Olympus Device 1: The Olympus Device (24 page)

“He must have set this up ahead of time. The computer was logged into an internet
-based voice system, commonly used to make free phone calls to others over the web. The cell phone was attached to the computer’s modem, configured to automatically answer when the cell rang. I was quite surprised to find they still made computers with dial-up modems, but then I learned that the models in the library are a few years old. Most people don’t even know how a modem works, let alone how to configure it.”

Shultz scratched his head, “So Weathers went into the library and set this up, and then left?”

“Yes. He knew the cell number of the unit attached to the computer and could dial it from anywhere. A simple DOS script was then used to have the computer’s modem call this office. Simple, easy, and very clever. It is also incredibly old school. Most hackers today don’t even know DOS script exists – 1990s technology.”

“So can we trace what cell number dialed the one in the library?” asked Monroe.

“Already done,” replied the tech. “From the triangulation of the cell towers, we have a generalized local about 6 blocks away from the garage. That number then made a second call to your cell, Agent Monroe. The suspect had moved closer to the vicinity of the second attack. The signal ended four seconds after he ended the second call with you.”

“I’ll bet my next pay check that second phone ended up down the sewer or in a dumpster somewhere,” commented Shultz.

“There is a bit of good news. We have a new picture of the suspect. My lab guys cleaned it up,” added the tech as he held up an 8x10 image of a man sporting a thin beard. Both Monroe and Shultz recognized it as Durham Weathers immediately.

After thanking the technician for his report, Monroe closed the door behind the man. Turning back to Shultz, he said, “We
ren’t you just commenting that you didn’t think a simple-minded West Texas gunsmith could be a criminal mastermind? Didn’t I just hear you spouting off about how our high-tech devices were intruding on American civil liberties? Ironic, isn’t it? We use technology; the bad guys use technology. It’s like an arms race between us and the criminals.”

Dusty checked the local news after a hot shower
had relaxed him enough to nap for a few minutes. The authorities still hadn’t released his name or tied the events downtown to any sort of human cause.

He needed supplies, clothing and most important of all – coffee. Even the shower had made his lack of necessities obvious – no towels, soap
, or shampoo. Toothpaste was out of the question, the toilet paper roll, fortunately, was still operable.

The messenger
carrier Maria had secured for him wasn’t big enough to pack everything he needed. A bag of jerky, bottle of water, two no-contract cell phones, his hat, and the rail gun had filled the small satchel.

His cash situation was pretty good. He had left Fort Davis with about $4,000 and spent half of that his first day on the run. Maria had managed to refurbish his kitty, emptying her petty cash drawer at the office and withdrawing a few extra dollars on each trip to the ATM. He was sitting with close to 5K of greenbacks
.

Given the cops weren’t splashing his face all over the local media, he decided now was as good a time as any to go shopping.
One of his biggest concerns with this morning’s movements all over downtown Houston was that a camera would catch a clear picture of his new look. With less than two weeks of growth, his beard was by no means full, but thick enough to break up the outline of his face.

The sun was fading in the west
, and the lack of natural light would provide a tiny bit of cover. It was time to go.

Loading his meager supplies into the messenger bag, he exited the condo as quietly as possible – just in case nosey neighbors could hear his activity in their own units.
He decided to descend the stairs, despite his legs being a little sore from the bike ride.
I would have stepped up my work out if I had seen this coming,
he thought.
I hope I don’t have to run anywhere
.

Exiting the building, Dusty remem
bered seeing a corner convenience store on his ride into the area. With the small shop as his target, he began walking away from his newest hideout, eyes scanning for approaching police cars or anyone paying him too much attention.

Unnoticed on the trip
in, a large, “one-stop shop” pharmacy was right across the street from his original target. He decided the national chain outlet might satisfy more of his list, so he entered the store.

Dusty was amazed at the variety in t
he place. Not only was it a drugstore, it carried almost as many groceries as the IGA back in Fort Davis. Walking through the almost deserted establishment, he found aisles of toys, some clothing, and even full sections of beauty products.

