The Olympus Device: Book Three Read online

  Finally clarity came, the lawman staring up at Dusty and commanding, “Stay right there. Don’t move.” Then he reentered the cruiser, speeding off for the school.

  Dusty wasn’t about to follow the cop’s orders.

  Cursing his discovery, he turned and hustled back inside. A few seconds later, his meager belongings were flying into his backpack, along with as much food from the tiny hotel refrigerator as would fit.

  The rail gun was next, quickly folded and packed inside its case.

  Dusty paused at the door, taking one last look around as what he’d come to know as home. Glancing at the school’s roofline in the distance, his mood improved. He’d done a good deed. Saving those kids was worth having to bug out.

  Down the hall he rushed, already trying to determine the next move in an outlaw’s game of chess. His planning, however, was quickly interrupted at the stairwell. A tree had crashed into the side of the hotel’s outer wall, blocking his exit.

  He knew there was another staircase at the far end of the long, narrow building. Inhaling deeply in frustration, he began jogging across the carpet, improvising his newly hatched escape route.

  He bounded down the stairs two at a time, pushing open the emergency door at the bottom. He stepped into the parking lot, glancing both ways, unsure of where to go or what direction to begin walking.

  The click of a gun’s safety froze him cold.

  “That’s far enough,” a voice over Dusty’s shoulder barked. “I know who you are. And I know what you’ve got in that case, mister.”

  Dusty was furious with himself. After all, when you’re on top of the FBI’s Most Wanted List, you can’t afford to get sloppy, and that’s just what he’d done.

  The sheriff circled slowly around to face the immobilized Texan, his glare icy, his pistol unwavering. “You don’t look so dangerous to me,” the cop finally stated.

  Dusty snorted, the statement somehow striking him as funny. “Opinions vary on that,” the escapee responded, the officer’s comment catching him unaware.

  “I saw what you did,” the lawman said, now face to face with his prisoner. As if he were trying to sort out a mystery, he continued his adrenaline induced rant, never pausing for a response. “Why would you fire into that storm? Why expose yourself like that? You’re supposed to be some evil, terrorist thug, intent on overthrowing the U.S. government. Yet you saved that school, and probably most of the town.”

  “I couldn’t chance those kids getting hurt or killed,” Dusty replied honestly, his hands still in the air. “I knew I’d have to go on the run again, but that damned funnel was going to obliterate that building, and I had to try and stop it.”

  The lawman seemed to be pondering Dusty’s words, almost as if attempting to resolve some weighty, internal quandary. Finally, he lowered and then holstered his weapon. “My kids were in that school. I’ve got two daughters, eight and eleven. By the time I saw the tornado forming, I was too far away to warn the staff. That one came out of nowhere.”

  Stunned by the cop’s reaction, Dusty didn’t know whether or not to lower his hands. Half expecting the sheriff to reach for his handcuffs, he asked, “So what happens now?”

  “I’m going to let you go,” came the response. “We’re even now – all squared up. Don’t expect such good graces if we should meet again.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. You saved my girls, and besides, I’ve heard both sides of the argument over what you’ve been doing. You’re lucky I’m one of the people who believe the government is persecuting you for all the wrong reasons. Now take that damned doomsday weapon and get the fuck out of my town. All hell is about to rain down on our little berg.”

  Dusty didn’t understand what the sheriff was trying to tell him. He peered at the now clearing sky, thinking the lawman was perhaps referring to another storm preparing to descend on the town. The cop read the Texan’s puzzled look perfectly.

  “You don’t know, do you?” the sheriff questioned.

  “No, I guess I don’t. What are you talking about?”

  “They can detect when you fire that thing. The Air Force’s satellites can pinpoint your location.”

  Frowning, Dusty said, “Oh. Shit. I’d forgotten about that. I suppose the phone lines are on fire about now.”

