P Deutermann - The Moonpool

“Well,” Houston countered, “you seeing any big progress on the control of illegal immigration into this country? You seeing bills getting through Congress?”

We all knew the answer to that.

“You’re not seeing that,” he continued, “because the major corporations who own the politicians don’t want effective immigration control. Same deal for national ID cards. Why in the hell are we stuck with a Social Security card for identification that ties in with every aspect of our personal finances? Stupid-or intentional?”

“I hear you,” I said, not wanting to get into it with yet another politically frustrated citizen.

“I can’t prove all that, of course, but there would have to be some pretty high-priced top cover for this kind of program, don’t you think?”

I thought back to what Ari had said about foreigners at the power plant, and wondered if that was just another manifestation of what was going on there. This was the second eye-opener I’d collided with here in beautiful downtown Wilmington, North Carolina. The first had been a military-operated civilian detention center. Houston must have read my mind.

“There’s a war on, Lieutenant,” he said. “J. Q. Public seems to forget that. And there are two fronts: one overseas, where regular soldiers are learning about street fighting from the jihadis. Then a second one here on our so-called borders, where the umpteenth guy in one of these shipments through here or any of the other ports might be a legitimate CAD-CAM wizard. Or he might be the final member of a cell that’s been building for five years, the one guy who can actually wire up the satchel nuke. By becoming part of the pipeline, we get a look.”

“And they only have to get lucky once,” I said. “We have to be lucky every damned time.”

He nodded.

“So what happened the other night, when that container erupted with stowaways?”

“Somebody fucked up,” he said promptly. “It’s a government program, remember?”

I smiled. “Why are you telling us this?” I asked.

“Two reasons,” he said, again looking around. “One, word’s out among the working cops here on the waterfront that you won’t take go-away for an answer. I figured you might as well know what you’re poking your nose into.”

“And two?”

“Two: I want something. What’s happened to Trask? Jungle drums are saying nobody can raise him.”

“Your boss checked with the Bureau?” Pardee asked, giving me a warning look over Houston’s head.

“Bureau doesn’t share for shit. They’re not part of Homeland Security, as I’m sure you guys remember.”

I thought about it for a moment. Why not tell him? Why wouldn’t the Bureau want that information to get loose? I told him what little we knew, or at least surmised, and he whistled in surprise.

“But there’s no positive ID?”

“Nope, and there may not ever be one. The fella who runs the marina where Trask keeps his boat told me he goes off into the night all the time, so maybe that’s what he’s done, and it’s somebody else who went dunking for neutrons.”

“But you don’t think so?”

I shook my head, remembering the shape of the body and that boot knife. “I think it’s Trask. His boss at Helios thinks it’s Trask.”

“He’s got a hidey-hole somewhere back in the jumble,” Houston said, “but he’s not there. I checked.”

A pair of headlights surprised us, coming around the adjacent stack. I hadn’t heard a vehicle, and neither had the dogs. Then I saw why: It was an electric golf cart that rolled up to where we were standing. The two men inside acknowledged Houston and then gave us a pointed once-over. The driver seemed to be especially interested in the dogs. They weren’t in uniform, per se, but they had the look of federal officers.

“They’re cool,” Houston told them. “Tell Hanson I’ve got word on the colonel. I’ll be on the air at the regular time.”

The driver nodded, and they went humming away into the night without having said a word. At least they had recognized Houston, scruffy clothes, long hair, and all. He looked at his watch. “We need to get back,” he said.

“You out there in that jungle all by yourself?”

“No, I’ve always got one backup. The kid with the face metal? They rotate people through the homeless network once a month or so. The real derelicts are clueless.”

We started back for the fence. “Any of those people ever cotton to who you really are?” Pardee asked.

“Occasionally,” Houston said, lifting the chain-link so we could get through. “But then I tell the colonel. He takes ’em somewhere in that steel jungle over there, and they don’t come back.”

“He’s killing people?”

“No, I don’t think so. There was one guy, a real whack-job, way off his meds, heard voices all the time. He started going on about spies, narcs, other wild shit, and aiming some of it at me because I kind of control the campfire. The colonel showed up one night, took him off for a little talk. We saw the guy again, maybe three days later, at the fire. Dude couldn’t speak a coherent word.”

“A suddenly mute schizophrenic-that would be a relief.”

“Scared-out-of-his-squirming-gourd mute,” Houston said. “Sat there, shaking like a leaf, and babbling about monsters and snakes out there in the container jungle. Freaked the rest of ’em out. Hell, it freaked me out. He wandered off after a coupl’a days, never saw his ass again. After that, somebody acts out, all I have to do is mention that I’m seeing the colonel that night, and all the regulars get big-eyed. Nobody fucks with me.”

“How long you been under?” I asked, as we re-entered the container tunnel.

“Going on two years,” he said.

“Damn! Hope you’re not married.”

“Not anymore,” he said. “But, looking on the bright side, there’s a ton of overtime.”

It was after midnight by the time we got back to the beach house. We sat out on the front porch having a beer and some leathery leftover pizza, kicking around the next steps. I still wanted to focus on Allie: I needed to develop a detailed timeline of her visit to Wilmington. She’d made that single report back to the office the day after beginning her surveillance of the dallying lawyers. Got the goods, will be back tomorrow. But what was that personal business she’d gone to do? Who’d seen her? Who’d she talked to? How’d she end up at that convenience store? She hadn’t filed a report, and I actually hadn’t seen her videotape, which I now remembered I’d promised to share with the Bureau people. It might be in her car-maybe get ahold of that, see what it showed.

Tony amplified that idea. See how many miles she’d burned up on the trip. My people always set their odometers when they go out on assignment so they can log and then later write off the business mileage on their personal vehicles. See if there was any paperwork, bridge tolls, ferry tickets, hotel parking stubs, anything to indicate she’d left Wilmington. I said I’d call Bernie Price, find out what they’d done with her vehicle, which they’d supposedly recovered from the gas island at that convenience store.

“In other words, we need to do some scut work,” Tony observed.

“It’s what we do,” I said. “It’s usually what pays off, too. Any better ideas?”

No one had a better idea, so we went in. It was late, but I wasn’t ready for sleep yet. I got a jacket out of the closet, poured a glass of Scotch, and went back out to the front porch with the shepherds. It was cold and damp enough for fog, but there was just enough of a sea breeze coming in from the estuary to keep the fog at bay. All the neighboring houses were dark. Channel buoy lights blinked here and there out there in the light chop on the river, and a large container ship slid soundlessly across my view, bound for the Atlantic and away.