Never one to spend a lot of time shopping, he had made a list of essential items which took several orbits to procure. While he was browsing the shampoo section, an end-cap advertisemen
t caught his attention. The advertisement displayed pictures of a man with gray hair before, and dark, wavy locks after use of the indicated product. Of course, the beautiful model was hanging on the gent’s arm after his hair was darker.
I wonder if he won the lottery in between
, Dusty mused. Still, the poster gave him an idea, and a bottle of the comb-through hair coloring landed in his basket.

Plastic spoons and forks, paper plates, garbage bags
, and seemingly everything else required by a human being on the lam flew into the basket. It became so full; he ended up exchanging it for a four-wheel buggy at the front of the store.

As he began
to wheel away the larger cart, he glanced out the front doors and saw a police cruiser turning into the parking lot.

There was no way Dusty could make
the exit without drawing suspicion. His initial thought was that the bored looking cashier had called him in, but the uninterested woman was restocking the film behind the counter, completely oblivious to his presence.

Maybe they sell doughnuts here
, he thought, quickly heading for the back of the store. He searched for a rear exit as he retreated, finally spotting the sign in a far corner.

Positing himself along the fingernail polish aisle, Dusty felt semi-hidden but still maintained a
clear view of the front door. He was less than 20 feet from the exit – if it came to that.

The automatic front door opened, admitting a middle-aged uniformed HPD officer who was more than a little overweight. Casually smiling, he made for the cashier without even glancing back into the retail section of the store. “Hi
ya Brenda, how’s things?”

“Good, good. H
ow are you doing, Mike?”

“Slow night. All the excitement is downtown. Seems like everyone around here is staying at home and watching the news.”

“Kinda slow in here tonight, too. One pack of Winston’s or two?”

“Just one – I’m trying to cut back gradually.”

Dusty watched, relieved as the cashier turned to the rows of multi-colored cigarette packs behind the register. Picking the cop’s brand, she spun and began ringing up his purchase. A minute later, the officer left, packing the tobacco against his palm as he exited the building.

Exhaling, Dusty decided he’d bide his time for a while before finishing his
checkout, the incident flushing his system with nervous energy. He had also learned a few things from the overheard conversation. First of all, the police had no hint that he’d managed to get out of downtown. That was good. Secondly, and not so great, was the fact that many of the Bayou City’s residents were staying off the streets.

On his way to pay for his selections, Dusty passed a small travel section and noticed the bottom shelf held a few different types of packs and duffle bags. He decided on a model just long enough for the rail gun, yet large enough that if he did have to bug out again, he wouldn’t have to re-purchase every little thing.

“Looks like you’re going camping,” commented Brenda as she began emptying his cart.

“My sister is having surgery over at the hospital, and I didn’t have time to pack everything before rushing over,” he lied.

The woman behind the register seemed okay with his story, never missing a beat.

Dusty
was surprised by the three oversized grocery sacks filled by his purchases. Taking one in each arm and squeezing the third in the middle, he realized it wasn’t a bad disguise for the walk home, the bags blocking the clear view of his face.

By the time he arrived back at the condo, his arms were burning tired, so taking the elevator was an easy call. He didn’t see another soul, only the muffled sound of a television as he walked down the hall toward his unit’s door.

Closing the door behind him, the relief surging through his system was two-fold. Dropping the heavy bags on the counter helped his arms and shoulders, the safety of the surrounding walls renewing his confidence.

Putting away his purchases ate more time off the clock, and he was beginning to yawn by the time he’d
finished the chore. Heating a Styrofoam cup of water in the microwave for coffee, he turned on the television to check the news.

His timing was spot
on, the screen showing an image of a woman behind a podium with several men standing behind her. The caption at the bottom of the image declared the woman to be Houston’s mayor. He turned up the sound.

“I want to reassure the citizens of our great city that every effort is being made to bring those responsible for today’s attacks to justice. I’ll turn the mic over to Chief Maxwell.”

And with that, the woman stepped aside, replaced center-stage by an older man in a very elaborate police uniform.

