by Paul Heatley
“We have an agreement.”
“You’re right, we do,” Harry says. “And tonight you don’t have to stay over at my place. But right now, we’re not at my place. We’re at yours.”
She looks at him, realizes what he’s saying. “Please, Harry,” she says, begging, pleading. “Just leave me alone.”
Harry doesn’t budge.
“I’m tired,” she says. “I just want to go to sleep.”
“Then go,” he says. “I’ll be right through.”
He thinks there are tears in her eyes, though she blinks a lot, trying to get rid of them. Harry smiles at them. This is better. This is how he wants it to be, how it should be. She needs to behave herself. She can’t speak to him how she did. She should be subservient to him. That’s how it’s always been, and it’s how it’ll always be.
She gives up. She turns away from him before the tears can fall from her eyes, and she goes through to the bedroom, her feet dragging.
Harry watches her go. He gives her a moment, and then he follows.
40
Tom heads out into the night. Another round of recon. He wants to see what kind of response, if any, the death of Peter has elicited.
He goes by Harry’s first. All the lights are off. His car is gone. It doesn’t look like he’s home. Tom moves on. He goes to Ronald’s next. On the way over, his phone begins to ring. The number is the one he gave to Steve. He pulls over to answer it, into a parking lot from where he can see the diner where he ate with Beth.
“Harry came to see me,” Steve says. “To see how I was doing, and to ask about Peter’s funeral.”
“He say anything of use?” Tom says. He doesn’t want daily check-ins. He wants Steve to only call when he has something worth sharing.
“No, not really, but I’m trying to get closer to them, like you asked. I’m trying to get onto the council.”
“You offer to take your brother’s place?”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s exactly what I did.”
“They go for it?”
“Harry said they’re gonna have to discuss it first.”
Tom sucks his teeth.
“I don’t know how long that’s gonna take. From the sounds of what you were saying, you might not have that kind of time.”
“No, I don’t think I do.”
“But I’m only guessing. Maybe they’ll be quick – maybe I’ll hear something back tomorrow, right?”
Tom doubts it. “Do what you can, Steve. Keep me updated.” Tom puts the phone away, continues on his rounds.
Ronald and Michael are both at home. They haven’t gone to ground. This sets Tom’s mind at ease about Harry not being at his place. They’re not hiding out from him. They’re continuing on as they were. He’s glad of this. It’ll make them easier to take out.
41
Ben has the meeting he dreads. The check-in with Jake Lofton. Where Jake asks him how the investigation is going, and Ben has to admit that, officially, he doesn’t have anything.
He can’t tell him about Tom. And as far as the FBI is concerned, Harrow isn’t even on their map concerning this case. They didn’t have anyone undercover there.
Jake leans back in his chair, tents his fingers. “That isn’t great, Ben.”
“I know,” Ben says.
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“I’ll think of something.”
Jake shakes his head, looking disappointed. “I’m not so sure you will. I need results, Ben, and I need them yesterday. Right now, all you’re doing is wasting your time. Your time and our time. It doesn’t look like you’re going to find a thing. I’m going to have to take you off this, put you back to some real work.”
Ben can’t take a chance on being reassigned. There’s the potential it’ll take him out of town. He needs to be here, in Dallas, for whatever is coming. “Another week,” he says.
Jake raises an eyebrow.
“Another week to try to find the leak,” Ben says. “Just a little more time to devote to it. For what they took away from us, it’s got to be worth seven more days, right?”
“What do you think you’re going to do any differently in seven days?” Jake says.
“Like I said, I’ll think of something.”
Jake looks at him for a long time. Ben doesn’t think he’ll agree. Finally, he surprises him by nodding. “Seven days,” he says. “And seven days only.”
Out of the meeting, Ben hurries out of the building, to his car. Making sure there’s no one else around, he calls Tom. “I need something,” he says. “And I need it fast. They want to pull me off the leak. I’ve got seven days.”
“I’m doing what I came here to do,” Tom says. It sounds like there is no urgency in his voice. Ben doesn’t like that.
“Well, I need you to do it faster. I need names. I need to know who the mole is, or the hacker, or whatever the fuck they were. I need to know what the plot is, who’s planning it, and where it’s going to happen. If the Right Arm doesn’t know all of that directly, then they know who does.”
Tom doesn’t say anything.
“Are you there? Are you listening?”
“I’m here.”
“Everything leads back to Harrow,” Ben says, watching his mirrors. “The night of the purging, it’s like they were trying to cover their tracks. You understand? They were making the search area broad, pointing it toward all these potential different cells. They were trying to put us off the scent. But it’s Harrow, it’s the Right Arm. They had to go out of their way to find out about Anthony. They had to go through me. They’ve left too many clues now. The surveillance footage from the fertilizer factory where the dumb bastard didn’t cover up his tattoos, the money trail our analysts picked up on, it all goes back to Harrow, to the Right Arm.”
