Talkin' Jive Page 5

  Dale thought that Becker was being naively optimistic and blind to the modern hypocrisies that Dale had just pointed out. But he did bring up some good points.

  So he just grumbled a noncommittal noise in response.

  Mmph, he said.

  Becker shook his head. He looked at the map in his hand. “It should be right about—”

  Dale pulled to the left, onto the gravel road leading to the cabin.

  “Right here,” Dale said. “I stopped by earlier.”

  “You what?”

  “Yep. They have a really friendly welcoming committee, too. Real hands-on. Reminded me of your guys at Y-12.”

  “Conley, that was—”

  “I needed to see what I could find out before all the song-and-dance starts tonight. Without the bright lights and hyperbole.”

  “Are you trying to blow this for us?”

  Dale ignored him. “At the library earlier I couldn’t find any Asa Hendrix from area high schools. But I did find this guy.”

  Dale grabbed a manila folder that was stuck between the seat and the console and handed it to Becker.

  “What do you think?”

  Inside the folder was a photocopied yearbook page. Dale had circled Darrell Asa Lutz’s photo and bio. Paperclipped to the photocopy was the photo of Asa Hendrix that Becker had given Dale that morning.

  “Darrell Asa Lutz,” Becker said as he looked back and forth between the two photographs. “I don’t know. There’s such an age difference. Possibly…”

  “Now read the notes,” Dale said.

  Becker looked over the top of his glasses as he read aloud, a classic old dude move.

  “Debate team, speech team, track and field, honor society. Plans to attend New York University to study international relations and communications.” He looked up, sat the folder on his lap and clicked his tongue as he thought for a moment. “I got someone who can dig into the NYU records.”

  Becker turned around in his seat and looked through the rear window.

  “Can we pick up the pace here? Why are you driving so slow? You got cars piling up behind us.”

  Dale glanced at the rearview mirror. There was indeed a line of cars behind them.

  “The road’s wide enough for two cars. They can pass. I don’t want gravel dings. Oh!” Dale quickly pulled Arancia to the side to avoid a cavernous hole in the road. “See? Did you see that huge pothole? That thing eats Volkswagens for breakfast.”

  Becker checked his watch. “Well, we might make it there on time.”

  When they’d crawled their way to the top of the hill, Dale found the expansive gravel lot he’d parked in earlier nearly filled to capacity. He had trouble finding a spot, let alone his normal double-parking or long-hike-from-the-entrance parking.

  Large lights on wooden poles in the corners of the parking area lit it up brightly. Other, smaller lights were spread throughout the elaborate, recently-planted landscaping and were aimed at the cabin, gleaming off the glossy veneer of the timbers. The front porch was ablaze too with light from overhead fixtures. The whole place glowed. A beacon.

  Dale and Becker followed the crowd inside. The cabin was toasty warm and felt great coming in from the cold, nighttime air. The ambiance, too, was inviting. A golden-yellow glow and the smell of food in the air.

  The room was packed and abuzz with energy. The chairs that Dale had seen earlier when he peeped through the window were almost completely occupied, and there were now extra chairs lined up along the walls, which were also filling up quickly.

  Becker had found a couple seats in one of the rows toward the back. Dale sidled up beside him, balancing a paper plate with a teetering mound of complimentary snacks he’d grabbed from the kitchen area behind them.

  Becker eyeballed Dale’s plate. “All that cheese is going to bind you up. Give you the shits.”

  “Absolutely worth it.”

  “You really are a weird guy, Conley.”

  Dale took a Granny Smith apple slice and a cube of Swiss cheese and popped them into his mouth, chewed.

  Yep. Definitely worth it.

  Dale was the world’s biggest fan of free food.

  As he chewed, he let the simple pleasure distract him as much as it could from the unpleasant memory that had resurfaced earlier in the day, the memory of the Collective Agricultural Experiment. The CAE. The cult in which Dale had found himself an unwilling member. As he sat with the anxious crowd members—looking forward to the front of the room, chatting anxiously—he felt the nervous excitement of their groupthink swimming all around him, drowning him.

