Untitled (47 page)

  Suddenly, a box appeared on the computer terminal screen. It was counting down from one minute.

  "Uh-oh," said Chemin. "The computer needs that code or in a minute it will shut down the system and probably send a warning to whoever watches security for this thing."

  "If it does we're screwed," said Marshall. "Quick, type
N
A-T-E
."

  Chemin complied. The code was rejected.

  There were forty seconds remaining.

  Marshall tried to think. He knew Nate pretty well. What would his code be?

  "We're running out of time, honey," said Chemin.

  "Nate has a boat called J
uris. T
ry that."

  Chemin did. Nothing.

  "Dammit," said Marshall. "We all change our codes a lot," said Marshall. "It could be anything."

  "Twenty seconds," said Chemin.

  "I got it. His new granddaughter. Try T
-I-A
."

  Chemin did, and the computer accepted the code.

  "Bingo," said Chemin.

  "Okay, now track men in the Toledo area ages thirty to sixty who've served in the military."

Chemin did and got over a thousand names.

  "Now, the number in special forces, SEALs, Rangers, Green Berets."

  Chemin executed the function. The list was down to seventy.

  "Good," said Marshall. "Now, let's see how many of them have exited the country, let's say, over five times in the last five years."

  "Why is that important?" asked Chemin.

  "Killers travel."

  Chemin executed the function, but the result was zero.

  "Damn," said Marshall. "He probably travels under another set of aliases. How do I narrow the list?" Marshall thought for a moment. Chasing a man like Dolgen was not easy. This type of person spent his entire life eluding detection, flying under the radar of life.
Life?
Marshall thought.

  "Chemin, let's see how many of these men are dead now."

  Chemin executed the function.

  The list narrowed to twenty men.

  "Now how many were killed during military action?"

  The list narrowed to fifteen.

  "Okay," said Marshall, "here's the big one. To hide an identity, it's likely they would fake an assassin's death in battle, but if it were an authorized skirmish, that would leave too many questions. So, let's see how many of these men died in an accident, a fire, explosion, something unrelated to battle."

  Chemin executed the function.

  The list narrowed to three men.

  "Reginald D. Barnes, Cyrril B. Thounter, and Zachary T. Williamson," said Marshall.

  "Is your job always this exciting?" asked Chemin.

  "Thank God, it's not," said Marshall. "Now we can find him."

  "How?" asked Chemin. "I was following this pretty well until now."

  "We use the date of death of each of these three men. Which of the false identities we found was the first one used?"

"That would be James Daniels in 1977."

  "The use of the first false identity we found should coincide with the accidental death of the man we're looking for. You see, his exit into a shadow life was probably planned."

  Chemin hit more keys on the computer, and soon a list of names popped up on the screen. The computer listed them in chronological order. The list ended with the death in 1977 of Cyrril Baker Thounter.

  "That's him," said Marshall. "What can we get on him?"

  Chemin went to work accessing as much as she could on the man.

  "Thounter was born in 1957 in Mississippi. His parents died in a boating accident when he was ten. He went to live with his uncle, his mother's brother, in Cleveland after that."

  "Cleveland," said Marshall. "You see, Ohio again."

  "Thounter enlisted in the navy at sixteen," Chemin continued. "He lied on his application. He became a navy SEAL not long after that. Thounter was an expert marksman, scoring in the highest percentile of accuracy. He was trained to use a variety of weapons and also proficient in hand-to-hand combat. In the fall of 1977, Thounter was killed in a freak explosion in Saudi Arabia. Almost immediately thereafter, the first alias was used.

  "So, how do you find him?" asked Chemin. "He's probably using another alias right now."

  "This guy may be a ghost, but he has to be human sometime. Is his uncle still alive?"

  Chemin did a check. "Yes, he is," said Chemin. "Robert Carson. He lives in Cleveland, but he was moved to a rest home in—"

  "Toledo," Marshall finished.

