by Paul Heatley
Eric is in jeans too, and a black T-shirt, which throws her a little. She’s never seen him in anything other than a suit, even in his free time. He notices how she looks at him. “Suits me, don’t you think?”
“Going for the blue-collar look?”
“You trying to tell me I don’t pass?”
“Maybe I just know you too well.”
“Maybe. And yes, you look acceptable. Come on in.”
Carly steps into the room. She notices the bed is still made, unrumpled, like it hasn’t so much as been sat on. There is no sign of bags – Eric isn’t staying here long; he isn’t staying here at all. It’s just a meeting place for them, away from potentially prying eyes.
He goes to a seat in the corner of the room, next to the top of the bed. There is another chair in the opposite corner, next to the closet. He motions for Carly to take it. She pulls it out of the corner, brings it closer to him. Eric waits for her. He sits with one leg crossed over the other, his hands resting on his thigh.
Eric Thompson comes from money. He’s a native Texan, as is his whole family, going back generations. They come from oil money. Some of that money no doubt influenced Eric’s speedy rise through the ranks of the FBI. He’s in Fort Worth ostensibly investigating the murder of one of the killed informants from the Night of the Long Knives Part Two.
In reality, being here keeps him out of Dallas. It’s important he stays out of Dallas for a little while longer. Keeps him away from the scene of the coming crime, and gives him the space and distance to organize and coordinate things more freely.
“How are things going back home?” he says.
“They’re coming along,” Carly says.
Eric nods; then he seems to get bored all of a sudden. He looks around the room. He’s a tall man, lithe, looks like he does a lot of running, or swimming perhaps. His neck is long; his skin is smooth and pale. He begins to tap perfectly manicured fingers on the top of his knee. “I don’t like these places,” he says.
Carly blinks. “Fort Worth?”
“No, motels.”
“Occupational hazard,” she says. “I’ve lost count of the number I’ve had to stay in over the years.”
Eric nods at this. “Seedy little places,” he says. “Every time I step foot in one, I can’t help but wonder, what did the last occupant get up to? Or the one before? And the one before that, all the way back to the day it opened. What is that stain on the ceiling, this one on the floor, this on the bed sheets? Why is there a handprint on the wall, above the headboard? Of course, I can usually guess what caused these things. Sometimes I’ll lie awake at night, and I’ll focus on one of these questionable things, and I’ll wonder how many junkies have been in here, shooting up in this very bed, on this chair, in the bathroom, in the corner. I’ll wonder how many fugitives have hidden out here under assumed names. How many people have breathed this same air, walked through this same space?”
Carly doesn’t understand why he’s saying this. She sits, listens, nods along politely.
“But mostly, I’ll know that most of the people who come to these places have come in twos. They’ve come together. A secret place for their illicit gathering. And then the question turns to, just how much fucking has gone on in this room? It makes you see every stain, every handprint, in a new way. How well do they clean these sheets? I wonder. Something is always left behind.”
“It’s crossed my mind too, I have to admit – on occasion,” Carly says, just to say something, to prove that she hears what he’s saying, despite its seeming irrelevance. “I just try not to think about it too much.”
“It’s a dirty little business, isn’t it?” Eric says. “Sex.”
“I … I suppose it is, if it’s, y’know, extramarital, as you suspect.”
“You’ve never been married, have you, Carly?”
“No.”
“Ever come close?”
“Once. Back in college. I’m glad I got out before it was too late.” She laughs.
“That’s when it was for me, too,” Eric says, holding up his left hand, tapping the wedding band. “Just after, anyway. Arranged by my father and her father. It was far more mutually beneficial to them than it ever has been for us, really.”
“How, er, how is your wife?” Carly says, again to be polite.
Eric waves the mention of her off, dismisses her. “Fine,” he says. “My point is this – marriage complicates, but sex complicates further. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I suppose I do.”
