Code name, p.18
Code Name, page 18
Mark removed his long-sleeved shirt, tied the tail in a knot then tied the sleeves together to form a set of shoulder straps for this makeshift pack. Carlos had a flowered cotton bag that he had found in a trash can somewhere. He called it his saco de possibilidades, the Portuguese version of a possibles bag. In it went anything he thought he might possibly need sometime, right alongside the wire brush.
Into the shirt and the bag, they loaded their food. Mark slung the sleeves over his shoulder and with Carlos’ arm over his other shoulder they slowly limped off into the night with enough supplies to last them several days.
Mark’s newspaper nest had suffered from the rain, and needed to be replaced with fresh materials. As with everything else, Carlos knew how to take care of that. Before dawn one morning, he dragged in a bundle of newspapers that had been left beside one of the corner newsstands.
The gift of fresh newspaper was a surprise for Mark, one that he cherished for two reasons – first because it was new material for his bed, and second because he was hungry for news. This bundle of newspapers would link him with the outside world again, a world he had been absent from for more than a week.
Carlos had no way of knowing how important these newspapers were to Mark. The Brazilian could read, but not very well, and had no particular need for news. To him, it was enough just to make it through the day. But to Mark, this was like manna for desert-bound Israelites.
“Time to change your sheets,” Carlos teased, and the two of them opened the bundle and spread the fresh paper where the old had been cleared away. Suddenly one photograph caught Mark’s eye – it was Laura. Below the photo was a caption: ‘Former NIA employee found dead in car fire.’
He gripped the paper hard, ripping the edge with clenched fingers. He stared at the photo and read the caption again. There was no mistake. It was Laura.
“Nooooo!” Mark cried out.
The old man looked at him. “What is it, Matthew?”
Mark rolled back on his pile of newspapers as if in great pain, weeping bitterly, sobbing from the depth of his soul. He held the newspaper in a clenched fist, looked at the picture again and again, and then sobbed more deeply than before.
Carlos sat quietly on his cardboard. He had seen mourning before. He had mourned himself. He knew something terrible had happened in the life of his new friend. There was nothing that could be done to ease the anguish, to erase the pain. No words could be spoken at this moment. Carlos held his silence and quietly wept with his friend, wept for his brother – shared his burden even though he had no idea what that burden was.
“They’ve killed her,” Mark sobbed. “They’ve killed my wife and our baby.” His eyes flooded, his body shook and he moaned from the deepest place in his soul.
Carlos moved across to Mark and put his arms around his friend. “I am sorry,” he wept. “I am so sorry.”
Together, they shook with the grief of a great loss, and the empty canyon of their alley was filled with tearful echoes of mourning.
Hours passed, and Mark exhausted himself with uninterrupted grieving until he finally reached the point at which his body mercifully collapsed into sleep. But the slumber lasted only minutes then he was shaken by the sudden memory of Laura.
He sat up, grabbed the newspaper once more and stared long at her photo. ‘Former NIA employee found dead in car fire’ the caption read. The picture was her company ID photo.
He could hardly believe that in such a short time their whole world had been turned upside-down. Here he was, a grizzly sight of unshaven stubble and matted hair, second-hand clothes, sleeping on a bed of newspapers and eating what he could find in the trash.
And she was dead.
The love of his life – his very reason for living was gone. Murdered, he was certain, by Roland Gates or his minions. Over time, it must have become obvious that her value as bait was not going to be effective. Gates must have decided to simply get rid of her, clearing away one more obstacle, one more pebble in the path. That was all she was to them, just a nuisance, so they wasted her.
The newspaper story quoted NIA Director of Internal Affairs, Elizabeth Mabrey, as saying that Laura’s remains had been found in the gutted ruins of a burned-out car on a deserted dirt road off of route 15 in southern Mississippi. Burned beyond recognition, the body had been identified from dental records. Local investigators were still examining the car to determine the cause of the fire. Her body was in the custody of the county coroner until the investigation was complete.
