The Whisper Box (20 page)

The old Indian man mopping the floor had a stench that was almost unforgettable. He actually smelled like jar of pickles with the distant odor of whiskey mixed in. He was a pleasant old man though, possibly sixty, thick skin, and long black hair that was decorated with silver streaks every few strands. He was in dire need of a shave. Aaron approached him and asked where he could find an arrival area for chartered flights. He set his mop under his right elbow like a kickstand and pointed. Aaron thanked his Indian tour guide and kept moving. His legs were shaking from anticipation.

He leaned on the desk in the Chartered Flights counter and rang the service bell. He was the only one there. The counter was downstairs in a dark, lightly trafficked area. He would rather it be this way for a while. A brown haired woman with brown eyes, brown eye shadow, and brown lipstick came towards him. She shifted her hair that was neatly tucked into a bun to the center, as it had fallen slightly from the hours at work.

“Good afternoon sir, may I help you?” she said in a monotonous tone.

“Yes ma'am, I'm here to meet a chartered flight from Washington-Dulles Airport. I think it should be arriving by six tonight.”

Her eyes shot up at Aaron, then back down to her desk. “Sir, would you mind waiting right here please?”

“No ma'am.” Aaron's legs resumed their shake. Were they on to him? Was she going to notify the police? He decided to play it cool and wait right there.

“I'll be right back.” She turned and almost ran into the office behind her.

The office had a huge glass window separating it from the front counter. Although Aaron could not hear the conversation, he could tell by the hand gestures being exchanged between the counter lady and the tall, slender black haired man that there was some kind of a problem. The man looked at Aaron through the window, rubbed his long pointed nose with his index finger, and stood up. He came out to Aaron and put his hand out for a shake. The woman was standing by his side staring at Aaron, studying him. This could not be good, he thought.

“Sir, that flight, the one from Washington - Dulles, went down hours ago. They lost power somewhere over North Carolina. Police are still out there trying to figure out what happened. It crashed near Asheville, North Carolina. Right now all we know is the plane was supposed to be carrying the two pilots and that fella from CNN. So far they have found four bodies instead of three and have not identified any of them yet.” He put his right hand on Aaron's left shoulder. “I'm sorry sir.”

Aaron stood there slack jawed. All he could muster up to say, in a faint voice was, “You sure?”

“Yes sir, I'm sorry.”

Aaron stared blankly at the man and woman. “Yeah. Thanks. Were there any survivors? Do you have any idea?”

The tall man looked at the lady. She looked at the floor again, shuffled her feet from left to right and shook her head.

“Honestly sir, they’ve found no survivors but they’re still investigating. There was an old drunken man who told police he saw the plane crashing and that he saw a man jump out with a parachute. But, who knows? The old man in the woods was a drunk. Nobody knows anything at this point. They really don't know enough to comment on an escape especially. That's really all I've heard. Since chartered aircraft have nothing to do with this airport like the major companies, we are usually the last to know.”

Aaron was now deeper in a fog. His days were getting progressively worse rather than progressively better. He just hoped that the old drunken man was right about the parachute. He just hoped that Grant found the parachute and got out. Why were more people on the plane than expected? He was completely confused but his mission was clear. He had to get to Asheville and find out for himself. If Grant was the unknown parachutist then Aaron had to be the first one to find him.

He was on his way to rent a car when it hit him. He cannot rent a car. He cannot use credit cards. He cannot even use some of his newfound cash. No matter how he paid, his name would be listed on a car with a license plate number. There would be an all points bulletin out on him within twenty-four hours. Either way he would have to leave some kind of identification. That would leave an easily traceable trail. It came to him quickly. He had to steal a car! The only way to steal a car and not be chased after by police within twenty minutes was to steal a car from long-term parking. That might buy him an extra day, maybe two or three.

Aaron made his way out to the long-term parking lot. It was after six o'clock now and the sun was setting. The parking lot was about two acres and it was full. Mac had two different neighbors who had little magnets stuck underneath their fenders to hide a spare key. He thought it was the most ridiculous invention yet and he was about to exploit it. If two guys within seven houses of him had it then surely one out of the three hundred in this lot had it. He dropped to his knees and began feeling each car. He worked slowly and quietly. He had broken enough laws already and would never live with himself if he got sent to prison for something so stupid. He walked in a crouch after his right knee began to bleed. By eight o'clock he was walking from car to car.