  “Now you’re going to owe me one,” the lawman grinned. “Just to really put you in debt, there is a red pickup behind the jail. It belonged to a prisoner of mine, who was recently convicted of his third DUI and won’t be needing it for several years. Now I heard a rumor that the keys were above the visor. No one would probably miss it for several days if it were stolen right from under our noses… if you get my drift.”

  Dusty smiled and nodded, “Thank you, sir. I hope you enjoy your dinner this evening, and give the girls a hug from this old terrorist, please.”

  “Will do. You better get going; it’s only twenty minutes by helicopter from the FBI’s Kansas City office.”

  Dusty extended his hand, the two men shaking with a firm, but friendly grip. And then the Texan pivoted and was running toward a building he’d always hoped to avoid – the county jail.

  He discovered the truck just where the cop said it would be, an older model Ford that had seen better days but was still serviceable. The engine fired on the second turn.

  After pulling out of the lot, he stopped a few blocks away, unsure of which direction he should travel. Texas was to the south, but they would expect that.

  North was Canada, but they’d probably consider the possibility of any outlaw making a run for the border – north or south.

  West were the Rockies and the Great Southwest. Barren, sparsely populated territory for sure, but that didn’t appeal to the Texan. He’d been on the run for long enough to know it was easier to hide in plain sight, just another face among the masses. He decided to head east, toward St. Louis.

  The rambling, old Ford had just managed the speed limit when the flashing lights of an approaching police car appeared ahead. Dusty reached to unzip the rail gun, unsure if the sheriff had changed his mind.

  The state trooper raced on past, ignoring the old Ford in his haste. The first helicopter appeared a few minutes later, quickly followed by two more. There was no way to tell if they were responding to the tornado or tracking a fugitive. Either way, Dusty was glad to be on the road and still free.

  He drove for an hour, crossing the flat fields of eastern Kansas using two-lane highways while trying to generally point his nose east. It wasn’t the fastest way to put miles between the town and himself, but he felt it was the safest.

  It was pure luck he glanced down at the gas gauge, it never having occurred to the fugitive that the tank might need refilling. The needle was on the bright orange E, and there wasn’t a gas station in sight.

  The signs announcing the junction with Interstate I-35 appeared a few miles later, Dusty hopeful that the interchange would offer a gas station or truck stop. In addition to truck fuel, his own tank could use a bottle of water and a sandwich.

  Sure enough, the bright beacon of a large refueling plaza soon appeared on the horizon, complete with signs advertising a restaurant, showers, and gift shop.

  Dusty didn’t immediately signal to turn into the lot, thinking the cops might be monitoring the gasoline stations by now. But the area was clear of any police presence, and soon he was walking inside to pre-pay for a tankful of regular.

  He had the wherewithal to keep his western hat low, sensing the place was thick with security cameras. The kid at the counter didn’t seem to notice, and that was just fine with the Texan.

  After filling the Ford’s nearly parched reservoir, Dusty spied an out of the way parking spot and then reentered the building.

  He placed a to-go order at the greasy spoon, opting for a fully loaded cheeseburger and large fries. His next stop was the restroom. After using the facilities, he found himself walking through a retail section displaying accessories for the over the road, truck driving cr
owd.

  A package adorned with images of police cars drew his attention, the advertisement picturing a state trooper issuing the innocent looking trucker a citation. The product was a combination CB radio and police scanner. Scratching his chin, Dusty thought that might just come in handy during his road trip.

  With his three bottles of water, candy bar, two bags of peanuts, sack of tasty cholesterol on a bun, and expensive electronic device, the Texan was soon back in the Ford’s cab. He decided to stay put, munching while he studied the directions for his new gadget.

  Finally figuring out the key features, Dusty tuned the scanner to monitor the popular trucker CB channels, as well as all known police frequencies for eastern Kansas.

  Chewing his last fry, he began pondering his route while listening to the occasional broadcast from the interstate just beyond. Within a few minutes, Dusty was convinced his impulse purchase, the scanner had just saved his life.

