Talkin' Jive Page 3

  Becker looked at it. “So this is the infamous newspaper message.”

  “Yup,” Dale said. “As to who sent the message and why … I wish I knew. But I can tell you what it means.”

  Becker made a little motion with his hand that said, Let’s hear it.

  “Only eleven words, but loaded with clues. First you have ‘ATTENTION: D.C.’, which was clearly meant to look like it was addressing the citizens of Washington, D.C., since it was in a Washington paper, but it’s actually referring to—”

  “You,” Becker said. “Dale Conley. Your initials followed parenthetically by your organizations’ initials. BEI, the Bureau of Esoteric Investigation.”

  He looked impatient again.

  “Right,” Dale said. “That’s the easy part. That’s the part that got our attention. Next, you have ‘Groves’ Secret.’ As you clearly know, General Leslie Groves was the head of the Manhattan Project, and since ‘Secret’ is capitalized, it’s referring to the Secret City of Oak Ridge, one of the three principal Manhattan Project locations. Groves’ Secret City.

  “‘Volunteer’ is also capitalized, so not only is the message asking me to volunteer my assistance, but it’s also solidifying the location as Oak Ridge, since Tennessee is the Volunteer State.

  “Finally, a little added bonus—the school nickname for the nearby University of Tennessee in Knoxville is ‘Volunteers’ as well, erasing any doubt that the message is referring to Oak Ridge.” Dale smiled at the note as he read it over again. “It really is a clever little message.”

  Becker put a hand to his forehead, still impatient. “So this is what you do, huh? Solve riddles?”

  It was time for Dale to be a smartass.

  He gave Becker big bright eyes and a second-grader’s toothy grin. He nodded enthusiastically. “That and a whole lot of fightin’. Oh, and occasionally they let me use my car’s flashy lights and siren. Golly, it sure is fun!”

  Dale sensed quite a bit of tension already between the two of them, and in his experience, the best way to defuse tension was to crack wise. But Becker still was having none of it. He continued to look at Dale with that odd expression that wasn’t quite hostile, wasn’t quite negative.

  Becker slid the scrap of newspaper to Dale then leaned back in his chair, rested his hands on his stomach. “Do you know what happened here yesterday, Conley?”

  Dale shook his head as he returned his wallet to his pocket. “I got the note yesterday morning. I discussed it with my agency. And by last night, I was in Knoxville. I haven’t a clue about anything that happened here.”

  “One of my guys disappeared. They found his car. Abandoned. We patrolled the city, the whole area. No sign of him. I’ve never lost a guy before, let alone had one simply vanish. And less than three hours later I get a phone call from D.C. The Department of Justice is sending an agent to my facility. Because he got a creepy note in a newspaper. An agent from some covert group I’ve never heard of. The Bureau of Esoteric Investigation. And I’m supposed to give him my complete cooperation and assist him however I can. Put yourself in my shoes, Conley. How does that sound?”

  “What are you implying?”

  “Nothing. But it’s all very weird. Especially since we’re at a boiling point with the protests.”

  Dale nodded. “I had to drive through a huge group of them to get into the facility. There must’ve been fifty people outside your gate. Signs, screaming, peace symbols. What’s it all about?”

  “It all ties back to John Hendrix. Ever heard of him?”

  Dale shook his head.

  “He was the ‘Prophet of Oak Ridge.’ An area local. A soothsayer, if you believe in that sort of thing,” Becker said. “Now, remember, Oak Ridge didn’t exist before the war. The government created it for the Manhattan Project. Hendrix supposedly predicted Oak Ridge’s creation. He had mystical visions that told him the land would someday house a facility that would help end the greatest war ever.”

  “And when did Hendrix have these visions?” Dale said without looking up from the notes he was scribbling on his notepad.

  “At the turn of the century. Some forty years before Oak Ridge was built.”

  Dale stopped writing, looked up.

  Dale heard a lot of conspiracy theories in his line of work. He dealt with very fringe people with odd fascinations and relationships with history. Naturally, he’d come across his fair share of supposed prophets. But if what Becker had said about John Hendrix’s prophecies was true, this was the most accurate prophet with whom Dale had been associated.

