Kill Devil

by Mike Dellosso

  Across the room, in a corner where walls met ceiling, dangled a small camera. Jed stared at it for a long time, glaring at whatever unseen voyeur was watching him. “What did you do to me?”

  The room remained filled with silence. Jed tore the IV from the back of his hand and threw it on the floor. “Where is my daughter?”

  Still no answer came. The camera peered at him with deadpan apathy.

  Suddenly Jed was overcome by a powerful fatigue. He hadn’t heard the hissing of any ventilation system, so he doubted he was being gassed again. The fact was, he’d had surgery and his body needed to recover. He tried to stand; he wanted to make it to the door, see if it was unlocked before he slipped back into a deep sleep. But as his feet hit the floor, his legs gave out and his reflexes were much too slow to catch himself on the gurney. He slumped to the floor, hitting his head on the concrete. Pain exploded along the side of his skull and the room went dark.

  • • •

  He awoke in the dark with a pounding headache, his mind splashing and flailing in a soupy mix of confusion and panic. He was on a concrete floor, cool, smooth. He groped around him, probing his hand deeper and deeper into the darkness, but found nothing. Slowly, inching against the pain in his head that lashed him with every move, every contraction of even the smallest muscles, Jed pulled himself up to sit and scooted back until he felt the solid mass of a wall. He shut his eyes, but it didn’t matter. Sheer darkness surrounded him, enveloped him like a blanket smothering the life from him.

  He was alone. Again. He thought of his days in Centralia’s subterranean bunker, the devastation and isolation, the hopelessness he’d experienced there. They’d broken him and he had been ready to give up and end it all. But God met him there. God knew exactly where he was; he always did. Even in the deepest pit, pulled down by the thickest mire, his soul crushed, his hope demolished, God was there. Mire and sorrow and ashes and agony were no match for the Father of Lights. And he showed Jed the way out.

  But where was God now? Was he with Lilly? Was he with Karen? Was he here? Jed didn’t feel the presence he once felt. If God could reach him in his hollow pit before, why wasn’t he here now, in this place?

  Jed shifted his weight and was rewarded with a stabbing pain along the right side of his skull. Again, he felt the area and the small, tender incision.

  “We need to talk, Patrick.” It was a man’s voice. Murphy. There, in the room with him.

  Jed lowered his hand and pulled his knees to his chest. The pain in his head intensified.

  “I know you’re in pain, but try to concentrate for a moment. The pain will subside in time.”

  “What did you do to me?”

  “We need to talk about Karen. I know she has the drive.”

  Jed did not respond. He wouldn’t give Murphy the pleasure of having him capitulate.

  “We know she has it. You need to listen very carefully to what I’m about to tell you. This is a matter of national security. That drive contains information that could be very dangerous in the hands of the wrong people. Devastating to our entire country and our allies worldwide. We need your help. There are those in our country, our government, who are still very much involved in the Centralia Project. It’s a dangerous thing, Patrick. It goes so much deeper than just experimenting on a few soldiers and kids. These people want to take over the country, create a new America, and their influence goes all the way to the top. If they get their way, if they win, this country—your country, the one you fought for—will cease to exist. Is that what you want?”

  He paused, waiting for an answer that Jed never gave.

  “I don’t think it is what you want. We need your help to stop them.”

  “You’re part of the government,” Jed finally said. “How do I know I can trust you?”

  Murphy sighed. “If I was against you, I could have had you killed many times over already. Instead, I took great care to get you here safely and lost some good men in doing so. We need you, Patrick. Your country needs you.”

  “Needs me how? Haven’t I given enough already?”

  “For starters, you can tell us where Karen is so we can get the drive from her. I don’t know what you two planned to do with it, but the safest place for it is with us. Lilly is here with us, but Karen is on her own out there, and when Centralia discovers she has the information that could destroy them, she’ll be in real danger.”

  Jed shut his eyes again and clenched his jaw. Pain wrapped around his head now like a band ever tightening. His thoughts were jumbled and disordered. He didn’t want to tell Murphy where Karen was headed. He didn’t trust Murphy. He didn’t trust anyone. He’d been lied to too many times.

  “Patrick, listen to me. I am your only hope now. Those involved in Centralia want you and your entire family dead. I’ve learned that they have a special task force set up just for taking you out. Let us help.”

  “How can you help?”

  “By offering you and Karen and Lilly safety. By taking out Centralia once and for all. By exposing the corrupt weed that grows through our government, right to the highest offices.”

  “Why do they want to kill us? We just want to be left alone.”

  “They’re afraid of you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they can’t control you. In case you didn’t notice, the Centralia Project is all about control and manipulation. And you are someone—something—they can’t control. They’ve tried but failed.”

  As if Murphy could peer into Jed’s mind and watch the gears clumsily turning, churning out one disconnected thought after another, he said, “You can’t hide from them, Patrick. Karen can’t either. Lilly is safe with us. She’s safe. I promise you that. But not Karen. She’ll be found eventually. You can bet on that.”

  Jed thought of how difficult it had been to remain invisible when he was on the run before. Security cameras, traffic cameras, monitoring systems, eyewitnesses, electronic records . . . Big Brother had a broad field of vision.

