Page 98 of Identity Unknown
“Carrie and Janet. Point being, Carrie hacks into Lucy’s computer, and Janet herself helps lay the trap, is right there waiting. I mean, it’s beautiful when you think about it. Lucy and Janet are crime-busting partners again.” Marino continues talking about the AI-programmed avatar as if she’s a living person.
Carrie is in the custody of the police in Warsaw, assuming she’s not been relocated already. What happens next and where she’ll end up, I won’t be told. I suspect she’ll be taken to someplace where American officials can interrogate her. International deals will be made that I may never be told about.
Marino exits I-81, and a few minutes later we’re driving through the rural hamlet of Weyers Cave, population acouple of thousand, famous for its Grand Caverns where soldiers camped during the Civil War. Hundreds of them from the North and South alike sought shelter inside the cave at some point, their signatures carved into the stone walls. I remember Lucy’s amazement when I took her through rooms that looked like a cathedral, and a zoo with features resembling animals.
Marino cruises past the post office and a Methodist church. He picks up Route 256, the Little Rebel convenience store off to the left. We pull up to the gas pumps, and after driving several hours it’s a good idea to refuel anyway and make a pitstop. But that’s not why we’re stopping.
Sal was here multiple times, filling up his old truck, getting a coffee and using the facilities. The white frame building is old with a faded green-striped awning over the porch, and signs for specials taped in the windows. One of the two pumps in front is for diesel fuel.
“That might explain the reason Sal picked this place,” I suggest. “His truck is diesel.”
“Maybe. But there are plenty of places to get diesel fuel.” Marino turns off the engine. “That’s not the only reason he was coming here.”
“While you pump, I’ll go inside and pay,” I reply as we open our doors. “I’ll see who’s working the cash register.”
A bell jingles cheerily as I walk inside an old market that reminds me of the one my father had when I was growing up in Miami. The wooden countertop is scarred, and on top is a steel cash register that belongs in an antique store. There are racks ofcandy and gum, and small freezers with ice cream, a ceiling fan whirring.
An older woman appears from an aisle, drying her hands on a paper towel. Her face is wrinkled like tidal sand and framed by short gray hair with bangs. I detect a shadow of suspicion in her dark eyes.
“Can I help you with something, ma’am?” She returns to the chair behind the counter.
“I wanted to pay for fuel,” I reply. “Fifty dollars’ worth.”
“You can pay at the pump with your credit card.” She points out the window. “But I’m just as happy to take cash.”
I give her two twenties and a ten as she studies me carefully while glancing at Marino filling his truck. I look around at snack foods, breads, canned goods, cleansers, toiletries, most anything one might need. But nothing I’m seeing gives me a clue about why Sal might have come here beyond making a mundane pitstop.
“You here to visit some of the caves?” The woman opens the cash drawer, tucking in the money. “This is a good time of year to do it. Pretty soon it gets really crowded. Especially during national cave week. We’ve got some good ones around here.”
“You certainly do. I used to take my niece to a few of them.”
“That why you’re here today? The caves?”
“No, it isn’t.” I’m not going to lie.
“Where are you coming from?” She’s grilling me now.
“Alexandria.” I glance out the window at Marino hooking the nozzle back on the pump.
“Looks like he went over by fifty-two cents, ma’am,” thewoman informs me. “And I can tell you’ve got something on your mind. You’re not the only one who’s come in here lately, full of questions about that rocket scientist abducted by a UFO and killed by aliens.”
“Who’s been asking?” I find a five-dollar bill in my wallet, telling her to keep the change.
“The feds,” she says.
“The scientist you’re talking about is Sal Giordano, and he was a friend of mine,” I tell her as Marino texts me.
Should I come in?
I look through the window at him and subtly shake my head. No. Don’t come in.
“That’s godawful,” the woman says. “But I’ll tell you the same thing I told the Secret Service agents. I didn’t know him. He’d come in every now and then to fill up his truck and use the men’s room. Sometimes he’d buy other stuff. I don’t think what happened to him had anything to do with him stopping here.”
“Did he ever say anything about anyone following him? Anything like that?” I ask.
“No, ma’am. He was always in a good mood except this last time. Monday afternoon. He was feeling blue. I could tell.”
“Do you remember the first time he came in?”