Peak Oil Page 8

  “Think he’s a football fan?” Neil asked with a grin.

  Alexa sat up and pulled her fingers through her hair. “Why?”

  He pointed at the signs. “The names. They’re all football fields.”

  Alexa gave Neil a distracted nod.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Neil said, squeezing her leg.

  She shrugged. “I don’t like the place. It feels eerie.”

  Neil guffawed. “What do you mean? It’s beautiful.” He swept his arm in a wide arc. “The trees, the golf course. Just look at—”

  “I don’t like it.” Alexa said firmly and turned in her seat, staring out of the window. “It’s . . .” she hesitated and then shrugged, “. . . false.”

  “Okay,” Neil said hesitantly and then pulled away. They passed another guardhouse, but the boom gate was already open. A guard waved as they drove through.

  Five buses were parked to the side of a two-story, brown brick building, and people were climbing aboard, carrying placards and signs and babbling merrily.

  Neil pulled in beneath a shaded awning in front of the entrance. David Beck was already waiting for them, his hands on his hips and a smile on his face.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  David Beck opened Alexa’s door and then took her hand and helped her out of the car. “Glad to see you again,” he said as he shook Neil’s hand. “Follow me. We’re having breakfast in the restaurant.”

  He walked ahead and entered the brown building through a revolving glass door.

  “It feels like I’m on my way to a Cowboys game,” Neil said with a grin.

  David looked back and smiled. “The old man sure loves his football.”

  A guard sat behind a brushed metal counter. The inside of the building was all glass and metal and polished chrome. A six-foot bronze bust of Andy Fitch stood on a white pedestal in the center of the room. The walls were decorated with Henry Moore prints, various abstract impressions of three draped figures.

  A Bach Brandenburg concerto played softly in the background. Above them, they heard the muted tone of conversations around breakfast tables and the clinking of cutlery on china. David signed his guests into a register.

  The guard handed them visitor’s badges and noted the numbers in the register. He looked up at them. “Clip these to your pockets; they need to be visible at all times.”

  They did as he instructed.

  “What’s with all the buses?” Alexa asked the guard.

  He snorted. “Mr. Fitch is coming to town, and the entire damn facility got the day off to attend the parade.” He grinned at her and shrugged. “That is, everyone except ‘essential services.’” He smirked. “Guess what I’ll be doing today?”

  Alexa smiled. “I guess your job is one of the essential services.”

  He sighed. “You guessed right, ma’am.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “At least I don’t work in the call center. Those poor bastards never get a rest.” He grinned and waved them good-bye.

  Glass doors slid open behind the guard, and they took an escalator to the second floor. They were met by a slightly balding man with a neatly trimmed beard. He was wearing a three-piece suit. “Dr. Beck, please follow me.” He nodded slightly and smiled. “Your wife has already been seated.”

  They followed behind the waiter, who walked with an energetic bounce in his step. Lucy Beck stood up and waved at them. They waiter led them to the table and pulled a chair out for Alexa. “Would you like something to drink before I take your order?” the man asked, unfolding napkins and placing them on their laps.

  They ordered coffee and examined the busy room. The place was buzzing with conversation and people enjoying their breakfasts. She saw men and women wearing white lab coats, blue-overalled workers, and men with smart business suits.

  “Very fancy,” Neil said, looking around. “We get served as well?”

  The place was opulent. Plush carpets on the floor, solid wooden tables covered by crisp, white linen tablecloths and silver cutlery, fine white porcelain arranged neatly on the tables.

  Lucy laughed. “What can I say? Andy Fitch looks after his own.”

  Their waiter walked up to them with a tray. He removed a pot of coffee, cream, and sugar. “Could I interest you in some breakfast, sir? Madam?” he asked, filling their cups.

  Neil shrugged. “Okay.”

  “English or continental?” the waiter asked.

  Everyone settled on an English breakfast. The man nodded curtly and bowed slightly before shuffling away.

