Across from the Washington Dulles International Airport, Wyatt gazed out of the window of his motel room and watched a couple and their children unloading their car in the parking lot. It was early, so he imagined they had just arrived. There was a little girl who looked no more than four or five and a boy who was probably seven or eight. The little boy insisted on struggling with a suitcase almost as big as he was.
Whenever he saw a family together like that, especially parents with young children, he experienced an emptiness he didn’t fully understand. The best analogy he could make for Doctor Landeau when he was explaining the feeling was that it reminded him of when he was hungry. He didn’t have pangs, but there was this almost undetectable ache that began in his stomach and traveled like mercury up a thermometer to settle just under his heart.
‘It’s an emotion,’ he told the doctor. Actually, he was asking. ‘It’s not sadness exactly. I suppose it would fall under a definition of anomie.’
‘Um…not quite,’ Doctor Landeau said. ‘Is it more like you feel you’re missing something?’
Wyatt thought and then shrugged.
‘I guess,’ he said.
The doctor made notes.
‘Sometimes,’ Wyatt continued and then stopped.
‘Yes?’
Was he saying too much? There was an instinctive warning against danger, a sixth sense that rang alarms. He thought he heard one go off. Why should that occur with one of the people assigned to make sure he was healthy and strong?
‘Go on, Wyatt. Don’t be afraid. I’ve got to know as much as possible in order to help you. You know that,’ Doctor Landeau said.
Wyatt nodded.
‘Sometimes, I feel like I’ve woken up after a long sleep—a very long sleep—and I’ve forgotten so much. You know, like you’re in a daze, but you expect that at any moment it will all clear up, the fog will lift and you’ll be fine.’
Doctor Landeau looked at him with a little more intensity, Wyatt thought. It made him more self-conscious.
‘I don’t mean to sound foolish or…’
‘No, no, that’s OK. That’s just the sort of thing I want to know about, Wyatt.’
‘I mean, I get over it quickly, but I wonder about it and I have to admit, it leaves me feeling inadequate.’
‘No problem. Don’t let it worry you. I’ll take care of it,’ the doctor said. ‘I have just the thing.’
Wyatt knew that meant another prescription, another pill to add to the five he was now taking daily.
Afterward, they adjourned to the gym equipment in the lab and Wyatt went through the regular monthly testing. He could see from the expression of glee on Doctor Landeau’s face that he was doing well, even better than Landeau had expected. His reflexes were returning, as was his muscle structure and strength. There truly was something akin to memory in the human body’s muscle cells.
‘Lazarus would be envious,’ he overheard Doctor Landeau tell General Marshall one afternoon while the two of them watched him running on the treadmill, and later lifting weights and kicking and punching the heavy bag.
‘Why?’ the general asked.
‘Why? He has the better resurrection, don’t you think? You know him better than I do.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘And?’
‘I like what I see. I mean, he’s not exactly the way he was, but then I keep thinking that if you’ve done this, you can do much more and we could have an invincible regiment,’ General Marshall said.
Doctor Landeau raised his eyebrows.
‘This isn’t science fiction, General. And besides, that’s not my purpose.’
General Marshall smiled. ‘I know, but I can fantasize, can’t I?’
‘I know you, Sidney. You don’t fantasize. You plan. You and your damn cohorts plot continuously. I don’t think you guys sleep,’ Doctor Landeau responded.
They both laughed.
Wyatt could hear them clearly even over the whirr of the treadmill. It wasn’t exactly that they didn’t want him to hear what they said about him; it was more like he felt he was an outsider. He was the object of all their attention and effort, and yet he didn’t feel as though he was a full partner. He didn’t feel he had their full trust and confidence, at least not yet. He hadn’t revealed that to Doctor Landeau and he expected he never would.
The family he was watching in the parking lot disappeared from sight as a heavy-looking cloud slid across the early sun. Wyatt stared out a moment longer and then moved methodically to complete his morning rituals.
He showered and shaved, dressed and inspected his Gatt revolver. One cardinal rule of good gun handling was never to assume anything about it. Was it fully loaded, on or off safety, and in this case, open for identification? No one but he could pull the trigger on his pistol. It read through his fingerprints into his DNA and when a match was effected, unlocked the brain of the computer inside the handle. This, the newest weapon in the arsenal, could fire with accuracy twice the distance of a pistol in the early part of the twenty-first century. One simply pointed in the direction of the target, got a lock on it, and the gun did all the rest. There was no need to worry about aiming for the chest, or aiming at all for that matter: once the lock was established, you could point it in the opposite direction and it would hit the target. It really was a miniaturized guided missile. Only a few agents had one. It was still in the field test stage.
When he was satisfied, he closed his suitcase and left the motel room. A car waited for him outside the lobby. The driver merely nodded as Wyatt approached. He took Wyatt’s suitcase and Wyatt got in.
‘Nice day for traveling,’ the driver said when he slipped behind the wheel. Then he leaned over and handed Wyatt a sealed envelope.
Wyatt took it without saying a word. He saw the numbers on the outside of the envelope and knew they represented the time he was supposed to open it. For now, he would follow every instruction and order to the ‘t’. He slipped it into his inside jacket pocket, barely nodded at the driver, and then sat back for the short journey to the terminal.