  “Turn of the century…” Dale said. “So what does this have to do with the protests?”

  “For the last two years, a guy here in Oak Ridge named Asa Hendrix has claimed to be the long-lost descendant of John Hendrix. And he’s making new prophecies. He holds meetings on the edge of town, out in the woods.”

  Becker open his briefcase, took out a manila folder, and handed Dale a photograph.

  It showed a man at a podium. The angle was awkward, and the image was slightly blurred. It had clearly been taken in an incognito fashion. The man was middle-aged with salt-and-pepper hair. Brown eyes. A handsome, tan face with dimples. Smiling. Almost smirking. He wore a brown suit with the trendy, safari-style pockets and a pale yellow shirt with butterfly collars. He was clearly in the middle of a speech. Just visible at the bottom of the image were the heads and shoulders of crowd members watching him.

  Dale set the photo on the table. “Taken at one of his meetings?”

  “That’s right. We’ve infiltrated a few.”

  “What do we know about him?”

  “Next to nothing. He’s in his early to mid forties, claims to be from the area and in John Hendrix’s bloodline. That’s all we got.”

  “And what’s the new Hendrix boy prophesying?”

  “That the ORR is poisoning the planet.”

  “Is it true?”

  “Frankly, yes. There’s a lot of contamination that’s going to need cleanup for decades. For the first year, Hendrix was only preaching to a few locals. But this last year, things have exploded because of an ongoing conference in Knoxville. The Conference for Laws and Ethics Against Nuclear. Or CLEAN.”

  “Cute,” Dale said.

  “Environmentalists from around the world. And ones with deep pockets. They’ve rented out a whole floor of office space in the Hamilton National Bank building for their meetings. The conference is headed by someone who calls himself The Guide. He’s never been seen. No one knows his name. He’s even more of a mystery than Asa Hendrix. And he keeps sending more and more people out here to Oak Ridge to attend the Asa Hendrix meetings. It’s getting them all riled up. Those protesters you saw at the gates—there are more of them every day.”

  Dale scratched out a final note and dropped his pencil on the notepad. “The Guide and Asa Hendrix are working together but toward what end?”

  Becker shrugged. “What do any protestors hope to truly accomplish?”

  “I wouldn’t dismiss them entirely,” Dale said. “Words are the most powerful weapon of all.”

  He looked at his notes and grinned.

  “What’s with the smile?”

  “Because this is why I’m here,” Dale said, pointing at the notes. “When you got the call, how much did they tell you about the BEI?”

  “Only that you’re a group of covert experts.”

  “Right. Experts in specialized fields. I specialize in history and puzzles. Primarily history.”

  “History…” Becker said and strummed his fingers on the table. Any bit of that peculiar expression that Becker had been wearing had completely vanished, replaced now by total skepticism.

  Dale ignored it. “That’s right. Whoever sent the note knew about me and about the BEI. So they’re clearly trying to bring my attention to the historical aspect. This John Hendrix/Asa Hendrix issue is the tip of the iceberg. I’ll begin research. And I’m going to assume you’re keeping tabs on the schedule of Asa Hendrix’s meetings
? When’s the next one?”

  “Tonight. They meet at 8 PM. On the edge of town at a resort cabin.”

  “Excellent. We’ll check it out. Meet me here at 7:30.”

  “Conley, I’m the ORR’s head of security. Hendrix is some nut who’s been preaching in the woods for two years. I already have people I send out there who—”

  “‘Full cooperation.’ Remember?” Dale said with an obnoxious smile.

  Becker sighed. “Why do I have a feeling you’re going to keep saying that?”

  Chapter Five

  A pamphlet fell on Dale’s stack of books.

  “There’s also this. Probably not helpful,” Ursula said with a bashful smile.

  Ursula was a roundish, middle-aged woman with goofy hair, plain, billowy clothing, and a thick Southern accent. She was a librarian, and she’d been very helpful with Dale’s research. Dale had been greasing the wheels with a little bit of charm.