As he approached the last row of cars his frustration grew to its pinnacle. He could not take it anymore. There was about twenty cars left and he was positive that he was not going to find keys. He did not know how to “hot-wire” a car. This was his only option.

He approached the little Honda from the rear. He was going to check the rear tires first because he thought this model had front wheel drive. The gentlemen in his neighborhood told him last year at the Memorial Day Neighborhood Cookout that they put their key box on the wheel well with the least activity. The gentleman who drove this yellow Honda CRX obviously agreed with the theory. Halfway back on the front end of the right rear tire's wheel well was a plastic black box.

Aaron whispered to himself, “Thank you God.”

Although he held the key, he was scared to try the lock. There was nothing blinking inside the car. He saw no stickers alerting a perpetrator of an alarm. All he could see was a hanging sign from the rear view mirror that read “100% Italian Stallion.” He chuckled and went for it. He inserted the key slowly. When the key's head was flush to the door, he turned to the right and looked in the window. The locks clicked over to reveal their red side thus alerting the driver that the doors were now unlocked. Aaron opened the door and tried to sit in the seat. His knees almost hit his chin. He lifted the handle and pushed the seat back. The car smelled like an old cigar. Both bucket seats were worn out. What used to be black leather was now a light gray. The leather was cracking everywhere. The floorboards were covered in ashes and there was a solid film of dust across the dash. Aaron would vacuum this trashcan on wheels as soon as he could. The least he could do if he were going to steal this person's car was clean it. Whoever the owner was, Aaron Gallo was doing them a favor. Insurance money was better than this thing anyway, Aaron thought.

He reached for the ticket on the dash. The car had only been there for twenty-four hours. It was probably in long term parking for a reason; therefore he had at least another day or two before its disappearance would be discovered. He gladly paid the eight dollars to exit the parking lot and sped off. He stopped at the first gas station he saw and filled up his new little yellow savior. Gas prices were astonishingly high right now and he just filled his new car up for nine dollars. This would get him all the way to Asheville with another half tank to spare. He made a mental note to buy a Honda when he got his life back in order. He bought a map inside the Circle K and mixed a tall cup of coffee too. Sooner or later he would have to stop at a rest area to check his e-mail. His trip was going to be approximately two and a half-hours.

Grant had been walking for hours. He knew with every minute that passed it was another minute closer to JohnnyM80 sitting in an airport cursing him again. He wanted this man to know that he was serious about helping him and the other man, GMH3. There had to be trails, a rest area, a mobile home park or something resembling life soon. As he continued on he reminisced about the old days. The path he took in his career was definitely different than his predecessors, and eerily similar to the one he was travelling now. He thought about his old friends that he no longer kept in contact with. Those people would not even recognize him now. The old editor who stuck a knife in his back when he was younger, the people that told him he would never make it, his first wife who said his career was some “fly by night fantasy of his” -- they would all soon see how he made out. He dreamed how his success and his riches would soon be more than any of them could ever imagine.

Beyond the trees, Grant saw flickering lights. His heart began to race. He was afraid people would recognize him and cause some stir. Those who had found the wrecked plane were probably assuming Grant was one of the dead bodies. He could use that to his advantage. If some town people recognized him and word got out that the “guy from CNN” was walking around town with ripped clothes and bleeding everywhere, it could be detrimental to the plan to be incognito.

As he got closer and closer to the flickering lights, he realized what he was coming up on. The lights were not flickering after all. These lights were cars driving about sixty miles per hour down an access road near a small town. He stopped about twenty feet from the road. He could see a church along the road. Further down the freshly paved street was a small township. Grant could see a gas station, people, a restaurant, and other miscellaneous businesses. Grant had to clean himself in order to avoid any more attention. If he bought a hat and glasses he may further conceal his identity. The irony was too thick.

He walked in the woods, still twenty feet off the road, closer to the town. Each step came with a thousand crackling snaps as twigs and branches crushed beneath his feet. He wanted to remain quiet, but every noise seemed too loud. He came to the first building. It looked like the post office from behind. There was one mail truck parked in the rear beside the entrance. This pick up truck had to be at least thirty years old. On the door it read “Town of Gillens Post Office.” The next building that Grant snuck up on was a small Southern restaurant. Grant could smell the grease twenty feet away in the woods. Surely no tourists visited here. This had to be a very old establishment where friends would meet in the morning for grits and coffee. He knew this because there was a place like this in his hometown while he was growing up. His mouth watered for a minute, then he moved on.

