Mirrored Man: The Rob Tyler Chronicles Book 1 (5 page)

“Some redneck with a gun is gonna come out
from behind one of them trees and take that flashy car from you.
And maybe that ain't all they're gonna take.”

“No they won’t.” She smiled.

“Do you have any idea how many times I've
heard from folks who thought like that right before somethin’
happens to ‘em?” Kelly sneered.

“I can take care of myself.” She patted the
oversized brown leather handbag slung over her shoulder.

Kelly shook his head. Cindy Lattice was a
retired police officer from up north, and he was well aware that
she carried a nine-millimeter automatic for protection. But he
still thought she was being reckless. “Okay, Quick Draw McGraw.
Just remember, retired cops ain't bulletproof.”

“Ahhh,” she moaned, waving him off as she
walked past.

“Y’all need to get that light fixed.
Especially if you’re gonna keep parkin’ in that corner.”

Cindy glanced over her shoulder. “Oh,
they're supposed to be out here in the next day or two to fix
it.”

Satisfied, Kelly followed her inside.

“Good morning!” Cindy greeted, opening the
door wide as she entered. “How are you guys?”

“Morning.” Stan, a man in his thirties with
an athletic build and a mop in his hand, called back to her with a
wave.

“Hey, Cindy,” Jackie answered with her usual
infectious smile. She was a sweet-looking young blonde. Kelly had
actually demanded to see her I.D. upon their first meeting, not
believing that she was old enough to sell alcohol. “You're
late.”

“I am?” Cindy checked her watch. “I am
not.”

“Hey, Officer Mueller,” Jackie greeted
cheerfully.

"Hey, sweet thing." Kelly made his way to
the coffee machine.

The only other occupant of the store was a
man in a khaki shirt with a Budweiser patch over the pocket. He
came out of the walk-in cooler, pulling an empty hand truck.
“Mornin’, Officer,” he mumbled as he passed, nodding at Kelly, who
nodded back as he reached for a cup with one hand and a pot of
steaming liquid with the other.

“Black and bold,” he said in
anticipation.

“You got that right,” Cindy joked.

Kelly chuckled, took a sip, and turned back
to where Cindy was busily doing something he couldn't see behind
the counter. He stood and chatted with the three employees as he
absently watched the deliveryman haul load after load of beer into
the cooler.

“Well, I gotta get back to the barn,” Kelly
soon announced.

“Okay, sweetie,” Cindy said without looking
up.

“See y'all next time. Thanks fer the
coffee,” he said with a wave, heading toward the door.

“Be safe, Officer Mueller,” Jackie called
behind him. “See ya next time.”

Walking out, Kelly took an almost reflexive
look over at the Mayflower truck.
Somethin’ just ain’t
right
. A moment later he shook it off.
Cindy ain't worried
about it
,
I ain't worried about it.

He climbed into the cruiser and was almost
to the highway when curiosity got the best of him. He circled back
around and pulled close to the Mayflower’s trailer, then rolled his
window down and inched past as he studied it. He saw nothing
unusual, but the hairs standing on the back of his neck just
wouldn't allow him to let it go.

Stopping next to the cab, he climbed out of
the car. One thing Kelly hadn't noticed before was a refrigeration
unit attached to the trailer.
Why would a moving van need to be
refrigerated?
He was studying the words “Climate Controlled”
emblazoned across the unit in gold letters when the driver’s door
opened, startling the deputy who instinctively reached for his
sidearm.

The man who stepped down from the cab was
dressed in a pair of dark boxer shorts and a gray undershirt. He
appeared to be in his fifties, thin, about six feet tall in his
bare feet, salt and pepper hair in disarray. His eyes betrayed a
need for more sleep. “Is there a problem, Officer? The boss lady
inside said it'd be okay for me to park here.”

This guy must be a light sleeper
.
Must've woke him up when I yelled at Cindy
. Kelly hoped the
man hadn't seen him reach for his weapon. He eyed the trucker for a
moment and then shook his head.
What the heck am I doing
?
“Naw, it’s okay. I was just takin' a look. I thought I saw a coyote
run up under yer truck, that's all,” he lied. “Go on back to sleep,
partner. I'm sorry I woke ya up.”

Kelly took one more sideways glance at the
truck and walked back around toward his cruiser.

