Authors: Sarah Andrews
Killer Dust (19 page)
It was past eleven when we reached Orlando, later still when we pulled into the driveway in front of a modest bungalow-style house that was nestled among graceful shade trees and curving lines of flowers that danced pale and fragrant in the cooling, humid air and the light of the street lamps. The moon was lost behind the clouds and the brighter lights of the city sprawl.
Tom had used his cell phone to call ahead, so a welcoming light was on at the end of the house closest to the carport. A tall, gray-haired woman answered to our knock. “Tom!” she said, her face lighting with a smile. “It’s so lovely to see you!”
“I wish it were under better circumstances, Leah.”
She tipped her head to one side, eyes alert. “What’s happened?” Her voice was soft, but the question carried a note of command. She was Tom’s senior by ten or fifteen years and, while her demeanor was gentle and open, it was clear that she was accustomed to being heard and obeyed.
Tom said, “Let’s go inside. Please.”
“Yes, come ahead. I want you in and the mosquitoes out. But first, who’s your friend?”
Tom turned toward me, and a shadow of sadness swept across his eyes. “This is Em Hansen, a colleague.”
So I am not being introduced as Jack’s girlfriend.
I smiled and offered Leah a hand to be shaken. I found hers
dry and cool, the bones narrow and surprisingly delicate for such a tall woman. Falling back on my prep school manners, I said, “I’m so pleased to meet you.”
I smiled and offered Leah a hand to be shaken. I found hers
dry and cool, the bones narrow and surprisingly delicate for such a tall woman. Falling back on my prep school manners, I said, “I’m so pleased to meet you.”
“Welcome, Em. Please, both of you come in.”
Inside the house, I found what appeared to be the peaceful sanctuary of a calm woman. The furniture and deécor were dated but comfortable and well kept, and the effect was one of spaciousness and organization. The dining table, side tables, and coffee table all held neat piles of letters and papers, some bundled with rubber bands or paper clips. There were note pads and pencils close at hand at each location, suggesting that Leah was a woman accustomed to making notes, or that perhaps she was old enough that her memory was no longer entirely sharp. My eyes wandered to the walls, which were decorated with framed lithographs of birds by various artists, and, over the mantle, framed photographs of Jack.
Jack as a boy, smiling in a baseball cap and uniform.
Jack as a teenager, smiling from under a mortarboard.
Jack as a young man, smiling with his arm around a petite and beautiful young woman with dark hair and high cheekbones.
I had to stop myself from going directly to them to study the face of my beloved in the many stages of his growth. And who was the young woman? The picture had to be at least fifteen years old, perhaps twenty. I pulled my eyes away from that photograph, checked the next. Jack in uniform. It was white. Did that mean Navy?
“That’s my son, Jack,” Leah said, her voice rich with pride. “Or perhaps you know him, if you work with Tom.”
I was trying to figure out how to answer that oblique question when Tom spoke for me. “I’m not with the Bureau anymore, Leah. I’m in private consulting. Security. Em is an independent, too. She’s a geologist with a knack for forensic work.”
Leah studied me. “A geologist. Good for you, dear. But, Tom, you’re no longer with the Bureau? Why?”
I in turn answered for him. “He’s going to be a father. He married my friend Faye, and it won’t be long. Tom, does this mean you’ve been keeping this happy detail to yourself?”
Tom stiffened at my chiding, and I immediately felt like a rat. I should have let him tell her what he wanted when he wanted to tell it. But why hadn’t Jack told his mother the news? After all, he’d been at the wedding. And why hadn’t he told her about me? I added this to my growing list of increasingly worrisome questions about Jack.
Leah said, “Oh, how lovely! Tell me about Faye, Tom.”
Tom said, “Leah, I’m sorry. I’d tell you all about her, but I’m afraid this is not a social visit. As I mentioned on the phone we’re on a job. And we’re here because we need your help.”
“Of course, Tom. Anything you need.” Leah was an interesting study. Her light delivery of words suggested that she was your ordinary suburban housewife who was being politely congenial, but she watched Tom intently, and now held her head with the alert stiffness of one who has spent years making eye contact with snakes.
“Thanks. We need to borrow some equipment, and … we need to locate a friend of Jack’s named Brad. Jack told me once that he lives nearby. He was in the Navy, and—”
“He lives right next door.” She gestured to the house just beyond the carport. “He and Jack have been friends since boyhood. Brad grew up there, and bought the house from his parents when they moved into a retirement home.”