“Thank you, Mayor. This afternoon a
n unknown number of suspects is believed to have planted several explosive devices at two locations in our city. We are looking for this man, as a person of interest. We believe he was directly associated with the crimes committed today.”

The screen flashed to an image of Dusty, a new picture he’d never seen before. It took him a moment, but he eventually figured out it had been taken inside the library. It was a reasonably clear photograph and showed his facial growth quite well.

“Anyone with information concerning the whereabouts of this person should call 911 immediately. Do not approach this man, as he is considered armed and dangerous.”

So his worst concerns were realized. They now had a picture of him with the partial beard.
No worries
, he resolved.
I don’t like the scratchy thing anyway
.

Seeing the latest image of himself caused a wave of emotion to well up inside. He worri
ed that the cashier at the drugstore would remember him, giving the police a much smaller area to concentrate their search.

Remembering the
hair-coloring product, he decided to change his natural toe-headed mop to a darker tone. He’d cut it close, like a military style buzz and of course, shave the beard. It wasn’t much, but it was the best he could do at the moment.

Dusty woke up to
pouring rain outside and a growing sense of cabin fever inside. He’d been holed up in the small condo for two days, the urge to step further than the balcony overridden by the fear of being recognized.

Lying in be
d, he felt a pang of discomfort in his core, a hollowness he hadn’t felt in years. He was homesick. Feeding on memories of his ranch, the Davis Mountains, and the freedom provided by the Thrush, anger quickly began to override all other emotion. He hadn’t done anything wrong; why was he being punished? Was it bad luck? Had he made a mistake somewhere along the line?

His
passion began to overwhelm his common sense. Fantasies of revenge filled his mind – daydreams of conquest born of the injustice he was suffering. He would take the rail gun and destroy all of the FBI and anyone else who came up against him. He’d vaporize them all until they realized it was their fault…
their
missteps leading to
their
own demise. He would return freewill to the United States of America.

Where had the trust gone?
The question stopped his tirade cold. He initiated an inventory of American presidents, voting thumbs up or down on their worthiness of trust. Lincoln? Of course. FDR? Yes. Kennedy? Maybe. But all of those men were dead before he was born, his only source of confidence being history books and documentaries. When it came to modern day leaders, he found himself giving each and every man a robust thumbs down. There were some great men who had achieved the oval office in his time, but none of them would he trust with the rail gun and its potential to corrupt.

Did he trust himself?
  Surely he was no stronger morally, possessed no magical immunity to the draw of ultimate power. So why did he feel the world’s most potent power source was safer in his hands than in the hands of the leader of the free world? Why did he proceed under the guise that he should be the guardian of such a corrosive thing?

Where had the trust gone?
Why wasn’t he like the scientists who proudly passed along any knowledge to their government during WWII? He recalled the stories of brilliant men who worked tirelessly with no thoughts of any reward other than victory for their country, names like Oppenheimer and Fermi surfacing though his fog of internal reflections. Those men trusted their leaders.
Why couldn’t he?

Maybe it was time for a common, simple man to take control. Perhaps that is why the good Lord had seen fit to bless him with such power. Perhaps his purpose on earth was only now being reve
aled. Was his role to begin the revolution? Was his lot in life to take control away from the corrupt and return it to the people? He could rule the US with the rail gun. He could rule the world. He could fix it all.

Dusty sat up on the edge of the bed, checking out the narrow confines of the condo’s diminutive space. It sure doesn’t look like the emperor’s palace to me, he thought. More like a jail cell. He realized it was his confinement that was driving the grandiose thoughts of conquest.
Hank was right. I gotta get out more,
Dusty lightheartedly ruminated. Despite the humorous thought breaking the mega-maniac spell, his mind couldn’t shake the fact that he was essentially a prisoner.

Shaking off a growing urge to lash out and strike at what were effectively his captors, he rose for the day and began repeating the same routine.

The first step was to check the street below. Peeking through a narrow slit in the curtains
, he looked for anything unusual. He noted a normal amount of automobile traffic and a fair number of umbrellas bobbing along the sidewalks.