The article went on to say that Laura had been under investigation in relation to the disappearance of her husband, who was being sought by authorities for questioning regarding allegations of espionage and treason.
A nationwide manhunt was underway, according to the article, and a $100,000 reward was being offered for information leading to his arrest. Mark’s photo was at the bottom of the story, with a caption: ‘Wanted for questioning in spy case’.
He stared at his own photo: clean-cut, well dressed, the image of a successful man. He wondered if anyone would recognize him now.
None of that mattered. In his hands was stark evidence that his whole purpose for living was gone. He had no reason to continue on to Xulakan. Gates had murdered the only thing that really mattered to him. His life had been turned to ash.
Mark lay back on his newspapers and quietly wept.
His spirit had been deeply wounded, but it was not dead. Gradually, his grief began to be replaced by seething rage. For hours on end, Mark alternated between soul-wrenching sobs and angry outbursts. One minute he violently ripped the newspapers to shreds. The next he threw himself down in a seizure of grieving.
For two days, Mark was unapproachable. Carlos brought food from the dumpsters behind the supermarket and laid it on a piece of cardboard in front of his friend. He filled the can with water. But Mark touched none of it. He sat staring at the brick wall, not even acknowledging the old man’s presence. When exhaustion set in, Mark slept. Sometimes he cried in his sleep – just a quiet sobbing, and Carlos knew that, deep inside, his friend was dying.
When a man loses his reason to live, he may simply die. Death begins inside, fed by emptiness and heartache, and that was what Carlos saw in Mark now. But there was nothing he could do to instill a will to live in another man – that was something each man had to find inside himself.
On the evening of the second day, Mark reached out and picked up a crust of stale bread and pressed it to his mouth. Then he drank from his can. He shot a hard glare at Carlos and, through gritted teeth, he growled. “I’m going to Mississippi. I’m going to find out what happened to my wife. Somebody is going to pay.”
The old man eyed Mark. “Are you feeling better?”
“I’m feeling homicidal.”
“That is not good,” Carlos said slowly.
“Frankly, I don’t care if it’s good or not,” Mark snapped. “Somebody’s going to pay. I’m going to make sure they do.”
“Matthew, you don’t look like the same man I have come to know.”
Mark turned to stare at Carlos. “I’m not. Trust me, I’m a very different man.”
Mark gathered his newspapers into a great wad and threw them in the dumpster. Extending his hand to Carlos, he quietly said, “Thanks. You’ve been a friend.”
Carlos took Mark’s hand and used it to hoist himself to his feet. “How will you go?”
“Train.”
“Do you know how to find the right one?”
“I’ll find it.”
“Will you let me show you how?”
Mark paused. He was filled with bitterness and anger. He didn’t want to be around anyone right now, not even Carlos. “I don’t think so.” He turned his back on the older man.
“Please. I will be quiet. I will not trouble you. I will only show you the way. I have been there before.”
“You’ve been to Mississippi?”
“I have. It will take two days.”
Right now, Mark didn’t really care if he lived or died, but he did want to live long enough to get revenge. And if Carlos could help him get to Mississippi, it would bring him one step closer to the sweet taste of vengeance. Whoever was responsible for Laura’s death would learn that there is nothing more dangerous than a man who has nothing left to live for.
“Okay, you show me the way.”
Carlos picked up a great armload of cardboard – his home, his bed, everything he had in this world – and threw it in the dumpster. “I like to leave a place better than I found it,” he said. Then the Brazilian picked up his soft cotton bag and the two of them left the alley without looking back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The freight train for New Orleans left the station at 4:00 a.m. In the dark hours of early morning, the two men entered the rail yard through a hole in the chain link fence. Men and machinery were working, making noise, creating movement in the yard that helped conceal Mark and Carlos as they made their way across the tracks.