The next building was an indistinguishable one. He snuck up closer to it and ducked behind the dumpster. He looked on the ground around his feet and noticed old, dirty pieces of paper everywhere. He picked one up and wiped the dirt off. He unwrinkled the little piece of paper and could make out the words “Aunt Suzy's Closet.” This had to be a clothing store. He peered down the alley and saw no one. This was his chance and he could not miss it. He ran down the alley, zipped around the corner and headed for the entrance. He had walked into a small store equivalent to The Gap. Sweat pants, sweatshirts, jeans, jackets, Tshirts and various other articles of clothing lined the walls. He found a restroom sign in the top right hand corner of the room hanging from the ceiling. The arrow pointed his way. There was no one at the register. He almost ran for the bathroom. He was about fifteen feet from the room when a woman came out of the storage room in the back and stared at him for a second. She did not recognize him as Grant Winchester or as anyone at all. This was a small town; when a stranger showed up everyone suspected something.

“Hey youngster! Can I help you find something nice?” The woman had changed her direction and was walking towards him, now focusing on the tears in his shirt.

“I had a little accident hiking in the woods ma'am. I was hoping I could use your rest room to clean up and then buy all new clothes here in your store.” Grant knew the promise of fresh money in the store would allow the woman to at least give him a chance.

“OK sweetie. I got a First Aid Kit under the sink. You could use a Band-Aid or two by the looks of ya'.” She was already laying it on thick.

Grant shut the bathroom door behind him and stared at himself in the mirror. He felt like James Bond. He felt good. Grant always carried plenty of cash. His salary was four hundred and forty thousand dollars per year and he carried a lot of money around in his wallet. He, too, would not be tracked down from a trail of credit card receipts. There could be no paper trail for a man who just died in a plane crash.

He scrubbed the dirt off his face, then off his elbows and forearms. He had to wash certain parts of his body twice. The hardened blood was staining his skin, as was the dirt that was driven deep into his pores. When he finished his cleaning he inspected himself in the mirror. Other than his clothing he looked fine. He would buy a backpack and several outfits to stay clean and unnoticeable for at least a few days.

Grant came out of the bathroom and used a fake Southern drawl to try and mask exactly who he was. He greeted the woman again. “Howdy ma'am. Would you mind if I looked around a little?”

“No sir, please do. You new in town?”

“Again ma'am, I'm just passin' through.” Grant was not in the mood for a conversation. The more contact he had with others, the more likely they were to figure out who he was.

“Hey, you look an awful lot like the boy on television. The reporter fella',” said Aunt Suzy.

Grant took a deep breath while facing away from the woman and shut his eyes. His mind was racing for something to say. He turned towards her and smiled. “If I got a dollar for every time someone told me that, I'd be richer than Garth Brooks ma'am.”

The saleswoman was convinced already as Grant was standing far from her on the other side of the store. He grabbed three pairs of jeans, and then made his way over to the sweatshirt and T-shirt section and grabbed two of each. He walked towards the baseball hats hanging on the wall. He added two of these to the bundle of clothes he had clutched against his chest. His last items were a pair of work boots and a brown leather backpack. He loved what this store had to offer and wondered why this small town woman had not tried to franchise this place. She could move out of her doublewide into a mansion within six months.

He slowly moved to the cash register. “That's all ma'am. Could I use your changing room when we're finished up here?”

“Sure. You sure do look like the man on television. You sure you ain't him?” she asked again.

“Ma'am, I wish I was him, I wouldn't be spending my last dollar to buy all these clothes. I'd also be in Washington reporting on the President's wife being killed.”

She made the connection. Grant Winchester must be in Washington right now. “That's true. I guess all them reporters are kind of busy right now. It's a shame about our First Lady. She was a fine woman. That'll be one hundred twelve dollars and eighteen cents sir.”

Grant threw six twenties on the counter and was headed toward the bathroom again. Initially he was going to go to the changing room but he figured he could wash himself again in case he missed anywhere on his body. He also wanted to give his hair one more chance to cooperate. He was out of his clothes and into his new ones in a flash. He already felt revived. He slipped his black denim hat down so it sat just above his thick, black eye brows. Only someone who was studying him could recognize him as the reporter on CNN. If he kept his distance from people he would be OK.

He exited the bathroom and asked the woman if there was a library in town. She was again curious because his actions did not add up. Why would a man who just had an unspecified accident in the woods want to go to the library?

“Sir, I'm sorry I keep botherin' you but why in Sam hell are you looking for a library? You looked like you need an ambulance when you walked in here.” Grant could feel her uneasiness with the story he gave her. She had, at the very least, to have already known about a plane crash only miles from her small town.