That’s it!
He realized. The bumbershoots provide excellent cover. Maria used the same disguise to come visit me. I can get out of here and at least go for a walk without taking a huge risk.

He
finished breakfast and his morning tasks of hygiene, as anxious as a kid on Christmas morning. There was only one issue; he didn’t have an umbrella. Returning to the curtain, he decided a newspaper would do the trick until he could find a shop that sold the rainwear. He didn’t have a jacket or raincoat, and only one change of clothes, but he didn’t care. To breathe air that wasn’t contaminated by the four walls of this residence was all he cared about.

Lopping down the stairs two at a time, he stopped in the lobby where he’d seen a pile of plastic-wrapped newspapers delivered for subscribing residents on a daily basis.
Stealing one of the bundles, he fashioned a parasol utilizing a combination of plastic and a partially unfolded paper, and then stepped out into the rain.

It wasn’t coming down
hard, more of a steady drizzle, but Dusty didn’t care. He inhaled deeply and began walking, the newspaper held at an angle to hide his face from the street. For a few moments, he worried that moisture might harm the rail gun he’d brought along for his walk. Stopping under the next overhang to check, he found the messenger bag Maria had purchased for him was waterproof – the weapon nice and cozy dry.

Continuing along, he came into an area of small shops and restaurants, the smell of bacon and eggs waffling down the sidewalk. His stomach reminded him that he hadn’t enjoyed anyone else’s cooking in days, so h
e changed direction and made for the small greasy spoon, the neon sign out front declaring its name was “The Nook.”

Pushing open the door, he stomped the water off his boots on the mat inside and then looked up to
the greeting of a gracious, middle-aged woman holding a stack of menus. “Booth, table or at the bar, hun?”

Dusty saw a television above the counter, the local weatherman pointing to a map full of symbols and curvy lines. Despite the change in his hair color and removal of facial hair, he didn’t want to be in proximity to the TV
if it flashed his picture.

Nodding toward a booth, he followed the greeter and took a seat facing the door.
Holding the plastic-fold menu up in front of his face, he ordered and then pretended interest in the eatery’s other selections, all the while scanning the other patrons to see if he had been noticed.

He felt like a
private eye from some B-grade movie, pretending to read a newspaper while covertly keeping watch on a suspect. Just ignore me… nothing special here… just a guy reading the menu… no need for you to see my face.

Both the breakfast and the coffee were excellent, his meal enjoyed without any pesky interruptions by the police or observant citizens. He paid cash, left a nice tip
, and nodded shyly at his waitress on the way outside. The drizzle was still falling, and according to both the meteorologist, and the young lady who waited on him, it was to continue all day.

He walked a short distan
ce further when he spied a secondhand Goodwill store. He was familiar with the charity-based operation from when he and Maria had first married. Back in those financially strapped days, a drive to the Goodwill store in El Paso was the only way they were able to purchase clothing for both of them as well as Mitch. Even then, they had to manage their funds carefully.

Remembering simpler times, Dusty crossed the street and entered the large outlet. This particular store smelled exactly the same as the one in El Paso.

Originally wanting only an umbrella, Dusty decided he was in no hurry and walked the aisles, reminiscing about his early days of marriage. The one woman working at the counter paid no attention to him, her upset voice carrying through the store as she argued with her boyfriend on her cell phone.

He found
an overcoat that would fit his shoulders and was the proper length, the unit marked for pennies on the dollar what it would cost new in a men’s store. The wide collar could be turned up, adding another layer to his disguise.

He was on his way to the front, bumbershoot and overcoat in hand
, when something caught his eye on the toy aisle. Doing a double take, he saw a child’s play rifle lying on a shelf. It looked very similar to his rail gun.

Reaching for
the pretend firearm, he was amazed at how close the replica was. With a little different paint, a few electrical coils and a spare battery, he’d have trouble telling the difference. Not sure why, he decided to purchase the fake.