“That’s the one.” The old man pointed to a train that was barely visible in the dim light.
They patiently watched from the shadows until they saw an opening, then moved from car to car, ducked under to cross to a different track, then waited again. Carlos proved his value, knowing exactly where to come through the fence, knowing the layout of the rail yard, and knowing which trains were headed for a variety of destinations. Mark had to admit that, on his own, he might have gotten out of Washington D.C. on a train, but he probably wouldn’t have ended up in Mississippi.
Less than half an hour after entering the yard, they were hidden on a flatcar loaded with stacked lumber moving down from Maine. There was just enough room for them to lie down between the stacks, giving them nearly perfect concealment.
Mark was churning inside. He stared at the sky, his mind stuck on one horrible thought. Regardless of what happened now, it didn’t really matter. But he did want to see justice done to Roland Gates. Ultimately, that man was responsible for Laura’s murder, whether he lit the match that burned her to death or whether he hired it done.
This was no accident, of that Mark was sure. No one capable of logical thought could possibly believe this was just a tragic coincidence.
Mark was the real target. What he knew after reading Blake’s journal made him a threat to Gates. Laura had just been caught in the middle – an innocent who had no clue what was happening and why she had to die. The horror of it all filled Mark’s mind, as the train rumbled south through the night.
****
A shaft of hot light hit Mark in the face, and he moved his hand to shield his eyes.
“Good morning, Matthew.”
Sunlight splashed between the lumber as the train rolled through intermittent shadows of a southern forest. It was the first clue Mark had that he had fallen asleep. The dreams were so real he thought it was all happening.
“Where are we?”
“Almost to Raleigh.” Carlos handed him a deli sandwich and an outdated pint of chocolate milk.
Mark looked at the food, then at Carlos, then back at the food. “You are amazing.”
The Brazilian beamed. “Thank you.”
Mark ate as if he had just been released from a POW camp. He tore at the sandwich, chewed fast, swallowed hard. He ripped the milk carton open and turned the container up, draining it in one swallow. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with a sleeve. His face was eager, his muscles tense. His eyes were no longer soft and human. They were piercing cold and gray.
“You do not look like yourself,” Carlos stammered.
“I’m not.” Mark pulled a piece of folded newspaper from his shirt pocket and handed it to Carlos, pointing to the photo at the bottom. “This is who I am. My name is Mark. And this is my wife.” His voice choked as he pointed to her picture. “They have killed her, murdered her. And now they’re going to pay.”
Carlos studied the photo of Laura and then looked down the paper to the photo of Mark. “This is the picture the police were showing to everyone. What does it say?” Carlos pleaded.
“Lies. It says my wife died in an accident. But I know she was murdered. She was expecting a baby. They killed her and the baby.” His voice broke and he began to weep.
Carlos studied the piece of folded newspaper. “Your wife is very beautiful. Why would somebody do this horrible thing?”
Mark cleared his throat and wiped his eyes. “To get to me; they want to kill me. They thought this would bring me out of hiding. See,” he pointed again to his photo on the newspaper, “that was me when I worked for the government. The newspaper says they are looking for me because they think I am a traitor.”
“You?”
“Yes, me. But I’m not a traitor. A man named Roland Gates is the traitor. I just happen to know his dirty secret.”
“What secret?”
“That doesn’t matter. Not to you. I’m only telling you all this so you will know the kind of trouble I may bring to you. They’re offering a big reward. People will be looking for me. You should leave me. Let me go the rest of the way alone. It will be dangerous to be with me. I am not running from them anymore. Now I’m going after them.”
The old man sat quietly, as if deep in thought, looking at the piece of newspaper that held the story.
“Matthew … Mark, I have lived long enough, suffered long enough for nothing. I want to go with you. I do not care about the danger. My mother, she waits for me in heaven. She will watch over me until it is my time. Let me go with you. Please? It will give purpose to my life.”
