Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

T he dust is making my eyes water, no air stirring as we reach the top floor, shadows moving on the walls. A large moth bats against the caged light overhead, the V-shaped wings the same greenish camouflage as the blockhouses.

I’m familiar with Pandora sphinxes. During warm months, they frequent my garden at night, alighting on the white champion and petunias, drawing nectar like aircraft refueling.

“Shoo!” I wave my hand at the crazed moth as Lucy holds open the door. “Leave while you can!” I wave my hand some more.

The moth darts out of the stairwell and into the bright receiving area, flying toward the light, confused and frantic.

“The inevitable has happened.” Lucy walks me to the entrance. “News about Sal’s disappearance and death have hit the internet. As of a few minutes ago.”

“Do we know who released it?”

“I know it wasn’t us. We wouldn’t do that before the next of kin has been notified.”

“I’ll try to take care of that right away,” I reply.

“Your ride is in front. Room two-eighteen. Benton’s there waiting.” Lucy hands me a plastic keycard that has Langley Inn printed on it.

“He left in a hurry, it seemed?” Mindful of cameras, I’m careful what I say, tucking the key in a pocket.

She’ll know that I’m asking how he’s doing. What he witnessed couldn’t have been easy, and I’m not talking about the autopsy. He’s seen plenty of those. But my husband was surrounded by his colleagues while I was interrogated about my love affair with another man. It was invasive and embarrassing, every word of it recorded.

“I think he left because he’d gotten as much as he needed,” Lucy says as the moth zigzags overhead.

“I’m sure he did,” I reply with heavy irony.

“And he has other people in D.C. to report to as we continue monitoring the threat level. I imagine he’s on the phone nonstop.”

“What’s the latest on your mom?”

“Home alone drinking wine while doing her thing on social media.”

“Not a good combination.”

“It never is. She’s been on and off the phone with Marino. All is fine,” Lucy says. “And I’m remote monitoring. Anything triggers various sensors, and I’m going to know.”

“I’m very glad to hear it. Where are you staying?”

“Wherever I end up. But I’ll be here for the next few hours,” she replies as more ghastly images violate my thoughts.

“I want you to be careful, Lucy.” I give her a hug, holding her hard, not caring who might be watching. “Be as careful as you’ve ever been since it seems we don’t know what’s going on. And if it’s her. And who she might go after next.” I avoid uttering Carrie’s name.

“She’ll be targeting someone, maybe already is,” Lucy says.

“After all we’ve been through, I can’t believe we still have to worry.”

I can’t take my eyes off the moth rapidly beating its wings directly over our heads. I can see its pink-and-black-striped velvety body as it hovers like a hummingbird before landing on a wall, clinging to it with sticklike legs.

“If not her, then someone else,” Lucy says with a glibness she doesn’t feel. “Always best to guard against the worst thing you can think of. I wish Sal had.”

“He wasn’t motivated by fear, and for the most part thought the best about people. That was good and bad. But mostly good.”

“I’m sorry about him. And didn’t know how close you were. I’ll see you in the morning.” She heads back downstairs, the door banging shut behind her.

The moth’s stealth-bomber-shaped wings are splayed against white cinderblock. Big black shiny eyes seem to look at me, the spindly antennae twitching as I cautiously approach.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” I talk to it, asking what on earth it’s doing here. “I know you never meant to end up trapped inside this depressing place. But with so many people in and out I can see how it happened.” I inch closer. “Don’t be afraid.”

I ease my hand closer yet and the moth streaks toward the ceiling, disoriented by the bright lights, darting about more frenetic than ever.

“You’re certainly not making it easy for me to help you. Come on now.” I open the solid metal front door, cool air blowing in, the porch light garishly bright. “Leave.”

It doesn’t, and I look for the wall switches, flipping off the outside light, throwing the entrance into darkness.

“You can see better now so get out while you can.” I watch the moth swooping near the ceiling. “There’s a big world out there, and nothing at all in here except death. I can’t hold the door open all night. Leave!”

I flap my hand and yell while imagining how I must look to those monitoring the security cameras. Military guards are probably laughing at me right about now, and I don’t give a damn.

“Go on!” I gesture at the moth. “GO!” I wave at it wildly, and it streaks out the open door, vanishing into the night as tears threaten.

I walk outside, leaving the SLAB behind, taking a deep shaky breath, suddenly exhausted. Fireflies glow and fade like falling stars, the moon higher and smaller, more distant and colder. I think of Sal telling me that humans come from something glorious. But it doesn’t feel like that as I think about what was done to him. I’ll forever see the fire raging. I’ll hear the sounds of it roaring like the wind into a microphone.

Don’t think about it.

The nocturnal din of frogs and owls seems to crescendo as I push away images of hair and bright pink skin showing through clear plastic. Of dead eyes I scarcely recognized. And flames licking, tendrils of smoke curling. The oven door clanging shut.

Don’t think about it!

The lighted surveillance drone brings to mind a UAP as it continues making circuits, and I envision Sal being pushed out an open door high above the ground. I walk through rows of blockhouses, wondering what’s inside them. It’s impossible to tell. There’s no sign of anyone as I listen to the trees stirring and nature striking up its orchestra.

Beyond the blockhouses all but one of the SUVs parked here earlier are gone, including Benton’s. The Suburban that drove me here is waiting, the headlights shining on pine trees, the same two soldiers inside. One of them steps out to open my door, and I climb in back, placing my briefcase and jump-out bag on the seat next to me.

