his early wake-up and the long drive. Still, he debated ordering a Coors with his mushroom and cheddar steerburger before opting instead for the caffeine boost of a Coke. The beer could wait. There was work to be done.
MapQuest had taken him to Fadiman easily enough, but had failed to come up with anything like a John Hamman Highway. In the Whitestone lab in Soda Springs he felt certain he had read the name correctly. Now, he wasn't so confident. As he worked on his lunch, he imagined himself with a rope and net, watching an endless line of alligators marching past.
What now?
First things first, he decided finally, and motioned his waitress over. She was a husky, grandmotherly woman with close-cut silver hair and a calm competent demeanor that suggested things seldom got her down. Her name tag read CORA.
'Excuse me, Cora, I'm looking for John Hamman Highway. Can you help me out?'
She looked at him quizzically and then shook her head. At that moment, the other waitress working the lunch shift passed by.
'Hey, Micki,' Cora said, softly enough not to disturb the customers, 'John Hamman Highway. You ever heard of that?'
'I'm looking for the Whitestone Laboratory,' Ben added.
'Never heard of that either,' Cora said.
'Isn't John Hamman Highway the same as Lawtonville Road?' Micki asked. 'They changed the name a year or so ago-member?'
'An' named it after that Lawtonville boy who got that medal for gettin' killed in Iraq. I remember.'
'Exactly. Just follow Main Street west an' when it forks, take the right one. Don't know of any Whitestone Laboratory, though.'
'Well, thanks,' Ben said, relieved that the road existed at all. 'I'll find it.'
'In fact you will.'
The affirmation had come from the man seated alone in the next booth. He was in his mid to late thirties, with a square jaw, widely spaced eyes, and a dense mat of curly brown hair.
'You know Whitestone Laboratory?' Ben asked, sensing from the lack of interaction between him and the waitresses that he wasn't local.
'I'm going to work there tomorrow.'
'You a chemist of some sort?'
'Me?' The man laughed at the notion. 'Heck no. I'm a flight attendant. Friend of mine, works with me at Southwest, makes extra money doing a private gig for Whitestone, only he can't make it this time and turned it over to me. Seth Stepanski.'
Ben shook the man's hand and rated his grip at least a seven out of ten.
'Ben,' he said, sensing that, unlike his fictional heroes, he would fumble if he tried to make up a name on the spot, 'Ben Callahan.'
Without waiting to be asked, Stepanski put a bill on his table and swung around to take the seat opposite Ben.
'You expected at Whitestone?' he asked.
'Nope,' Ben said, now thinking faster, and ready to ad-lib in any way he could to keep Seth Stepanski engaged, although clearly the man was grateful for company. 'I sell lab equipment, and the lab director at Whitestone contacted us about an upgrade.'
'Well, I'm not sure they're open for business today,' Stepanski said.
'I'm from Corsicana, south of Dallas. The drive here took a lot less than I had planned for, and I ended up getting in here last night, so I drove out there this morning to see if maybe they needed some help with the plane.
'And?'
'I never even made it close to the buildings. High fencing all the way around, barbed wire on top. Looks like a maximum-security prison without the guard towers. It's way out there in the middle of the desert. Nothing, and I mean nothing around. I could make out a bunch of buildings in the distance, but when I rang the bell at the gate and told them who I was, this woman told me I wasn't expected until tomorrow afternoon and there was no one around to take care of me today.'
Ben was totally intrigued.
'So you're flying out late tomorrow?'
'No, no, Thursday morning. Apparently they have a place for me to stay tomorrow night.'
'But not tonight.'
'Not tonight,' Stepanski echoed.
'Sounds like I may end up waiting until tomorrow, too.'
'It's about a ten-mile drive each way. Maybe you should call. Not doing that was my mistake.'
'I'll do it.'
'If you need a motel, the Quality Inn where I'm staying is as good as any.'
'Thanks,' Ben said, searching for ways to expand their conversation. 'Hey listen, why don't I call and see if my contact at Whitestone is there. If she's not, maybe we can go find some cowboy bar, have us a couple of beers, an' maybe play some darts.'
Did I just start speaking with a twang? Ben wondered as he put a twenty on the table and headed out to the Rover, allegedly to get his cell phone and the Whitestone number. He reminded himself that while his paperback heroes might know precisely how to handle this situation, for him, every move was a swim through uncharted waters.
Seth Stepanski was anything but interesting. His hobby seemed to be watching TV and breasts in clubs, and his main goal in life seemed to be finding a replacement for a woman named Sherry, who had dropped him when he didn't come through with a proposal in a timely fashion.
They were drinking beer in a booth in a dimly lit bar named, simply, Charlie's, and were working their way into their second hour and third beer together.
'Women like to date flight attendants because they get to fly almost anywhere cheap,' he said, his speech just a bit thickened.
'I can see where that might be a plus,' Ben said, having realized that he needn't worry about keeping their conversation going, merely directed.
Sadly, after the initial spurt of promising information at Mother Molly's, Stepanski had dried up. He wasn't sure of the destination of his flight, and had absolutely no idea who would be aboard. He did know that wherever they were headed, he would need his passport, and that they wouldn't be staying wherever it was for more than two or three days. He also added that what he was about to be paid was equivalent to a month's salary at Southwest.
Given what Alice Gustafson had learned about Whitestone, Ben wondered if some executives might be flying back to England. He was trying to think of anything else he might ask when Stepanski's eyes widened and he gestured out the window.
'Holy shit! Look at that rig.'
Ben swung around and suspected that his eyes had widened, too. Rolling slowly up the street, like a sleek, invading spaceship, was a metallic gray Winnebago Adventurer — the Winnebago Adventurer, he felt certain, as he strained to see if Vincent was at the wheel.
'Goodness,' he murmured.
'Two hundred thousand, I'll bet,' Stepanski exclaimed, whistling for emphasis. 'Maybe more. A rolling hotel.'
Right idea, Ben thought. Wrong H word.
They watched in awed silence as the impressive RV eased down Main Street headed west. Ben knew the alligator had just jumped into his net. The next move was up to him.
It took most of the afternoon and several hours away from Seth Stepanski for Ben to formulate a plan, convince himself that it was a good idea, and finally put the pieces together. He felt focused and keen, but also more than a little apprehensive. There were a thousand possibilities that could go wrong, some of which might merely mess things up, some of which might kill him.
