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insightful?”
    “It’s meant to be an excuse to get dessert,” said Jeffrey,
waving to their waitress.

Chapter 4
     
     
    “But how can we trust the CIA about what’s really going on
over in Iran? You know they lied to us about the assassination attempt on the
pope in ’83.”
    “Did they?”
    “Of course they did, Lee. They wanted Pope John Paul II dead
because he was reaching out to the Eastern Bloc. The CIA was actively trying to
start World War III. That was their job. They couldn’t have the pope preaching
peace and understanding to the commies.”
    “Do you agree with that, Colonel? Was the CIA involved with
the attempt to assassinate the pope?”
    “That’s a new one to me, Lee. As far as I’m aware, the CIA
never had any active operations targeted against the Vatican or the pope. The
pope was an outspoken critic of the communists and their treatment of the
church in his native Poland. I doubt the CIA would have wanted to do anything
to hinder him getting his message out.”
    “Thank you, caller. Next up, Charleston, West Virginia.
You’re on with Colonel Timothy Mumford, author of The Secret History of the
CIA .”
    “Wow. Hi, Lee. Longtime sleeper, first time awake.”
    “Glad to wake you up. What’s your question for Colonel
Mumford?”
    “Sure. Um, Colonel, I was wondering about the fact that the
Reptoids of the Babylonian Brotherhood have taken control of the CIA in order
to bring the United States into the New World Order, and if your access to the
archives gave you any additional insight into this?”
    A car had pulled over on the side of the road, hood open,
with its flashers blinking red into the night. Martin moved into the other lane
to pass, as FastNCo. policy forbid him from offering roadside assistance in the
company truck. Then he caught a glimpse of a red hoodie by the front bumper. He
slammed on the brakes and caught his makeshift radio before it slid off the
seat. In the back, the full load of fasteners shifted noisily.
    “…when George H. W. Bush became president, but that didn’t
materialize. The archive referenced several documents, but I wasn’t able to
loc…” Martin turned off the radio. The person in his side mirror was definitely
wearing a red sweatshirt, but was it her? Now that he’d stopped, he couldn’t
just drive off. He levered his truck into reverse.
    He stopped twenty yards away. The truck’s exhaust billowed
into the dim extent of the stranded car’s headlights. The roadside at night
felt like an alien world, something meant to be streamed by at seventy-five miles
per hour. He shouldn’t have been walking along the corroding edge of the
asphalt. He shouldn’t have been able to see individual tufts of grass. He
shouldn’t have been able to touch a reflector post. The insects should have
been splats on his windshield, not noisy, living things, drawn by the light.
    “You need help?” he called.
    “There’s no cell coverage out here,” she called back.
Cheryl. Not at the store, not at the motel. But out here. Martin checked his
own phone. Not only were there no bars, but the phone helpfully added, “No
Service.”
    “Me neither,” said Martin.
    “It’d been making a funny noise for a while,” said Cheryl.
“Then I came around the curve there, and it made this horrible sound, then just
stopped wanting to go. The engine revs, but it doesn’t drive.”
    “Hate to say it, but it sounds like a transmission problem,”
said Martin, wondering if he’d oversold his masculinity. “But you probably
shouldn’t take my word for it.”
    Cheryl sighed. She lifted the hood, took out the brace, and
snapped it carefully back into place. Then she let the hood down easily,
letting it drop only the last couple of inches. “Poor little thing,” she said,
putting a hand on her white Pontiac Grand Am. “I suppose I need a ride. Do you
mind?”
    Martin thought in mumbles and sputters but somehow managed
to say, “No problem.”
    “I need to bring a few