“You need to calm down,” Tom says.
“And you need to hurry the fuck up.”
There’s a pause; then Tom says, “I don’t work for you, Ben. You’d do well to remember that.”
Ben takes a deep breath. “All right,” he says, calming. “You’re right. I’m sorry. But our country is in danger. Hundreds, maybe thousands of lives are at risk, and I can’t help but feel you’re dismissing all of that just to go off on some half-cocked revenge mission.”
“I know what I’m doing,” Tom says. “Don’t question me. I’ve agreed to help you, but you’re right. The attack isn’t my primary concern.”
Ben is flabbergasted. “How can it not be –”
“But I’ll deal with it,” Tom says, cutting him off. “If it’s like you say, and the Right Arm is behind it, then our two issues are walking hand in hand. I’ll deal with it.”
They end the call, and Ben sits back, catching his breath. He looks in the mirror and sees a dishevelled stranger looking back. He straightens himself out, combs his hair with his fingers, slaps on a smile, and gets back to work.
42
First, Anthony is able to sit up without feeling sick. Then he’s able to stand. He can take a few steps before feeling like he needs to hurry back to the bed, his pills, warmth, and sleep.
Now, he’s had enough of the bed, of pills, of warmth, and sleep. He’s done enough resting. He gets to his feet, changes out of his rancid, sweat-drenched clothes, and puts on a fresh set that Sylvia has loaned him from his father. Anthony steps out of the house.
“You need someone to go with you?” Jeffrey says. He and Sylvia are in the front room, watching him.
“No,” Anthony says. He wants to be alone. “I’m just going for a walk. I ain’t gonna get far.”
They leave him to it. Leave him alone.
Outside, Anthony tires sooner than he expected he would. He finds a place to sit and rest on a tree stump. He looks through the chain-link fence, out across the fields beyond. The grass is long. It sways to and fro in a breeze that feels cool and good upon his face.
He presses a tentative fingertip to the edge of the bandaging wrapped around his head. He goes higher, probes at the wound in his
skull. It stings. He quickly snatches his hand back as a throbbing pain courses through his brain, sending a wave of nausea through his whole body.
His arm itches in its cast. He doesn’t feel sorry for himself. He’s too angry for that. Angry at his brother, off in Harrow. Angry at his father, for calling him in the first place.
Angry at himself.
Angry at Ben Fitzgerald.
Angry at the Right Arm Of The Republic.
Angry at the world.
When he tries to think about Alejandra, to remember what she looked like, all he sees is Peter standing above her, putting a bullet through her face. That is the face that comes to him. Holed and bloody.
He told her that he was undercover five months ago. Told her how it happened, too. How he’d been selling drugs, trying to provide for them, for the baby. She wasn’t happy, not about any of it. She looked like she wanted to hit him, ask him how he could have been so stupid, so careless.
Anthony had asked himself the same questions, so many times.
He’d had to keep her secret from the Right Arm. They never went out together anymore, not for a walk, not even for groceries. She had to attend all her birthing classes by herself; Anthony couldn’t run the risk. He told the Right Arm he lived elsewhere, gave them the address of a friend who would let him stay over on the nights that he needed to be there, whenever they needed to pick him up for something. Anthony spent all of his free time trying to comfort Alejandra, promising her that once it was over, they would flee, start over somewhere new. It would be done before the baby was born.
All he had to do was find out about the attack. What the Right Arm had planned. Once he fed that info to Agent Fitzgerald, that would be it, it would all be over.
He tried. He tried so damn hard. He got as close to the Right Arm council as he could without getting his own seat at the table. Tried to get closer. Even snuck around of his own accord, spied on them, taking his very life in his own hands. There was no hazard pay, but he did it to get it done. And what did he find?
Nothing.
There was nothing to find.
As close as he got, no one knew a thing. He was subtle about it, of course, but he always got his point across. Steve didn’t know anything, but then again, Steve wasn’t interested in that life. He was doing what he did to keep his brother off his back. As for Peter himself, Anthony reached out to him, too. Told him that if they ever needed him for anything heavy, if they ever had anything planned to go down, that they could rely on him. Peter had given him a sidelong look, raised an eyebrow. “Sure,” he’d said, as if overwhelmed by the newbie’s zeal. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
It was taking too long. No matter what he did, what he said, how much willing he showed, they kept him at arm’s length. A long vetting process – too long. He was getting frustrated. He was missing out on the pregnancy. If it went on much longer, he was going to miss the birth. He told himself, if he was still undercover when Alejandra went into labor, that was it. He was done. Fuck Agent Fitzgerald, and fuck his conspiracy theory – Anthony was out. Fuck the consequences. They’d flee, and they’d hide out. With the help of his father, they’d likely never be caught.
So he thought.