  "My goodness," said Chemin. "Carson is ninety-five."

  "Good work," said Marshall. He gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  "Yeah, I guess we make a pretty good team." She hesitated on the last part of the sentence, realizing what she had just said. Marshall wanted to broach the subject but didn't want to spoil the good mood they had going.

  "Come on, I have to get you back," he said.

  "I need to stop at the house to get some more clothes," she said. "I'm all out at Rochelle's."

  "Fine," said Marshall. "No problem."

  Marshall had Chemin print out all of the data he needed, then he took her back to their house. She went upstairs and packed a bag.

  Marshall felt sad as she descended the stairs with a suitcase.

  "You can stay, you know," he said.

  "Is that really a good idea?" said Chemin. She looked at him with longing and fear in her eyes.

  Her willingness to help him did not change the fact that they were at odds. But Chemin didn't know what he'd seen lately, what he felt and how he'd changed. Moses was probably not a good parent, but he had at least taken the leap, and if a man like Moses could become a parent, then so could he.

  He decided to catch her off guard, the way she had done to him so often in the past. He took her in his arms and kissed her. Chemin did not resist. He started to take off her clothes, and though she protested, it was weak.

  Soon they were both naked, lying in their bed. Marshall pulled himself up between her legs and felt her hand on his chest.

  "Wait," she said.

  Chemin reached over to the nightstand and pulled out a condom. She tore open the package and gave it to Marshall.

  He took it from her and looked at it for a moment, then tossed it over his shoulder. They kissed as he pushed himself inside her.

  Chemin clasped her arms down tightly around him, thrilled by what his action had meant. Marshall's mind was filled with the happiness of knowing that he had his wife back, and that they might be making more than just love.

D
anny's car roared down U.S. 23 into Ohio. It was the weekend, so the Douglas case was on hold. On Monday, Marshall would come into court with the bullet removed from Wendel Miller and send Mbutu to jail. At least, that was the plan someone had in mind. The more he thought about the sniper outside of his home, the more he believed that it was just a warning, that the man didn't want him dead.

  Lake Erie poured into the Maumee River, and the little city of Toledo came into view. It was an unassuming town, but the vista was almost breathtaking.

  "Nice-lookin' place," said Danny.

  "We need to go through the city. The place we want is just outside Toledo proper."

  Danny drove into the city and out of it in no time. Soon, he was turning into a place called Home, a name taken by the retirement community for obvious reasons.

  "I wouldn't mind living here myself," said Danny.

  "Yes, but it must cost a few dollars," said Marshall. "But I guess our boy is doing very well in his chosen profession."

  They went inside and walked over to the receptionist, a young black woman about thirty or so.

  "We want to see Robert Carson," said Marshall.

  "Are you family?" asked the receptionist. Her name tag said DORA.

  "We don't know," Marshall lied. "That's kinda why we want to see him."

  "Sorry, but only known family can visit the members here," said Dora.

  "But he might be my granddaddy," said Danny. "I've come a long-ass way to see him, and I'm not leaving until I do."

  Dora's face registered mild shock at the sound of Danny's voice. Maybe an interracial affair had taken place. Marshall had to suppress a smile.

  "Well, I guess it wouldn't hurt just to talk to him for a minute," said Dora. "But he's old, so don't go shocking him."

  Robert Carson sat by the pool in a wheelchair. He looked good for his age as he sipped on a glass of lemonade. Danny and Marshall sat down next to him.

  "Mr. Carson?" said Marshall.

  "Who you?" said Carson. He was bald and had lost all of his teeth. His voice was scratchy but had lots of life in it. "Got a cigarette?" said Carson.

  "No," said Marshall.

  "How about you?" Marshall asked Danny.

  "Naw," said Danny.

  "Cigar, chewing tobacco, snuff?" asked Carson.

  "Sorry," said Marshall.

  "Damn," said Carson. He pulled out a little cigarette. It looked like it had been half smoked already.

  "I thought you didn't have any smokes," said Danny.