“Great. Can I use your phone to call him, please?”
“Why, Tom, it’s late. Brad has several small children. I’m sure—” She stopped in midsentence, staring at Tom. “What is going on?” she demanded sharply, all surface layers of polite conviviality stripped away.
Tom said, “I need to talk to him
now,
Leah.”
now,
Leah.”
In his usual fashion, Tom was trying to leave Leah out of the loop. But Leah was not a lady who was easily left in the dark. So why come to her at all? Why not just find
Brad in the phone book, or knock on doors until he found him?
Brad in the phone book, or knock on doors until he found him?
Leah picked up the phone, dialed it, and handed it to Tom, a fierce look of disapproval fixed tightly on her face. The phone was cordless, so Tom carried it into the kitchen and pulled the door shut. That left me alone with Jack’s mother, two women staring at each other with plenty to say but no way to get started. Or, at least,
I
didn’t have a clue. Leah again surprised me. She said, “Tell me how well you know Jack.”
I
didn’t have a clue. Leah again surprised me. She said, “Tell me how well you know Jack.”
I blushed.
She slowly nodded, an abstracted smile floating on her lips. “That’s nice, dear.”
The blush deepened.
Out of precise politeness, she shifted her gaze to her fingers and started to pick at her cuticles. “Jack is a boy who keeps his secrets,” she said. “But you are the type of young woman he would be very proud to know, and I hope that he would eventually bring you home to meet his dear mama.”
I closed my eyes. Swallowed. Her words had been stated with calm formality, but in fact they were astonishingly intimate. In this brief, unguarded instant of knowing her, I saw that she was the kind of mother I had longed to have, but could not have imagined: candid, kind, affirming, in charge of her intelligence. A wave of feeling swept over me, as intense in its own way as my hunger for Jack, and I was afraid that if I did not run away quickly, I would drown in it.
Easily reading my emotions, she said, “Jack would not love a woman who was incapable of caring deeply. But please tell me why you are here. Something must be very wrong.”
I nodded, eyes still closed.
Tom reentered the room, interrupting our conversation. “He’s coming,” was all he said.
“Where is Jack?” Leah asked.
“I don’t know.”
“How long has he been gone?” she pressed, not even trying to cover the urgency of her words.
Carefully keeping his voice clear of emotion, he said, “I was hoping you might know. Has he contacted you in the past forty-eight hours?”
“I haven’t seen him since Easter. He called a week or more ago to say hello. Why, is he here in Florida?”
“I think so. He was two days ago.”
Leah fixed a hard stare on Tom and sharpened her tone. “What in hell’s name is going on, Tom? Come on, none of your dissembling. This is Leah you’re talking to!”
Tom held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, if you must know, Jack came down here to find someone who was threatening to take a potshot at the space shuttle. And—and you know what that can mean. Jack told me to tell you code red if it got out of control.”
Code red?
My eyes shot to Leah. Her gaze flew quickly to one of the pictures on the mantel, just a quick glance, but I couldn’t tell which one had drawn her attention. I wanted to snatch at her, get the information from her. Which one held significance? Was it the picture of her son with his arm around the lovely young woman? The one who gazed into the camera like she knew something the photographer didn’t … .
My eyes shot to Leah. Her gaze flew quickly to one of the pictures on the mantel, just a quick glance, but I couldn’t tell which one had drawn her attention. I wanted to snatch at her, get the information from her. Which one held significance? Was it the picture of her son with his arm around the lovely young woman? The one who gazed into the camera like she knew something the photographer didn’t … .
Leah said, “Did he find this person?”
“Yes, but he lost him. What he did find was the firepower the son of a bitch intends to use, but we need to dig it up without … That’s why we need Brad. Jack said he’d know what to do. And you know what
you
have to do.”
you
have to do.”
This was unbelievable. Someone had gotten Tom to talk. Or was he hiding something in plain sight? And was Tom really abdicating to this fellow Brad? That seemed equally out of character. Except that I’d had to all but drag him out of Nancy Wallace’s house that afternoon. Perhaps all he wanted was to hand over the reigns and get back to Faye. I shook my head to clear it. Everything had suddenly gone peculiar in my world. But I knew one thing: I was not ready
to quit until I saw that
thing
under the sand dug up and destroyed.
to quit until I saw that
thing
under the sand dug up and destroyed.
