Olympus Device 1: The Olympus Device (16 page)

The FBI office in Houston was huge, handling dozens, if not hundreds, of ongoing investigations at the same time. Connecting those dots would be difficult, if not impossible.

Crawford then began to study the various emergency calls surrounding the collapse of the tower. The police hadn’t released the 911 tapes, yet. He made a note to have his paper press hard for the actual recordings. While that critical information wasn’t available, there was something almost as good.

The
Post
had police scanners monitoring all law enforcement frequencies. These conversations were digitalized and then converted into searchable text. He started with something simple – the address of the hotel.

As the results rolled across his computer monitor, Crawford’s brow wrinkled in confusion. There had been a dispatch call to the hotel 15 minutes before the first report of the downed tower. The dispatcher’s initial broadcast indicating the p
olice code 10-91, or units responding to pick up suspect. This had been followed a few minutes later by a 10-80, or “in pursuit.”

Crawford double checked the address and times –
there was no mistake, the police were already at the hotel when the tower fell.
What were they doing there?
   

The connection came next. The public service bulleting – the wanted man. Someone had called in… Durham Weathers was staying at that hotel
, and that’s why the police rolled before the tower fell. Tim changed the search parameters, concentrating his inquiry on the fugitive.

Again, the computer’s brain did its work
, and data began scrolling down the monitor. Fort Davis, Texas. Property tax receipts for 320 acres in Jeff Davis County. Gunsmith certification. Private pilot’s license and an old ad for crop dusting services….

The
reference to crop dusting rang familiar to the reporter. He began reversing his search, sure he’d seen the term in the last 30 minutes. There it was! The police dispatch call records… David Wayne Hooks – possible stolen airplane. A Thrush Commander
crop duster
with an altered tail number.

Crawford leaned back in his chair and summarized what he knew. One
Mr. Durham Weathers had altered the tail numbers on his aircraft and flown into Hooks. Somehow, he made it to the hotel. The aircraft had been discovered, so the FBI suspected he was in Houston. The local media had plastered Mr. Weathers’ face all over town, and someone recognized him and called the cops to the hotel.

The reporter
invested a serious amount of mental energy trying to piece together what had happened to the tower, and what Weathers had to do with it. Every avenue of deduction was a dead end. Frustrated with the effort, he decided to work backwards from his last known fact. The Thrush, altered, at Hooks.

Clearly
, Weathers had known he was wanted by the authorities while still at Hooks. Why else would he change the identification of his plane? So where had he come from?

The
journalist searched the few available records for Fort Davis, the small town’s police blotter and newspaper providing zero input. By accident, he forgot to enter the fugitive’s first name on the next search, pulling up a long list of references to the name “Weathers.”

Grunting at his mistake, he began to re-enter the query when one of the
listings caught his attention. An arrest of one Dr. Mitchell Weathers, in College Station, the same day as the bomb threat. Four clicks of the keyboard later, Crawford’s heart began to race. Mitchell Weathers was originally from Fort Davis, probably related to the fugitive.

He stood
now, staring at the screen on his desk. He knew there was a connection, the parts starting to mesh like a set of perfectly matched gears. His analysis was interrupted by his boss.

“What’s up, Tim?”

“Boss, I’m onto something really, really interesting here. There’s a trail of seemingly unrelated events leading to that mysterious tower coming down, which didn’t have a damn thing to do with metal fatigue. I need to take a road trip.”

“A road trip? Shit! I was told all these expensive do-dad computer research things would save the paper money on travel. What happened to that?”

“It’s only to College Station, boss. I’ll even drive my own car. Just a few days. I think I’ll hand you one of the biggest stories the paper has ever printed when I get back.”

The editor rubbed his chin, finally nodding. “Okay, Tim
, but don’t hit me with a huge bar tab on your expense report. And keep in touch.”

Dusty opened his eyes, and for a moment believed he’d
been captured and sentenced to life in a prison with an “Easter wonderland explosion” decorating theme. A devilish design, his cell was guaranteed to torture the typical male prisoner for eternity.

Splashes of p
astel yellows and blues filled his blurry vision, the spring holiday hues encompassing everything from the comforter covering his prone body, to the pillowcase supporting his weary head. The wallpaper depicted colonies of rabbits sporting annoyingly unfashionable spring bonnets, delivering baskets overflowing with brightly colored eggs. Flowers sprouted throughout the landscape but were especially thickly woven into the white picket fence that anchored the design. He wondered if the guards had confiscated his belt, and if not, was the leather strap long enough to stretch a neck – his neck.