  The truckers weren’t happy, complaining over the airwaves about the state police roadblocks that had traffic backed up for miles. And it wasn’t just the interstate, but some major state highways as well.

  After listening to the vigorous bitching and moaning for five minutes, the Texan soon found himself returning to the travel store, this time exiting with a two-inch thick atlas. He needed to plot his way around the police barriers.

  He’d just returned to the cab when he spotted the police car entering the lot.

  Dusty dropped down just in the nick of time, twisting his lanky frame to hide behind the dash just as the deputy began rolling along the row of parked vehicles. The cop took his time, apparently inspecting each for several seconds before moving on.

  The rail gun was out, the green LED shedding an odd hue inside the cab while Dusty’s nervous fingers fumbled for a ball bearing. But the cop passed the Ford by, giving it no more study than any of the other empty cars.

  “So they don’t know I’m in a stolen truck,” Dusty observed, watching as the officer parked, obviously readying to enter the building.

  “Either he’s got to take a leak, or he’s going in to see if any of the clerks recognize my picture,” the Texan whispered. “Time to hit the road.”

  Calmly, at an average speed, Dusty waited until the officer was inside the doors before pulling out of the expansive lot. He hadn’t managed to plot a route, but wanted to get away just in case the kid at the cash register had been paying attention.

  The only road he knew to be clear was back the way he’d come.

  The Texan’s eyes kept a constant vigilance on the rearview mirror as he drove. He found himself indecisive and growing frustrated with both his situation and surroundings. The flat, agricultural landscape didn’t afford any place to hide. There weren’t any woods to shield the truck, no hills to pull behind.

  Yet he needed time to study the map and listen to the radio. Merely pulling to the side of the sparsely traveled highway wasn’t an option either, that tactic sure to draw the attention of any passing patrol car.

  Finally, he spied a sign ahead, the small information rectangle announcing that a place called Johnson Creek State Recreational Area was just two miles further ahead.

  “I wonder if the park rangers are looking for me, too,” he whispered to the empty truck.

  He almost missed the turnoff, the narrow gravel lane looking more like a private driveway than any park entrance Dusty had ever seen. Still, it was better than taking his chances with the cops on the open road.

  Dusty drove for another few miles, keeping his speed reasonable, eyes open, and the rail gun close at his side.

  The lane began a gradual descent, exposing a wooded area and a small creek ahead. There wasn’t ranger station, entry fee, or even a single building in sight.

  Trying to act like any other tourist, Dusty slowed and read the large brown sign at the entrance, reviewing the rules and regulations of the remote facility. No alcoholic beverages, firearms, fireworks, or glass containers were allowed. Gathering firewood was also forbidden. No lifeguard on duty; visitors would have to swim at their own risk. And of course, there was no tolerance for littering.

  A small, plastic tub contained a handful of maps, including a history of the property on the back. Dusty studied the outline, deciding to head for the rear of the facility, home of the park’s primitive campsites.

  What pristine and unspoiled grounds, he noted, steering the pickup through a winding route. The grass was just a bit too high, obviously in need of mowing, but other than that, it looked like any one of hundreds of such state-owned parcels scattered all over the country.

  There were patches of elm and oak scattered among the picnic tables and trash cans, with the thickest foliage lining the banks of a slow-moving stream.

  According to the brochure, the Johnson family had obstructed the creek in the early 1800s, importing a grindstone from New York, and establishing the first mill in the area. Dusty soon reached the remnants of the dam and waterfall, the old stone barrier still causing a pool of water to form on the upstream side. It was obviously a first class, country swimming hole.

  He kept driving, never seeing another soul.

  At one point, he stopped the truck to inspect a trashcan. The completely empty container reaffirmed his growing belief that the facility didn’t see many weekday visitors.