Leah said, “Who else is in on this?”
“No one that I know of.”
I blinked. She hadn’t asked, Have you called the police? or, Who would do such a thing? No, she had cut to the center of the matter, and appeared ready to take command. My mind spun with questions. Who was this woman really? What was her background? And what emergencies had she been through with Jack that, instead of cowering or trying to lean on the forceful personality that Tom presented, she asserted herself, commandeered him, and easily pushed him around?
I heard a knock at the door. Leah said, “Would you let him in, Tom?”
The man who came through the door when Tom opened it was about my age. He was a hair shorter than average height, but thickly muscled through the shoulders and chest, like a smaller, dark-haired version of Jack. He nodded to Leah, shook Tom’s hand, and then fixed his quick blue eyes on me. “Who’s this?”
Leah said, “This is Em Hansen, a colleague of Tom’s and a lady friend to our Jack.”
Brad’s eyes sparkled, and he gave me a fine grin. “Hey, any lady friend of Jack’s!” I stood up to shake his hand, but he grabbed me into a hug that nearly knocked the wind out of me. When he just as quickly released me, I staggered, but Brad’s attention was already back on Tom, all jest gone from his expression. He said, “I got through to one of the others. He’ll be here in ten minutes.”
“He’s discreet?”
“About what? Tonight never happened.”
What is this, some kind of militia?
I began to feel the need to back out of the room. Too much was happening too quickly, and with too little explanation.
I began to feel the need to back out of the room. Too much was happening too quickly, and with too little explanation.
The conversation quickly took off and left me. Brad was saying, “How deeply buried is it?” and “So you’re thinking we should extract it before daylight.”
As the questioning evolved, I saw Leah head to a hall closet and return with a small suitcase. It had an old-fashioned leather handle, and the sides were battered. She put it by the door that led out to the carport and said, “You boys dig some food out of the refrigerator. Make some sandwiches and be sure to get some cookies out of the cupboard. There’s fresh fruit in the crisper and bottled water on the shelves out by the carport. If I’m gone before you return, Brad can show you where the key is hidden.”
Tom said, “I think you can wait until daylight, Leah.”
Leah nodded. “That would be better. I’m not as young as I once was. And Lily—” Leah’s eyes shifted to me. She turned and started out of the room. As she disappeared back down the hallway, I saw that one corner of her lips was curled in a sad, ironic smile.
I turned to Tom in question. He turned away, letting me know that my answers lay elsewhere.
We were back on the road before midnight and closing in on the Holiday Inn Beachfront Resort back in Cocoa Beach by one A.M. Brad and the man he had phoned, another remarkably fit specimen named Walt, followed a distance behind us in Brad’s jet-black, four-wheel-drive vehicle. I could spot it by its high headlights, and, each time a truck passed going the other way, by the row of surfboards mounted on its roof rack. He had put them there to obscure his mission as a pleasure tour.
During the drive, conversation was sporadic at best. Tom fell into one of his silences, and for my part, I had so many questions that they all jammed into one big heap that was buried under the urgency of the moment. So I ate cookies and thought dark thoughts about the fact that people seemed to be keeping me exactly there, in the dark. In fact, the darkness was increasing. By the time we were halfway back to the shore, the clouds had socked in solidly, obliterating the moon.
It was spitting rain when we got to the motel, and I could hear the surf pounding even over the rustling of the palm trees. We parked in the back lot, planning no pretense of being there for any reason other than to dig the damned thing up as quickly as we could and get it the hell out of there.
We got out of the car and waited. As I turned to look for Brad and Walt, I saw that they had arrived and parked
some distance away. They got out and skirted the parking lot. They were dressed entirely in black, and I could not even see their faces. They gestured for us to hang back, and then melted into the night.
some distance away. They got out and skirted the parking lot. They were dressed entirely in black, and I could not even see their faces. They gestured for us to hang back, and then melted into the night.
They were gone several minutes, and then I suddenly heard Brad’s voice, very low, so close to my ear that I jumped. “We’re clear,” he breathed. “Now show us the site. You lead. We’ll find you there.” I turned, and, even though he was within inches of me, I saw little more than the whites of his eyes, and inches to one side of his head, I saw the muzzle of his gun.
