“So it’s just protective custody?”
“No. Homeland is cooking up some kind of scam thing where they’ll eventually use Burke as bait to lure the cockroaches out of the woodwork. Get them to make a run at him so we could scoop them up, take them off for some quiet conversation, say at Gitmo.”
“Well…that’s pretty much what just happened, isn’t it?” asked Top.
“I guess…but it wasn’t on a timetable. They wanted Burke completely off the radar for a year or so to let things cool down. Homeland wanted to scoop up high-profile hitters, not bozos with suicide vests. The plan was to start seeding the spy network with disinformation this fall that Burke was willing to sell his idea for the right kind of money. Let that cook on the international scene for a bit then set up a meet with as many buyers as we can line up. Then do a series of snatch-and-grabs. It’s the kind of assembly-line arrests Homeland’s been doing since 9-11. Doesn’t put all their eggs in one basket, so even if they put four out of twenty potential buyers in the bag they celebrate it as a major win. And, I guess it is.”
Top nodded. “So what went wrong, Cap’n?”
“He disappeared.”
“Disappeared? Did he walk or was he taken?”
“I guess that’s what we’re here to find out.” I told them the rest, about Burke going AWOL a few times; and about the cell phones and the buzz overseas.
“Are we trying to find him and keep him safe,” asked Top, “or put a bullet in his brainpan. ’Cause I can build a case either way.”
I didn’t answer.
We’d caught up with the storm clouds, and the closer we got to Pine Deep the gloomier it got. I know it was coincidence, but I could live without subtle jokes like that from the universe. Luckily the rain seemed to be holding off.
We passed through the small town of Crestville, following the road so that we’d enter Pine Deep via a rickety bridge from the north. Both sides of the road were lined with cornfields. It was the middle of August and the corn was tall and green and impenetrable. Here and there we saw old signs, faded and crumbling, that once advertised a Haunted Hayride and a Halloween Festival.
As we crossed the bridge Top tapped my shoulder and nodded to a big wooden sign almost completely faded by hard summers and harder winters. It read:
Welcome to Pine Deep
America’s Haunted Holidayland!
We’ll Scare You to Death!
Somebody had used red spray paint to overlay the writing with a smiley face, complete with vampire fangs.
“Charming,” I said.
We drove down another crooked road that broadened onto a feeder side street, then made the turn onto Main Street. The town of Pine Deep looked schizophrenic. Almost half of the buildings were brand-new, with glossy window displays and bright LED signs; and the other half looked at least fifty years old and in need of basic repair. Some of the buildings had been burned and painted over, and that squared with what I’d read about the place. Before the trouble, Pine Deep had been an upscale arts community built on the bones of a centuries-old blue-collar farming region. Even now, with its struggle to create a new identity, there were glimpses of those earlier eras. Like ghosts, glimpses out of the corner of the eye. But the overall impression was of a town that had failed. It wasn’t dead, but it wasn’t quite alive either. Maybe the economic downturn had come at the wrong time, derailing the reconstruction of the town and the rebuilding of its economy. Or, maybe the memory of all those dead people, all that pain from the trouble infected the atmosphere.
“Damn,” murmured Bunny. “They could film a Stephen King flick here. Wouldn’t need special effects.”
“Town’s trying to make a comeback,” I said.
Top’s face was set, his brows furrowed. Unlike Bunny and me, Top had read a couple of the books written about the town and its troubles. He shook his head. “Some things you don’t come back from.”
“That’s cheery,” said Bunny.
Top nodded to one of the buildings that still showed traces of the fire that had nearly destroyed Pine Deep. “That wasn’t the first problem this place had. Even when I was a kid Newsweek was calling this place the ‘most haunted town in America.’ Had that reputation going back to Colonial times.”
“Since when do you believe in ghosts?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. Instead he said, “Places can be like people. Some are born good, some are born bad. This one’s like that. Born bad, and bad to the bone.”
Bunny opened his mouth to make a joke, but he left it unsaid.
We drove in silence for a while.
Finally Top seemed to shake off some of his gloom. “We going to check in with the local police? If so, what badge do we flash?”
“That’s where we’re heading now,” I said, as I pulled into a slanted curbside parking slot. “The FBI has been the public face of this kind of witness protection, but Federal Marshals are also involved. We’re both. I’m FBI, you guys are marshals.”
They nodded and Top dug out the appropriate I.D.s from a locked compartment. We have fully authentic identification for most of the major investigative and enforcement branches of the U.S. government. The only I.D.s we don’t have are DMS cards and badges, because the DMS doesn’t issue any. We only exist as far as the President and one congressional subcommittee is concerned.
We got out and headed toward the small office marked PINE DEEP POLICE DEPARTMENT. There were potted plants on either side of the door, but both plants were withered and dead.
Chap. 4
There were three people in the office. A small, pigeon-breasted woman with horn-rims and blue hair who sat at a combination desk and dispatch console. She didn’t even look up as the doorbell tinkled.
The two men did.
They were completely unalike in every way. The younger man, a patrol officer with corporal’s stripes, was at a desk. Early twenties, but he was a moose. Not as big as Bunny — and there are relatives of Godzilla who aren’t as big as Bunny — but big enough. Six four, two-twenty and change. The kind of muscles you get from hard work and free weights. Callused hands, lots of facial scars. A fighter for sure. He had curly red hair and contact lenses that gave him weirdly luminous blue eyes. Almost purple. Odd cosmetic choice for a cop. Little triangular plaque on his desk read: CORPORAL MICHAEL SWEENEY.
He remained seated, but the other man rose as we entered. He was about fifty, but he had a lean build that hadn’t yielded to middle-age spread. Short, slender, with intensely black hair threaded with silver. He, too, had visible scars, and it was no stretch to guess that they’d gotten them during the Trouble. And, strangely, there was also something familiar about him. I felt like I’d met him somewhere…or heard something about him…. Whatever it was, the memory was way, way back on a dusty shelf where I couldn’t reach it.
The older man wore Chief’s bars and a smile that looked warm and cheerful and was entirely fabricated. He leaned on the intake desk. “What can I do for you fellows?”
I flashed the FBI badge. “Special Agent Morrison,” I said. The name on the card was Marion Morrison. John Wayne’s real name.
His smile didn’t flicker. I also noticed that it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And your fishing buddies there?”
They held up I.D. cases, too, but I introduced them. “Federal Deputy Marshals Cassidy and Reid.” Full names on the IDs were William Cassidy and John Reid. Hopalong Cassidy and the Lone Ranger. The guy at the DMS who does our IDs needs a long vacation.