Hidden Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure Page 15

  “Let’s get into those woods,” says Mack, “and I’ll check my GPS. We can reassess there.” He has his bag over one shoulder. He’s the slowest of us right now, struggling a little bit with the wet, soft earth.

  “You okay?” I ask him. “Do you need help with your bag?”

  “No,” he snaps. “I carry my own weight.” He raises his chin and looks forward toward the trees.

  The rain is coming down harder now, cold drops pelting my eyes and cheeks. I look at Bella, walking a few steps ahead of me, and think of Chernobyl. It was raining like this when we recovered a piece of the process in that forsaken place. The only thing we’re missing here is the teeth-rattling thunder and bullets flying past us. Just another reminder of how far we’ve come and how far we haven’t.

  The rain isn’t as bad underneath the canopy of the trees. The three of us huddle together to look at Mack’s burner phone and its built-in GPS mapping application.

  “Looking at this,” Mack says, rubbing his finger dry on his pants before attempting to swipe the phone’s screen. “That road we just crossed is called Piscataway. We’re standing a few hundred yards due south of the end of the runway. East of us, through these woods, there’s a neighborhood. It’s on the other side of Tippett Road. If we walk maybe a mile, there’s a park there. Due west is farmland, trees, and some truck business or warehouse. Hard to tell.”

  “What other options do we have?” Bella asks, dropping her pack to the pine needled ground under our feet.

  “If we head north,” Mack swipes his finger downward to reveal more of the surrounding area, “parallel to Piscataway, there’s a church. That might be a good spot to call for a cab.”

  “What’s that up there?” I point to what looks like a big building in the upper right portion of the screen.

  “That’s a Wal-Mart,” Mack says. “Even better than the church. We can buy some dry clothes, kinda reorganize.”

  “Wal-Mart,” I laugh. “We could be on Mars and there’d be a Wal-Mart within walking distance.”

  “How far a walk is that?” Bella asks, rubbing her left shoulder with her right hand. “It looks far.”

  “Let me check,” Mac manipulates the options in the GPS. “Almost three and a half miles. Maybe a little more than an hour walk. Could be closer to four miles if we want to stay off the main road.”

  “So about an hour and a half then. Okay,” she sighs. “I can do it.”

  “How about you, Mack?” I turn to the proud Marine.

  “I’m good,” he says. “Oo-Rah!”

  “Where does that come from?” I ask him, wiping my hand through my hair to temporally stop the waterfall pouring from my head. The duffel, rain soaked now is remarkably heavy.

  “What?” Mack asks.

  “Oo-Rah?”

  “Oh,” he laughs. “It’s a Marine thing.”

  “I know that. What’s its origin?”

  “There’s some debate about that,” he explains. “But pretty much anyone with a brain agrees it came from recon Marines stationed in Korea in the 1950s.”

  “Why there?”

  “They were in the 1st Amphibious Recon. They were always on submarines. And as you know, when a sub dives, a dive alarm has a distinct sound.” He stops for a second to adjust his pack and then keeps moving. The trees are thinning out as we approach a neighborhood to the east.

  “It’s like aa-RU-guh, aa-RU-guh, right?” I ask, mimicking the sound I’ve heard only in movies.

  “What are you doing?” Bella stops and turns. “I thought we were trying to be discreet.”

  “Sorry, you’re right. I’ll keep it down.”

  “Yes,” Mack whispers above the sound of raindrops falling from the leaves above us. “But Marines, who do everything as economically as possible, shortened it to ‘Oo-Rah’ and would call it out to signify their enthusiasm or readiness.”

  We hit the clearing adjacent to the neighborhood and a road heading north toward the Wal-Mart. The rain lessens to a sprinkle as we trek along the shoulder of Thrift Road. It’s an annoying mist more than anything. We’ll be on this road for a couple of miles until we hit highway 223. We’ll turn right, go maybe a quarter of a mile before we hit the Wal-Mart parking lot. Looking at my watch, I estimate we’ve got about an hour to go. It’s three-thirty in the morning.