“Thank you, and hello again.” I fasten my seat belt. “I imagine this has been a long day for the two of you.”

“Our instructions are to take you to the Langley Inn, ma’am,” the driver says, his eyes on me in the rearview mirror.

“That’s correct. Thanks.”

“Anyplace you need to stop first, ma’am?” asks the officer riding shotgun.

“No, thanks.”

Moments later we’re passing through the metal front gate and driving away from Area One as I turn on my cell phone. We begin retracing our steps from earlier, the road poorly lit. The golf course is a dark void, the marshland textured with shadows as I surf through news stories on the internet. Conspiracy theories are in full swing about Sal Giordano.

E.T. WHISPERER ABDUCTED AND KILLED BY ALIENS? A headline screams the question.

NOBEL PRIZE WINNER brUTALLY SLAIN! Another story blames it on his otherworldly beliefs, claiming the government shut him up permanently.

I see no fighter jets taking off and landing, the runway dark as we curve around the airfield. There’s scarcely anybody on the road as we drive past the closed bowling alley, and houses with few windows glowing at this late hour.

On my way, I text Benton. Just a few minutes out.

Better be hungry, he answers.

It’s close to midnight when I’m let out at the four-story redbrick Langley Inn, where I explain to the officer at the front desk that I’m already checked in. I walk through the small lobby furnished in shades of blue and brown. On the walls are poster-size photographs of the C-5 Super Galaxy and C-17 Globemaster transport planes, and F-22 Raptors and other military aircraft.

I take the elevator to the second floor, where an Air Force colonel in camouflage wishes me good evening, ma’am as he strides past carrying a pizza box. I hear the faint noise of TVs through closed doors with privacy signs hanging on them. Reaching room 218, I insert my keycard, walking into the delicious aroma of fried foods.

“It’s me!” I call out.

The efficiency suite has comfortable couches and chairs upholstered in brown and blue like the furniture in the lobby. Drapes are drawn across the windows, the TV playing the news with the sound off. I close the door and deadbolt it. Dropping my bags inside the bedroom, I find Benton in the kitchen pouring an a?ejo tequila into two glasses filled with ice.

Shoeless, in a T-shirt and warm-up pants, he smiles as if very glad to see me. I’m just as happy but uneasy as I think of him abruptly leaving the observation area inside the SLAB.

“I’m starved.” I walk over to him.

“Fried chicken and all the fixin’s.” He feigns a Southern drawl and I sense the darkness shadowing his smile.

“It smells divine.”

I notice that he’s set the table, his 9-millimeter pistol on the countertop. Takeout Styrofoam boxes are next to the microwave oven. He pads closer in his socks, handing me a drink.

“As for the tequila, I thought to bootleg,” he says as we clink glasses.

“That was brilliant,” I reply, the first swallow heating me up. “I’m sorry I’m not fit company at the moment, Benton. I didn’t want to hang around to shower inside the SLAB.”

“I would hope not. Especially not with Marino on top of you.” Benton sips his drink. “He was in rare form, acting like an ass. More of one than usual.”

“It’s been a tough day for him from beginning to end.”

“Not to mention what it’s been for you. But of course, Pete’s all about himself.” Benton’s not typically this uncharitable.

“That’s one of the reasons he’s out of sorts. My relationship with Sal. Doesn’t matter that it’s ancient history when it comes to Marino.” I search Benton’s face to see what’s there.

“He can’t get out of his own way.”

“And he doesn’t mean to be like that.”

“That doesn’t make it okay. There’s nothing more powerful than jealousy. One of the greatest motivators when it comes to people doing horrible things.” Benton’s not smiling now.

“It sounds like he and Dorothy didn’t have the best of weekends. Or at least he didn’t,” I’m explaining. “When his insecurity button is pushed, he gets out of sorts.”

“Out of sorts? That’s an understatement. You do realize how much time you spend defending him, and always have?” Benton stares across the room at the muted TV.

“I’m not defending him,” I reply, and Marino isn’t the problem. “I’m also not the psychologist in the room.” I can see the hurt in Benton’s eyes. “But common sense tells me that knowing something and hearing it in front of an audience are two different things. I’m sorry you were subjected to all that earlier.”

“At least it was Gus Gutenberg. He’s gentler than most.”

“Yes, he can tell you that you’re about to be charged with treason without changing the expression on his face or tone of his voice. What happened inside the SLAB was unfortunate for you and me both, Benton. Doesn’t matter if I understand the reason.”

“I hated to watch you interrogated like that.” He takes a big swallow of tequila. “I felt like telling Gus to shut the fuck up, if you want me to be honest.”

“Often we don’t realize what something is going to feel like until it happens.” I’m careful drinking on an empty stomach.

“And then there’s the comments one has to hear offstage. People asking how I’m supposed to compete with a Nobel laureate.” Ice rattles in his glass as he drains it. “And allusions to you being a home wrecker.”

“Technically, I was.”

“It takes two. I won’t win any morality prizes.”

“Neither of us would.” I take another swallow of tequila.

“Do you regret it?” Benton’s eyes are intense on mine, and he isn’t asking about our affair.

He’s asking about everything else.

“What I regret is we didn’t marry each other the first time around,” I reply. “Maybe it was necessary for us to learn from mistakes. But in the process many years were lost. And we can’t get them back. Not this time around.”