Brad wanted to put a few miles between him and the
stadium before calling Asher, half due to Baker's
statements, and half due to his own concern for getting
caught. Perhaps Baker was correct in assuming that the
authorities would realize Fletcher was the wrong man, but
what did they have to connect him to the investigation?
Brad was confident in his belief that before they could move
against him, they would need some solid evidence.
Somewhere, the little voice in the back of Brad's head
pointed out that Fletcher said he'd been setup.
Even if it had been a frame, Brad had covered his
tracks. He had left fake names with everyone but Melanie,
and he hadn't told anyone about her. They couldn't go to
Wheeler for information without letting on to the existence
of the aliens. Wheeler might have been acting like an
butthead, but if he suspected for a moment that Brad had lit
a fire under the government's ass he'd have every reporter
on the street trying to find out why.
Fletcher had no idea what Brad was working on, so there
was no way he could point an accusing finger. The only way
the Air Force could find Brad, was if Mrs. Gatewood gave
them a description. Perhaps with a rough idea of his looks,
Fletcher might be able to associate the use of his name to
Brad. If he had been in a better frame of mind, Brad might
have remembered that the Air Police had seen his car on the
bomb range, and that he had told Mrs. Gatewood she could
find him by looking for a blue Firebird.
Brad took his exit off the expressway, stopped at a gas
station to call Asher, and tell him the good news. He was
alarmed when the voice that answered was not the voice he
remembered. After what had happened when he called Mrs.
Gatewood, Brad considered throwing the phone down and
running for cover. When the other voice said 'hello' a
second time, Brad swallowed hard, and answered.
"I want to talk to Asher," he explained.
"Yeah. He isn't here, but if you've got business with
him I can take a message."
"Tell him I've got the money."
"You got a phone number?"
Brad remembered Baker's concern for wire taps. "Tell
him to meet me at the bar tomorrow morning at nine o'clock,
and I'll be ready to go."
"No problem, Dude."
The other person hung-up, leaving Brad to wonder if
'dude' was his way of saying good-bye. For years, he had
always thought of it in the same context as the term 'man,'
but the word had mutated into a catch-all phrase such as the
Hawaiian word 'aloha.' It was the kind of thought that
could have kept a linguist busy for years, but only made
Brad hungry.
He returned to his car and gave some quick thought to
food. What you must understand is that there's something
about having five thousand dollars in your coat pocket that
makes you want to eat out. That was Brad's motivation for
going to a restaurant that evening instead of returning
home. He figured surely Asher wouldn't miss just one
twenty.
As he had eaten pizza three days ago, Italian on a date
last weekend, and Chinese the week before, the only other
possibility was Mexican. Of course with Mexican food, one
must have cerveza, which Brad did. Though he was not drunk,
he was light headed. Few will argue that the last thing
alcohol does is heighten a person's awareness, but on that
particular evening its effect on Brad's mind probably kept
him from going to jail. Even though alcohol slows the
reflexes and impairs judgment, it heightens one mental facet
vital to covert action: paranoia.
The last remnants of twilight were slipping into
darkness when the Firebird made the last turn for home.
Since Brad had been drinking, he was paying especially close
attention to the way he was driving. He watched every car,
every bump, every gutter to guarantee he had the necessary
clearance to avoid an accident. Baker had said not to make
the enemys job any easier-- Brad was not about to let them
get him for drunk driving.
His apartment building was in sight, a few hundred
yards down the road, when out of the corner of his eye, he
noticed a car. The car was singled out in his mind for two
reasons. First, were the two short radio antennas mounted
on the trunk. If they had been antennas for a cellular
phone, Brad might not have paid them any attention, because
many people thought it was cool to put two fake antennas on
their cars. The car was usually a pre-eighties Cadillac
that sported a TV antennae, curb feelers, and mudflaps and
was driven by someone that didn't even have a phone in their
home.
These antenna were not cellular, however, as they were
not curled at the base, like a pig's tail. The second
suspicious aspect of the car were its tires: large, wide,
and black. The two factors, coupled with the fact that the
car was blue, could only mean one thing. It had to have
been an unmarked police car.
Brad fought the churning feeling in his gut with the
statement that it must have been coincidence. They wouldn't
be waiting for him at his own house, would they? But why
not? They'd gotten Fletcher at home. The churning turned to
a cold sweat as he noticed a second car parked on the
opposite side of the street.
For a split second, Brad thought that if the police or
FBI were truly after him, there'd be cops around. Squad
cars... The SWAT team... Something other than two
seemingly harmless cars parked a block away. Maybe they
were after someone else on the street. Maybe they were
staking out a different apartment.
Then again, maybe not.
Rather than find out the hard way, Brad stomped on the
car's accelerator and sped down the street. He kept one eye
on the road in front of him, and one eye on the rearview
mirror, but did not see either of the unmarked cars chasing
him. He took several unnecessary turns as he zig-zaged his
way toward the nearest interstate ramp. Occasionally, he
would check his mirrors in hopes of detecting anyone who
might be following, but he seemed to be safe.
He set the cruise control on precisely fifty-five and
tried to calm himself from the near panic he had allowed to
creep over him. How could Baker have been right? He had
said not to go home, and the police had been waiting for him
when he did. That meant they knew who he was!
What was he going to do?
What could he do?
His options were limited. If he turned himself in, the
government would certainly kill him-- he knew too much.
That's what they did to Kennedy and Hoffa. They would
probably do the same thing to Gatewood and his family: snuff
'em out.
His second option was to forget the story, take Baker's
money, and get lost. Maybe he could get a fake ID, move to
another city, and start a new life. It would mean letting
the government get away with the cover-up, and continue the
lie they'd been telling the people, but at least Brad would
be free. Free of prison, that is-- he'd never be free of
his conscience. If he let the government get away with the
cover-up he'd never be able to live with himself.