He looks at her, looks deep into her eyes. Carly feels herself begin to fidget. “I don’t believe you do,” Eric says. “Do you understand what I am saying to you?”
“I, uh … I thought I did.”
“What has Ben found?”
“Nothing,” she says quickly, grateful for a question she knows the answer to. “Not that I know of, and I’ve been keeping a close eye on him. I’m with him most nights.”
“But not every night.”
“Some nights I’m busy,” she says, defensive. “With the operation. Following your orders.”
Eric leans back, taps his fingers again. “This has been ongoing for a long time now,” he says. “And I’ll admit, the discovery of his undercover within the Right Arm may well have saved this entire mission, but I can’t help but feel things have stalled somewhat since then.”
“How do you mean?”
“We need further answers, Carly, and you’re not delivering them.”
“I told you, he doesn’t have anything.”
“Are you so sure? A man like Ben Fitzgerald, a man who will insert an undercover operative off his own back, damn the consequences, you really believe he doesn’t have anything going on?”
“He plays his cards close to his chest. He always has,” Carly says. “But he’ll slip up. He’ll leave a trail eventually. He did last time.”
“We don’t have until eventually. We need to know now – everything he’s thinking, everything he’s doing, we need to know right now. Do you think he suspects you?”
“No,” Carly says. She’s adamant about this.
Eric strokes his hairless chin. He’s so smooth she doubts he could grow a beard. “Sex complicates, Agent Hogan,” he says. “For people with no control, it complicates further. They begin to believe in a thing called love.”
“Are you asking me if I love Ben?”
“Perhaps he loves you.”
“Perhaps he does, but that’s not a concern. If anything, it helps us.”
“Only so long as it remains a one-way street.”
“I don’t love him,” she says firmly. “I don’t have any feelings for him. I’m a professional. This is my job. This is for our country. I’m doing what I have to do.”
Eric says nothing. She can’t tell if she’s convinced him or not.
“Is this all you called me out here for?” she says. “We couldn’t have discussed this nonsense in a phone call?”
“I wanted to see you,” Eric says, “face to face. To gauge for myself.”
“And am I gauged to your satisfaction?” Carly can’t hide her annoyance.
Eric grins. “Close enough.”
Carly bristles.
“But no, this isn’t the only reason I called you here.” Eric glances down at his nails, inspects them, doesn’t say another word until he’s done. “I have a task for you.”
“Oh?”
“I need you to go and check in with our friends,” he says. “They should almost be ready to go by now, but with the radio silence between us and them, it’s impossible to know where they’re at. I’ll admit, this lack of knowledge is making me irritable. The time is almost upon us. I need to know they’re prepared.”
“You haven’t been watching the news?”
“Of course I’ve been watching the news. I’ve seen what they’ve done in that regard, but that doesn’t mean anything. Go and see them. I’d do it myself, but I can’t go back to Dallas yet, can’t risk being seen.”
/>
Carly nods. She understands.
“Then report back to me.”
Carly nods again, buoyed up by this responsibility.
“They can be an uncouth bunch,” Eric says, almost as a warning. “Don’t let them intimidate you.”
“I’ve faced down worse.”
“I’m not so sure you have.”
They sit in silence for a moment; then Eric abruptly says, “We’re done here.”
Carly blinks. “Oh.” She gets to her feet. “I’ll be on my way, then.”
“Put the chair back,” Eric says. He doesn’t stand.
Carly does as she’s told. She goes to the door. Before she can leave, Eric speaks again.
“Remember, Carly, sex complicates. We can’t have any complications, not now, not when we’re so close.”
She nods.
“Do you want to know the key to any lasting and successful relationship?” Eric says. “A successful marriage?” He taps his wedding band again.
“Okay,” she says.
“Keep sex out of it. Goodbye, Agent Hogan.”
29
Tom is parked across the road from the bar where Peter Reid works.
