Page 99 of Identity Unknown
“I’ve been working here most of my life and never saw him before last summer,” she says. “He came in on a Saturday in early June. I remember because he was friendly and had an Italian accent, which we don’t hear much around these parts. After that he was in and out.”
She gives me a long, penetrating look, her expression turning sad.
“You were close to him, weren’t you?” she says kindly.
“I was, had known him much of my life,” I reply. “I’m trying to figure out what happened to him. And I know he’d want me to do that.”
“I’m sure he would.”
“Did he ever mention what he was doing out here?” I ask.
“No, he didn’t say a thing. I had no idea who he was until I saw the news about him being killed. I didn’t know he was important.”
“So he’d pull in and get fuel, and then continue on his way,” I reply. “And that was it?”
“Well, now sometimes when he’d stop in and leave, he didn’t head back to the interstate. He went that way. Toward the airport.” She points, referring to the regional airport Carrie Grethen flew out of for Warsaw.
Returning to the truck, I tuck packs of Clove and Fruit Stripe gum in the ashtray while telling Marino what I learned. Instead of returning to I-81, we continue west just like Sal did on occasion, following the two-lane road past silos and green fields.
Weyers Cave is famous for its flower farms, and we pass acres of chrysanthemums and a barn with a gift shop. By now it’s midafternoon, the sky clear, the air hot and steamy. A Gulfstream jet is taking off from the Shenandoah Valley Airport, catering mostly to private flights, a number of expensive cars in the parking lot.
“Sal may have driven this way, but I don’t see why he’d stop here,” I comment.
“Me either.” Marino glances out at the modern brick terminal, the airfield going by our windows. “I got no clue why he’d come this way. It’s not like he was here to pick flowers or fly somewhere. What do you want to do, Doc?”
“Let’s keep going for the next ten miles or so. Last time Sal was here it took him three extra hours to get to Green Bank. That’s not a lot of time, and there’s only so far off the beaten track he could have gotten.”
As I’m saying this I detect the silvery silhouette of some type of industrial plant way off in the distance. Rock quarries are carved into the hillsides, and large pools of runoff water are an unhealthy teal green. Getting closer, I can see that the industrial plant is crisscrossed with chalky white unpaved roads, rows of parked transfer trucks glinting in the sun.
“What the hell is that up ahead?” Marino asks. “Must be new. Of course, it’s been a while since I was out this way.”
“I think my last time was when I took Lucy to Grand Caverns while she was still in high school. Whatever this plant is, it wasn’t here then.”
I can make out metal silos, warehouses and other buildings. As we get closer, I begin to recognize towers, vertical kilns, transfer chutes and belt conveyers. Then we’re driving past vast expanses of solar farms. Field after field of the glassy blue panels are tilted up in perfect rows with grass growing between them where sheep are grazing.
“They must generate a lot of their power here,” I decide.
Up ahead is the sprawling plant’s entrance, and there’s nosecurity gate. But I notice signs warning about trespassing and industrial hazards. Multiple big dome cameras are on top of tall poles, and the name of the company doesn’t spark at first. Then it hits me like a high-voltage jolt.
“True North Industries,” I say to Marino. “True North, as in the initialsTN.”
“The code in the capsule Sal swallowed. Holy shit.”
“Maybe.”
“Here goes.” Marino picks up his Colt 1911 from the console between us, sliding it out of the holster. “Just in case we run into anybody unfriendly.”
Placing the hefty pistol in his lap, he drives through the cement plant’s entrance, white dust billowing up. We realize in short order that the streets have no names, only numbers, and I recall what Sal wrote in the note he microphotographed.
“TN. Five-L. Seven-R. Nine-L,” I recite to Marino while sending Benton a text.
I let him know where we are and why.
“There’s street three,” Marino says as a dump truck coated in dust rumbles past us. “There’s four. Next is five, and I’m taking a left.”
We make the turn and continue to street 7. Taking a right, we keep going to street 9. We turn left, and looming in front of us is a huge metal structure built into the side of the mountain. A small sign over the front door saysBando Solutions,and I text the name to Benton. Beyond this building are others, the parking lots filled with transfer trucks and earthmoving equipment.
“A Japanese aerospace company based in Tokyo, withoffices all over the world, including one in San Francisco.” I’m looking it up on my phone. “There’s no listing of Bando Solutions having a location here at this cement plant or in Virginia or West Virginia. Nothing near this area.”