“Says the woman who already got one man killed,” Steve said.
Keira reacted as if he had slapped her, and Steve already looked as if he wished he could take it back. Cole wondered what the details behind the remark must be. Barb looked away and shook her head.
“Why are you shaking your head?” Steve said. “You’re the one who put the idea in my head.”
“Fuck off, Steve.”
He was blushing even before the rebuke, the peacemaker caught red-handed being warlike.
“Sorry. Heat of battle. A stupid thing to say.”
Keira said nothing, her lips drawn tight. That ended the wrangling, at least until morning, when they rehashed the same arguments in gentler and more civil terms. When it came time to vote, Barb sided with Keira. Cole didn’t raise his hand for either option, and no one seemed to expect him to. Steve accepted defeat with a measure of grace, as if already preparing to make the best of it.
Keira departed just before Cole, having packed her bags the night before. She was on her way to the Eastern Shore to open up the house, air out the rooms, clean the linens, turn on the heat, and otherwise prepare for their arrival. She left behind directions and a spare key. The cat leaped into Keira’s car just before the door closed, and Barb glared as if Cheryl had committed the ultimate betrayal. The plan was for the rest of them to head across the Bay Bridge that evening.
Steve then handed Cole the keys to his Honda and, when Barb wasn’t looking, a pair of twenties.
“Gas it up if you need to, and get yourself something to eat. You’re still looking a little worn around the edges.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, and that Van Morrison CD you like. It’s still in the player. Good luck, and keep us posted.”
On the way to Northern Virginia, Cole bought a disposable cell phone, paying with some of his own cash. He’d already texted his number to the others in case of emergency.
It was now five minutes before the scheduled time for the rendezvous. Cars continued to come and go from the McDonald’s, but none was carrying anyone who looked like Nelson Hayley Sharpe. Cole waited, listening to Steve’s CD for the second time through. A song came and went and he again checked his watch. It was a minute before eight. He started the Honda and eased into the line for the drive-through window, feeling a bit ridiculous about the whole arrangement. Cole wasn’t sure which prospect worried him more: being stood up, or actually having Sharpe arrive.
During his appearance at Creech, Sharpe had come across as a strong but manageable personality, although Barb’s online research had turned up further info that, if anything, had made the man seem potentially unstable.
Sharpe had risen rapidly through the ranks of civilian designers while working with some of the pioneers of his trade, such as a personal hero of Cole’s, John Boyd, the peerless fighter pilot who helped design the F-16, and his civilian sidekick, Pierre Sprey, another brilliant maverick who helped revolutionize the way combat aircraft were designed and tested. Along with Sprey and others, Sharpe also made noise as part of the Pentagon reform movement in the 1970s and ’80s, attacking the defense department for the needless complexity of its weapons systems and its bloated costs, such as the outrage of the “$300 hammer.”
None of this endeared him to the brass, and they probably would have gotten rid of him far sooner if his design work, particularly with the Predator program, hadn’t made him indispensable. But in recent years critics, as well as a few friends, had expressed worries that he was becoming too headstrong, too outspoken. There were even mutterings that, for all his brilliance, he’d become vulnerable to conspiracy theories and had strayed too far toward the fringe. Others said that kind of talk was nonsense, the smear tactic of generals and contractors who were fed up with his griping.
At exactly eight a.m. Cole rolled up to the speaker by the red and yellow menu board. He half expected Sharpe to step out from behind it like a magician, or to announce his presence over the squawk box.
Instead, the voice of a teenage girl crackled, “Welcome to McDonald’s, may I take your order?”
“Sausage biscuit and a small coffee, black.”
“You want juice or hash browns with that?”
“No.”
“Your total is two ninety. Please drive forward.”
He rolled around the bend toward the pay window, glancing to either side and at both mirrors. Nothing. The only people getting out of their cars were members of an overweight family of four, spilling from a massive SUV with Ohio tags. Cole pulled up the hand brake and reached awkwardly for his wallet as the window slid open. He paid the girl, who handed over a warm bag and counted out his change. The moment he rolled up the window, the Honda’s passenger door swung open, startling Cole so much that he dropped the coins. A big man with a shaved head slid onto the seat.
“Drive,” Sharpe said, nodding and looking straight ahead.
Cole glanced back at the pay window, but the girl was already speaking into the mike, oblivious.
“Did you—?”
“Don’t talk. Drive. Take a right out of the lot and do as I tell you.”
Cole put the car in gear. The bag sat in his lap and the loose change rolled onto the floor. He turned right as directed, while wondering if Sharpe had come by car, by bus, or on foot. Was he accompanied? Cole checked the mirrors and nearly ran a red light.
“Are you armed?” he asked.
“This isn’t a kidnapping, for God’s sake. But how ’bout we go a while longer before we talk.”
“Sure.”
The light turned green. Glancing to his right, he saw that Sharpe’s hands were folded in his lap. No weapon, unless it was in his pocket. Cole relaxed a bit and eased into the flow of traffic.
“Up ahead, the turnoff to the right. Take it.”
It was a two-lane road, practically empty, and it ran through farm fields with widely scattered houses. They were at the outer reaches of D.C. suburbia, and this road headed straight into open country. Cole wasn’t sure he liked that. Checking the mirrors again he saw that no one was behind them, which began to feel like a mixed blessing.
Sharpe glanced backward, also checking the road.
“Good,” he said, seeming pleased. Then he lapsed into silence.
They crested a hill, corn stubble in a red clay field to their left. To the right, a weathered empty barn, no doors.
“There’s a turnout up ahead on the right, another two hundred yards. Pull over.”
Cole bumped off the pavement, braking to a stop on gravel. He put the Honda into neutral and pulled up the handbrake, then put his hand on the keys before glancing at Sharpe, who nodded. He shut off the engine. Not a sound, then, except the wind against the windows, whistling at the seams.
“Let’s take a walk up the lane here.”
A narrow gravel road led away from the road at a ninety-degree angle. There was a row of old mailboxes tilted at various angles.
“Okay.”
Cole pocketed the keys and got out. They slammed their doors shut — the only noise for miles, or so it seemed. The icy wind stung his cheeks where he’d shaved that morning. Sharpe gestured up the lane.
“Shall we?”
“Sure.”
They walked, crunching gravel. Sharpe wore rubber-soled black leather shoes, that ugly brand with sunken heels and a fat instep that was supposed to be good for your leg muscles. He needed a shave. His coat, unbuttoned, was a knee-length duster of waxed canvas with a leather collar, as if he was dressed to herd cattle. The bumps on his skull were pronounced in the low-angle sunlight. His mouth was creased into a scowl, but his deep-socketed eyes were in shadow, making it impossible to read his mood with any certainty. He might have been angry, he might have been deep in thought.