That only left one choice: avoid getting caught at all
costs, until he could carry out the rescue. He had to stay
out of the government's hands long enough to meet Asher. He
had to get the aliens out. If he could manage that, he'd be
home free. After all, when the American people heard what
Brad had done, they would insist he be granted complete
amnesty.
A moment later, Brad spied a motel at the next exit.
He turned off and checked in for the night. The motel was
far from the first class, but it was inexpensive and clean.
The room was small, held one double bed, and had cable
television.
Brad's first move, since he had no luggage to deal
with, was to decipher the telephone instructions and call
Asher. The voice that answered was the same man he'd spoken
to the first time. "Yo, Dude," responded Brad to the other
man's salutation. "You get my message to Asher?"
"Yeah, he'll be there."
"Change in plans. I had to check into a hotel; can you
tell him to meet me here?"
"Oh, wow... You being tailed?"
"I think I lost them."
"No way, Jose. Like, Asher would be highly pissed if
you got him busted. We'd all be really bummed-out. No, you
got a plan-- you need to stick with it. Call down right
now, I mean when we get off the phone with me, and tell the
desk, I mean like the person working the desk, that you want
to stay another night, then stay in the room, okay? Don't
go out for anything, and when you leave there tomorrow, make
like really, really, sure that nobody follows you by making
left turns in front of traffic and driving down residential
streets and stuff."
"Why should I tell them I want to stay. I don't have
any clothes. I don't even have clean underwear."
"Wow, that's rough, Dude. No, see, if you tell them
you're gonna stay another night, and like the Fed's check
the register, they won't worry about you leaving town. Ya
know what I mean? And like I'll tell Asher the deal" Brad
acknowledged the Dude's orders, and hoped like hell that
Asher's message guy had his head on straight. It was
obvious that the man had something rattling around in his
brain, Brad could only hope it wasn't a loose screw.
After calling the desk to extend his stay, Brad turned
on the television and scanned the channels for a couple
hours. He finally settled for one of the movie channels,
even though he'd seen the film before. He stripped, crawled
into bed, and within ten minutes was asleep.
Brad slept fitfully, waking every time he heard the
whine of a distant siren, and didn't feel rested when his
biological clock woke him at six. He showered, wished he
could brush his teeth and shave, then dressed in yesterday's
clothes. As he was nornally very conscious of his
appearance, he had to will himself to step out of the room.
He'd always heard the joke about wearing clean underwear; it
had something to do with an accident and the hospital. He
wondered if the same was true about going to jail.
Maybe, if the FBI tried to arrest him, and he told them
he had dirty underwear on, they'd let him go. Who knows?
He drove for about an hour, taking precautions the way
Dude had told him. He would stop at a red light, wait for
it to turn green, and pull across the oncoming traffic.
When he would drive down residential streets, he would keep
an eye on the rearview mirror, and occasionally turn around
in a driveway. He finally made it to The Perro Negro at
fifteen after nine. Asher was waiting in an old, green,
Ford LTD.
"Look who made it," he called when Brad stepped out of
the car. "I hope you weren't followed."
"Me too." Brad knew that wasn't the answer Asher
wanted to hear.
"What happened to your car?"
"Long story," sighed Brad, hoping he wouldn't have to
go into it again.
"Were you able to get the money?" Brad handed Asher
the package, and the man examined its contents. "Good, used
bills, just the way I like them. You have a map of the area
I need to recon?"
"No. I thought you'd supply that kind of stuff."
"I need to know where to start, son."
"I'll show you."
"How are you going to show me without a map?"
"Whoa! You don't think I'm going to let you do this
alone, do you?"
Asher looked surprised. "You think you're going on a
recon with me?"
"If I don't, you might take my money and run off."
"I've never stiffed a client," Asher stated, as if
insulted. "There is a certain trust between a mercenary and
employer. It stems from the belief that if I take your
money, you may hire another mercenary to find me and kill
me. By the same token, if you shaft me, I'll kill you. Its
worked quite nicely for thousands of years."
"I'm going anyway," stated Brad emphatically.
"You think you can keep up? Ten thousand dollars
doesn't count baby-sitting."
"Old man, I can keep up with you any day of the week."
Asher laughed. "Okay. I guess I've got to baby-sit
you anyway. If I left you in that hotel, the FBI'd have you
within twenty-four hours. You tell them you were going to
stay tonight?"
"Yeah."
"Good. You lead back to the hotel. We'll drop your
car off and take mine-- I bet half the cops in California
are looking for a wrecked blue Firebird."
"If I leave it there, they might find it. Don't you
have a garage you can put it in?"
Asher shook his head. "Listen, kid. I'm banking on
the fact that they'll find it. That's why we had you tell
them you'd be there another night. You might as well book
the room through the end of the week. If the Fed's think
you're in the room, they won't bother looking for you
somewhere else."
"But if they find it, they'll impound it. I can't
afford to charge too many nights on my credit card."
"Listen to me carefully: If the police are after you,
then you've already committed some crime. Even if you
haven't, you committed the heinous crime of conspiracy to
commit a felony by paying me to break your friend out of
prison. Add to that the fact that it's a military prison
you're conspiring to break in to, and you can see real quick
that you're not one of the good guys anymore. Now, as long
as you're breaking all these federal laws, why worry about a
few local ones like reneging on your car note or credit
card?"
Brad accepted Asher's logic, though he knew full well
that he was one of the good guys-- it was the corrupt,
mindless, law enforcement community and U.S. Government who
were the bad guys.
Asher called to him before he left. "Hey, stop at a
hardware store before we get to the hotel." Brad nodded,
drove off, and wondered what Asher was up to.
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