“Is everything alright?" A female voice
shouted.

Kelly nearly jumped out of his skin as he
again grabbed the butt of his pistol. He didn’t immediately
recognize the silhouette in the darkness, but the northern accent
was unmistakable once it registered. “Cindy? Is that you? Girl,
don't do that! Not to a cop! Especially in the dark! Jeez! You
could‘a given me a heart attack, fer cryin' out loud!”

“I'm sorry,” she said sincerely.

“I might've shot ya,” he added for effect,
though he was far too disciplined with a firearm for that. “What
are you doin'?”

“Well, I saw you come around here and I
wanted to make sure everything was alright.”

“Everything's fine,” he said a bit sternly.
“Now go on back inside.”

Rather than follow his instruction, she
stood and watched as Kelly climbed back in to his cruiser and drove
out on to the highway.

“That was weird,” Kelly almost shouted to
himself. “Why'd she come out there like that?”

As the patrol car topped a hill, the sun’s
rays nearly blinded him as they reflected in his mirrors. Shielding
his eyes from the glare, he checked the clock.

“Six-eighteen," he moaned. "Great! Now I'm
gonna be late.” He had things to do.

* * * * *

STEPPING OVER TO
stand next to Cindy
as she watched the taillights of Kelly’s cruiser disappear over a
hill, the truck driver asked, “What was that all about?”

“I’m sure it was nothing,” Cindy replied.
“Sometimes he just gets a little suspicious, that’s all. Why? What
did he say?”

The man shook his head. “Said he saw a dog
or somethin’ run under the truck. But, he was gettin’ a little too
close fer my comfort.”

“That cop’s getting too nosy for his own
good.” A voice called from behind them, startling the two from
their conversation.

Chills rode down Cindy’s spine. Looking back
at the shadowy form, she recognized the silhouette of Air Force
Sergeant Neil Covington standing next to the truck. Since coming to
work at the store, she had seen him occasionally. Every time she
did, she got the same sickly feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Leaning over to her companion, she whispered, “He’s all yours. That
man gives me the skeevies.” With that she waved at the newcomer and
headed back to the store.

“Don’t worry, Covington. He didn’t see
nothin’,” the truck driver assured him.

Covington simply stood there silently for
several moments before he reached up and banged on the still-sealed
rear doors of the trailer. “Okay guys. Let’s get this thing
unloaded before Barney Fife comes back to take a closer look.” He
stood there another moment, causing the driver to shift his feet
uncomfortably, before he stepped back behind the trailer and out of
sight.

The driver watched to be sure Covington was
out of earshot before he mumbled, “Somethin’ just ain’t right ‘bout
that guy.”

* * * * *

THE SKY WAS CLOUDLESS
and pale blue
as Major Gregory Mathers leaned against the bumper of his silver
Toyota 4 Runner and wiped his brow with a napkin left over from
breakfast. It was proving to be a typically steamy morning in
central Georgia, and the temperature had quickly risen into the low
90s. He had parked next to the flight line on the easternmost side
of the airfield belonging to the 116th Air Control Wing. A squadron
of Boeing 707-300 JSTAR aircraft lined the service way to his right
where their ground crews dutifully went about the business of
maintenance and equipment upgrades for the aging planes.

On the opposite side of the field,
accentuated by the heat shimmering above the tarmac, were the main
hangars and maintenance structures of Robins Air Force Base. There,
several different types of aircraft—C-130s, C-17s, C-5s, F-15s—were
rotated into the structures for varying degrees of maintenance and
testing.

Yeah, I'm a doctor and they send me to a
base with sick airplanes. Irony can be pretty ironic sometimes.

When Greg completed his Air Force training,
he had hoped that he would be posted somewhere like Ramstein,
Germany, where he could work with soldiers wounded in the war-torn
Middle East and eastern Africa. Or to somewhere exotic like Japan
or South Korea. He would have even settled for Wright Patterson in
Ohio, close to home, family, and friends. But instead, in its
infinite wisdom, the Air Force had sent him to Georgia for his
first operational assignment. And, to add insult to injury, he was
not even practicing medicine. He was nothing more than a
go-between, a paper pusher. A supply manager, of all things. An
assignment more suited to an enlisted man, not a medical doctor.
Greg had been appointed to this duty less than a month earlier, and
his main concern thus far was maintaining the project's inventory.
The bulk of the wares were food and food prep materials, medical
supplies, office equipment, and housekeeping provisions. But it was
the other materials that kept him awake at night. If it was on the
periodic table or anything associated with laboratory
experimentation, it was on his grocery list. From aspirin to zinc,
air purifiers to x-ray supplies.

