The Man From Taured (7 page)

NR: Was it the cargo hold opening?

GC: Well, that feels a bit different. This was something else. I can't really describe it any further except

that it was a kind of vibration.

NR: I see. Other than the vibration, was there anything odd about the passengers or flight that you can

recall?

GC: Nope. Nothing. Sorry, as I said, not much help.

NR: Thank you, Captain Culp. I appreciate your time.

END OF INTERVIEW

***

Transcript of Interview

Date: June 16, 2014

Time: 12:15  a.m. CST

Person interviewed: Charlette Ridgeway of D.V.S. Corporation

Interviewer: Noble Randall of I.C.E. on behalf of Homeland Security

Subject: Strange occurrences on June 3, 2014, Chicago O'Hare Airport International Terminal.

Noble Randle (NR): Thank you for your time, Ms. Ridgeway. I know you must be busy, so I appreciate

you taking the time to talk with me.

Charlette Ridgeway (CR): It's not a problem. It's not often that I get a call from Homeland Security,

though.

NR: Technically I'm with I.C.E., but we're close enough. So, you are Charlette Ridgeway from

Calabassas, California, and you are a sales rep for the D.V.S. Corporation. What kind of things do you sell?

CR: Pharmaceuticals.

NR: Nice. I hear that's good money.

CR: It's done me well.

NR: And you were on Flight 190 on June 3?

CR: I was.

NR: You sat in first class, correct?

CR: Yes.

NR: Did you see anything suspicious during that flight?

CR: During? No. The flight was very normal when we boarded and very normal when we flew. I fell

asleep for most of it.

NR: There was no one suspicious on that flight?

CR: No.

NR: You said that there was nothing odd before and during, was there something odd that happened after

you landed?

CR: Well, sort of. I mean, I woke up and I was a little sleepy and we had just landed. I started to wake up

and get my things, so I had my head down because I had stuffed my briefcase under the seat in front of me. When I sat back up there was a bright flash of light. I thought it was just a head-rush, you know? Anyway, when I looked to my right there was this man in the aisle that I swear had not been there a minute before that. I mean, I must have just been still half-asleep or something, right?

NR: Did he look like this?

CR: Why, yes. That's him. I could swear he wasn't in first class when we took off, but I didn't pay close

enough attention to be sure and, well, as I mentioned, I was asleep for much of it.

NR: You didn't speak to him?

CR: No. We never said a word to each other. I did walk next to him as we walked down the ramp and to

customs. I had another plane to catch, though, so I was more worried about making my connection than paying attention to him. I must have got ahead of him in the customs line. I lost track of him and never saw him again.

NR: You weren't aware of anything odd happening at customs in connection with this man?

CR: No.

NR: He didn't do anything strange that you saw?

CR: No.

NR: OK, thank you for your time, Ms. Ridgeway. I appreciate it.

END OF INTERVIEW

***

It was early afternoon and Noble pulled up in front of the small home belonging to one Charles Whitlock. It was a tiny place with a huge backyard, but it was pleasant enough, at the end of the dead-end street. There were kids running around in backyards and front yards, making noise and looking like something out of an ideal photo of life in America. Across from Charles' home was a neighbor mowing the lawn. Noble parked the car and got out and nodded at the neighbor with the lawnmower.

"Afternoon," Noble said.

The neighbor nodded at Noble and eyed him suspiciously, his head down and cocked to the side a bit. Then he kept mowing his lawn, probably forgetting all about him a moment later.

Noble looked around, biting his lower lip. This was not normally his kind of thing. He did interviews in interrogation rooms. He did not spend much time knocking on doors in the field. He had tried, again and again, to call Charles Whitlock, but the phone just rang and rang.

Noble walked around his car and up the driveway. There was a chain link fence around the backyard and a gate across the top of the driveway. There was a garage at the end of the driveway with a white door. Noble could see lots of grass in the backyard, and that yard stretched out of sight and behind the garage.

Noble stepped slowly up the walkway, under a big spreading tree. He stepped over some puddles from what looked like a sprinkler that had been left on all night. The grass was soaked and there was mud beneath the tree. He walked up the three short steps to the door, opened the screen door and knocked. He heard nothing from inside the house and heard only the kids from down the block running through the sprinklers.

Noble knocked again. "Mr. Whitlock!" He called. "Mr. Whitlock! It's Noble Randle from Homeland. I need to speak with you."

There was nothing from within the house. Noble looked around. The neighbor across the way was busy mowing his lawn and not looking at him anymore. The kids were completely occupied with getting themselves soaked.

Noble reached out and tried the door knob.

It turned easily and the door swung in, creaking slightly on the hinges. Noble took one more look around. The neighbor was still mowing and not looking. No other faces were staring at him.

He stepped into the living room.

Brown carpet. Small space with paneling on the walls. A television and entertainment center up against the main front-facing window. There was a sofa against the wall and a low wooden coffee table. A black bookshelf was against another wall and two reclining chairs against another wall. It was very clean, although it smelled slightly of cigarette smoke.

There was a clock ticking somewhere, but the house was quiet. Nothing creaked. Nothing moved.

To the right, through a doorway, was a tiled floor. Just inside the door was a dining room table with four chairs and another big window along the wall. That led right into the kitchen. White countertops, old appliances, but very clean. The door leading out into the backyard was just past the counters. There was a door at the far end that was either a close or perhaps the top of the stairs down into the basement.