  “Any news on your hole?” Neil asked with a smirk.

  David Beck’s shoulders slumped and he shook his head. “No can do. HR showed us our contracts. We’re not allowed to drill within a thirty mile radius from town.” He swallowed his coffee and placed the cup firmly down on the table. “So we need to struggle with a damn water shortage while they pump thousands of gallons onto the damn golf course.”

  They chatted for a few minutes before the waiter arrived with their breakfast. It smelled delicious, and they tucked in without further ado.

  Alexa glanced up at Lucy Beck. “So what exactly are you guys hired to do here?” she asked, crunching into a slice of toast.

  Lucy’s fork, piled with sausage and mushrooms, hesitated in front of her mouth. “Well, we’re supposed to plot the soil strata. Geological sampling.” She frowned and looked at her husband. “As a matter of fact, it’s all been very hush-hush.”

  David Beck drummed the table with his fingers and leaned back in his chair. “Apparently, we’ll be briefed by Dr. Ryan this afternoon.” David leaned forward conspiratorially. “He’s our boss, works in the labs. They say he’s a real battle-axe.”

  Alexa placed her knife and fork down on the empty plate. “Try to find out about the well. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “You’ll be the first to know,” David said, turning toward her and Neil. “But please, do tell, what can we do for you today?”

  Alexa glanced at Neil, who thought for a moment before answering. “Well, I feel silly for asking.”

  David Beck smiled sympathetically. “Ask me anything.”

  Neil slipped the USB drive from his pocket and held it up. “I completed the preliminary report that I need to mail to my commander, but in our haste to get here, we forgot our damn computers.”

  Alexa laughed. “The man is a tyrant. If Neil doesn’t get the report to him by this morning, my dear colleague should probably expect to be dishonorably discharged.”

  Neil downed the last of his coffee. “Best case scenario. Worst case, I’ll probably be flogged first.”

  Beck smiled and patted Neil on the shoulder. “No problem, man. I’ll let you borrow mine after the tour, how does that sound?”

  Neil sighed gratefully. “Perfect. I owe you another one.”

  Beck waved a hand. “Nonsense. In Dabbort, everyone seems to be looking out for each other. We’re simply getting into the Dabbort Creek swing of things.”

  Lucy Beck squeezed her husband’s hand. “That’s right, darling.” She looked up and beamed each one of them a magnificent smile. “I think we’re going to be happy here, don’t you?”

  Alexa smiled and nodded but didn’t say anything.

  David Beck excused himself, returning several minutes later with an older gentleman who was doing his best to pull off an Albert Einstein impersonation. He had a wild mop of white hair, and he stared at them over a pair of large bifocals. His white lab coat was shabby and wrinkled, and a large inkblot was visible above his pocket.

  David introduced them. “Dr. Joseph Ryan, please meet my friends from Boston, Neil and Alexa. They’ve come to visit for the day.”

  Ryan shook their hands. He held onto Alexa's hand for a moment. “What did you say your name was again, my child?” he grunted in a toneless voice.

  Alexa smiled. “Guerra, Doctor. Alexa Guerra.”

  David Beck put his hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “Dr. Ryan has agreed to give us a guided tour of the facility since we hav
en’t seen it either.”

  Ryan nodded gruffly. “Well, come on then,” he said, turning around. “Things to do, places to be.”

  They swallowed their last bites and followed him outside. Ryan tugged a two-way radio from his jacket pocket and mumbled something into it. A small passenger bus met them at the entrance to the building. Ryan herded the group aboard, and they took their seats across the aisle, facing each other.

  “First off, we’ll head to Cowboys Stadium, or the refinery,” he said roughly.

  They looked out of the window. “What’s up with the golf course?” Lucy asked. A four-ball was in progress as a man in a pair of fashionable Bermuda pants teed off.

  “You play?” Ryan asked.

  Lucy Beck grinned. “I’m afraid my handicap is golf. But I try.”