  ***

  My neck and shoulders are screaming as we approach the large parking lot near the intersection of highway 223 and Branch Avenue. It’s a long expanse of asphalt that extends to our left. We pass a Chipotle Mexican Grill to our right and make the turn into the lot. The low-pressure sodium bulbs of the overhead lights cast a ridiculously bright light onto the empty rows of parking spaces running the length of the lot. At least the rain has stopped.

  “The Wal-Mart is at the far end,” Mack huffs, keeping pace with me. “It would be, right?”

  All three of us are drenched. We’re exhausted. Bella has dropped back behind us by a few paces. She’s been quiet most of the trek. Occasionally, she’ll stop and adjust her backpack. I’ve offered a half dozen times to carry it and she politely declines each time.

  Imagine, one of the wealthiest women in the world chugging along back roads in Southern Maryland so she can buy some dry clothing at Wal-Mart. I should be embarrassed about the depths to which I’ve dragged her, but the thought of her shopping the racks in the women’s section, adjacent to frozen foods, makes me smile.

  The smile evaporates when I look at the sign on the glass doors of the Wal-Mart, barricaded by shopping carts.

  The store is closed.

  “Are you kidding me?” Bella asks rhetorically, pulling the pack from her shoulders and dropping it to the cement in front of the door. “Since when is Wal-Mart not open twenty-four hours?”

  “Since it doesn’t open until six,” says Mack. He peers into the store. “There are people in there,” he adds. “They’re stocking shelves and sweeping floors.”

  “We’ve got less than an hour,” I say calmly. “It’s a couple minutes after five.”

  “I’m not waiting,” Mack bangs on the door. “We’ve got places to be.”

  “So much for being incognito,” Bella says.

  “There’s another entrance over there,” I point farther down the lot. “Maybe those doors are unlocked for the employees.”

  “Nobody heard me anyhow,” Mack laments. We might as well try it.”

  At the second set of doors, we’re met by a security guard armed with a walkie-talkie. He’s taller than Mack, younger than me, and interested in Bella.

  “Can I help you ma’am?” he asks, his mop of blond hair leaking from the bottom of his ball cap. “I’m security here.” He’s wearing a black and gray short-sleeved uniform that matches the ball cap. His badge is actually a yellow patch. It reads SEMPER VIGILO SECURITY. His sleeves are adorned with two chevrons. So he’s a corporal.

  “Yes.” Bella smiles and holds out her hand. “Thank you so much, Officer …?”

  “Corporal Sanders,” he beams, firmly grasping Bella’s extended hand. He shakes it earnestly. “I’m the night shift supervisor for this property.”

  “Great,” Bella giggles. “You’re exactly the man to help me.”

  He lets go of her hand and places both of his on his hips. “How can I help?”

  “I know the store doesn’t open until six o’clock,” she says, “but I am soaking wet. I am uncomfortable and afraid I’m going to get sick.”

  He eyes her up and down, likely not anxious to have her out of the clingy, wet clothes. “Uh, huh,” he mutters.

  “I would appreciate it so much if we could go into the store early,” she pleads. “That way, we could get some dry clothes, do the rest of our shopping, and be ready to check out right after the store opens.”

  “I don’t know…” He glances at Mack and me.

  “Pl
ease, Corporal Sanders?” She puts her hand on his forearm. “My friend here is a war hero. He needs to change the socks that help his leg stay in the prosthetic. Otherwise he could get a horrible rash.”

  “I’d need to check with the manager,” he says. “I can’t guarantee anything. I mean, I’m just security. I don’t run the store.”

  “I trust you,” Bella says. “You can convince them to help us.”

  Corporal Sanders holds up a finger for us to wait and marches into the store.

  “You were working some magic with Colonel Sanders there,” Mack says under his breath. “Playing the wet t-shirt card? I would have thought that beneath you, Bella.”

  “Haven’t you learned anything about me, Mack? When it comes to surviving, I’m like everyone else. I do what I have to do. This is survival.”