Brushing those thoughts away, he turned his
attention to the non-descript Gulfstream G450 that had landed
moments before. The sun glinted brightly off the white and silver
fuselage and signature oval windows of the aircraft as it taxied
toward him. Greg was waiting to escort the newly elected senator
and Vice Chairman of the Senate Appropriations Committee to the
site of his current assignment, Project Pine Tree.

Greg was still unsure of just what role he
was supposed to play within this project. Oh, he knew the material
he was about to present to the senator. The mechanics of it anyway.
That was not the problem. The problem was that he was a medical
doctor assigned as a supply clerk to a classified, recently
acquired civilian project. He had no knowledge of it beyond what
was held in the warehouse, and his only point of contact with the
project’s personnel, so far, was Dr. Juan Tiong, a veterinarian.
There were times, late at night, that the implications of a vet
being on the program made Greg more than a little bit
uncomfortable.
Maybe I don't want to know what's going on inside
there.

Tiong, a mousey little man from the
Philippines, diligently inventoried the entire warehouse every
Friday from 0800 to 1400 hours. Everything Tiong did was
meticulously calculated, right down to the type of pen he used.
Greg learned early on to keep a good supply of them on hand. Tiong
was notorious for losing them.

Okay,
Greg mentally prepared himself,
what kind of questions is this stuffed-shirt Washington type
gonna ask me that I won't be able to answer? Twelve years of school
and residency at Ohio State and all I know about this thing is what
they have in the kitchen for dinner and how many boxes of Biogel
surgical gloves are on hand.
Just let the contractors do the
talking
.
They’re the ones on the spot here, not me.

Greg was a rather plain-looking man. Six
foot, thin framed, with blond hair and blue eyes. He was dressed in
a navy blue tee with an unbuttoned white short-sleeve shirt hung
loosely over it, tan cargo shorts, and an Ohio State baseball cap.
His daily uniform of late.

Smiling a bit nervously, Greg took a few
steps toward the aircraft as it rolled to a stop, waving at the
unseen occupants. Glancing back at his SUV, he remembered the two
matching sets of Taylor Made golf clubs in the back, their custom
bags complete with Air Force colors.
Well, there's always golf.
Politicians love golf.

Shielding his eyes from the glare, he turned
his attention back to the sleek aircraft. Its high-pitched turbines
whined slowly down to an idle as the stairs were lowered, revealing
a single passenger.
Here we go
.

The man was younger than Greg had expected,
perhaps in his mid forties, dark brown hair, clean-shaven face,
athletic build. He stood about five foot ten, carried with him a
thin brown portfolio, and was dressed casually in penny loafers,
blue jeans, and a red and black University of Georgia polo
shirt.

A Bulldog, huh?
What a redneck
this guy must be.
“Senator Kitchens,” Greg said, managing his
best warm smile. “I'm Greg Mathers. It's a pleasure to meet you,
sir. Welcome to Georgia. How was your flight?”

“Short,” Kitchens replied, with just a hint
of a southern accent. His brown eyes glinted as he smiled and
continued. “I didn't even have time to finish the movie.”

“What movie was that, sir?” Greg asked.

Kitchens eyed him closely. “A joke. I'm
sorry. My sense of humor loses somethin’ in the translation.”

Greg gave the senator a quizzical look.

“Major, isn't it?” Kitchens firmly grasped
Greg's hand, smiling broadly. The smile of a politician. “Or, do
you prefer Doctor?”

“Just Greg is fine, Senator. I don't stand
too much on formality, sir.” Greg gained a marginal amount of
respect for the man, while, at the same time, trying not to look
too uncomfortable.
At least he knows who I am
.

Kitchens' brow furrowed. “Nonsense. Doctor
and Major are both very respectable titles. You've earned
everything that comes with 'em. Don't ever let anybody tell you
different, especially somebody who lies for a living like a
politician.”