Peter’s nickname, so Tom has been told, is ‘Terminator’. It didn’t take Tom long to see why. Peter is built like a tank. He’s all muscle. There isn’t a pound of fat on him. He looks like Schwarzenegger in his youth. It is a fitting nickname.
He waits for it to get later. To get dark. For the bar to close.
Tom has been in Harrow for two days now. This is the end of his second day. He has spent all of his time on recon. He has not left the car. He has eaten food bought from the drive-thru. He has pissed into a bottle. To prevent cramps, he has flexed and relaxed his muscles, particularly in his legs and lower back. Kept himself from seizing up.
He has been by every house. Has watched them for hours at a time. At Steve’s, there wasn’t much to see. Tom was able to catch glimpses of him as he passed by windows, but that was it. He stayed indoors. People came to see him. These people all looked the same. They were going to him to buy drugs.
Ronald Smith lives by himself. His house is at the end of a neighborhood, away from the other homes in the area. Like he is an outcast, a loner. Like the other people here don’t want anything to do with him, nor he them. His home is surrounded by dead grass. There is a rusted old car with a cracked windscreen under a tree. The tyres are flat. The car’s original color is unclear. The tree looks as though it once had a tire swing hanging from it, but the tire is gone, so that all that remains is an ominous rope. Ronald is clearly the oldest member of the Right Arm, in middle age. Earlier today, he left town for a few hours. Tom followed him only to the town’s limits, then turned and went back to his house. Resumed his parked position down the road, waited for him to come back, wondering if it would be today. He was gone for a few hours. When he returned, he unlocked his house, then went straight to the trunk of his car. He looked around. Convinced it was clear, he brought out packages from the trunk, carried them inside his house.
Shortly thereafter, Harry Turnbull came by. He took some of the packages away. It didn’t take a genius to work out that Ronald had picked up their fresh supply of drugs. Harry had taken them for distribution around town.
Harry also lives alone, but seems to have a girlfriend who comes and goes. Tom recognized her. The woman from the motel, the one who checked him in. Beth. He’s stored this information away. It may prove useful. He made particular note of the look on her face, too. She didn’t look happy to be going there. Even when Harry answered the door for her, she still struggled to force a smile.
Michael Wright, founder and leader of the Right Arm, lives on the other side of town, with his wife. They have an old farmhouse. It’s big. Harder to get close to than the others. Tom had to park back as far as he could. He watches through binoculars. There are trees at the back of the house. If Tom wants to get closer, he will have to park further away, continue through the woodland on foot. These are all details he commits to memory. He wonders how much of Michael’s activities his wife is aware of. Assumes it will be a lot, as she is always present, always with him. Harry is often there, too, though without Beth. Tom wonders how much she knows. How close she and Harry are.
Tom will take out Peter first. After hours at the bar. With his size, he is clearly their enforcer. The biggest threat. Killing Peter first will send a message. He can’t take out all of the Right Arm in one night, not on his own, and they’re going to become aware of something happening as he picks them off one by one. Therefore, he wants to give them something to be worried about. Something to be scared of. Something that will make them sloppy, prone to mistakes.
There may be others in the bar with Peter when Tom has to go in, but he has gotten a good look at the clientele. More than likely, they too are members of the Right Arm. He isn’t too concerned at having to prospectively hurt them. He is not going to let anyone get in his way.
Being in Harrow is hard. Closer to where Alejandra was, the ground where she walked, the town where she lived. The air she breathed. Tom remembers when she broke his heart. She didn’t do it on purpose, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. Tom was back off his tour, eager to return to Harrow, to find the girl he hadn’t stopped thinking about all the while he was gone. He’d reached out to Anthony, asking if he could stay over again. Anthony said, of course, no problem, “You’ll get to meet my new girlfriend.”
Tom wasn’t interested in Anthony’s new girlfriend. He’d be polite, of course, exchange pleasantries, but in reality, all he’d be thinking of would be Alejandra and how quickly he could disengage himself and go searching for her, back to the bar where she worked.
