Also, he wouldn’t visit that ATM. Grabbing his travel Bible, he tossed it into the rucksack. He might need it, and he was sure to need the twelve hundred dollars he kept zipped inside it. It made him feel better anyway. Sorry, Lord, and please help me out of this one.
He pulled on a hoodie, then a windbreaker. February was still cold on the East Coast, especially at night, and the sun was going down. He threw his laptop into the ruck, too, then booted up his desktop computer and put in a suicide code, watching the special software start to burn his hard drive one sector at a time. They won’t get anything off that. Then he smashed his cell phone.
He also grabbed his M4 in its case, ten full magazines, his Remington 870 pump shotgun, and an Army surplus ammo box, heavy with cartridges. The last thing he tossed into his van was his aid bag. Everything imaginable from band-aids to Benzedrine, scalpels to syringes.
Doing as Elise had said, more or less, he drove to the second-nearest drugstore to his house in case “they” had been listening, and bought a disposable phone with cash. It was all cash from now on.
Back in the van, he drove out of town on the main road heading west as he waited for the half hour mark after pulling over into a gas station and filling up. As soon as he was done, he drove around a corner onto a side street, parked, and then dialed the number.
“Yes?” He heard Elise’s voice.
“It’s me. I’m mobile, I got money and some supplies.” He could hear traffic sounds behind her. He figured she was at a pay phone. Not many of those around anymore.
“All right. You know the Iron Saddle?”
“Biker bar, on Route One south of Quantico.”
“Yeah. Meet me there, one hour.”
“Roger wilco.”
After the call ended he started wending his way south, then back eastward to pick up US-1 at Dumfries north of Quantico Marine base. He was glad to stay in Virginia, where it was legal to carry around loaded firearms.
Laughing to himself without humor, he realized he was a recent murderer, or at least a manslaughterer, and no matter how justified it seemed, he had lost control. He was guilty, but he didn’t want to become a guest of the state just yet, and maybe he could do something to make up for it later. Some kind of penance.
Right. I keep trying to convince myself of that. The serpent doesn’t believe it either.
-5-
Elise put the pay phone receiver down and walked casually back to the SUV parked at the side of the old station. She rooted around in the glove compartment and came up with a thick permanent marker. In back and front she performed some simple alterations to the license plates – a K became an R, a C became a G, a 4 became a 9. It might foil a computerized webcam-image search.
She drove through a fast-food place, a one-off frosty-freeze that didn’t have any security cameras as far as she could see. A couple thousand more calories went into her gullet, helping to rebuild her torn flesh.
Driving away, she wended slowly southward toward the rendezvous, thinking, trying to formulate a plan. I have to find a way to give it to him, she thought. It will improve his mental state, the PTSD his file talked about, and fix his lingering injuries. The trick will be passing it without him freaking out.
Then the two of us will have it instead of just me.
Thoughts of the treatment filled her mind. With her two female chimps, Bobo and Mandy, as soon as they both had the same strain they became inseparable, like littermates, though they were unrelated. She wondered whether it would work the same way – did the virus somehow connect people in proportional proximity? That is, were those who passed it directly more likely to form bonds with the recipient? If so, did she want to be bonded to Daniel Markis? Or him to her?
But what choice do I have? Needs must when the Devil drives. She laughed at herself. Or the Eden.
Arriving at the Iron Saddle early, she parked on the side and went in. Out of place in her business casual, most of the looks she drew were nevertheless appreciative, not hostile – except for a few of the biker chicks. One slugged her man in the gut for looking and he laughed, spinning her around and slapping her on the butt.
Taking a seat at the bar, she shot a pleading look at the leather-clad bearded bartender. He had kind eyes.
Coming over promptly but politely, leaning in close he said, “You all right?” He spoke just loud enough to hear over the hubbub.
“Maybe. Not really my crowd, but I’m meeting a friend. Give me a diet Coke and keep these hound dogs off, will you?” Already she could see them lining up to make their passes.
He nodded, said “Play along, then.” As soon as he saw she understood, he pecked her on the lips and winked.
Her face tickled with the brush of his beard. This should keep them off me for a while. How quickly I play the whore…I almost wish I really could. Haven’t been with a man in years. The smell of him excited her in spite of herself and she shrugged away, blinking. Damn. They’re right about that near-death arousal. But I’ll do just about anything right now to get away from the Company. Even kiss a few frogs in search of my prince. “Having a good night, sweetie?” she asked loudly.
The bartender nodded, “Yeah, pretty good.” He shot a couple of bikers a glare and they backed off. Then he smiled knowingly at her and went back to his bartending. Probably he thought he’d just gone to the head of the pass line.
She thanked him with her eyes, then checked her watch. Five till. Looked around, hoping Daniel would show up early. Hoping they’d have a chance, make a chance, to get away. It was a fantasy, to escape with her chosen white knight.
She’d subtly steered Jenkins toward Daniel Markis. Unlike all the other spec-ops files they’d looked at, Markis wasn’t a killer by trade, but instead a healer, a combat lifesaver. Hopefully that will make him different. Maybe just different enough.
Checking her watch again, she turned to look out the front window. Neon beer and motorcycle brand names obscured her view but the big man in the dark suit was clear enough, as was his weapon.
He burst through the front door, high-tech blunderbuss in hand, but by that time she was off the bar stool and scurrying for the back door. Chaos erupted behind her.
***
Daniel passed the Marine Corps museum in the early dark, the blazing spire on the roof reminiscent of the flag-raising on Iwo Jima. His grandfather had been there; Gunnery Sergeant Donald James Markis, USMC. He suppressed a strong impulse to turn into the parking lot, to put off this rendezvous for as long as he could. Driving south on US-1 through the cold quiet in his familiar musty van, time seemed suspended for a little while.
He wished he had a cigarette. Since he didn’t, he tortured himself with imagination by thinking of the last time he’d smoked one: with Gramps as he was dying of emphysema in hospice. Daniel had helped him out of the oxygen rig and onto the balcony, to suck down one last forbidden coffin nail before they said good night.
I should have said goodbye. And this healing thing could have saved him. Eyes tearing, he squeezed them with thumb and forefinger. Goodbye, Gramps. Maybe I’ll see you soon.
Realizing he hardly cared at this point, he didn’t think he had much to live for. With his messed up brain and his messed up life, he barely held onto his job, trying desperately to keep up with even the light workload they gave him. Hanging out with the other retired disabled veterans, their green and maroon and black berets and tabs and coins set in their sterile cubes and offices, they were all just marking time, milking their security clearances for a few more bucks. Staring at his own beret perched on the shelf above his computer screen, the Pararescue flash with its guardian angel, cradling the world in her arms, a symbol of what he was and never would be again. Reminiscing war stories. Trying to keep his hand in.