  “Patrick, Centralia’s reach goes right to the top. Michael Connelly has taken direct leadership of the project. Don’t think for one moment that the vice president of the United States can’t have any resource he wants. All he has to do is pick up the phone.”

  Jed was quiet for a few long beats. His head throbbed steadily with the even rhythm of his heart. He couldn’t trust Murphy. As much as he wanted to protect Karen and as much as his muddled brain told him to give Murphy the information the man wanted, he couldn’t do it.

  “Where’s Karen headed?”

  “She doesn’t have the drive.”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore. They think she does and they will find her and kill her. Is that what you want?”

  Of course it wasn’t. But he wasn’t about to give up on her that easily. He wasn’t about to give up on God that easily.

  “Very well,” Murphy said. “We’ll talk later.”

  Silence crept into the room and filled every space around him. No door opened and closed. No footsteps faded into the distance. Had Murphy’s voice been piped into the room through a speaker? Again, it bothered him that the voice seemed to have no origin, no point of reference. It had loomed and floated everywhere in the room, yet nowhere at all.

  Jed carefully scooted sideways until he reached a corner. He leaned his head against the hard concrete wall and shut his eyes.

  Sleep came quickly.

  TWENTY-ONE

  • • •

  The Jefferson Memorial glowed a dull orangey hue in the setting sun. The last remnant of tourists mulled about, a small group of teens, a family with three children, an elderly couple. A steady breeze blew in from the east, bringing with it a mix of smells from the city: exhaust fumes, the aroma of curry from a nearby Indian restaurant, and the faint odor of rotting garbage. Across the Tidal Basin the Washington Monument rose above the surrounding buildings and trees and was illuminated like the finger of God himself pointing to heaven.

  Listen to me.

&nb
sp; Jack Calloway was distinguished enough to pass for a senator or representative and had been mistaken for one on more than a few occasions. But that was almost always when he wore a suit and tie. Today he wore street clothes: jeans and a hooded sweatshirt and a Washington Nationals baseball cap. To any tourist or passerby, he’d look like just another Washingtonian out for an evening walk.

  Tiffany was there, on the steps leading to the monument, facing the pillars and beyond them the standing image of Jefferson. He looked so comfortable, so relaxed there. If he’d only known what would become of the country he helped found . . . would he have worded things differently? Done things differently? Would he have governed differently when he was president?

  The answers, of course, were unknown. But what Jack did know was that it was up to individuals like himself, like Mitch and Tiffany Stockton, to preserve the freedoms Jefferson and his cohorts labored and fought to establish.

  Jack stopped and looked around. Tiffany hadn’t seen him yet, or if she did, she hadn’t recognized him. And if she had recognized him, she hadn’t let on that she did. She was a natural at the clandestine life. Just like her dad.

  From the time Jack first met Mitch Stockton in the Army and Tiffany was two, he’d looked at the girl as any uncle would a niece. She was grown now, and Jack had begun to think of Tiffany not just as a beloved niece, but as the daughter he’d never had. His wife left him after only three years of marriage. Said she couldn’t take the Army life anymore and split, hooked up with some construction worker in Ohio, and never looked back. Jack never remarried, never had a desire to. Shortly after the divorce he’d hit bottom and considered eating his M9 and ending it all. But God met him there in his apartment. Jack never could adequately explain the encounter. He had the gun to his head, snug up against his temple, finger on the trigger, when he swore he heard a voice from the other room. A woman’s voice, but not Courtney’s. He’d investigated but found nothing, no one. He’d concluded then that the voice had most likely wafted in on a current of air from the street below. But later that night, lying in bed, thoughts of suicide still rummaging through his mind, he’d heard the voice again. Clear as still water. Like the woman was right there in the room with him.

  “You matter to him.”

  Jack instinctively knew who the him was. He’d been raised in a Methodist church and had learned every Bible story. It was God. He mattered to God. To Jesus. Right there in the darkness of his room with the sheets pulled down around his waist and the ceiling fan spinning above him, he gave his life to Jesus, surrendered his whole self, and let go of everything he was clinging to so tightly.

  Now Jack wished the same for Tiffany. He didn’t know where she was in her soul. Jack had talked to Mitch about God on several occasions, but every conversation ended abruptly. Mitch never wanted to hear about Jack’s religion. Jack assumed Tiffany most likely felt the same way.

  Tiffany pivoted, scanned the area, and spotted him. She tipped her head, then turned back to the monument.

  Jack climbed the marble steps and stood beside Tiffany. “You okay?”

  She nodded. “He wasn’t expecting me to fight back.”

  “Did you wing him?”

  “Twice, I think.”

  “Did you get a look at him? At his face?”

  Tiffany crossed her arms. She was trying to be tough, but Jack could tell she’d been rattled by the encounter. He’d seen it before in the soldiers in Iraq. The wall, the fortress they put up around themselves. But they couldn’t hide the fear that clouded their eyes, and most couldn’t stop the almost-imperceptible tremble that never left their hands and quivered their voice. “Nope. It was too dark. I saw a figure in the doorway, big guy, and the muzzle flash of his gun. He missed.”