  Dale was at the Oak Ridge Public Library, which sat at the edge of a city park. It was a small library but plenty big for a city of only 28,000. Its dark gray cement walls—both interior and exterior—were imprinted with woodgrain texture. Dale assumed this was from the wet cement having been poured into wooden molds. It gave the building a unique look. There were a few other people in the library at this late-morning hour. Coughs, pencil scratchings, the sound of the doors opening and closing in the distance.

  The pamphlet that Ursula had placed before Dale was titled “The Prophet of Oak Ridge.” Below the title was a simple line drawing of an old-fashioned Appalachian man followed by some text. Dale quickly scanned over the pamphlet and saw that it was largely the same information he’d already gathered.

  Dale looked up at Ursula and smiled. “Okay, so let me make sure I got all this right. John Hendrix was an area local. Born right at the end of the Civil War. As a young man, his daughter died, and his wife blamed him for it. So she left him.”

  “Right,” Ursula said. “She left the state and took their surviving kids with her.”

  “Hendrix was a broken man,” Dale continued. “He got into mysticism and religion, wandered the woods. And then he started telling people about visions he’d had. A voice told him to lay with his head on the ground for forty nights and he would be shown the future of the area. And, if legend is to be believed, after those forty nights, Hendrix accurately predicted that the empty hills would someday house massive facilities that would help to end mankind’s greatest war.”

  “That about sums it up,” Ursula said with a wink as she turned to leave.

  Dale called after her. “Oh, Ursula. Maybe you can help me with one other thing.”

  She smiled and quickly returned.

  Dale took the picture of Asa Hendrix that he’d gotten from Becker out of a folder and handed it to her.

  “You’ve helped me with John Hendrix,” he said. “What can you tell me about Asa Hendrix?”

  Ursula’s expression went from playfully awkward to a bit dark.

  “Well, see, it’s a bit of a contentious thing around town. He’s a prophet too. John Hendrix’s great-great-nephew. Been givin’ speeches about his visions for these last two years.”

  “That’s what I hear. Have you been to any of the meetings?”

  Ursula shook her head.

  “Do you know what happens at these meetings?”

  “They say he gives long descriptions of the visions he’s received. About all the pollution from Y-12 and K-25, how it’s gonna kill us all. And he gets donations.”

  “Donations, huh?”

  It was the first indication of the almighty dollar in Dale’s nascent investigation. Which was a good thing. It meant that Dale was headed in the right direction. Follow the money, as they say.

  “So this Asa Hendrix started telling people about his visions two years ago,” Dale said. “Where did he come from? Did he just show up in town one day and start preaching?”

  “Oh, no. He’s a local. Just like John Hendrix was.”

  “A local…” Dale said and looked away for a moment. When he turned back to her, he reached out for the photograph, and she handed it back to him. “Could I see your high school yearbooks?”

  “You ain’t gonna find him in a yearbook. He was homeschooled.”

  Becker had told Dale that his office knew next to nothing about Asa Hendrix. If he was homeschooled, that would certainly explain why. There were still people in the hills of Appalachia who could live almost entirely disconnected from mainstream society.

  But, still, something was nagging at Dale. Something didn’t feel right. His instinct was poking him, whispering in his ear. He needed to keep digging.

  “Nonetheless,” he said, “could I see the books?”

  He gave her that grin that she liked so much. More charm.

  She smiled and looked away. “Of course.”

  She left again.

  While Dale waited on the yearbooks, he pondered what he knew about Asa Hendrix to that point. An enigmatic speaker, gaining followers, making bold claims, professing a familial connection to a long-dead prophet who had given eerily accurate predictions.

  Dale wasn’t a believer in hocus-pocus, so he’d already filed Asa Hendrix under the column labeled Bullshitting Charlatans. Dale had more than his fair share of experience with charlatans in his line of work, but his most impacting interaction with such a person had come long before he even joined the BEI.

  In his previous life, Dale had been a reporter for a tabloid publication. He and an intern photographer had gone deep undercover in a mysterious organization called the Collective Agricultural Experiment—the CAE—headed by the charismatic and completely dangerous Glenn Downey. The CAE was a place of brainwashing and terror, and it ended in disaster. The entire operation was under Downey’s complete control. His mind games. His poisonous words.