  Mack nods, coming to understand what I knew about her months ago. She’s as tough as nails when she has to be. She’s resourceful. Delicate and fragile at times, an instinctive killer at others. She’s me, but hotter.

  “We can help you,” Corporal Sanders comes bounding out of the store, double-timing it straight to Bella.

  “Great!” Bella lights up. “We appreciate it so much.”

  “The only catch is,” he says, “you can’t check out until after the store is open. And the manager has to check you out.”

  “Thank you so much.” Bella touches his arm again. “I knew you were the perfect person to ask. We really appreciate it.”

  “No problem,” he says, and motions into the store. “And sir,” he looks at Mack as we pass him, “thank you for your service to our country.” He stands ramrod straight and salutes.

  Mack stops and salutes the corporal. “My honor, Corporal.”

  “Feel guilty about the Colonel Sanders crack now?” I whisper to him as I grab a shopping cart.

  “A little,” he says, pulling his own cart. “Just a little.”

  “I’m going to call for a car,” says Bella. “Mack, give me your phone.”

  “What kind of car?” Mack reluctantly hands over his phone as we pass the grocery section.

  “A rental,” she says. “I’m calling one of those places that’ll pick us up.” Bella makes the call, answers a few questions, and tosses the phone into a trashcan next to the pet food section.

  “Let’s save some time by hitting different parts of the store,” I suggest. We divvy up an agreed upon list of “must haves” and go our separate ways.

  Forty-five minutes later we’re loaded for bear. All of us have changed into clean, dry clothing, and we’ve loaded our carts with a variety of goods.

  Mack spent a lot of his time in the hardware and electronics sections. Bella went to the pharmacy. I bought a couple of new backpacks and, at Mack’s instructions, a handful of disposable cameras and a half-dozen packages of Tic-Tacs.

  Each of us is armed with a new burner cell phone.

  There’s a green sedan parked in front of the store when we emerge. An amiable woman in an Enterprise Rent-A-Car shirt is standing at the passenger door.

  “Greta Hammershmidt?” the woman says to Bella.

  “Yes,” Bella says. “That’s me.” She walks to the woman and pulls an Illinois driver’s license from her new black canvas cross body purse.

  “Wonderful,” she says. “I’m Sally. I’m here to take you to the office so we can fill out the paperwork. May I help you with your bags?”

  “We’ve got it,” I say. “Thank you though.

  Sally pops the trunk to the car and Mack and I load it up with our gear. We empty the Wal-Mart bags into the new backpacks before closing the trunk and climbing into the backseat of the Ford.

  “You have a lot of bags,” Sally comments on our five backpacks and large duffel. “Are you campers?”

  “Yep,” Mack says. “We’re actually doing some research in the northern part of Virginia. Takes a lot of gear.”

  “Oh,” says Sally. “How fascinating. What kind of research?”

  Bella glares at Mack from the front seat before answering inquisitive Sally. “It’s complicated. Essentially, we’re examining the survivability of certain types of mold found in wooded environments.”

  “Mold?” Sally asks. “Wow!”

  “Yeah,” Bella says. “It’s pretty boring if you’re not into that sort of thing. My research team and I have spent much of our lives up to our elbows in it. By the way,” she changes the subject, “I’m so surprised you were open so early.”

  “We’re open twenty-four hours basically. We don’t deliver until after six o’clock, though, so your timing was perfect.”

  “Thanks for being on time,” Bella says.

  “We should be to the office in just a minute.” Sally accelerates and turns on the radio. “Is jazz okay?”

  “Perfect,” says Bella. “Absolutely perfect.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The Hay Adams Hotel is haunted. Really.

  Clover Adams, the wife of one the hotel’s original owners, died in the hotel in 1885. She ingested photo-processing chemicals. Some say she killed herself; others think she was murdered. Regardless, her ghost haunts the fourth floor. Maids say she’s called them out by name, guests report doors opening and spontaneous music from their clock radios.

  Despite Clover, the hotel is expensive and popular. My guess is it’s because it’s situated on Lafayette Park opposite the south lawn of the White House. Location. Location. Location.