“Ma'am, I would appreciate your understanding. I am a FBI agent that has been undercover for six months trying to bust one of your neighbors for selling large amounts of cocaine here in your pretty little town. He sells the cocaine to children. I can't tell you his name right yet but you'll see it on the news tonight. OK? Any more questions?” Grant gave her a stern look that told her he was in no mood for any more questions.

“Oh goodness officer, I'm sorry.” She just stood there looking petrified and curious simultaneously.

Grant walked out of Aunt Suzy's and turned back left for the restaurant. He was starving and could not wait to sit down. He had been running, walking, falling and crashing for the last four hours and he was ready to sit for a while.

He entered the small restaurant and went right to the farthest booth in the back. Every eye in the place was on him. He pulled his hat down further and quickened up his pace. As he was sitting down, he was also grabbing the menu to pull up over his face. He had not shaved in a day and his face was getting gruff. With that, the hat and the menu he was sure to go unrecognized.

The waitress approached the table with her pad and pen. Grant's instinct almost took over. He was about to grab the pad and pen from her and give her an autograph. She was preparing to take his order. His order went smoothly. The young girl did not examine him because he was from out of town. She did not question his identity because she did not recognize him. She was at least seven months pregnant. Her straight brown hair was tucked under a hair net. Her makeup was applied so that anyone could carve some graffiti below her high cheekbones. Her cheeks were chubby enough to fit most anything that one would want to inscribe there. She seemed to have other things on her mind. Her husband probably drank a case of cheap beer every night. She probably drove a car made before the Vietnam War and this was probably her fourth child at least. She looked the part and was not concerned with the celebrity sitting in the booth.

Grant spotted a used newspaper in the unoccupied booth next to him. He slid across the red fiberglass bench he was sitting on so not to draw any attention to himself. He opened up the World News section completely so it would cover his face. In these pages he saw countless articles written about the First Lady and her death. There was a timeline that broke down all of her biggest moments chronologically. The media was making her out to be the Princess Diana of America. She was Jackie Kennedy in a more modernized sense. He read a statement from President Farnsworth. Grant knew deep down inside that Farnsworth was responsible for her death somehow. Reading his words brought back some foul memories. Grant was going to bring him down.

His food arrived in less than ten minutes. Each bite was better than the one before. The bacon was just right. It was not too crisp yet not too undercooked. The tomatoes were firm and tasty as opposed to some of the softer, aged one's he got at Martin's in Atlanta. The lettuce had no brown stains anywhere. It was fresh, green and crunchy. He could have eaten another one but he had to get to the library. He threw twenty dollars on the table and was about to walk out the door. As he rose up from his booth he saw a counter top television by the cash register. The four gentlemen sitting at the food bar and the waitress were all watching intently as the local news station, WNHQ, reported on a nearby plane crash that had taken the lives of all of its passengers.

Grant stopped again and paid respects to his fallen comrades, the pilots, but was glad to hear that the media was reporting all passengers were killed. He walked towards the front door gesturing towards the waitress on his way. She called out a “Thank You” as he was leaving. Grant just tipped his black denim cap and kept moving.

His pace to the library was deliberate. He stopped for no one and looked at the ground as much as possible. He saw the building from about a block away. He crossed the street and moved faster as he got closer. The big steel doors were imposing at first. The handle was cold and the doors were as heavy as they looked. He walked inside and turned in the opposite direction of the librarian who had already spotted him. She followed him scurrying along until she caught him.

The skinny little woman brushed her curly gray hair to the side while looking up at him and whispered, “Can I help you find something sir -- oh my -- you are Grant Winchester, aren't you?”

“No ma’am, but everybody I've ever met has told me that. The similarities are striking though, I will admit.” Grant made his higher deeper to conceal his famous voice.

“Wow. You look exactly like him.”

“Yeah, well, I wish I had his money. Do y'all have computers here? I am thinking about moving somewhere in this part of the state. I was driving around all day, saw your beautiful little town, started exploring, and when I saw the library I figured I'd look for a computer with the Internet to do some research on real estate in the area.” Grant was out of breath.

The librarian still looking at him obviously smiled and answered. “Yes sir, right over here.”

She began walking to the right side of the building below huge windows that lined the building like a belt. “There is a charge for those who aren't students though. It's five dollars for every twenty minutes. I can get you on. Would you like any real estate books? I can dig up some of those?”