Red Cicada, page 16
“No, I mean your migraines.”
“Well, there’s always one lurking in the background, but they usually don’t manifest until I think about them, so thanks for that.”
Lance’s face took on a look of contrition and Lana burst out laughing. “I’m just teasing. My migraines come mostly from stress. There are some triggers, like noise and bright lights, but they don’t always come from those. The tension headache I was battling has almost entirely gone thanks to a good night’s rest and a couple of hot showers. It’s hard to keep stress-free, all things considered, but I’m trying. Why do you ask?”
“Because it dawned on me that no matter what we find in St. Louis, the fact remains that you have a disk in your skull that needs to be removed.”
She gave a harsh chortle. “That just dawned on you?”
“No, what I mean is if we just get it out, then the bad guys will no longer be after you. You’ll be in the clear.”
She considered that possibility, then shook her head. “I don’t think so. Petrov kept hinting they suspected not only that I know what was on the disk but that my dad shared all sorts of top-secret information with me.”
“Oh. So even if the disk is out—”
“They’ll still be after me. Who are these guys, anyway?”
Lance’s jaw clenched a few times. “I don’t know for sure. Honest. But there are numerous agencies that splintered off the KGB around the time of the wall collapse—especially speculative science groups, drug cartels, and black-market arms dealers. I think this is one of those.”
“So it’s not just a couple of guys wanting a new curio for their twisted collection.”
“Not hardly.” He chuckled. “I believe these guys want the disk so they can continue project Red Cicada.”
“And the number nineteen?”
He cast a glance her way. “That one still has me stumped.”
* * *
Just as Lance had calculated, it was a few minutes after ten when they passed though the outskirts of St. Louis. He searched on his phone for UPS Stores in the area near the Gateway Arch. There were three. They found the one pictured on the Rubik’s Cube on the second try.
Lance parked on the opposite side of the street, a few yards from the store, and got out into the night air, still warm and humid. Lana quickly followed.
“I think you should wait in the Jeep,” he said, scanning the neighborhood around them.
“No way. We’ve been driving for hours. My butt is numb and my legs are cramped. I need to walk it off.” She looked around. “This place isn’t chic downtown, but it’s not a total ghetto either. Come on. Let’s get some exercise.”
A half block later, they stopped. Directly across the four-lane street stood the UPS Store. The sign above the door was illuminated, but the interior was sparsely lit. Behind the building, the tops of trees stood in dark silhouette against a backdrop of dazzling city lights. And centered directly above the store’s rooftop stood the brightly lit stainless-steel apex of Gateway Arch. The image matched the photo on the cube perfectly.
“This appears to be the right place,” Lance said.
“Looks pretty lifeless inside,” Lana commented.
“Come on.” He took her hand, and they jogged across the street.
A small neon sign next to the shop’s entrance displayed the store hours:
Monday–Friday 9–9
Saturday 9–5
Sunday 10–4
“What time is it?” Lana asked.
Lance sighed. “Ten fifty-eight. Looks like we wait until tomorrow to see what your dad wanted to share with you.”
They were able to find an express motel with twin queens a few miles up the street. The place wasn’t five-star, but it wasn’t roach-motel either. Lance was running low on cash. Among the gear stashed under the rear seat, he had an emergency credit card issued by the US government for travel expenses. It hadn’t been used in years, but it was still in date, and he didn’t think anyone could link it to his name. He hated using it now, but the banks were closed and he doubted the hotel would accept the gas card he used while on assignment. Besides, they were now a long way from Fort Collins. All the focus would still be in that area.
After checking in and getting settled, they sat on their respective beds, eating convenience-store burritos while watching a Midwest news channel. After headline stories and the weather, a reporter came on with a story for which the police were seeking help. A fatal shooting had occurred at a Travelodge in Ogallala, Nebraska, roughly six hours earlier.
Lance stopped chewing.
Lana did too. “Isn’t that where—”
“Shh,” Lance said, turning up the volume.
Stone-faced, the reporter announced, “Investigators say the fatal shooting took place around eleven o’clock this morning. Ballistics have recovered a nine-millimeter slug and are attempting to match it with police records. Security-camera footage of the lobby and parking area had been shut off and approximately six hours of footage prior to the event erased. Police are searching for anyone who has information regarding this incident.”
“Do you think it’s . . . ?” Lana asked in a dry voice.
Lance looked at her grimly. “Tarus.”
Chapter 28
Lance and Lana had breakfast at a mom-and-pop restaurant next to their motel. Both ordered light meals and large coffees. Neither had slept well.
Lance kept glancing at his wristwatch and frowning. How close was Tarus? Would Lance be able to get the information he needed before he and Lana were found?
“You know, time’s not going to go any faster by scowling at your watch,” Lana quipped. “At least we’re no longer driving through endless fields of corn.”
He forced a quick smile and poked at his breakfast food. “I’m impressed you seem so unconcerned about what we’ll find in the UPS place.”