  It made him incredibly anxious. Fidgety. Panicked. He focused on the taste of his Swiss cheese-apple combo. A simple pleasure. Something to distract himself from the fact that human beings could be so very disappointing.

  Focus on the cheese, man.

  A few people walked past the crowd and stepped onto the dais. Three men and a woman sat down at chairs that were positioned behind and to the left of the podium. One of the men was black. The rest of the people were white. Their ages ranged from twenties to fifties. The man who took the seat closest to the podium was the soft-looking young guy Dale had encountered earlier. The guy with the shotgun. He made momentary eye contact with Dale, and after a look of recognition, he quickly turned away.

  On the other side of the podium, the right side, was a single chair. It too was behind the podium, but it was a bit closer than the chairs to the left. Like a position of prominence. Dale took this to be a spot for Hendrix’s second-in-command. A man with a ponytail took this seat.

  He was in his thirties, and his long hair was dark brown, tied behind his head. His eyes were dark brown as well, looking out from round, wireframe glasses. He had bushy sideburns that went all the way to his jawline and a thick clump of chin hair on an otherwise clean-shaven face, giving him a rather Abe Lincoln-esque vibe. His clothes were earth tones and wrinkled and looked more like something one would wear to a national park than to a social function. The scuffed hiking boots, particularly, were out-of-place. He had an air of intelligence—a college professor type of intelligence. His expression was blank, rather cold. And bored. Frustrated, even. His eyes slowly looked over the room, almost absentmindedly, like a businessman at a meeting he knew was a waste of his time.

  The appearance of these dignitaries was evidently a cue that the fun was about to begin because the crowd’s noisy chatter quickly quieted. Then, with a sudden flourish, the curtains flew open, and out onto the dais breezed the man himself. The man from the photo. The man Dale had spent the day researching.

  Asa Hendrix.

  The crowd clapped. They straightened in their chairs, facing forward attentively. There were some whistles.

  Hendrix smiled a warm smile. He bowed slightly, hands behind his back, allowed the clapping to continue for a few long moments. Then he held up his hand. After the crowd had silenced, he stepped behind the podium and adjusted the mic.

  “Thank you. My goodness gracious, thank you.” His voice was smooth and melodic, just the tiniest hint of an accent. He waited for the last bit of applause to die off. “I see a lot of new faces. You’re always welcome. Always. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Asa Hendrix.”

  Some more clapping, which he smiled at, allowed to fade away again.

  He knew just how to work the crowd, how to play off its energy. Dale was already trying to fight back memories of the CAE’s leader, Glenn Downey, but the way Hendrix was feeding off his onlookers was eerily similar to Downey’s M.O.

  “I’m the great-great-nephew of John Hendrix, the Prophet of Oak Ridge,” Hendrix said. “My uncle died in 1915, many years before Oak Ridge existed. But a voice told him to sleep with his head on the ground for forty nights to be shown the future of this land. He did just that. And he predicted a facility in the valley with massive buildings and factories that would help win the greatest war that ever would be. And about forty years later—much like those forty nights he spent with his head on th
e ground—Uncle John’s vision came true. Oak Ridge, the Secret City, was created, a major component in the Manhattan Project, bringing us the nuclear weapons that ended World War II. Now, in the 1970s, I’ve been shown my own visions.”

  A few cheers.

  “More visions of what the government has in store for this land. And, my friends, I’m sad to say that the government’s plans aren’t so beneficent this time. You remember the reports of nuclear waste? The groundwater plumes that have been tainted with mercury? Mercury! Well, friends, I’ve seen the future, and it’s only going to get worse. They’re poisoning us. This region … and the world. Now, for those newcomers among us, I’ll get into the background of my visions momentarily. But first I want to let all of you know that, after two years, this is going to be our last regular meeting.”

