Book 3: Dobie’s Dilemma

Episode 4

© by William Arthur Holmes

WitPro

Pedal to the metal on Interstate 75, we headed west toward Chattanooga. I thought about calling Cori to tell her what had happened, but what if my phone was bugged? Plenty of companies will track employees’ cell phones, infecting them with spyware to monitor them while on the corporate campus. What’s to stop them tracking your phone everywhere you go after that?

I was an IT guy, but not all of us are hackers. The finer points of security/surveillance were not my thing, but I assumed my phone was infected at the lab. I didn’t want Lehavre knowing my plans. I had no plan, but didn’t want them knowing that, either.

There was also the issue of Darla. How would I explain her to Cori? Hi, honey, this is my hot new friend, Darla. She’ll be staying with us a few days. I’m sure you don’t mind.

I would cross that bridge when I came to it.

With the speedometer pushing 90, I asked Darla to look up those viruses I heard Brice and Harold talking about.

“They were talking about bioweapons,” she said immediately.

“You haven’t looked it up yet.”

“Don’t have to. I’ve worked there seven years.”

It was nice to know my instincts were correct, but now I wondered how far Lehavre would go to keep me quiet.

“I have a confession to make...” she began.

“Speak, my child,” I faked a Southern preacher accent.

She laughed and said, “I’m the reason you had to come down here.”

“How’s that?”

“I was the one who sabotaged the lab’s production line.”

“What? Why?”

“To get you down here, silly!”

“No, really, why? And how do you know anything about fixing... or destroying that control panel?”

“I’m on Lehavre’s ECOP team.”

“ECOP. Electronic cops?”

“No, they have a process called Emergency Continuity of Production. And the real reason was because I’ve had enough of Lehavre’s bullcrap. I don’t care if they have a contract with the military, if they even do. We shouldn’t be making bioweapons!”

“Somebody has to, I guess...” I began.

“Don’t give me that ‘somebody has to do it’ bullcrap. It has to stop!” She ended in a much friendlier tone, “I did want to see you, though.”

“I get that a lot,” I smiled.

“I’ve known about that lab for a while,” she continued after a moment. “It started after Lehavre bought us and they brought in Brice, but I’ve been putting off reporting it.” She looked off into the distance, nowhere in particular, as we sped past slower vehicles, with a green blur of trees as a backdrop. “Did you know I almost married a US Marshal? Eric.”

I didn’t know that, but said nothing.

“I called it off. Anyway, that job pays so well – paid – I just looked the other way, and avoided dealing with Eric. Even if I reported it to someone else at the Marshals office, it would end up on his desk eventually. You’ll see when we get there and become whistleblowers.”

“Whistleblowers? I don’t know enough about it to be a whistleblower. I can’t just say they gave me the creeps.”

“Well, I know all about it,” she said. “And you can help corroborate.”

I’d been focused on our escape. Blowing the whistle had not occurred to me, but she had a plan, so I rolled with it.

Bad move.

“Don’t we have to be referred to the Marshals?” I asked, already finding excuses not to follow through.

“Maybe most people do,” she smiled, “but I made a lot of friends there through Eric. They will keep us safe. Like I said, I’ve been meaning to do this, then you come along and... it’s like we’re meant to be!”

First, she’s telling her father about me, then stripping in front of me, and now she’s saying we were meant to be. I tried to picture Cori smiling – my usual trick to keep myself in line – but the image wouldn’t come.

I nodded and said, “Make the call.”

I thought maybe once she and her ex saw each other again, it would rekindle something. Or maybe they’d kill each other. Either way, I’d stay out of the line of fire

~ ~ ~

At the Marshals office in downtown Chattanooga, Darla was greeted like an old friend by several men there. The women were less friendly. Her ex, Eric – literally tall, dark and handsome – had that abandoned puppy look in his eyes, more hurt than angry. I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe he wouldn’t kill her... or me in a jealous rage.

She and her father were whisked into a nearby office by her former fiancee. I would have thought he would be deemed too close, too personally attached, but what do I know?

I was pulled into a separate office by another marshal. A large man with a ruddy complexion and authoritative air. Everything about him said “don’t even think about messing with me.” Normally, that would be my cue to mess with him. That’s just how I am, but I needed his help, so I tried to behave.

