barely enough food to keep them alive. It was no wonder officials eventually deemed the hole as inhumane and cruel punishment.