“Of course I’m concerned. But the your-life-is-a-total-lie bomb has already gone off. Whatever we find now can’t make it any worse.” She took a sip from her cup and stared out the window. “My dad was everything to me, Lance. He was my entire world. It sliced my heart open when he died, and it was just beginning to heal when all this started happening. Then, when Petrov said his team were the ones who killed him, the slice reopened, only deeper. Now, knowing he wasn’t even my father, that he spent his life raising me in a fallacy . . .”
Lance reached across the table and placed his hand on hers, but she pulled away.
“You can’t imagine the sense of betrayal I’m experiencing.”
“You’re right. I don’t think I can.”
“So until it’s over, I’m blocking it out. Call it denial, I suppose, but I don’t think I can take any more hurt. Maybe we’ll find something new about my past at the UPS Store. Maybe it’ll be about this stupid Red Cicada project. Maybe whatever Dad left isn’t even there anymore. Frankly, I just want it to be over.”
Lance could certainly understand her feelings. Solving these mysteries could help heal her broken heart, or it could rip it completely in two. He needed to work harder to keep a positive attitude—if only for her sake.
“Let’s take a walk,” he said, tipping his head to indicate the outdoors.
“Are you done eating?” she asked.
“No appetite, I’m afraid.”
“Me neither.”
When they exited the restaurant, Lance retrieved their ball caps from his vehicle, then took her hand and guided her down the street.
“Why aren’t we going to drive?”
“Not a good idea.” When she flashed him a questioning look, he continued. “Think about it. The news reporter said the security-camera recording had been erased. I bet that was done after Tarus got a good look at it. There’s a high probability we were recorded driving away in the Cherokee.”
“Oh. Man, you are good at this spy stuff.”
“If I were good at it, I’d have figured it out by now and they’d be none the wiser.”
A young clerk had just unlocked the door of the UPS Store when Lance and Lana walked up. The clerk held it open for them and offered a good morning.
“Thanks,” they said at the same time.
“What can I do for you?” she asked when they were all inside.
Lance deferred to Lana.
“My name is Lana Baker. My father may have rented a lockbox of some kind here a number of years ago. I need to see inside it. I know it’s a long shot, but how long do you keep them reserved?”
“If your dad paid in advance, as long as we’re open. You can rent for a three-year block and then re-up it every three years. But box rentals have been really slow lately. No one needs them anymore because of the internet and next-day home delivery. Snail mail is almost obsolete.” The clerk rounded her desk and tapped a few computer keys. “Can I call your father to verify you’re allowed to access his security box?”
Lana softly cleared her throat. “He passed away eleven months ago.”
The clerk put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I am so sorry.”
“Thank you. His name was Deacon Baker. I’m his only child.”
“Oh man, that’s rough. My dad left my mom two years ago. Left us with nothing but three months of delinquent rent payments and a stack of credit-card bills, so he can crash and burn for all I care. But if your dad was cool, then, man, him dying really blows. Deacon Baker, did you say? Let me see,” she said as she pecked at the keyboard. “Oh, this might be it. You say your name’s Lana?”
“Yes.”
“Well, your name is one of the ones listed on those authorized to access the security box. Do you have some ID?”
When Lana’s face blanched slightly, Lance stepped forward and removed his cap, giving what he hoped was a disarming smile. “Miss, I am Lt. Lance Kipling.” He set his military ID on the countertop. “I’m with special investigations, and Deacon Baker is my top case. Ms. Baker here is, by default, under my province due to her father’s death.”
The young clerk hesitated, looking between the ID and his face.
Lance leaned his palms on the counter and said in a heartfelt tone, “We’d appreciate any help you could give us. It’s really important for Lana to reconnect with her father. She never had a chance to say goodbye.”
“Um . . . yeah, okay, I guess. Did he tell you what locker number he rented?”
“I don’t believe he ever mentioned that,” Lance said, scratching his ear to steal a glance at Lana.
Lana gave a hint of a shrug.
The clerk’s eyes narrowed as she looked from Lance to Lana and back again. “Um, I really don’t think I can unless you—”
“Nineteen,” Lana blurted.
Lance immediately made the connection to Red Cicada 19 and smiled. “Yeah, that’s right. I remember now. Box nineteen.”
“Perfect. Be right back.” The clerk stepped into a bank of secured lockers and used a master key to open number nineteen. She pulled a thin metal document box from the locker and set it on the counter. It was made of sturdy-gauge aluminum and had no markings or external hinges. The key slot was nothing more than a small hexagonal hole. Lance had hoped for a combination lock they could figure out. This box clearly needed a custom-made key to open it.
Lana reached for the box, but the clerk pulled it back.
“Wait. I’m still not sure I can let you take it without positive ID. According to the rental contract, Mr. Baker indicated that some form of positive proof was necessary to release this thing.”
“My authority isn’t good enough?” Lance said forcefully.
“It is for me but not for the company.”
A silent, uncomfortable stalemate ensued. Lana examined the lock instead of engaging in the debate.
“Come on, guys, give me a break,” the clerk finally said. “I could lose my job.”