  Dr. Ryan pushed his glasses higher up on his nose. “Well, there you go, then. They built it for the staff.” He pointed over his shoulder. “Book at the restaurant. Minimum four-ball allowed.”

  Lucy noticed something and then pointed excitedly. A large cat ran over the road; the driver slowed down to let it pass.

  “Look. It’s an ocelot. Look everyone!” she shrieked and pointed excitedly at the cat that was sitting by the side of the road, licking its paws. Lucy looked back at Ryan, wide-eyed with excitement. “I thought they were extinct.”

  Ryan shrugged.

  “What is an ocelot?” David asked.

  Neil started reciting what he had read on the plaque at the police station. “An ocelot, also known as a dwarf leopard, is a type of American wild cat. They’re common in South and Central America but are rarely seen in these parts.”

  Ryan scrutinized Lucy over his bifocals. “No it isn’t. That’s a tabby cat. We have tons of them.”

  Lucy looked at him and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. She sat down, casting furtive glances at Dr. Ryan. He smiled a toothy grin and shrugged.

  The cat looked up and hissed at them as they passed.

  That’s no damn tabby cat, Alexa thought. That is for damn sure.

  Lieutenant Reg Voelkner took a leisurely sip of his beer and placed the glass on the table next to him. He slipped his shades over his eyes and lay back in the pool lounger as he baked in the early morning sun. He could get used to this. It was probably too early to drink, but he didn’t care. He had never had an opportunity to do exactly what he wanted to, whenever he wanted to.

  He felt a pang of rebellion in his gut.

  He had been brought up in a strict family, a legacy of the East German communist regime. When he left, the French Foreign Legion perpetuated the disciplined lifestyle.

  And he was getting sick of it.

  The smell of bacon and eggs wafted toward him from the dining room. Missy had invited him to breakfast, on the house. She seemed to be warming up to him ever since he had fixed up the room. He had received a list of odd jobs to do around the lodge, which he didn’t mind at all. He had always been good with his hands, and he enjoyed being kept busy.

  Now that the captain was here, he had taken a backseat in the investigation, and he didn’t mind that at all, either. He wasn’t cut out for all this Sherlock and Watson shit.

  He folded his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, allowing his thoughts to drift back to the past. He did that regularly these days.

  He had joined the League to get away from a neo-Nazi skinhead gang, the notorious Meisterbande or Gang of Masters, in Dresden, Germany. His dad had been the ringleader, and the next logical step was for Reg to be initiated into the gang. He would have to fight to become his dad’s successor, defeat the strongest member to take up his rightful place.

  But there had been a complication.

  He had fallen in love with a Schwarze, a black girl. She had been his first girlfriend, his first true love. He had proposed to her. And he had been besotted.

  The news had not gone down well with his dad nor with the fellow gang members. They harassed Amalia and her parents—hung around outside her father’s workplace, intimidating the patrons at the confectionery shop where he worked. They threatened to kill her and her family if they didn’t leave.

  Amalia’s parents then did the only logical thing they could think of. They fled from Dresden. And Reg was shattered.

  A month later, he had received a letter from Amalia, posted from a small town somewhere in France. She told him to leave her alone, to not come looking for her. He had caused the family a lot of suffering and misfortune. And she said that she still loved him, no matter what.

  He sighed. Ah, the vagaries of a doomed relationship.

  During the following weeks, he had been inconsolable. He hung out at pubs, drinking himself to the edge of oblivion, trying to find that place where he could drift around in a blissful stupor, maybe drink himself to death. But no, life was complicated, and she had more punishment to dole out.

  One evening, three members of the Meisterbande arrived at the bar he frequented. The evening started out innocently enough. They played pool and darts, and he drowned his sorrows, as he usually did. But then the mode changed. The drink made them courageous, made them forget what he was capable of. They mocked him about his chocolate fetish. They teased him about his Schwarze laub, his black screw. When they tried to hold him down to see if his dick had changed color from dipping it in an inkpot, he snapped.