After he was quickly passed through special security, Wyatt entered the lounge and spotted Holland Byron reading a newspaper and drinking coffee. For a moment he remained there, observing her. It was his nature to evaluate everyone he met. This was only the second time he had worked with another agent on an assignment and the first time he had worked with a woman. The first time was not nearly as involved and didn’t last long, so he didn’t have much experience when it came to partnering up. There was always that first sense of distrust, that skepticism that had to be overcome or confirmed.
He saw Holland lift her eyes slowly from the page and realize he was observing her. She folded the paper and sipped her coffee.
That was cool, he thought. If she was unnerved or annoyed, she didn’t reveal it.
He crossed the lounge and poured himself a cup of coffee without saying anything to her. Now she was watching him. He chose a fruit muffin and then sat across from her and nodded.
‘Morning,’ he said. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Twenty minutes. I hate rushing to anything,’ she said.
He widened his eyes and nodded. Even though she implied that he had rushed, he hadn’t. He had followed his schedule to the minute. He sipped his coffee and then patted the inside pocket of his jacket.
‘I have some more information for us,’ he said. ‘It was given to me on the way to the airport.’
‘Why didn’t they give it to us yesterday?’
‘Very careful people don’t make mistakes and don’t give people with whom they are involved the opportunity to make mistakes,’ he recited.
‘What’s that? Something from a manual you memorized?’
He looked at her as if he was really trying to remember.
‘No. Just a fact of life,’ he said dryly. Then he put down his coffee cup and reached into his jacket. He held up a sealed envelope.
‘Why didn’t you open it?’ she asked.
‘We do that on the plane after take-off.’
‘Are you kidding me? I thought this sort of cloak and dagger stuff went out with Bogart movies.’
‘Who?’
‘Humphrey Bogart? The actor? The Maltese Falcon? Casablanca?’
Wyatt shrugged.
‘You didn’t know Mission Impossible yesterday and today you tell me you’ve never heard of Humphrey Bogart? Where did you grow up, the Slovak Republic?’
‘No,’ he said as if she had asked him a serious question. ‘I grew up here.’
‘Here?’
‘In the Washington area,’ he added.
‘Oh. I didn’t think anyone was born here. I thought they just died here,’ she quipped.
He tilted his head.
‘I mean figuratively speaking,’ she corrected, wondering why she had to do that with someone who was apparently as bright and intelligent as he was. ‘Why did your parents name you Wyatt? Was that some sort of a family joke? Wyatt Ert? You realize it sounds like Earp? And you know who he was at least, right?’
He shrugged again. ‘The more I have to do with people, the more confused I get as to what is considered funny and what isn’t.’
She pulled herself back. ‘The more you have to do with people? What are you, an extraterrestrial?’
He laughed. ‘Sometimes, I feel like that’s exactly what I am,’ he said, finishing his muffin and then his coffee just as they heard the call for first-class boarding on the supersonic to Los Angeles.
They rose and walked silently through the narrow hallway, down the steps and to the boarding gate. Once they showed their ID, they were quickly led through to the first-class cabin and seated. One of the aspects of the new security since the prevention of the second 9/11 was that once a boarding light was illuminated, the passengers had to be on the plane within a fifteen-minute period, no exceptions. The door was timed to shut and it would take an act of God to get it opened for a latecomer.
Supersonics modeled on the once-coveted Concorde flew over weather and could cross the country in an hour, so very little affected the airline schedules. There was barely time for a cocktail and a bag of nuts, much less a meal. Liquids were dispensed from the rear of the seats in front of the passengers in the first-class cabin and the news or music videos were in the pairs of virtual reality glasses in the pockets of their seats. There was actually very little for the flight attendants to do, so there were far fewer on board than there used to be.
There was no way to get to the pilots. They had their own door to the cockpit from the outside and there was now a wall between them and the passengers, whereas in the older planes there had been a door. The only way to hijack this plane was to be the pilot and if a would-be hijacker tried to influence the pilot by seizing control of the passengers, the pilot simply released an anesthetic that would put the entire plane-load of people to sleep, including the hijacker or hijackers.
Once their plane had begun to ascend, Wyatt took out the envelope and opened it. He placed the document within on the small fold-up table between himself and Holland. When she leaned toward him to read it with him, she caught a whiff of his cologne and was pleasantly surprised. It reminded her of the one her father used to wear.
‘Physical description and assigned name,’ Wyatt said. He continued, ‘John Stollman, five feet ten inches tall, one hundred and eighty pounds, forty years old. Small mole over his right eyebrow. Hazel brown eyes. Last seen wearing a dark blue suit, a blue tie and a Hotband watch. Hotband watch?’ He paused. ‘Kids wear that sort of watch. It’s not a serious timepiece,’ he commented, as if he had already made a major discovery.
Holland saw the way his eyebrows lifted and his eyes darkened to reveal deeper thought.
‘It might very well be his child’s watch,’ she said.
‘Well, why would he wear that?’