  We pull into the semicircle drive on 16th Street and I hop out of our rented green Ford Taurus, leaving Bella and Mack to fend off the kind but overly eager valets. There are tourists milling around the sidewalk, pointing at the White House, taking photographs before crossing the street to the park. The sun is rising to my left, casting an ethereal glow on the eastern side of the stone exterior. I remember reading somewhere that it takes five hundred and seventy gallons of paint to cover the White House. The air feels as thick as paint, come to think of it, now that the rain has cleared out and the morning light brings with it heat. It’s been a while since I’ve visited Washington, and I’d forgotten how humid it can get.

  At the far side of the park, on Pennsylvania Avenue, there’s a group of poster board-carrying demonstrators. I can’t read the signs, and their chanting is unintelligible, but they seem passionate.

  Past the limestone facade of the hotel, inside the hotel lobby, the building’s age is evident. It’s clearly been restored, but there’s a definite nineteenth century vibe to the place. To the left of the entrance is the front desk.

  I approach the young clerk with a smile. “Excuse me. I’m looking for a guest of yours. I’m a friend, and he asked me to meet him here.”

  “Yes sir,” says the clerk, fastidiously dressed, jet black hair coiffed impeccably. He’s tall and thin, his nose pointing upward at the end. His eyes are narrow and deep set underneath his brow. He’s polite but wary. “And the name of this guest would be?”

  “Sir Spencer Thomas,” I say, noticing an immediate recognition on the clerk’s face.

  “I can confirm he is a guest at the hotel,” he says, typing on the keyboard on the desk in front of him. “I cannot give you any additional information, but I’d be happy to take a message. Perhaps you’d like to leave a note?”

  “Can you connect me to his room? Do you have a house phone I might use?”

  “He’s not in his room,” says the clerk, pressing his lips into a duckbill. “So a phone call would prove fruitless, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s nine o’clock in the morning. Did he leave for a meeting or something?”

  “I wouldn’t have that information, sir. Would you like to leave a message for him?” He places a piece of stationery and a pen on the counter ledge in front of me. “I’ll be pleased to insure he receives it upon his return.”

  I look toward the port-a-cache and the valet
s looking to help guests coming and going. “No, thank you.” I slide the paper and pen back toward the clerk. “I’ll just come back later.”

  “Whatever you wish.” The clerk removes the pen and paper and waves the next guest to the counter. “How may I help you?” he asks a classy looking middle-aged woman dressed like Barbara Bush.

  I push through the double-doored entrance and step outside. There’s a gray-suited valet standing to the right. His shoulders are back, a brass nametag on his left coat pocket, a whistle tucked into his vest.

  “Mr. Davis?” I ask, reading the nametag.

  “Yes?” he says, somewhat surprised I called him by name. “May I help you?”

  “I’m looking for someone. A guest of the hotel. He left this morning, and I need to find where he went.”

  “I’m not sure I can help,” he says. “We have so many people.”

  “Older gentleman,” I describe. “Tall and heavy set. Has a proper British accent.”

  “Sir Spencer Thomas?” he asks, the smile spreading wider across his cheeks.

  “That would be him,” I nod. “I have a meeting with him. I lost the address. So I thought I’d come here, hoping to catch him.”

  “He’s already left, I’m afraid.” Davis waves a taxi past him, under the overhang and back onto 16th Street. “I put him in a car myself maybe half an hour ago.”

  “Do you know where he was headed?”

  “A bar,” he says, the smile sliding into a knowing grin. “The Cato Street Pub.”

  “At eight thirty in the morning?”

  “I don’t ask questions, sir,” he laughs. “I just put the man into the car.”

  “Great.” I hand the man a twenty dollar bill and start toward the Ford Taurus. “Do you know is the address?”

  “Yep. It’s a big hangout for political types. Twenty-one Hundred block of Pennsylvania Avenue, Northwest. Two-story red brick building. Easy to spot.”

  “Thanks so much!” I trot off to the Ford and climb into the front seat next to Bella. “He’s at a bar not far from here.”