Chapter 35

CHAPTER 35

B y early afternoon the volatile weather has moved on, the sun slipping in and out of clouds as Marino and I drive through the Shenandoah Valley. Lucy, Tron, Benton and other key federal agents have landed in Warsaw. Before that they were monitoring my remote chat with Carrie Grethen.

“Pretty damn smart.” Marino has his Ray-Bans on, chilling in shorts and a T-shirt. “Carrie Grethen must be so pissed she can’t see straight.”

“It was brilliant.” I’m in a baggy tracksuit and sneakers after stopping by my office.

I took a last look at Luna Briley’s body, the marks on her upper arms and neck vivid after more time in the cooler. They verify what I saw in the video Carrie Grethen played for me early this morning. Moments before Luna was shot to death, her mother grabbed her violently in a fit of rage directed at her cheating husband.

The Brileys and Mira Tang are being held without bail, and Marino and I are taking the rest of the day off, sort of. This isn’t a pleasure trip to the mountains in the western part of Virginia. It’s something I have to do. I won’t have peace until I know why Sal had been making trips to Weyers Cave, carrying thousands of dollars in cash, since last June.

“Whatever Lucy cooked up with Janet, the two of them caught Carrie Grethen, end of story,” Marino is saying. “They set up something in cyberland, and the psycho fell for it hook, line and sinker. But I’m surprised Lucy did it.”

“What do you mean?” I look out at the range of Appalachian Mountains rolling in the distance, thinking about what Lee Fishburne said about volcanic rock.

“She basically turned Janet into a honeypot.” Marino slides open the ashtray, digging out a pack of Juicy Fruit gum. “She used Janet to seduce Carrie into letting down her guard. Hell, the two of them have probably been talking for a while depending on when the hacking started.”

“The two of who have been talking?”

“Carrie and Janet. Point being, Carrie hacks into Lucy’s computer, and Janet herself helps lay the trap, is right there waiting. I mean, it’s beautiful when you think about it. Lucy and Janet are crime-busting partners again.” Marino continues talking about the AI-programmed avatar as if she’s a living person.

Carrie is in the custody of the police in Warsaw, assuming she’s not been relocated already. What happens next and where she’ll end up, I won’t be told. I suspect she’ll be taken to someplace where American officials can interrogate her. International deals will be made that I may never be told about.

Marino exits I-81, and a few minutes later we’re driving through the rural hamlet of Weyers Cave, population a couple of thousand, famous for its Grand Caverns where soldiers camped during the Civil War. Hundreds of them from the North and South alike sought shelter inside the cave at some point, their signatures carved into the stone walls. I remember Lucy’s amazement when I took her through rooms that looked like a cathedral, and a zoo with features resembling animals.

Marino cruises past the post office and a Methodist church. He picks up Route 256, the Little Rebel convenience store off to the left. We pull up to the gas pumps, and after driving several hours it’s a good idea to refuel anyway and make a pitstop. But that’s not why we’re stopping.

Sal was here multiple times, filling up his old truck, getting a coffee and using the facilities. The white frame building is old with a faded green-striped awning over the porch, and signs for specials taped in the windows. One of the two pumps in front is for diesel fuel.

“That might explain the reason Sal picked this place,” I suggest. “His truck is diesel.”

“Maybe. But there are plenty of places to get diesel fuel.” Marino turns off the engine. “That’s not the only reason he was coming here.”

“While you pump, I’ll go inside and pay,” I reply as we open our doors. “I’ll see who’s working the cash register.”

A bell jingles cheerily as I walk inside an old market that reminds me of the one my father had when I was growing up in Miami. The wooden countertop is scarred, and on top is a steel cash register that belongs in an antique store. There are racks of candy and gum, and small freezers with ice cream, a ceiling fan whirring.

An older woman appears from an aisle, drying her hands on a paper towel. Her face is wrinkled like tidal sand and framed by short gray hair with bangs. I detect a shadow of suspicion in her dark eyes.