And then he met Anthony’s new girlfriend, and she was Alejandra. “Hello, Tom,” she said, Anthony introducing them both. Tom thought she looked sheepish.
It was a couple of hours before they had any time alone, pretending that they didn’t know each other already, that this was their first meeting. Anthony went to get pizza. Tom and Alejandra stepped out onto the porch.
“So Anthony doesn’t know we’re already familiar,” Tom says.
“Not yet,” Alejandra says. “I didn’t think it was the best time to tell him, not with you coming to visit. But I will. I’m going to.”
“How come you haven’t already?”
“It took me some time to realize that he was your brother. He doesn’t talk about you, and it’s not like there are any pictures here of the two of you together.”
“You didn’t notice any similarities?”
“Yes, actually, I did. I thought that was why I was attracted to him, because he looked like you.”
“Should I be flattered?”
“I don’t know how you should feel.”
“What about when you found out his last name?”
“At first, I thought it was a coincidence. But it niggled at me. So I started to ask about his family. Then he finally told me about you. About his older brother, in the army. I was going to tell him then, but I couldn’t. By then, I was in love with him. I didn’t know how he would take it. I was scared of how he would take it.”
Tom couldn’t respond to this, not right away. She loved his brother. This cut him deep.
“I’m sorry, Tom,” she said.
“You don’t need to be sorry,” Tom said, taking a deep breath. “I didn’t expect you to put your life on hold. Part of me knew you might move on, I just hoped you wouldn’t, but that’s out of my hands. I’m happy for you, Alejandra. Really. For both of you.”
Soon after that, Anthony returned with the pizza. That night, when Tom was in the guest room, Alejandra told Anthony the truth. That she and Tom knew each other already, and how. Tom heard them discuss it. They discussed it loudly, particularly his brother. Tom lay awake, expecting his brother to come bursting into the room at any moment. He kept making out like he was going to. Alejandra kept stopping him, calming him.
The next morning, at the brea
kfast table, Anthony was cool toward his brother. He looked at him. “Alejandra told me how you know each other already,” he said.
He got over it. It didn’t take long. Anthony was in love with Alejandra. He wasn’t going to jeopardize his relationship with her just because of his petty jealousies regarding his older brother. The feeling he would never be able to escape his shadow.
Tom thinks about another time. Just he and Alejandra, out on the porch again, though under happier circumstances this time. Tom never stopped loving her, though he knew it would always go unrequited. She was telling him about Mexico, about Guaymas. “It sounds like a very beautiful place,” Tom said.
“Maybe I’m just remembering it through rose-tinted glasses,” Alejandra said. “But it shines very brightly in my mind.”
Tom nodded along. “Well, you make it sound very special. I’ll have to visit it someday.”
“Maybe I’ll take you,” she said. “I’ll go back, one day. I’ll have to. I miss it too much. Every day, I miss it more.”
In the car, around the car, it has gotten dark. It’s late; it’s after one in the morning. Tom sees activity at the front door of the bar. People are leaving. It’s clearing out. Peter is there, seeing them off. He doesn’t leave with them, though. He goes back inside. The door is locked. The outside lights are turned off. The bar is closed.
Tom doesn’t go right away. He waits. Lets them get comfortable. But it’s getting close. It’s almost time for him to make his first move.
30
Peter sees off the last few stragglers, escorts them to the door, sends them on their drunken way. He watches for a moment as they weave and stumble off down the road, heading home. A couple of them get into cars. They’ve had a couple of beers, sure, but they aren’t so drunk that they can’t be trusted behind the wheel. Peter waves them off, then goes back inside.
It’s been a quiet night. Ordinarily, Peter would be annoyed at this, bored out of his mind. He likes when it’s busy, when he’s had a chance to get his hands dirty, to put someone on their ass or throw them out the door. Now, though, he’s grateful. He’s got too much else on his mind. Too much to think about, worry about.