He told me to sit, so I sat – like an obedient dog – trying to get off to a good start. It irked me, but I bit my tongue... for now. He said he would get some coffee from the break room. When I glanced at the coffeemaker behind his desk, he said, “The break room is where we keep the good stuff.”

His nameplate read: US Marshal Dieter G. Hintenscheissel. Dieter G sounded like a German rapper.

Hintenscheissel

“What do you want your new first name to be,” he asked before stepping out, “should things progress that far?”

My first thought was Axel, but I’ve used that before and am probably wanted, dead or alive, under that name. I told Dieter G I had to think about it. He frowned and stepped out, probably kicking himself for allowing his deputy to take Darla, leaving him stuck with me.

Inside his stuffy perspiration-caffeine-tobacco-scented office, its only window – small and just below the ceiling – looked more like an air vent. I wish it was an air vent, but at least it let some light in.

I noticed the poster on the wall showing a tiny speck of a person climbing a sheer-faced rock wall. It occurred to me that climber could be me and the wall could be Lehavre and its goons. Or, big picture, my life in general.

I snapped out of it when it hit me: if I do this witness protection thing, I’ll lose out on that promotion and salary bump Jessica promised... assuming that was for real. I could use a salary bump.

When Herr Hintenscheissel returned with a Styrofoam cup in each hand, I caught a whiff of both coffee and alcohol. The latter must have been that good stuff he was talking about.

“You have to choose,” he reminded me.

“Choose between booze and coffee?”

“No, your new first name. The coffee is for you,” he handed me my cup. “But you’ve got a good nose. The alcohol that you think you smell is fermentation. A probiotic shake....”

“Good one! I’ll have to remember that.”

“I’m serious,” he smiled thinly, “but we used to let people keep their own first name until the powers-that-be chose this office to pilot a new system. We provide the surname, and you come up with a new given name, so long as the full name is new, and not John Smith or someone famous. Just use something like Bill or George....”

“Anything but Sue, right?”

He gave an impatient look. “...or Gunther,” he finished his thought.

“I do have some German in me,” I admitted, sorry for stepping on his punchline. “How about Jim Bob? I’d fit right in around here, but I’m guessing you’re sending me far away.”

“That is the hope, yes. So, what’s your new first name gonna be?”

Looking at the poster on the wall, I said, “Clif. With only one ‘f.’ Short for Clifton, not Clifford.”

“Like New Jersey?” he laughed, much friendlier now that he’d had a few sips of whatever was really in that cup and took a seat in his high-backed chair.

My cup had a black X on it, drawn with a Sharpie. Did X mean I was dead as soon as I drank it? Paranoid again, but that’s what came to mind.

“Like Clifton, Tennessee,” I set my cup on his desk.

“Use a coaster!” he snapped. “There, to your right.”

“Sorry!” I snapped back, not liking his tone, but did as I was told. “Clifton is my hometown,” I lied, creating my own back story. Passive-aggressive response to his tone, maybe.

He smiled absently, not listening, busy typing.

“Your last name will be Johnston,” he announced after smacking the Enter key. “That part’s been decided. Paperwork’s just been submitted...”

“Oh, well, if the paperwork’s been submitted...” I laughed. He glared. After an awkward silence I said, “So, Clif Johnston isn’t anyone famous, is it? I’m just glad you didn’t give me the last name Barr.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“As in ClifBar,” I explained, “those energy bars?”

“You ever try stand-up comedy?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“That’s good, because you would fail miserably.”

“Thanks, you’re too kind.”

“’ClifBar.’ Give me a break...”

“That’s KitKats.”

He made another face. “Can we get on with it, please?”

“Sorry. Go ahead.”

“You sure?”

“Please.”

“Anyway,” he continued, “other agencies are interested in Lehavre Research, and WitPro is making you a priority. God help us all. We usually stash our witnesses somewhere safe ASAP, but this office is under-staffed. My people are taking care of someone right now, but we’ve got no one for you. I’m getting the paperwork started, but don’t have the manpower to babysit you.”

“You said you’re taking care of someone else right now,” I ignored the babysitting comment. “Would that ‘someone’ be Darla and her dad?”

“I can’t divulge that.”

“We came in together for the same reason. You can’t tell me whether or not you’re putting her under protection?”

“Nope,” he was enjoying himself.

He then gave me the business card for someone in the Nashville office and said I should get up there as quickly as possible.

A two-hour drive, minimum. Alone. Someone would meet me. He promised.