  Dale knew very little about Asa Hendrix and his followers to this point, but he was already feeling the echoes of the CAE. When he’d first seen the photograph of Hendrix, Dale had replaced the man’s face in his mind with that of Glenn Downey. Even though all the signs had pointed Dale in the direction of investigating Asa Hendrix, at this time there was no clue of any wrongdoing on Hendrix’s part. And Dale wasn’t one to prejudge. He prided himself on his objectivity and fairness.

  Still, he couldn’t deny his gut reaction. Mindless, subjective, emotionally-based groupthink bothered Dale immensely, sliced into him, right to his very core. And those charismatic vipers who used groupthink to their advantage—masking themselves behind lofty ideals and meaningful causes and time-honored institutions—were some of the most dangerous people on the planet.

  Half an hour later. Dale had thoroughly explored Oak Ridge’s high school yearbooks and found nothing. Asa Hendrix was supposed to be in his early to mid forties, so Dale had examined the books from the early to mid 1930s. But he’d found no Asas. And not even a single Hendrix. Ursula had been right.

  He leaned away from the materials, rubbed his eyes. Dale’s table faced a bright window that looked out upon the park. It had been gloomy earlier in the morning, but the sun was now out in full force. A sunny but brisk autumn day. The trees’ foliage was all yellow and orange and vibrant red. A few leaves drifted through the air, but most of them remained on the branches. This was prime tourist season here in the Smoky Mountain region—everyone coming to see the leaves.

  He looked back to the yearbook in front of him. Bright, hopeful faces. Black-and-white photos, faded. Old-fashioned clothes.

  Dale wasn’t ready to give up the search for Asa Hendrix.

  Middle names, perhaps?

  He began again, at the beginning of the stack, and within a few minutes he’d found something.

  Darrell Asa Lutz.

  Dale brought the picture of Asa Hendrix next to the picture of eighteen-year-old Darrell Asa Lutz. He looked back and forth between the two.

  Lutz wasn’t a dead ringer for Asa Hendrix. Not by any means. But Lutz had aged about twenty-five years or
so. People change a lot in a quarter century.

  And the two did bear a resemblance…

  Dale scanned over the list of information next to Lutz’s photograph. As a high school senior, Lutz had planned on going to college to study international relations and communications.

  Dale pushed the yearbook away and crossed his arms, looked up to the ceiling.

  “Communications…” he said.

  Chapter Six

  The fall foliage draped over both sides of the road as Dale slowly ascended the hill. Up close, the brightly-colored leaves looked even more vibrant than they had at the library. Brilliant yellows, deep reds, burning oranges. It made Dale smile a bit.

  But at the same time, he was fretful. The road was gravel, and gravel had a tendency to kick off of one’s tires and hit one’s vehicle. Dale simply couldn’t allow this to happen to his vehicle. So he was climbing the wee foothill mountain at a snail’s pace.

  Gravel could neither ding nor scratch Dale’s car. No, sir. Because this was no mere car. She was Arancia. Dale’s 3,000-pound angel, fallen directly from Heaven. His glorious De Tomaso Pantera, an Italian sports car with an American muscle car engine. Orange, she was, and gorgeous, and Dale loved her more than life itself. So he would take his time creeping up the slope.

  Besides, it gave him a few extra moments with the lovely leaves.

  At the top of the hill, Dale parked in a big gravel parking area that faced the massive, luxurious cabin. He stole a glance back at Arancia as he walked toward the building. She looked good with the brightly-colored foliage behind her. Really good. The orange of her paint paired well with the oranges, yellows, and reds of the leaves. Her muscular form glistened in the sunlight. Sweeping, sexy curves. Metal and rubber and glass. Delicious. Picture-perfect. Like something straight out of a car calendar.

  Dale’s boots crunched in the deep gravel as he approached the cabin. It was two stories with a pointed roof and was constructed of gigantic timbers, veneered and golden. Set into these timbers were huge banks of windows. Everything was pristine and perfect and reeked of money. It was like the “cabins”—mansions would be a more fitting term—Dale had seen in the relatively nearby Gatlinburg/Pigeon Forge/Sevierville area.