Still, the
mattress was comfortable for a penitentiary. That soft, billowy feeling beneath him evaporated when he tried to shift his bed-weary frame. Sharp pains reminded him of his recent encounter with the stack of pallets, and then the rest of his recent history flooded his short-term memory.

Despite the stabbi
ng pains running up his torso, his first thought was of the rail gun. The backpack, complete with super weapon, was leaning against the wall nearby. That anxiety dismissed, he decided to take advantage of being propped on one elbow and studied his surroundings in detail.

On the nightstand was a pitcher of orange juice, a small tumbler
, and a note. It read:

Dusty,

You’re in a client’s home that I’m getting ready to list on the market. The owners have been transferred overseas and won’t return. Don’t make a mess.

If you bleed on anything, you will have to pay for it. Don’t make a mess.

Drink this orange juice. You’ve lost a lot of blood and probably feel like shit. There’s aspirin in the bathroom. Don’t make a mess.

Maria

He had to smile at her prose, the mixture of caring and scolding, a facet of her personality he’d grown to love.

He decided to follow her advice, pouring a glass of the lukewarm
OJ and draining it in a few gulps. The effort was exhausting. His next feeble move was to examine his wound, but the exertion of pulling back the covers and raising his shirt was pointless. A heavy bandage was wrapped around his mid-section, the bulge of a thick compress covering the wounded area beneath. It was such a thorough job, he decided it might be unwise to rework Florence Nightingale’s apparent handiwork.

His body announced it was finished with the day’s activities, weakness and exhaustion the message in spades. Lying back, his last thought before going to sleep was of Maria.
Did she still love him?

Patty answered the phone with her usual cheery voice, Maria
half-listening because she’d forgotten to close the door.

The entire day had been a waste, much of the north side of
Houston without power, customers canceling appointments by the handful. Warnings were on the radio and television – don’t drive unless it’s absolutely necessary. Despite everyone knowing the streets would be chaos without electric traffic signals, the helicopter news cameras showed endless video footage of the gridlock.

Patty didn’t bother with the intercom, choosing instead to appear at the door. “There’s an Eva Barns on line one. She says you are an old friend from Fort Davis
, and she has an emergency.”

Maria tilted her head, the name from the past completely unexpected.
What was this
, she questioned,
old home week?

Reaching for the receiver, she forced friendliness into her tone. “Eva! Why Eva Barns, how are you?”

“Hi Maria, I’m so sorry to bother you, but I don’t know who else to turn to. Hank’s been arrested, and his court appearance is in Houston. I’m on my way to your city right now, and I was wondering if you could make a recommendation on where I could stay. Hank and I aren’t exactly wealthy people, you know, and… well… I thought you might be able to recommend someplace safe and reasonable.”

Memories of her past life came flooding into Maria’s mind. Eva, such a kind and caring soul, taking care of the house after Anthony had been born. Eva bringing over home cooked meals when
Maria had sprained her ankle, and Dusty was off in Oklahoma spraying crops. Eva – always there and never asking for anything in return.

“Eva Barns, how dare you ask such a
question? You will stay at my home for as long as you need, and I won’t hear another word to the contrary.”

“That’s so kind of you, really it is. But I don’t want to bother you, and I’ve got my attorney with me. Her name is Grace Kennedy
, and she’s helping me get this straightened out.”

The name caused the real estate broker’s interest to
peak, her son relaying the dinner he had shared with his father and a nice lady named Grace who had recently moved to town.

“Is Grace from Fort Davis?”

“Why, yes. Yes, she is.”

“Well then,” announced Maria, “she’s like
family. I’ve got plenty of room, too much really. I demand both of you stay at my place until this is all straightened out.”

“Are you sure, Maria?”

“Oh, believe me, Eva. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Now, grab a pencil, Eva. I’ll give you the address and my cell number.”

After hanging up the call, she sat and pondered what possible trouble Hank could have gotten into.
Surely, it had something to do with Dusty’s recent endeavors – the two men being as close as they were. Having the chance to repay Eva’s kindness over the years made her feel better about the day. Besides, she wanted to meet this woman who turned her ex-husband’s head.  

After checking into his hotel, Tim Crawford decided to visit the section of the campus where the bomb threat of a fe
w days ago had occurred. He toured around several large facilities, including Anderson Hall and the administration building for the science department.

