Page 62 of Identity Unknown
The lighted surveillance drone brings to mind a UAP as itcontinues making circuits, and I envision Sal being pushed out an open door high above the ground. I walk through rows of blockhouses, wondering what’s inside them. It’s impossible to tell. There’s no sign of anyone as I listen to the trees stirring and nature striking up its orchestra.
Beyond the blockhouses all but one of the SUVs parked here earlier are gone, including Benton’s. The Suburban that drove me here is waiting, the headlights shining on pine trees, the same two soldiers inside. One of them steps out to open my door, and I climb in back, placing my briefcase and jump-out bag on the seat next to me.
“Thank you, and hello again.” I fasten my seat belt. “I imagine this has been a long day for the two of you.”
“Our instructions are to take you to the Langley Inn, ma’am,” the driver says, his eyes on me in the rearview mirror.
“That’s correct. Thanks.”
“Anyplace you need to stop first, ma’am?” asks the officer riding shotgun.
“No, thanks.”
Moments later we’re passing through the metal front gate and driving away from Area One as I turn on my cell phone. We begin retracing our steps from earlier, the road poorly lit. The golf course is a dark void, the marshland textured with shadows as I surf through news stories on the internet. Conspiracy theories are in full swing about Sal Giordano.
E.T.WHISPERERABDUCTEDANDKILLEDBYALIENS?A headline screams the question.
NOBELPRIZEWINNERBRUTALLYSLAIN!Another story blames it on his otherworldly beliefs, claiming the government shut him up permanently.
I see no fighter jets taking off and landing, the runway dark as we curve around the airfield. There’s scarcely anybody on the road as we drive past the closed bowling alley, and houses with few windows glowing at this late hour.
On my way,I text Benton.Just a few minutes out.
Better be hungry,he answers.
It’s close to midnight when I’m let out at the four-story redbrick Langley Inn, where I explain to the officer at the front desk that I’m already checked in. I walk through the small lobby furnished in shades of blue and brown. On the walls are poster-size photographs of the C-5 Super Galaxy and C-17 Globemaster transport planes, and F-22 Raptors and other military aircraft.
I take the elevator to the second floor, where an Air Force colonel in camouflage wishes megood evening, ma’amas he strides past carrying a pizza box. I hear the faint noise of TVs through closed doors with privacy signs hanging on them. Reaching room 218, I insert my keycard, walking into the delicious aroma of fried foods.
“It’s me!” I call out.
The efficiency suite has comfortable couches and chairs upholstered in brown and blue like the furniture in the lobby. Drapes are drawn across the windows, the TV playing the news with the sound off. I close the door and deadbolt it. Dropping my bags inside the bedroom, I find Benton in the kitchen pouring an añejo tequila into two glasses filled with ice.
Shoeless, in a T-shirt and warm-up pants, he smiles as if very glad to see me. I’m just as happy but uneasy as I think of him abruptly leaving the observation area inside the SLAB.
“I’m starved.” I walk over to him.
“Fried chicken and all the fixin’s.” He feigns a Southern drawl and I sense the darkness shadowing his smile.
“It smells divine.”
I notice that he’s set the table, his 9-millimeter pistol on the countertop. Takeout Styrofoam boxes are next to the microwave oven. He pads closer in his socks, handing me a drink.
“As for the tequila, I thought to bootleg,” he says as we clink glasses.
“That was brilliant,” I reply, the first swallow heating me up. “I’m sorry I’m not fit company at the moment, Benton. I didn’t want to hang around to shower inside the SLAB.”
“I would hope not. Especially not with Marino on top of you.” Benton sips his drink. “He was in rare form, acting like an ass. More of one than usual.”
“It’s been a tough day for him from beginning to end.”
“Not to mention what it’s been for you. But of course, Pete’s all about himself.” Benton’s not typically this uncharitable.
“That’s one of the reasons he’s out of sorts. My relationship with Sal. Doesn’t matter that it’s ancient history when it comes to Marino.” I search Benton’s face to see what’s there.
“He can’t get out of his own way.”
“And he doesn’t mean to be like that.”