Part 9 (1/2)
Smythe led the MP's up to the fifth floor, where Woods was staying. One of the sergeants yelled a warning, waited a few seconds, and opened the door. Everybody went inside.
Smythe entered last. Immediately, he could tell from the neatly made bed that Woods had not slept in it. All the towels in the bathroom were still folded and dry. There was a suitcase on the floor. Smythe checked the luggage tags to confirm he was in the right room, and he was.
”He's not here, sir,” one of the MP's said.
Smythe wanted to slap the man. ”I can see that. Go back to the hospital and search for him there. Maybe the other laboratory technicians know where he is. I'll stay here in case he shows up.”
”Sir?”
”Don't worry about me. I can handle one flabby, little civilian by myself. I'll hold him here until you come back.”
”Yes, sir.”
”Get moving,” Smythe ordered. ”Woods is a traitor. We can't let him get away.”
The MPs left.
He sat on a chair. The room was warm and quiet, and he was extremely tired. His eyes kept drooping despite his best efforts to stay alert. He decided that if he didn't take a nap, he would pa.s.s out.
He kicked off his shoes and lay on the bed, still fully clothed. If Woods reappeared, the noise would definitely wake him up.
”Sir?” a voice said. ”Captain Smythe? What are you doing in my room?”
Smythe found himself in a strange bed. He was groggy and confused. Slowly, memories returned, strange and disturbing memories. He recalled a pair of dark eyes full of death.
He sat up.
Seeing Woods made him wonder whether he was still sleeping. The technician wore a red suit with black velvet lapels. Red lipstick marked both cheeks.
”I was waiting for you.”
”Why?” Woods replied in a nervous tone.
”Where were you all night? Wait, I can guess. They told me you were a degenerate gambler. You went straight to the nearest casino and lost every penny in that briefcase. Seventy grand, was it?”
Woods' eyes opened wide. He took a step backwards towards the door.
”No, you don't!” Smythe yelled.
He jumped off the bed and caught Woods by the wrist before he could escape. They scuffled as Smythe dragged the smaller man away from the door.
”I know everything!” Smythe said. ”You sold secrets! You betrayed your country! You filthy traitor.”
Woods grabbed a lamp and swung it violently. Smythe had to release him to dodge out of the way, but he made sure to block the escape route to the door.
”I didn't have a choice,” Woods said. ”They had me by the b.a.l.l.s.”
”There is no excuse for treason.”
Woods backed up. He looked around and his gaze settled on a sliding door leading to a tiny balcony.
”We're on the fifth floor,” Smythe said.
”I won't go to prison.”
”You're going to jump instead? That's suicide.”
Woods opened the sliding door and looked out.
Smythe was so angry his blood was pounding in his temples. Woods represented everything wrong with the modern Army. He was weak and corrupt. Money was his only motivation. Men like that could destroy a proud nation.
”You're pathetic,” Smythe said. ”The cash didn't even last one night. Were you planning to earn more by selling more secrets? Is treachery your full-time job now?”
Woods climbed onto the balcony railing and threw his leg over.
”Go ahead and kill yourself,” Smythe said. ”Save everybody the trouble of giving you a fair trial. When they execute you, I hope it hurts.”
Instead of throwing himself off the balcony, Woods started climbing down the other side. Smythe realized that he intended to drop onto the balcony below and escape that way. Woods wasn't committing suicide at all!
”No!” Smythe charged forward.
Woods panicked and fell back. Smythe ran over and looked down in time to see Woods hanging by his fingertips.
”Grab my hand!” Smythe reached down.
Woods tried, but his arm was too short and he only grasped air. His grip failed. Seemingly in slow motion, he plunged to a concrete patio below and struck head first. Blood and brains splattered in a crescent pattern. Smythe gasped.
A woman and two girls stood near enough to the impact to catch a bit of spray on their clothes. All three looked up and had a clear view of his face. The girls started screaming hysterically.
In a moment of terrible clarity, he realized he was screwed. The witnesses would report Smythe had pushed Woods off the balcony. The military police would report they had left Smythe in Woods' room, and Smythe had appeared emotionally disturbed at the time. It was a clear case of murder, and there was no evidence to prove otherwise.
He didn't doubt the Army would take this opportunity to crucify him. Certain high ranking generals still remembered the embarra.s.sing Quryah incident. Word would filter down that the best prosecutors should be a.s.signed to the case, and no plea bargain should be offered. After a perfunctory trial, Smythe would receive the maximum sentence.
He had to make a choice. If he followed the rules, he would go to prison for a crime he didn't commit. Salvaging his career and his reputation was impossible. If he fled now, he would never stop running.
He turned and ran.
Chapter Seven.
”I only had a few hours to look at the files,” Ramirez said, ”and there are a lot of files, so this is just a very preliminary a.n.a.lysis. Take it with a grain of salt.”
Ethel had called a meeting at a sus.h.i.+ restaurant in Naperville. She, Aaron, and Marina ate a late lunch while Ramirez delivered his report.
”The government doctors call the illness 'PRooFS,' for Progressive Respiratory Failure Syndrome.”