“Can I help you with something, ma’am?” She returns to the chair behind the counter.

“I wanted to pay for fuel,” I reply. “Fifty dollars’ worth.”

“You can pay at the pump with your credit card.” She points out the window. “But I’m just as happy to take cash.”

I give her two twenties and a ten as she studies me carefully while glancing at Marino filling his truck. I look around at snack foods, breads, canned goods, cleansers, toiletries, most anything one might need. But nothing I’m seeing gives me a clue about why Sal might have come here beyond making a mundane pitstop.

“You here to visit some of the caves?” The woman opens the cash drawer, tucking in the money. “This is a good time of year to do it. Pretty soon it gets really crowded. Especially during national cave week. We’ve got some good ones around here.”

“You certainly do. I used to take my niece to a few of them.”

“That why you’re here today? The caves?”

“No, it isn’t.” I’m not going to lie.

“Where are you coming from?” She’s grilling me now.

“Alexandria.” I glance out the window at Marino hooking the nozzle back on the pump.

“Looks like he went over by fifty-two cents, ma’am,” the woman informs me. “And I can tell you’ve got something on your mind. You’re not the only one who’s come in here lately, full of questions about that rocket scientist abducted by a UFO and killed by aliens.”

“Who’s been asking?” I find a five-dollar bill in my wallet, telling her to keep the change.

“The feds,” she says.

“The scientist you’re talking about is Sal Giordano, and he was a friend of mine,” I tell her as Marino texts me.

Should I come in?

I look through the window at him and subtly shake my head. No. Don’t come in.

“That’s godawful,” the woman says. “But I’ll tell you the same thing I told the Secret Service agents. I didn’t know him. He’d come in every now and then to fill up his truck and use the men’s room. Sometimes he’d buy other stuff. I don’t think what happened to him had anything to do with him stopping here.”

“Did he ever say anything about anyone following him? Anything like that?” I ask.

“No, ma’am. He was always in a good mood except this last time. Monday afternoon. He was feeling blue. I could tell.”

“Do you remember the first time he came in?”

“I’ve been working here most of my life and never saw him before last summer,” she says. “He came in on a Saturday in early June. I remember because he was friendly and had an Italian accent, which we don’t hear much around these parts. After that he was in and out.”

She gives me a long, penetrating look, her expression turning sad.

“You were close to him, weren’t you?” she says kindly.

“I was, had known him much of my life,” I reply. “I’m trying to figure out what happened to him. And I know he’d want me to do that.”

“I’m sure he would.”

“Did he ever mention what he was doing out here?” I ask.

“No, he didn’t say a thing. I had no idea who he was until I saw the news about him being killed. I didn’t know he was important.”

“So he’d pull in and get fuel, and then continue on his way,” I reply. “And that was it?”

“Well, now sometimes when he’d stop in and leave, he didn’t head back to the interstate. He went that way. Toward the airport.” She points, referring to the regional airport Carrie Grethen flew out of for Warsaw.

Returning to the truck, I tuck packs of Clove and Fruit Stripe gum in the ashtray while telling Marino what I learned. Instead of returning to I-81, we continue west just like Sal did on occasion, following the two-lane road past silos and green fields.

Weyers Cave is famous for its flower farms, and we pass acres of chrysanthemums and a barn with a gift shop. By now it’s midafternoon, the sky clear, the air hot and steamy. A Gulfstream jet is taking off from the Shenandoah Valley Airport, catering mostly to private flights, a number of expensive cars in the parking lot.

“Sal may have driven this way, but I don’t see why he’d stop here,” I comment.

“Me either.” Marino glances out at the modern brick terminal, the airfield going by our windows. “I got no clue why he’d come this way. It’s not like he was here to pick flowers or fly somewhere. What do you want to do, Doc?”

“Let’s keep going for the next ten miles or so. Last time Sal was here it took him three extra hours to get to Green Bank. That’s not a lot of time, and there’s only so far off the beaten track he could have gotten.”