  He stabbed the first guy. The others tried to get away, but he knocked them down and started jumping on their bodies, until all that was left of the heartless punks were bloodied piles of meat and broken bone. And then he ran.

  A nationwide manhunt ensued. The only place he could go was the French Foreign Legion.

  The general had said that he only expected one thing from Reg: honesty. So he had told Laiveaux what had happened and what he was running from. Then life wove another unexpected twist into his path.

  Amazingly, the old man took pity on him.

  The general would visit him in the early morning hours, and they would take leisurely strolls around the compound gardens, talking about love lost and righting the wrongs of life and how only God could be the ultimate judge of our sins. Only God understood why we did the things we did. The general was a firm believer of this.

  Reg guessed the old man didn’t have much of a choice, admitting murderers and criminals into his revered organization.

  One day, on one of the long walks they so often took, Laiveaux told him about a new recruit who would be arriving soon. A young lady called Natalie Bryden. She would be the first female recruit ever to be accepted into the Legion.

  The soldiers would rebel against this, Laiveaux had said. But times were changing. France was changing. High-ranking female politicians insisted that the League change as well. Why should only men receive a second chance at a new life, a new identity?

  Laiveaux then asked Voelkner to keep an eye on her. Look out for her.

  He remembered the day when the confident young woman strode into the compound. She was a rose among all the thorns, an innocent among all the reprobates and juvenile delinquents.

  Voelkner took an immediate liking to her. She was tough and mentally stronger than any man in the Legion. She became a mother who nursed their bruised bodies back to health, a sister in whom they would confide their darkest secrets.

  And she became their leader. Not by choice, but by her own actions.

  They looked to her when the drill master broke their bodies down, when they were forced to scale obstacles with fractured bones and torn ligaments. She would always go on. Hustle men, hustle. One more minute. Don’t stop, it will all be over soon. You are not a failure!

  Grown men would cry, but they wouldn’t stop. If she could do it, they could too. Voelkner’s fondness for her developed into profound respect for Femme Forte, as they used to call her.

  The Strong Woman.

  She would never leave him behind; he knew he would follow her into any situation. And he often did.

  He sucked in a long and melancholy breath. Since Laiveaux had
enrolled him into Interpol, things had changed. He didn’t mind the fighting or the dangerous situations; he wished there were more of them. But he found detective work boring. Much better to laze around the pool.

  The sun’s rays were warm and comforting, and he felt a slight buzz from the beer. Life was good.

  Voelkner felt an uncomfortable sensation in his gut, as if someone were standing next to him. He opened his eyes and glanced to his side. Mary-Lou stood at his shoulder and smiled at him. She held a small, red booklet and a pencil in her hands.

  He slid his sunglasses onto his head. “Hello, Mary-Lou,” he said and sat up. “What are you doing?”

  She giggled and handed him the picture she had drawn of him lying on the wooden recliner next to the pool, his eyes closed, sucking on a beer.

  It was really good. “What a handsome guy. You drew this?”

  She nodded.

  He examined the booklet in his hand and flipped it over. A Canadian passport. He opened the first page. The photo was of a good-looking blonde guy, smiling at him. His name was Andrew Jackson, and he was six foot five. Voelkner’s jaw dropped. He grabbed Mary-Lou by her shoulders. “Where did you get this?” he shouted, shaking her.

  Her lower lip started trembling, and she burst out in tears. She yanked herself loose from his grip and ran away, calling for her grandmother.

  Voelkner jumped up and chased after her. “Wait! Little girl, wait!”

  Toby Griff slowed down as he drove into town. He rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand and took another drag from the cigarette. He was beat. He had been on the road without a proper rest for more than eighteen hours.

  One of the company regulars, Bubba Bartlett, had gone AWOL. They found his truck parked, out of gas, next to the road. Bubba was supposed to have relieved him for the shift back to Houston. But Bubba had disappeared, and they had a strict schedule to maintain. No check-in, no bonus.