  Gasps, murmurs, restless shifting in the chairs.

  “Our next meeting is going to be one of great importance. Tomorrow night. And I need you all to be here.” He paused. “Wait. Let me rephrase that. I don’t need all of you. I need all individuals who are willing to take action to stop these crimes of our government. That’s all I’ll say for now. Just be sure to be back here tomorrow at the same time, those of you who are willing to act. I need you. The world needs you.” Another pause. “Now, on to my visions…”

  Dale and Becker exchanged a look. Becker’s expression had gone grave.

  To Dale’s ears, Hendrix’s message had sounded like a call to action. Borderline violent. Dale had heard this sort of propaganda before. At the CAE. Which made it difficult for Dale to pay attention to Hendrix as he continued speaking. Dale’s mind was too engrossed in what might happen, what the revolutionary words might entail.

  “John Hendrix’s wife took his kids and went to Arkansas,” Hendrix was saying. “Left him here alone. My own wife did the same thing, divorced me and took my kids to North Carolina. It was at this point that I found myself most aligned with my uncle. And—wouldn’t ya know it?—it was around this time that I started having my visions. When I first realized that…”

  Hendrix’s words faded from Dale’s attention again. There was another distraction, a bigger one.

  Someone across the room was staring at Dale. Someone who looked very familiar.

  It was the same guy who’d been watching Dale the previous night on Gay Street in Knoxville.

  It was Redbeard.

  Chapter Ten

  They locked eyes.

  It was hard to forget being chased down by four armed men on a crowded city street, but Dale hadn’t given a whole lot of thought to Redbeard since the previous evening. He’d been too engrossed in the intrigue surrounding his case.

  As such, Dale hadn’t spent any time trying to figure out who Redbeard might be, and he hadn’t a clue why his team of men had hunted him down in Knoxville. But that didn’t mean Dale was backing down from the challenge. Dale wasn’t the backing-down type.

  Redbeard was dressed nicer than he had been the previous night. He wore a pair of corduroys and a paisley shirt, pressed and tucked in. He looked cleaner, too. Groomed. All of this could mean that the man was matching his appearance to the different situations in which he was following Dale.

  Hendrix’s speech droned on.

  And Dale and Redbeard continued to watch each other.

  There was something in the way that Redbeard stared at Dale. He looked a bit hesitant. Reluctant, almost.

  Strange.

  Perhaps he was an unwilling participant, some sort of pawn who was repeatedly forced to be the bait in the Dale Conley trap.

  Redbeard stood. And went for the entrance.

  Was Dale being baited again? Was it another ambush?

  Possibly.

  Probably.

  But Dale had to figure out who the hell these people were. So he needed to decide fast— was he going to follow once more?

  Of course he was.

  He leaned toward Becker and said the same thing he’d told Penny Whitworth the previous night just before he chased after Redbeard.

  “Be right back.”

  And then Dale bolted out of his chair.

  Chapter Eleven

  Asa waved his hand wildly, hammering home his point. His followers liked brazen gesticulations. The more animated the better.

  “And that’s how my uncle knew, knew that they’d be coming to this valley. In that same way, I know that … that …”

  He trailed off. Something was happening in the crowd. A man in one of the chairs lining the side of the room had stood up and quickly made for the exit. Another man in the third-to-last row had jumped out of his seat and dashed after him.

  No one had ever left in the middle of one of Asa’s gatherings. Not in two years.

  And as the first man pushed through the front door, Asa caught a glimpse of the man’s face when he looked back. It was the man they’d been keeping an eye on. The man with the red beard.

  Asa turned to his right, looked at Cody. Nodded.

  Cody quickly stood up and went for the front door.

  And now Asa needed to regain his listeners. He held up his hands.

  “Folks! Folks!”

  They slowly turned back around to him.