As I’m saying this I detect the silvery silhouette of some type of industrial plant way off in the distance. Rock quarries are carved into the hillsides, and large pools of runoff water are an unhealthy teal green. Getting closer, I can see that the industrial plant is crisscrossed with chalky white unpaved roads, rows of parked transfer trucks glinting in the sun.

“What the hell is that up ahead?” Marino asks. “Must be new. Of course, it’s been a while since I was out this way.”

“I think my last time was when I took Lucy to Grand Caverns while she was still in high school. Whatever this plant is, it wasn’t here then.”

I can make out metal silos, warehouses and other buildings. As we get closer, I begin to recognize towers, vertical kilns, transfer chutes and belt conveyers. Then we’re driving past vast expanses of solar farms. Field after field of the glassy blue panels are tilted up in perfect rows with grass growing between them where sheep are grazing.

“They must generate a lot of their power here,” I decide.

Up ahead is the sprawling plant’s entrance, and there’s no security gate. But I notice signs warning about trespassing and industrial hazards. Multiple big dome cameras are on top of tall poles, and the name of the company doesn’t spark at first. Then it hits me like a high-voltage jolt.

“True North Industries,” I say to Marino. “ True North , as in the initials TN .”

“The code in the capsule Sal swallowed. Holy shit.”

“Maybe.”

“Here goes.” Marino picks up his Colt 1911 from the console between us, sliding it out of the holster. “Just in case we run into anybody unfriendly.”

Placing the hefty pistol in his lap, he drives through the cement plant’s entrance, white dust billowing up. We realize in short order that the streets have no names, only numbers, and I recall what Sal wrote in the note he microphotographed.

“TN. Five-L. Seven-R. Nine-L,” I recite to Marino while sending Benton a text.

I let him know where we are and why.

“There’s street three,” Marino says as a dump truck coated in dust rumbles past us. “There’s four. Next is five, and I’m taking a left.”

We make the turn and continue to street 7. Taking a right, we keep going to street 9. We turn left, and looming in front of us is a huge metal structure built into the side of the mountain. A small sign over the front door says Bando Solutions, and I text the name to Benton. Beyond this building are others, the parking lots filled with transfer trucks and earthmoving equipment.

“A Japanese aerospace company based in Tokyo, with offices all over the world, including one in San Francisco.” I’m looking it up on my phone. “There’s no listing of Bando Solutions having a location here at this cement plant or in Virginia or West Virginia. Nothing near this area.”

“Sounds like they don’t want people knowing they have a presence around here.” Marino shifts the truck into park, both of us staring out the windshield at the enormous windowless structure. “Shit. You could probably fit a couple of football fields in there.”

“And whatever’s going on was of interest to Sal. Very keen interest,” I reply. “Or he wouldn’t have led us here. There’s something he wants us to know.”

Around us are several dozen SUVs and pickup trucks, and by all indications there are employees working inside Bando Solutions. We’re uninvited and have been picked up by the security cameras. Right now, there are two choices as I see it. We can turn around and leave. Or we can walk inside and ask a few honest questions.

“Come on.” I open my door. “The worst they can do is tell us to get lost. I don’t think anybody’s going to shoot us in here.”

“I’d say that’s a safe bet.” Marino checks the Colt, making sure a round is chambered, putting the safety on. “But I’m bringing my friend all the same.”

He slides the pistol into the pancake holster, clipping it to his waist. We climb out of the Raptor, its gleaming black paint coated in the tenacious dust. He points the remote, locking the truck as we walk toward the entrance. The door opens before we reach it, and a young man steps outside unzipping his dusty white coveralls, taking off his safety goggles, his hair cover.

“Afternoon.” He digs out a pack of cigarettes, lighting up as we head toward him.

“How’s it going?” Marino asks.

“Can I help you with something?” He eyes us curiously with a glint of anxiety. “Are you looking for someone?”