  There wasn’t a single car in the camping area parking lot, a fact that allowed Dusty to relax even more. But he kept going, noting that the park’s paved surface was fundamentally shaped like a large loop. He wanted to make sure he had the entire place to himself.

  A few minutes later, he found himself back at the campground lot, looking at a nicely constructed shower building, complete with indoor toilets and a large green dumpster for trash. “Looks like an abandoned paradise,” he informed the Ford.

  Dusty’s fascination with the building had nothing to do with any need for hygiene. He was looking for some place to hide the truck, and the bathhouse looked to be the perfect solution.

  He pulled the Ford off the roadway and soon was parked behind the building.

  He exited, holding the rail gun like it was any old hunting rifle. He walked up and down the park’s loop, making sure no evidence of his makeshift campsite was visible should a policeman or maintenance worker decide to drive through. It was the perfect hiding spot for a man on the run.

  Opening another bottle of water, Dusty munched on peanuts while he studied the atlas and listened to the truckers complain. Every so often he heard one of them give a roadblock’s location, which he noted on the map with an “X.”

  It soon became apparent that the authorities were pulling out all the stops to apprehend the world’s most dangerous fugitive. Despite the rural environment and sparse population, Dusty’s map was soon soiled with several indicators of barricades and checkpoints. Law enforcement was thorough; he’d have to give them that – there was no way out.

  The light had begun to fade when he finally resolved to just stay put. The park was completely uninhibited, probably only used as a weekend destination for local youths or the occasional church outing. Unless one of the area farm boys decided to bring his date for a secluded make out session, Dusty doubted anyone would discover his hideaway for several days.

  Nature called, the proximity of the bathhouse a handy feature. The Texan was just stretching his legs when he heard the distant, “thump, thump, thump,” of the helicopter. In an instant, the rail gun was on his shoulder, ready for an airborne assault.

  He never actually spotted the whirlybird, the bordering undergrowth blocking any vantage. Using only his ears, Dusty determined that the copter was following the highway he’d just exited a few hours before.

  “Now that’s a problem,” Dusty whispered, his eyes scanning the sky for additional threats. “Who knew there were so many helicopters in Kansas?”

  It took him several minutes to settle down, any need to use the restroom long forgotten. When waves of military warbirds failed to appear over the secluded park,
he finally decided he was being paranoid to the extreme and continued with his business.

  “How long before they give up?” he asked the night sky, not really expecting an answer. “How long before they decide I’ve slipped through the dragnet and move on?”

  Using the pickup’s tailgate, Dusty snacked again. After the meal, he decided sleeping under the stars wasn’t such a bad thing, unrolling his sleeping bag in the bed and using his pack as a pillow.

  The rail gun never left his side.

  Chapter 2

  The government did its best to downplay Dusty’s role in what the press was soon calling, “The miracle in Kansas.” Initially, federal spokesmen had attempted to blame the phenomenon on a random act of nature.

  That explanation was soon disputed, however. The funnel cloud had attracted the attention of a group of tornado hunters who were recording the entire event on high definition video equipment, including Dusty’s disruptive shot.

  It quickly became evident the small town refuge of one Mr. Durham Weathers and his fabled doomsday weapon had been discovered.

  In the first place, there were simply too many people searching for the fugitive to keep the story quiet. The press quickly put two and two together, and within 24 hours, the headlines were asking the same question posed by the sheriff while he was holding Dusty at gunpoint. Why? Why had such a despicable megalomaniac performed such a selfless act?

  On the topic of one Mr. Durham Weathers, the country again found itself divided. As more facts came to light, the age-old American distrust of government began to creep into the national conversation. Was the Texas gunsmith a terrorist, madman, or patriotic genius?

  The issue played well in national media. Carefully crafted stories, interviews, and research pieces crisscrossed the airwaves, alternating between the polar opposite perspectives and serving to deepen the divide. The mere fact that Dusty didn’t trust any existing entity, whether it was a government agency or a private corporation, with his device served as the foundation for the debate.