THURMOND, WEST VIRGINIA
Malachi wasted no time. It was getting darker and colder by the minute, and he knew he was close to something important. He quickly made his way to the railroad tracks and, facing east, aligned himself with the front wall of the Thurmond coal depot. The rain was still picking up, pelting his face and causing cold trickles to run down the back of his neck.
He began walking east between the two rusty rails, counting each step softly to himself as he went. After several steps, he stopped. Something wasn’t right. The horizontal railroad ties were spaced about twenty inches apart, significantly shorter than the distance of his stride. Once again, he used logic as his guide. If ninety-two was intended to convey a particular distance—a map to some particular location along the tracks—then the most logical unit of measure would not be a man’s inconsistent stride but, rather, the uniform spacing of the horizontal railroad ties along the track.
He quickly retreated and began his count again, this time counting each wooden slat as it passed beneath his feet. He reached ninety-two in less than two minutes and stopped abruptly. He looked down at the wooden tie he was standing on and observed a single red paint mark near the center of the tie—the same shade of red he’d seen on the wall.
This was it.
Crouching low and washing the beam of his carbide lantern along the ground, he scrutinized every inch of the weathered railroad tie, but found nothing of particular interest. Other than the red dab of paint about three inches from the transverse center of the beam, this railroad tie looked like all the others.
He stepped off the tracks into the woods and returned a few minutes later with a large, sturdy stick. Using it like a crude shovel, he attempted to gouge through the gravel on either side of the railroad tie where the red dot was. After several minutes, however, he abandoned this effort as futile. Beneath the top layer of coarse gravel was another layer of finely crushed gravel that was packed so tightly it resembled asphalt. He realized he would not be able to excavate farther beneath this tie without metal tools. Which he did not have. Although his pocketknife came to mind, he immediately dismissed the notion of using it as a gouging or digging tool. Digging is not the answer.
As darkness encroached, Malachi stood and puzzled over this situation for several minutes. Someone had gone to the trouble of leading him here, most likely his contacts, whoever they were. And those people would have known he’d be arriving without metal tools. Therefore, requiring him to dig would not be logical.
He looked again at the red dot on the railroad tie, which he illuminated for a long time in the beam of his carbide lamp. What am I missing? The dot was a few inches off center, a bit closer to the north rail than the south. Was that significant? To find out, he trained his lamp northward, using the railroad tie as a directional guide. The light bounced around for a few seconds in the woods before something suddenly caught his eye.
A splash of red.
Using the beam of his lantern to guide his way, Malachi crept into the pine forest that separated the railroad tracks from the New River and slowly made his way to the large granite boulder that he’d spied from the tracks. Up close and shining his light directly upon it, he could now clearly see a bright smudge of red paint on its southern face, the same hue as the other markings. This had to be it.
Working quickly, Malachi swept his light all around the circumference of the boulder. At first, he saw nothing of particular interest. On his second pass, however, he spotted a smaller boulder wedged up against the main boulder in a peculiar manner. It looked . . . movable. Using both hands and all the strength in his back and arms, he managed to slowly tilt the smaller boulder away and push it over. What remained in its place was a relatively soft, dry patch of soil about two feet in diameter. He kicked at it several times with the heel of his shoe until he suddenly heard a hollow thump.
What’s this?
Like a terrier after its prey, Malachi immediately dropped to his hands and knees and began frantically scooping away the loose topsoil until he could get his fingers around the top edges of the hollow object. He could tell right away it was a small metal box of some sort. But it was stuck tightly in the soil. Clearly, it had been there for some time, perhaps years. He kept digging, using his bare fingers to rake away the compact soil all around the edges of the box. As the dirt became denser, his long fingernails began to bend back painfully and break. Eventually, he was forced to cease digging and trim his fingernails again using his small pocketknife. When he was finished, he resumed digging with increased vigor. The box was getting looser. Looser . . .
With a loud grunt, Malachi extracted the mysterious metal box from its burial place. He placed it on the ground next to the overturned boulder that had once concealed it, and he plopped down beside it on both knees, exhausted, wet, and filthy. After wiping away most of the dirt from the top and sides of the box, he carefully inspected its exterior in the beam of his lantern. As far as he could tell, there were no markings on the box at all. It appeared to be a generic, heavy-duty security container, olive drab, with a latch that was obviously meant to hold a lock, although there was none there.
Slowly, he unlatched the lid of the box and tipped it open, illuminating the contents with his lantern. The interior was lined with gray foam, and had a single, rectangular recess in the center into which a cylindrical object had been snuggly fitted. Malachi studied the object for a few seconds before gently prying it loose from its foam housing. It weighed about ten ounces and was wrapped entirely in heavy, opaque plastic wrapping. Slowly, he turned the object over several times in his fingers, observing no markings of any kind on the outside packaging.
Using his knife, Malachi carefully cut away the opaque wrapping, revealing a marine-grade, waterproof canister, like those used to keep personal belongings dry while boating. The canister was constructed of heavy-duty plastic, with a screw-off lid and no apparent markings on the outside. He shook the canister slightly and could hear something soft bouncing around inside. Slowly, he unscrewed and removed the lid and dumped the contents of the canister into his grimy hand.
The sole object was a tri-folded sheet of cream-colored stationery, which Malachi immediately unfolded and read. The following sentences were written in neat, cursive script:
1. Everything has changed.
2. Elijah is a traitor. Don’t trust him.
3. Go to the third church and ask for Qaset:
4. They are tracking your watch.
The last sentence sent a sudden jolt through Malachi’s body. He took off his watch and inspected it suspiciously in the light of his lantern. It looked entirely normal to him and seemed to be functioning properly, other than showing the wrong time. He held it close to his ear and heard only the soft ticking of an ordinary wristwatch. But then he began to hear something else. Something unusual, far in the distance. A thumping, rhythmic sound that seemed to be getting closer.
A helicopter.
Malachi stood up and heaved his watch into the woods as far as he could. The chopper noise was getting louder by the second. Shit. They were coming for him. And he had no idea why. Terrified, he quickly shoved the note into his coat pocket and snatched the security container off the ground, frantically pulling out its foam insert and inspecting every square inch of the interior for any additional clues. There were none. Frustrated, he tossed the container into the woods with a grunt and looked around frantically for a suitable plan.
The rotor noise was still intensifying. A moment later, Malachi spotted a white light in the darkening sky, moving steadily from right to left and growing larger. Then he saw the outline of the approaching helicopter—sleek and black against the moonless sky, and even closer than he’d thought.
A primal instinct jumped instantly into his brain.
Run!