  “And you hit.”

  Tiffany gave just a single tuck of the chin.

  “What are you going to do now?”

  She shrugged. “Lay low.” She glanced at him quickly, then went back to staring at the statue of Jefferson. “Be invisible.”

  “Good idea. Do you have the drive and the printout?”

  “Yup.”

  “Did you get a chance to look over it anymore?”

  “Yup.”

  “And?”

  “What did you find?” she asked.

  Jack sighed deeply. “Disturbing things.”

  “That’s the understatement of the century.”

  “They’re planning to assassinate Connelly.”

  She was quiet for a few seconds. “I know.”

  “And Director Murphy is involved. He’s in deep, calling the shots now.”

  “I know. What’re you gonna do about it?”

  Jack shoved his hands into his pockets. “Nothing right now. You saw the high-level names involved in this Centralia Project. And I’ve a feeling that’s just a sampling. We can’t trust anyone.”

  “Did you ever?”

  “I trusted your dad.”

  “And now that he’s gone?”

  Jack looked at her hard. She wore a hoodie that hid much of her face and had slung a backpack over one shoulder. To any stranger she’d look no more than sixteen or seventeen. A kid. “I trust you. That’s it.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “So all we have is each other, and we need to stop an assassination attempt? And we’re only up against some of the most powerful people in our government.”

  Jack surveyed the monument. The sun had dipped lower in the sky, turning the marble a rusty ocher. “That about sums it up.”

  “So what’s our move?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Where are you going to stay for the night?”

  “Figured I’d bunk up at the shelter over on Mississippi.”

  “I can give you money for a motel room.”

  “I have money, but they would find me at a motel. Besides, I need to blend in, disappear.”

  She was right, of course. Jack didn’t like the idea of Tiffany at a homeless shelter, but there was no other option right now. “Be careful, you hear?”

  She patted her backpack. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Just because you shot a guy in your home doesn’t mean you can handle yourself on the street.”

  She glanced at him. Besides the fear in her eyes, there was defiance and anger. “I’ll be fine. What about you?”

  “I’ll head back to my office. It’s the safest place for me. Every move I make is monitored and watched. I figure the more eyes on me, the better.”

  “Be careful.”

  Jack smiled. “I will.”

  “We’ll meet again?”

  “Tomorrow. Chinatown. Tony Cheng’s. I’ll treat you to a nice lunch. Be there at noon. I’ll have a game plan by then.”

  Without an answer she turned and left. Jack said a prayer for her as she walked away.

  TWENTY-TWO

  • • •

  Jed awoke in darkness, a voice whispering in his ear. “Do this for your family. Save them.”

  The remnants of a dream were there, just on the inside of his eyelids. He’d taken a shot, a long-distance shot. Very long distance, at the edge of his range. He’d targeted someone familiar, a friend, and the lingering guilt now pricked at him.

  The voice came again, not from anywhere in the room, but from his mind. Perhaps the trailing wake of a very vivid dream. “Do this for your country. Save them.”

  The voice faded until the last syllable was barely audible, then disintegrated altogether. Silence enclosed him once more, not even the sound of dripping water that was present in the corridors. Not even the hum of the ventilation system he’d heard in the other room. Not even the soft susurrating voice of the ghost in the corridor, claiming that it was going to get revenge, was going to kill the devil. This place was different, darker, void of any sensation. A place where even ghosts refused to haunt.

  He grew tired again, so tired he could no longer hold himself upright, so he lay on the cool floor.

  • • •

  A flickering li
ght woke him. Bright, now dark, bright, dark, bright, dark. A slow strobe.

  Jed shielded his eyes and pushed himself to sitting again. His head still throbbed and the site above his ear still felt like someone had stuck a hot poker in it, but the pain had subsided a little.

  With each pulse of the light, Jed got a brief view of the stark room he was in. No bed, no latrine, no sink. Only drab-gray concrete. The source of the strobe was a small light in the ceiling. Beside the light was one vent. And there was a door on the far wall, smooth, no handle, no window. Same gray as the wall. Nothing at all to even distinguish it as a door. That was it; there was nothing more.

  Slowly the periods of dark extended and periods of light grew quicker. After several cycles, Jed measured the intervals. Two seconds of darkness followed the briefest flash of light.

  “Are you ready, Patrick?”

  It was Murphy. His voice, once again, surrounded Jed, came at him from all sides. Inside that concrete box, the sound waves must have ricocheted in every direction, giving the illusion of the voice having no origin.

  “Ready for what?”

  With the next flicker of light Murphy was there, in the room, standing next to the door. He wore dark clothes and had his hands in his pockets.

  The next flicker revealed more: concern on the man’s face, his forehead wrinkled, head tilted slightly to the side. He wore a suit.

  “To save Karen. To save yourself and Lilly. To save your country.”

  The light continued to pulse, but Murphy never moved from his spot in the room. In fact, it appeared to Jed that the man’s mouth hadn’t moved either. Of course, it might have been an illusion brought on by the brevity of light. Possibly his brain could not register quickly enough the signals the optical nerves sent it.