He had downloaded several pictures onto his pad computer, the visual references making it easier to navigate around the vicinity. After the familiarization tour, he headed for the campus newspaper’s office and a scheduled meeting with the student-reporter who had written the paper’s article covering the event.

The
Battalion
advertised itself as “The Student Voice of Texas A&M since 1893.” Crawford entered the paper’s modest offices where he was greeted by a friendly, young woman working the main phone. He introduced himself, explaining he had an appointment with Miss Wendy Hardin.

Much to Crawford’s sur
prise, the girl at the desk responded, “I’ve read a lot of your work, Mr. Crawford. The piece you did on the corruption at the Port of Houston was a classic.”

“Why
, thank you.”

Nodding, she turned and yelled over the tops of the cubical, “Wendy, Mr. Crawford is here.”

The top of a blonde head appeared two rows back, Crawford following the girl’s progress as she approached.

Wendy wasn’t what the reporter had expected – not at all.
Stereotyping
, he admitted.
It never pays.
Rather than a mousey journalism major with thick glasses and stringy hair, Tim was greeted by a very attractive co-ed with blonde curls, green eyes, and an extremely robust figure – at least the top half was robust.

Forcing his eyes to remain above the girl’s shoulders, he accepted her invitation to return to her cubicle.
Proper social amenities exchanged, he settled into the guest chair. That was when Crawford received his second surprise of the visit.

“That bomb scare wa
s pure bullshit,” the young co-ed began. “I know it was because they didn’t even bother with the hazardous materials unit. If there really had been any threat of a bomb, they would have called in the guys with the padded suits and oxygen masks, but they never did.”

Brains and beauty
, Tim mused. Trying to play the role of the sage, old newshound, he prodded, “Did you ask any of the authorities about your suspicions?”

“I tried. The local dudes were all tightlipped. I couldn’t even get close to the federal guys. I did, however, manage to gather a
little
information.” She cleared her throat before continuing, “Just not in any academically endorsed manner, if you catch my drift,” she finished.

“Oh?”

After looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, Wendy punched a few keys and then pointed to the screen. “I know one of the campus cops. I went to see him, really to dig around, and saw this image on one of the computer screens. I snapped this with my cell phone while my friend was checking out my assets. It’s amazing what a low cut top can do sometimes to champion truth, justice, and the American way,” she smiled.

“They let you in the station while a bomb threat was going on? That’s some pretty good access.”

Grinning, Wendy leaned back in her chair, providing better vantage to admire her impressive figure. “Yeah, well, this cop has made no secret that he wants in my pants pretty badly. Besides, a girl has got to use her God-given assets in a cutthroat business like this. I have noticed that when you’re equipped with a pair of these,” she declared, gesturing toward her amble chest, “men seem to become distracted. They’re a great tool to prompt conversation,” the young girl teased.

Crawford had to laugh at the girl’s honesty. He also acknowledged that she was wise beyond her years, making a note to invite her down to Houston to interview when she graduated.

Turning to study the photograph, he couldn’t make out exactly what the image was. Wendy, evidently noting the puzzled look on his face, offered to help. Pointing at the screen, she said, “It’s a rifle or some sort of gun. You can see the outline of the barrel here, the stock back on this side.”

With her help, Crawford could indeed make out the shape of a rifle. “Have you asked anyone to clean up this image?”

“No. Until you called, I wasn’t sure what I would do with it, and while I know some serious computer nerds here on campus, I didn’t want the word spreading around that I took this pic. Besides, those guys creep me out.”

“No problem,” Crawford offered, “we’ve got some
techs down at the
Post
who might be able to enhance this image.”

Tim began to explain
his suspicions, but Wendy stopped him with a finger to her lips. Leaning forward, she whispered, “This is a very competitive environment around here. Why don’t we go get some coffee and talk in private?”

Before lon
g, the duo of reporters was strolling across the campus, heading for a place Wendy called “the Barn.” As they walked, Tim started at the beginning of what he knew and proceeded through the timeline, Wendy listening intently to every word.

“That all makes sense,” she commented as they entered
the Java Barn.

After ordering the beverages, they found an empty corner table that afforded some privacy. “You know they arrested
Dr. Mitchell right here at the Barn, don’t you?”

“No, I didn’t know that. He was drinking coffee?”

“Yup. One of the guys that works here told me that two policeman came in with a picture of the professor, asking if anyone had seen him. Dr. Weathers was sitting right here at this very table, according to my source.”