“Fine,” I said.
Tom lifted shovels from the trunk of the Mercedes.
The hair stood up on the back of my neck as I turned toward the beach. The choke point posed by the narrow path to the beach was too dangerous, the sight lines too limited. Anyone who wanted to give us trouble could do it too easily there, even though Brad and Walt were nearby. I could not see Walt, but was certain that he saw me. Brad said, “Go the other way around the far end of the motel. There’s another path there. Too much light, but there’s no boardwalk, so you can be quieter.”
I followed his directions, moving through the security lights and down between two lines of boulders. I noticed that the stone was a beautiful coquina. How I wished I were on a simple field trip. I would bend and touch the stone, see if I could flick a shell loose from the nearest one. But such were the actions of a simpler time, when intellectual pursuits could fill a day. Tonight, I was in the land of terrorism.
The dark masses of the palm trees whipped noisily in the wind. We walked quickly to the spot and started digging, setting up trench lines that crossed in the middle of the blank spot on the sand, marking a big
X
, on the theory that we would hit our object on one transit or another.
X
, on the theory that we would hit our object on one transit or another.
It turned out to be only two feet down. Tom hit it with his shovel, a hard
tunk
of metal on metal, muffled only by a heavy layer of plastic that was wrapped around it. Once
we’d found it, we quickly uncovered it, and as quickly had the hole filled back in. Then we backed away and let our two bits of the night steal out of the shadows, wrap it in black cloth, and disappear it into the thrashing palms.
tunk
of metal on metal, muffled only by a heavy layer of plastic that was wrapped around it. Once
we’d found it, we quickly uncovered it, and as quickly had the hole filled back in. Then we backed away and let our two bits of the night steal out of the shadows, wrap it in black cloth, and disappear it into the thrashing palms.
As we reached the Mercedes, I saw Brad’s four-by-four whip out of the lot, turn right, and head up the street.
“Now what?” I asked.
“Now we go back to Orlando and see what we caught,” said Tom.
The first moody indigo of dawn found us in Brad’s garage sucking down strong coffee. The missile lay at our feet, still wrapped in its shroud of plastic, which was sealed with green tape. It was an ugly thing.
“It’s a SAM-7 alright,” Brad said. “But here’s a puzzle: its effective range is only a few miles. To hit the shuttle, Mr. Bad would have to get it onto the Space Center at least.”
“Maybe he’s too crazy to know that,” Tom said.
“Let’s hope,” Leah said. “Crazy doesn’t mean he’s stupid.”
Tom asked, “Can you tell where it came from?”
Brad mulled this a moment. “The Russians built them. No, wait; it’s one of the newer Chinese ones, like we heard our brethren have found in Afghanistan. I have to tell you, I’m more than a little bit curious how it came to be buried in the beach by the Holiday Inn.”
Tom said, “That is exactly what I would like to know.”
“Jack could tell us,” Leah said, her voice fading. “But right now I care less about where this came from than where my boy has gone.”
Tom said, “We’ll find him, Leah. When we know where this came from, I think it will tell us where Jack is. I think he followed whoever buried this back to where it came from. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.”
I could think of another explanation. Jack had gotten in over his head, and he was … buried somewhere else. I
pushed the idea out of my mind. I had to do something—anything—to keep busy. So I squatted down next to the missile and began to examine it. It was about five feet long. The launcher consisted of little more than two tubes. I gingerly put my hand over one of the tubes to touch some sand that was stuck to the plastic.
pushed the idea out of my mind. I had to do something—anything—to keep busy. So I squatted down next to the missile and began to examine it. It was about five feet long. The launcher consisted of little more than two tubes. I gingerly put my hand over one of the tubes to touch some sand that was stuck to the plastic.
“That’s the sighting unit,” Brad said. “The tracking head has an array of heat-seeking sensors and a microcomputer that adjust the trajectory of the missile to keep the target in the center of the array. The other tube holds the warhead and the rocket. There’s a protective cover over the seeker and the warhead that would have to be removed before use. I’m glad we found this thing. Now we’ve got to figure out where Jack is.”
I said, “Perhaps we can work the puzzle backward.”
Leah said, “What do you mean, Em?”
“I mean, maybe this thing can tell us where Jack is.”
“How?”