The two men were quiet for a long while, just looking at each other in somber thought. It was the moment in the lives of two men when their next decision could spell the end of life for one or both of them.
“Fine,” Mark finally spoke.
“Fine?” Carlos beamed.
“Yes, fine. Fine means yes.”
“I know what fine means. I was just surprised that you gave in so easily.”
“I didn’t give in easily,” Mark insisted. “Do you want me to change my mind?”
“Oh, no,” Carlos was serious. “No, no, do not change your mind. Fine is fine with me.”
The tension broke. The two men clasped hands. Through gritted teeth, Mark smiled and then let go a cold laugh. “Fine.”
“Fine,” Carlos repeated, and they laughed again. But it was lost in the rumble of steel wheels on endless track leading them to an unknown destiny.
****
A purple haze brightened the eastern sky as the train crossed the border between Alabama and Mississippi. Half an hour later, the train slowed to a crawl as it approached Biloxi. Pucataw lay to the north along a two-lane road known as State Highway 15. That was where Laura’s body was, in the heartless refrigerated storage locker of a coroner’s office. No decent burial, no family funeral with flowers and kind words of farewell; only cruel confinement in a cold stainless steel drawer.
As the train slowed in preparation to enter the rail yard, Mark and Carlos jumped from the flatcar and disappeared in the tall grass growing beside the track. The lower reach of De Soto National Forest stretched from just north of Biloxi all the way to Beaumont, and was bisected by Highway 15. Somewhere along that road was a sandy lane scarred by a large black stain where a car had become a flaming coffin. Mark wanted to find that spot, and after that, he wanted to find the coroner’s office.
The newspaper clipping divulged all the clues: dirt road just off Highway 15 twenty-seven miles north of Biloxi. The car was in the sheriff’s impound lot in Pucataw. Laura was in the coroner’s office.
Carlos voiced the question that had been on Mark’s mind for the last two days. “Why would the bad men bring your wife all the way to Mississippi just to kill her?”
“There are a couple of reasons. Isolation; they wanted to get her out of town – a long way out of town, where nobody knew her, where a car fire could burn for a long time before there was any response. NIA probably owns the sheriff down here. And in a place like this, the forensic resources are limited, so there is less chance of investigators discovering evidence of foul play. Local media is probably easy to control here, so there would be no in-depth media investigation, with this whole thing reported as just a tragic accident.”
“It sounds so well planned. Are you sure things really happened this way?”
Mark looked at Carlos’s aged face. For all his experience on the street, he was still ignorant of some things. “Trust me.”
The two ragged men walked north through the increasing heat of a muggy morning, were refreshed by an early afternoon thunder shower, and bedded down by the dim light of dusk in a clearing just off the highway. Mark calculated that they had made half the distance that day.
Carlos was no longer limping, but then he was no longer scrubbing his wounded leg with a wire brush, either. He seemed to gain strength as they traveled, bearing up well under the long miles. His life of adversity had hardened him physically and built a deep reservoir of endurance. And now he seemed somehow strengthened and motivated by this trip, even though it was a journey into sorrow.
Traffic was scarce on this lonely road, and those who passed paid no attention. They were just a pair of shabby men walking north through an unpopulated landscape, disturbing no one, not even trying to thumb a ride.
In the silence of the night, Mark had only one thing on his mind and that was to see the place where his wife had been murdered and then to find her remains at the coroner’s office. He was driven by an overwhelming desire to touch her one last time, to whisper his sorrow, to beg forgiveness, to draw a final curtain across their life together. It was all he had left.
He no longer cared about his own safety. He was a hunted man, wrongly accused and soiled with the most odious label ‘traitor’. Former co-workers and friends were searching for him, believing he was worthy of prison, or worse.
What good was his life now that Laura was gone? He had nothing more to live for, no place to go to find happiness. And so he simply didn’t care anymore about trying to hide. Tomorrow he would find what he was looking for, and beyond that … revenge.