‘Maybe his child gave it to him to wear and he promised to do so.’
‘Why wear it when he’s on an assignment?’
‘Because it reminds him of his family, his children. What’s the mystery? It’s just a little show of affection. When I was about nine, I think, I bought my father a toy police badge and gave it to him. We had a little ceremony in the house and he pretended it was a very serious promotion. He carried the badge in his wallet forever after that. I’m sure it’s still in his wallet.
‘I should add that my father was a DC detective and had a real badge, but I know he showed the one I gave him more than he showed his real one.’
As she described the memory, she noticed that Wyatt sat with a slight smile on his lips, listening to her as if he were listening to someone from another country. When she was finished, he nodded.
‘Now that you put it in perspective, this makes sense,’ he said. ‘Very astute.’
‘Thanks, but I don’t think it’s really brain surgery.’
‘Pardon?’
‘It’s not a big conclusion, Wyatt. Why else would an adult with…what’s his assigned name? John Stollman? John Stollman’s mentality wear a toy watch on his wrist in public, especially in that public situation, in that important role?’
Wyatt didn’t respond. He looked at the physical description again.
‘It would help if we had a picture,’ she muttered. ‘Something to show the people we ask about him.’
‘Not yet,’ he replied. ‘That will come if we don’t come to a quick conclusion.’
‘It will come? Have you done this sort of an investigation before, one where you are kept on such a tight leash? Because I haven’t,’ she added quickly.
He shrugged. ‘I do what I’m told to do.’
She sat back almost petulantly. ‘This doesn’t make you feel more like a trainee?’
‘We’re never finished with our training,’ he recited.
Oh brother, she thought. A boy scout who became an FBI agent. He probably says the Pledge of Allegiance every morning when he wakes up.
She glanced at him to see if he had added a smile. He hadn’t, so she looked out the window, noticing the curve on the horizon. It always fascinated her to be flying this fast and this high. ‘What are we, fifty thousand feet above the earth?’
‘Fifty-six thousand, four hundred and seventy-six, cruising altitude,’ he replied. ‘By now it’s on autopilot and the two pilots are either eating or taking a nap.’
‘Are you a pilot, too?’ she asked.
‘I’m qualified to fly this plane, yes,’ he replied.
She started to smile and stopped. ‘You’re serious?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘How many assignments have you been on for the bureau?’
‘That’s not really important to what we’re doing now,’ he told her. He didn’t sound unfriendly, just correct, but for her it had the same result.
She felt some heat come into her neck and turned away. ‘No,’ she muttered. ‘God forbid we say or do anything that isn’t part of the assignment.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound short with you.’
She stared out the window a few more moments and turned back to him. ‘Where were you before this? You weren’t at the Washington bureau, were you?’
‘I began in Washington but went to New York, where I spent most of my career.’
‘When did you get assigned to the Washington office?’
‘Just recently.’
‘You don’t mean to say this is your first assignment in the Washington office?’
‘I do mean that, yes.’
‘So, is this the first such case involving professional jurors?’
‘I couldn’t say.’
‘Couldn’t? Because you don’t know or because you aren’t permitted to say?’
‘What difference does it make? The result is the same,’ he said.
‘I know this can’t be your first case involving the Division of Jurors.’
‘Oh? Why?’
‘Well, you obviously knew more about the division than I did, so I just assumed you’d been privy to more classified information because you’d been on this sort of assignment before.’
‘You sound like a government lawyer.’
She looked at him closely to see if he was kidding her. The truth was she couldn’t tell. Most people gave something away in the way they moved their lips, turned their eyes. This man had so much control of himself, he could disguise his bones in an X-ray, she thought.
‘OK, then answer the question, Mr Defendant. Is this your first assignment involving an incident concerning the Division of Jurors?’
‘It’s bureau policy for an agent to forget his assignment once it has been completed and filed away.’
‘I never heard about any such policy. Why are you being so evasive? I’m right, aren’t I? You’re on your first Division of Jurors incident just like I am. Don’t wait for the translation. Answer yes or no.’
He laughed. ‘OK, I confess. This is my first assignment involving the Division of Jurors too.’
‘There have to have been other incidents.’
‘We’ll never know,’ he said.
So, from what he was saying, he wasn’t that experienced with a Division of Jurors incident and neither was she. Why were two such people put together for this, an obviously nationally important case?
Maybe this was some sort of a test. Maybe, just maybe, there was no real case. Maybe no one had disappeared. Maybe that was what he had meant when he said they were always trainees.
It all made her think that there were three going on this assignment, not two. There was her, of course, and him, and alongside them was paranoia in full bloom.
Her father’s nostalgic longing for a simpler time was beginning to look less and less foolish. She laughed to herself.
‘What’s so funny?’ he asked.
‘Nothing. I was just thinking that next time my father waters his lawn with a hose, I’ll join him.’
‘Water with a hose?’
‘Yes. He’s a bit old-fashioned. For instance, he still thinks people should be honest with each other when they’re working together,’ she said, and then picked up a magazine and pretended to read.
He stared at her a moment, then looked away.
The silence was so thick, she thought they’d both asphyxiate.