“Well, it’s got a story to tell. Look at all the sand that’s stuck to the outside of the plastic. That’s quartz sand from the beach where we dug it up. Sand is highly variable—size, shape, crystal characteristics, accessory minerals, and rock fragments—so it may be possible to ‘fingerprint’ it with a petrographic microscope or an SEM.”
“Which is what?” Tom inquired.
“A scanning electron microscope. Don’t worry your head about what that is. Concentrate on the sand. Look
inside
the plastic,” I said, poking at the wrapping with a screwdriver. “The sand inside is not quartz. See? Quartz is glassy. This is opaque and off-white.”
inside
the plastic,” I said, poking at the wrapping with a screwdriver. “The sand inside is not quartz. See? Quartz is glassy. This is opaque and off-white.”
Tom folded his long legs to crouch next to me. “What does that tell you?”
“Well, it looks like some kind of carbonate.”
“Explain.”
“Calcium carbonate is the mineral that limestone is made of. The sand stuck to the outside, from Cocoa Beach, is principally quartz.” I pointed at one of the larger grains inside the plastic. “That’s a bit of shell; see the ridges?
Probably a bit of a
pectin,
a scallop. There is no quartz in here. All these grains are busted bits of shell that have been worn smooth. Except these.” I pointed to more spherical bits. “These are oolites, formed in a gentle swash zone where the waves keep rolling things about. There aren’t any oolites, or much shell debris at all, outside the plastic. Nothing gentle about Cocoa Beach. And I don’t know what this is.” I pointed to some pinkish bits that were finer in size. “These are something else entirely, though maybe still carbonate.”
Probably a bit of a
pectin,
a scallop. There is no quartz in here. All these grains are busted bits of shell that have been worn smooth. Except these.” I pointed to more spherical bits. “These are oolites, formed in a gentle swash zone where the waves keep rolling things about. There aren’t any oolites, or much shell debris at all, outside the plastic. Nothing gentle about Cocoa Beach. And I don’t know what this is.” I pointed to some pinkish bits that were finer in size. “These are something else entirely, though maybe still carbonate.”
Tom was paying strict attention. “So what does this tell us?”
“We can presume that the quartz sand came from Cocoa Beach, because the whole thing was buried in it, coating the outside of the wrapping. But what’s inside doesn’t match, so it follows that what’s inside came from wherever the thing was packed. Furthermore, the packing itself is crudely done—hardly a factory job—so I’m guessing that whoever buried it wrapped it himself, and at some other location where there is a lot of loose sand. See this? Sand only, very little silt or clay. That suggests another beach. So the question becomes, where did the stuff inside come from?”
“Do you think you can figure that out?”
“Quite possibly, with the right help. I’m a generalist, Tom. I know a little about a lot, so I’m good at putting together big pictures. To do this job, I need the help of specialists, people who know a lot about a little. And I have to find the right specialist who has the right finicky little focus.” I shook my head. “That could take time.”
Brad glanced at his watch. “Almost time for my family to wake up, and for me to get ready to go to work. I’m going to go give my wife and kids a kiss and then call in sick. I’ll be right back.”
Walt cracked his knuckles. “I’m with you, bro.”
Leah said, “I’ll start making breakfast. An army travels on its stomach. “Tom, you’d better call Faye before she wakes up and it occurs to her that you should call.”
Tom followed Leah out the door.
Suddenly, I was alone with the missile, this instrument brought to this land for the express purpose of shooting our national pride out of the sky. It lay on the cement like a corpse stiff with rigor mortis. I wished fervently that it were in fact a once-living thing that had died, because then that would be the end of it. But machines can be produced in great numbers, and where this one came from, there had to be more. And, while it had been designed and built a long way away, it had been buried like an evil seed in my nation’s shore. I stared at it, knowing that such objects had been in my country right along, some built by our people, some by others. The only real difference between today and the day before was the expansion of my own sad knowledge of one human’s capacity for brutality toward others.
I shuddered at my own capacity to ignore the abundant clues of such brutality that had surrounded me all my life. While I am not by nature a very trusting person, I could not comprehend such evil, nor, I liked to believe, was I capable of it myself. My blood ran cold at the thought of the kind of mind that
could
unleash such violence. Where did such people come from? And, more central to my current task, where did they hide?
could
unleash such violence. Where did such people come from? And, more central to my current task, where did they hide?
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