“I think I have some proof,” Lana said, reaching behind her neck to unclasp her necklace. She aligned the rhodonite pendant to the keyhole. The hexagonal cut of the stone perfectly fit into the slot. She slowly inserted it until there was a metallic click, and the lid popped open.
“Is that proof enough?” Lana asked.
Lance was impressed and slightly irritated he hadn’t connected the similarity between Lana’s pendant and the shape of the keyhole.
“Yep. Good enough for me,” the clerk said.
“Thank you so much,” Lana said, sounding truly grateful as she closed the box.
The girl gave a warm smile. “So does this mean you’re closing the account?”
“How much time remains on the lease?” Lance asked.
“It was renewed February of last year for three years, so . . . nineteen months. But the company charges a twenty percent cancellation fee, which is subtracted from your refund.”
“Let it run out,” Lance said, slipping his arm around Lana’s shoulders and directing her toward the door. “Thank you for your help.”
With the box in hand, Lana took two steps, then stopped and turned. “Hang on. You said my name was one of the ones on the authorized-access list,” she said to the clerk. “What are the other names?”
“There’re just three,” the young woman said, reading off the screen. “Yours, your dad’s, and some guy named Aaron Goodwell.”
Chapter 29
They walked back to the Cherokee in silence. Lance desperately wanted to see what was inside the aluminum container, but he also wanted to allow Lana to progress at her own speed. It didn’t take long. When they climbed into his SUV, Lana took a breath, inserted her pendant, and popped the lid open again. Inside sat an 8” x 14” manila envelope labeled US Military Correspondence. TOP SECRET 1.4(e).
“What’s the 1.4(e) mean?” she asked.
“It refers to highly sensitive scientific or technological information relating to national security, including terrorism.”
She took a reflective moment. “I was hoping it’d be stuff about my background. Now I’m kind of afraid to open it.”
“You want me to?”
She handed him the envelope. He unclasped it and pulled out two half-inch-thick reports, each secured with three brass brads. Both cover pages read
FINDINGS AT AKADEMGORODOK SCIENCE CENTER
NOVOSIBIRSK, RUSSIA
Submitted: 25 February 1991
Sgts. Aaron Goodwell and Deacon Baker,
301st Special Investigations unit, USMC
“Can you see any difference between them?” Lana asked.
“No, but one of them seems slightly thicker. This looks like the report I read when I first started investigating Red Cicada,” Lance said, tapping both with his hands. “Their conclusions basically affirmed that no evidence of nuclear-arms development was found at the research center. There’s a brief addendum that recommends experts in human-rights crimes investigate the same complex, but that’s all.”
“So why’re there two reports in the envelope?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out,” he said, getting out of the driver’s seat and stepping around to the passenger side. “You drive; I’ll read.”
Lana got behind the wheel and pushed the button to start the vehicle. “Where to?”
“Follow this road to Riverfront Drive. That should lead you to the junction to I-55 northbound.”
“Destination?”
“We’ll connect with I-39 north; then it’s on to Bishop’s Bay, Wisconsin.”
She gave a slight frown. “Wisconsin? Why?”
“That’s where Aaron Goodwell lives, last time I checked. I’ll go through these reports, but I have a feeling I won’t find much new material. If he’s there, maybe he can fill in some blanks.”
“I thought you already interviewed him back then.”
“I did, but he was a closed book. Wouldn’t budge when I asked about your dad or what they found.”
“So . . . another road trip,” she said without enthusiasm.
Lance couldn’t blame her for being bored with all the travel. It was the part of his job he liked the least. But he’d found long ago that visiting a lead in person allowed him to pick up on clues that he would totally miss researching from a distance.
“I know it’s another six hours in the car, but it’s Sunday and traffic should be light. Here’s the thing,” he said, again patting the reports. “My last contact with Aaron was about a year and a half ago. He’d used his veteran’s pension to finish his last year of college, then went to med school. Made it all the way through with high marks too. He practices somewhere in the Tri-Lakes area. I’ll Google him in a minute.”
“And?”
“And I want to ask him about Deacon again. Like I said, when I first contacted him, he said he didn’t know where he was and that I would be hard-pressed to find him. When I asked what he meant, he said Deacon had gone into a self-made witness protection program. When I asked about that, he said ‘no further comment.’ I tried using my military status to force an answer, but he said he’s a civilian now and wasn’t about to incriminate himself or his friend.”
“Incriminate himself how?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
Lana shook her head and pulled the SUV into traffic. She found the connection to I-55 and merged onto the freeway. Within minutes they were in Illinois, heading through rolling green countryside, but Lance was too busy reading to care.
When he finished going through both reports, he closed the pages and stared out the windshield, disbelief and deep concern heating his face.
“Are you okay?” Lana asked, trying to keep her eyes on the road.
“Just trying to put it all together.”
“Are the reports that different?”
“Yes. Well, they say a lot of the same stuff, but this one is more complete,” he said, patting one of the reports. He opened the glove box to retrieve a pen, with which he printed Red Cicada in the corner. “It documents a lot more of the stuff going on in the hospital. The other one is the copy on file with the military.”