  “I’m not sure what all that excitement was about, but don’t you worry, now. I got a guy taking care of it. Let’s get back to business. Lots of important ground to cover tonight. Now, as I was saying…”

  He eased back into the rhythm of his speech. More silky smooth nonsense. When he got going like this, the words flowed freely. It was like he wasn’t even composing them himself. They just came out of him. He supposed that’s what writers called “the muse.” When he was in a state like this, his words were of such little consequence that his mind could wander into other thoughts while he spoke. Right now, he was thinking about the suspicious bearded man they’d been watching, the man who’d just dashed out of the meeting.

  There was something very fishy about the bearded man. Asa had been thinking that for a couple weeks now.

  And his suspicions were confirmed when the other man chased after him.

  Something strange was going on. And Asa needed to take care of it.

  Immediately.

  He hadn’t worked so hard for so long for everything to fall apart now.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sloane looked out from the corner of the barn, which sat at the rear edge of the property.

  The resort cabin’s massive front door had swung open suddenly, and the two men had run out, down the steps and into the gravel parking area, one followed shortly thereafter by the other.

  The parking area was well lit, but it was a dark night and the men were running fast. It was difficult to see them. Sloane had positioned one of his men inside the cabin, among the crowd, so surely one of the two people chasing each other was his guy and the other was his target.

  He squinted, leaned forward.

  And made positive identification.

  Sloane brought the walkie-talkie to his face. “Alpha 3, target has left the facility. Do you have visual?”

  “Affirmative, Alpha Leader.”

  The first man ran to a Dodge Dart, fired it up, spit some gravel, then peeled off down the hill. The other man had initially headed toward an orange De Tomaso Pantera—parked on the opposite side of the parking lot—as though to take chase, but evidently he thought that running to the car would give the first man the time he needed to escape.

  So now the second man was doing something bold. Very bold indeed.

  He’d broken into a full sprint and was chasing down the Dart on foot.

  The man reached his hand out, slapped at the Dart’s door handle. Stumbled. Reached again.

  And grabbed right onto the car’s side mirror.

  The Dart then dragged the man along the gravel road. Sloane watched as the car dropped over the crest of the hill and disappeared.

  For half a second, he was so stunned by what he had just seen that he wasn’t sure how to proceed.

&nbs
p; His walkie-talkie sounded.

  “Sir? Please advise. What’s the situation here? Who’s chasing …”

  The voice trailed off, as confused as Sloane was.

  Sloane pushed the button on the walkie-talkie. “I don’t know. But let’s move. Now.”

  “Sir.”

  Sloane clipped the walkie-talkie back to his belt and was about to jump into action when something else unexpected happened—a third man exited the cabin, bolting across the gravel parking lot.

  Sloane yanked the walkie-talkie back to his face. “Hold, Alpha 3.”

  “Roger.”

  The third man ran to a rusty Dodge pickup, quickly started it up, spun in the gravel momentarily, and took off down the hill after the Dart.

  What the holy hell was going on?

  Sloane sprinted from behind the barn.

  “All right,” he said into the walkie-talkie. “Roll out.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Vibrations surged through Dale’s arms as he clung desperately to the car, feeling his grip loosening, his palms sweating. His legs flopped violently against the ground, and gravel tore into his boots and the cuffs of his jeans.

  Two thoughts vied for his attention. First, his arms were getting shaky, and he wondered if he could hold on or if he was going to go tumbling onto the road and get run over by the Dart. Second, he was hopeful that his 501s weren’t getting torn up. Probably not. Levi Strauss made a damn good pair of jeans.

  The downward force of the car barreling down the hill felt tremendous and terrible as the dark, cold air blew past Dale. His stomach rose to his throat. A carnival ride from hell, one where the stakes weren’t just an upchucked dinner—the stakes were mortal.

  Which meant he had to hold on for dear life. Quite literally.

  Dale tightened his grip. He felt the muscles in his forearms and his taught biceps burn, grow weaker. He had one hand on the driver-side mirror, the other on the roof of the car, clinging onto a piece of trim.