Clean. Clear. No one. Nothing.

Just past the kitchen was another doorway and a short hallway that went right and left. Straight ahead was a doorway that led into a small bathroom. To the right was one bedroom that Whitlock had turned into an office. There was a computer and a desk just inside the door and lots of bookshelves lined with all kinds of books along the walls.

To the left was another bedroom. This one had a large queen-sized bed and a closet. There was another, smaller, entertainment center and flat-screen TV.

Also very neat.

Empty.

Noble sighed. So far he had entered a home without cause, breaking the law, to find absolutely nothing of substance. He stood in the kitchen with his hands on his hips and wondered where to go next. Did he check the basement or head into the backyard? He scanned the kitchen and when he reached the fridge, he froze.

The fridge was stainless steel. On the door was a notepad attached via magnet. There was a ballpoint pen attached to the notepad. There was something written on the notepad.

Dr. Lance Shaw.

Noble stepped closer, bending low to get a really good look at the scrawling handwriting. It was definitely that name written in black ink as plain as day. As Noble stepped forward something squished beneath his shoe.

He looked down and saw there was a smudge of something beneath his shoe. Noble moved his foot and saw a muddy footprint on the tile floor.

"Guess it's not quite as clean as I thought," Noble muttered.

He squatted and studied the footprint. It was small. Definitely a shoe print. Noble touched the mud and realized it had probably come from the lawn out in front of the home. There was another one just a few inches in front of that one.

Small.

Like the footprints of a child.

Noble felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He got to his feet and followed the trail of footprints. They extended into the hallway and turned left toward the bedroom. Inside the bedroom, though, they stopped. The footprints just went into the room and did not come back out.

Suddenly Noble really wanted to get out of this house.

He walked back through the kitchen. The footprints had escaped his notice when he first walked in and now they stood out like they had been made in neon. He breathed faster and felt as if he was going to hyperventilate.

He looked at the back door. He wanted to go, but felt the need to check the garage and the backyard. Noble forced himself to head for the back door and opened it. He glanced at the door to the right, but decided there was no way in hell he was going into the basement.

Noble walked into the yard, the sound of those children running through the sprinkler providing some semblance of security for him, at least he knew people were around. The grass was neatly trimmed. There was a patch of dirt to the left as if it had once been a spot where a swing set had been. Perhaps with a prior owner, as Whitlock did not have children and did not seem the time to want them around much.

Noble walked through the grass, past the garage. He peered into the dusty windows on the side. Despite the dust, he could see Whitlock's car was inside. The rest of the garage was neatly stacked with tools and other usual garage-things.

He studied the ground. There were more footprints out there. There were shoe prints in the dirt patch. They were small footprints, just like inside. Had they come from the front and the back? It sure looked that way, an attack on two fronts. Several sets of prints were in the backyard. In certain areas, the grass was tramped down from more small feet.

He walked past the garage and around behind it. At the rear of the yard was a low chain link fence. Noble walked up to the fence and studied the rusted metal. Nothing was evident here.

"What the hell?" Noble whispered.

With nowhere else to look, he looked up into the sky. There were planes flying overhead. Loud. This whole neighborhood was so close to the runways of O'Hare that the planes seemed barely above roof level. How anyone could get used to this noise was beyond Noble. Right now the runway was being used for landings instead of take offs and the planes roared over his head, rattling his brain and vibrating the ground. They seemed so low that Noble could swear that he could see the pilots inside the cockpits.

There was nothing back here except more small footprints.

Black-eyed kids.

What the hell was that about? How were they connected to the shadow men? Where the holy fuck was Charles Whitlock?

Noble headed back for the house. His head was down, staring at his shoes, his brain full of confused thoughts and his eyes looking or more small muddy footprints. He entered the kitchen, gazed again at the basement door and found that he had not gained any resolve that would allow him to head down there and check it out. Images of Charles Whitlock hanging from a beam entered his mind. This was followed by the image of a dead-eyed Charles Whitlock reaching for his legs from under the stairs surrounded by dozens of black-eyed children. All of them, even Whitlock, begging him for help.

Noble decided it was time to leave. This was for the police. Maybe he could talk to his boss and figure out the next move. Maybe he could file a missing persons report. Whatever the next steps were he was not going to do them here in this house.

He walked through the living room. As he neared the door there was a strange sensation in his gut, as if he had dropped from a great height. Just for an instant there was the feeling of his stomach rushing up into his throat, the sensation so great that his eyelids snapped shut.

Then the sensation was gone. Just a fluttery sensation in the stomach and a slight buzzing in the head, but then those faded, too.

Noble opened his eyes. Nothing different in the living room. He was feeling ill now. This entire case was making him sick.

He pushed through the front door and stepped out onto the tiny three-step porch. That was when he looked up into the sky.

It was orange.

The fucking sky was orange.

"What the -?"

Noble looked across the street. The neighbor was there, but he was using what looked like an old push-mower instead of the gas-powered one he had seen upon walking in. He was also dressed in checked shorts and a bright orange shirt. The neighbor stopped his mowing and looked at Noble strangely.

"Mahoot galish? Santo milishka dantoonen," the neighbor said.