  "Never said that," said Carson. "Why smoke my stash when I can bum one from you?"

  "Mr. Carson," said Marshall. "We're friends of your nephew, Cyrril. We want to talk to you for a moment."

  "He don't got no friends," said Carson. "You two must be from the government. He gotta protect the president again?"

  "Yes," said Marshall. "We need to find him."

  Obviously, Thounter had told his uncle that he was some kind of high-ranking government man. A necessary lie to impress a man he probably loved.

  "Let me see your ID," said Carson.

  Marshall showed Carson his government ID. Carson squinted, then took another pull of his cigarette. "So, you know all about your nephew's job?"

  "Sure," said Carson. "He's a Secret Service man. Travels on assignment for the State Department. Done won every medal there is. Took a bullet for George Bush, but the newspapers never got the story."

  "Can you tell us where he lives?" asked Marshall.

  "Don't know," said Carson. "Boy won't tell me where he lives, but you know that. He's gotta keep it secret."

  "How can we get to him?" asked Danny. "It's important."

  "You can wait," said Carson. "He'll be here any second. He's having lunch with me. Don't tell the boy I smoked. He'll go nuts."

  Marshall looked around in panic. He couldn't let Thounter know he was here. "Mr. Carson, it's very important that your nephew not know we're here."

  "Okay," said Carson. "But the boy won't like it."

  Marshall and Danny got up and walked inside. They waited in a corner of the lobby for a half hour. Marshall was filled with so much energy, he could not keep still.

  Soon, Thounter walked in. He was a lot smaller than Marshall had pictured him. Thounter was dark, about forty or so, and thickly muscled. His hair was cut in a buzz, and he had a beard and mustache. He walked with a straight militarylike strut, a remnant of his service days.

  Thounter walked over to Carson and kissed the old man. Thounter smiled and sat down.

  "Let's take him," said Danny.

  "Too dangerous here," said Marshall. "Let's go back out and get into our car and follow him when he leaves."

  "But that could be for hours," said Danny.

  "No, it won't. Carson is going to tell him that men from the government are here, and Thounter will know that no government men are supposed to be here. He'll panic and run."

  "But the old man gave his word," said Danny.

  "Thounter is family," said Marshall. "He'll protect him first. Think about it, you take the kid in, raise him as your son, and he takes care of you in your old age. If I were him, I'd rat us out first thing."

  Marshall and Danny went outside and got in their car. They pulled in next to a line of cars so as not to draw attention to themselves. Minutes later, Thounter ran into the lobby and angrily questioned Dora, the receptionist. Then he ran outside and looked around, then hopped into a blue Toyota and sped off.

  Marshall and Danny followed Thounter into Toledo. It wasn't easy. Danny tried to stay behind other cars so that Thounter couldn't make them. They followed him into a little town called Blissfield outside of Toledo.

  They had to keep a big distance behind him after he left the city. In such a rural area, Thounter would see them if they followed too closely. They took the chance of losing him, but it was preferable to being discovered.

  Danny did lose Thounter after he took a left on a two-lane road. He cursed, then went back the way he had come and took a right. After fifteen minutes, they spotted a small house in the distance, with a car that looked like Thounter's Toyota.

  The car was parked in a driveway of a nice little house with a picket fence on a dirt road called Season. The nearest house looked to be a quarter mile away or so. Thounter had a nice piece of land with no nosy neighbors to pry into his business.

  Marshall and Danny parked up the road and waited for darkness. Then they walked the rest of the way.

  "Look at this fuckin' place. It's like a goddamned postcard."

  "Evil men always want to hide out in places of goodness. Maybe it gives them the illusion that they are not what they are."

  "So, what's the game plan?" asked Danny.

  "Well, if he thinks someone had made him," said Marshall, "he might run. He probably has some sort of escape scenario. So we have to move fast."

  "I suppose we have to take him alive."

  "I'd like to think we can, but somehow, I doubt it."