The Escape (John Puller, #3)(7)

4



THE STORAGE UNIT’S overhead door was thrust up, the rusted wheels and track groaning in protest. The man flitted inside and closed the door behind him, exchanging the darkness of the night for the deeper obscurity of the unit’s interior. He reached his hand out and flicked on a light, illuminating the ten-by-ten room’s concrete floor and sheet metal sides and ceiling.

Two walls were covered with shelves. There was an old metal desk and matching chair set against the other wall. On the shelves were neatly stacked boxes. He drew closer to them, examining their labels. His memory was good, but it had been a while since he had been here—well over two years, in fact.

Robert Puller was dressed in Army fatigues and combat boots with a cap covering his head. This had allowed him to blend in well in what was clearly an Army town. But now he needed to completely change his appearance. He opened a box and pulled out a laptop. He set it down and plugged it in. After more than two years he knew the battery would be dead, but he was hoping it would still charge. If not, he would have to buy a new one. He actually needed a computer more than he needed a gun.

He opened another box and took out a pair of hair clippers, a mirror, shaving cream, a towel, a gallon of water in a sealed plastic jug, a bowl, and a razor. He sat down in the metal chair and set the mirror on the desk. He plugged the clippers into an outlet on the wall and turned them on. Over the next few minutes he shaved off his hair, right down to the stubble. Then he coated his scalp with shaving cream, poured the water into the bowl, and removed the stubble with the razor, dunking the blade periodically in the bowl to clean it and then wiping it off on the towel.

He studied the results in the mirror and came away satisfied. The human head had nine basic shapes. With a full head of hair his looked more moon-shaped. With no hair his head appeared bullet-shaped. It was a subtle but distinct change.

He slipped a length of moldable soft plastic in front of his upper row of teeth. This caused a slight bulging and broadening of the skin and muscle there as he flexed his mouth and jaw, changing the shape of the plastic insert until it rested comfortably in place.

Keeping out the mirror, water, and the towel, he put the other things away in the box and replaced it on the shelf.

Another box held articles of a more technical nature. He pulled them all out and set them up neatly on the desk like a surgeon lining up his instruments before commencing an operation. He covered his shoulders and front with the towel and then sketched out what he wanted to do on a piece of paper. He applied spirit gum to his nose and tapped it with his finger to make it sticky. He then quickly added a bit of a cotton ball to the surface before the adhesive dried out. He used a Popsicle stick to remove from a jar a small quantity of nose putty mixed with Derma Wax. He rubbed the putty into a ball, warming it with his body heat, making it easier to manipulate. He applied the putty to sections of his nose, all the while looking at his work in the mirror, first face on and then from the profile. He smoothed out the putty using KY Jelly. The smoothing and shaping took a long time, but he was patient. He had just spent more than two years in a prison cell. If nothing else, that taught you considerable patience.

Once he was satisfied with the shape, he used a stipple sponge to add texture and sealed it all. Then he let it dry. Finally, he applied makeup over his entire face, highlighting and shadowing and then using transparent powder to finish up.

He sat back and looked at himself. The changes were subtle, to be sure. But the overall impact was significant. Few things on a person were more distinctive than the nose. He had just made his unrecognizable from the original.

Next he used the spirit gum to pin his normally slightly protruding ears against his head. He looked at himself once more, scrutinizing every detail, looking for any mistake or imperfection caused by the changes, but came away satisfied.

He scanned a few more box labels and then pulled out another one and opened it. Inside was a fake goatee. He applied spirit gum first and then positioned the goatee while looking in the mirror. When that was done he used a comb to smooth some of the synthetic hairs into place. Facial hair was not allowed in the military—for prisoners or soldiers—so this was a good disguise tactic.

Next he removed his shirt and undershirt and drew out two tat sleeves from the box. He slid one on each arm and once more examined the results in the mirror. They definitely looked like the real thing, he concluded.

Tinted contact lenses were next, changing the color of his eyes.

Then he trimmed his eyebrows, making them much thinner and narrower.

He sat back once more and looked in the mirror, again first face on and then from his right and left profiles.

He doubted even his brother would recognize him.

He went through his mental checklist: Hair, nose, ears, mouth, goatee, eyes, tats, eyebrows. Check, check, and check.

He pulled down another box and slipped out the clothes. He had kept his weight constant over the last two years, and the jeans and short-sleeved shirt fit him fine. He slipped the sweat-stained Stetson on over his shaved head, careful not to dislodge his pinned ears. Reaching into the box once more, he pulled out and put on one-inch worn boots that increased his height to that of his brother’s nearly six feet four. He slid the belt with the two-inch buckle depicting a man on a bull through his jean loops and cinched it tight. His fatigues, cap, and combat boots went into the box and he put it back on the shelf.

The third box contained the documents he would need to accomplish things in the outside world. A valid Kansas driver’s license, two credit cards with a year of life remaining on them, and a thousand dollars in cash, all in twenties. And a checkbook tied to an active bank account with fifty-seven thousand dollars in it plus whatever interest had accrued to it over the years.