He didn’t think the woman at the counter even looked at him. Something had gone wrong last night at dinner, and her boyfriend, Nate, was hearing all about it. So was everyone else who entered the shop.
And I thought I was in hot water
, mused Dusty.
I’d hate to be in poor Nate’s shoes
.

Taking his purchases around the corner, Dusty
ducked into a narrow alley, quickly donned the overcoat, opened the umbrella and slung the sack over his shoulder with the satchel. Delighted with his day so far, he decided to continue his stroll, regardless of the increasing precipitation.

He had progressed two blocks when h
e caught sight of a familiar logo, the shield and letters spelling out Houston Police, on the door of a passing car. Forcing himself to keep the cruiser in his peripheral vision and avoid looking directly at the cop required all of his discipline. Even more self-control was required when shortly after passing him, the officer signaled he was turning.

Is he circling around for another look?
Dusty questioned.

Detouring at a right angle away from the policemen led to a slightly less affluent area, but he was the only person on the sidewalk, the heavy precipitation
obviously keeping other pedestrians inside. Almost at the end of the block, Dusty paused, his attention focused on the lot of a small, private, used car dealership. There, parked on the front row, was a 1966 Chevy half-ton pickup – the exact model his father had driven for years.

A quick check of the traffic
showed no sign of the patrol car, so he decided to walk onto the lot and have a peek at the old girl. If nothing else, getting off the street would help him relax.

Someone had invested a serious number of hours into restoring the old truck. Wiping the rain from the driver’s window, Dusty could see the vinyl upholstery looked new, as did the floorboards and
parts of the dash. The interior reminded him of his childhood, so many hours spent with his dad riding in just such a vehicle.

Walking around and inspecting the body, Dusty could see a few patches here and there – body putty used to fill in areas of rust or damage. The paint job wasn’t worthy of a high dollar restoration, but it wasn’t terrible either.

“She runs as good as she looks, señor,” announced an older Latino man. “My son did the restoration after we picked it up from an auction.”

Dusty glanced up at the salesman, the fellow toting a huge umbrella advertising a popular Mexican beer. As he approached, he stuck out his hand and said, “Juan.”

“Max,” replied Dusty, deciding to use his father’s name in honor of the old Chevy.

Juan inserted a key into the driver’s side lock and then moved to the front and opened the hood. Dusty met him there where the two men stared down at a clean, plain looking engine. “From a simpler time,” noted Dusty.

“Not a computer chip or circuit board in there,” replied the salesman. “Simple, rugged and dependable.”

Dusty moved to sit behind the wheel, the maneuver requiring the closure of his umbrella. Juan didn’t seem to notice the quick glance his customer
cast up and down the street before entering the cab. The coast was still clear.

While the outside of the old hauler sparked memories, the interior submerged Dusty into the past. The “three on the tree” shifter, the
tarpaper like floor covering, bench seat, and primitive AM radio pulled him back to a simpler, happier time.

Reaching up to touch the shifter on the steering column, he recalled his father’s muscular arm working the gears in smooth motions, the manual effort seemingly second nature. The steering wheel was huge compared to modern vehicles, the diameter required due to the lack of power steering. Controlling a truck from this period required both upper body strength and coordination.

The dash was ridiculously simple. A well-worn, chrome slide controlled three environmental settings; vent, heat and defrost. There were no air conditioning, recirculation, or temperature controls. The radio was equipped with only two knobs bookending a row of green digits that indicated frequency. A thin, red post moved right and left to indicate where the unit was tuned. The small window of numbers would fill the cabin with a warm glow of light during nighttime driving.

Citizens of
Fort Davis in the early 1970s received only one radio station, and that was often filled with bursts of static. Dusty remembered his father’s rapt attention as he listened to announcers rambling on about the price of corn per bushel, pork bellies, and bean futures. The market reports were typically followed by simple country and western music, the serenades often portraying the broken heart of a cowboy recently abandoned by the love of his life.

There weren’t any seatbelts, the safety feature not
included or required for several years after this model year. The windows were raised and lowered via a manually cranked knob, the main panes of door-glass assisted by smaller vents at the front that were pushed out and whistled if the speed exceeded 30 mph.