He thinks about the phone. He knows Agent Fitzgerald would have been the one to bring it. Knows now, too, that Agent Fitzgerald had anticipated his potential escape plan, had found out where Jeffrey was, was keeping tabs on the commune in case he ever needed to come calling.
And then Anthony was found out.
Anthony tries to keep his eyes open. When he blinks, he sees her. Dead. Her due date is coming up. Tears are running down his face.
One of the guards on the other side of the fence, weighed down with weaponry he doesn’t look strong enough to carry, stops as he gets near, sees Anthony. He comes up to the fence, looking concerned. “Hey,” he says. “Are you all right?”
Anthony wipes his face. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?” The guard raises an eyebrow, not believing. He can see the tears still in Anthony’s eyes.
Anthony stares at him, doesn’t say another word until he backs down, has to lower his face. “I said I’m fine,” Anthony says. “Even if I wasn’t, I ain’t gonna tell you about it, toy soldier. Now get outta here. Leave me alone.”
The guard moves on, grumbling to himself as he goes. Anthony hears the word asshole. He doesn’t care. He’s been called worse.
43
Tom goes to Ronald’s house. He parks down the road, same place he has every other time he’s come here. Soon after he pulls up, Ronald emerges from the house. Tom sinks down in his seat. Ronald goes straight to his own car, gets in, pulls out. He heads the same way he did when Tom followed him. Tom doesn’t follow him this time. He wonders if he’s off to make another collection.
Tom gets out, goes to the house. He goes around the back, glancing in the windows as he passes. The house is empty. The furnishings and decorations are sparse. It is a home without a woman’s touch.
Tom breaks in through the back door, picks the lock. He steps into the kitchen, onto the linoleum, and stops, listens. The house is still. He walks through it, looking into the rooms. He sees pamphlets of white supremacist literature in piles on the coffee table in the front room, looking like they’re waiting to be distributed. Tom goes up the stairs. A couple of the steps creak. The house is uncarpeted. Tom is aware of every sound of every footstep he makes.
There are three rooms upstairs. One is the bedroom, the bed unmade. Above the bed is a poster of two blue-eyed and blonde-haired naked women. They give Nazi salutes, their other arms around each other’s waists. The other room is a spare, filled with detritus. There are some unused weights gathering dust and cobwebs, more of the pamphlets that Tom spotted downstairs, and piles of clothes, a couple of old pairs of boots. The room between the two is the bathroom. There is a wet towel dumped in the corner, filling the air with a potent smell of dampness. The spaces between the tiles above the bathtub are filled with black mold.
Tom goes into the spare room. He looks out the window. It has a view of the street where Tom has parked his car. The car is beneath a tree, the view through the windshield obscured. Tom goes into the corner of the room. He takes a seat, and he waits.
A few hours pass. Tom watches the sky out the window opposite. He listens to the road outside. Only a couple of cars go by. Finally, Ronald returns. His car pulls onto the driveway. The door opens, the house’s front door opens, then the trunk opens. Ronald has been on another run. Tom hears him moving around downstairs, footfalls on the exposed wood.
Ronald doesn’t come upstairs. The footfalls stop. He starts talking, but Tom can only hear his voice. He’s on the phone. The brief conversation ends. The footfalls do not resume. Tom assumes he has taken a seat.
Twenty minutes later, another car pulls up out front. There’s a knock on the door. Ronald lets whoever it is in. Tom listens closely. Their voices are muffled. One of them laughs. Finally, he hears that it’s Harry. Ronald says his name.
They make small talk. Harry has come to make the collection. They talk about the drugs and about money. This isn’t of interest to Tom, but he continues listening in case they say something he might want to hear.
They talk about Peter. Ronald asks if there’s a funeral date yet. Harry tells him no, but he’ll let him know as soon as he hears something. Finally, Harry leaves. Ronald moves around downstairs; then finally he falls silent again. The television comes on. He settles in. Tom could likely make his move now, creep down and take him out. He waits. The evening is coming in. The darkness is deepening. The later it gets, the less likely it is Ronald is going to receive any unexpected visitors.
Tom’s eyes adjust to the dark. He familiarizes himself with the room. Marks out objects that are a trip risk. It gets late. The television abruptly falls silent. Ronald yawns, then groans as he gets to his feet. Tom hears him cross the floor; then he’s coming up the stairs. Tom gets ready.
Ronald reaches the top
. He groans again, catches his breath, then goes into the bathroom. Tom gets to his feet. He goes to the wall next to the door, presses himself against it. He can hear Ronald pissing. It goes on for a while. Finally, the toilet flushes. There’s the sound of running water, of Ronald splashing it over his face. He leaves the bathroom.
Out on the landing, Tom makes his move. He grabs Ronald from behind, wraps an arm around his neck, pressing down on his carotid. Ronald tries to struggle, tries to swing him around, to force him back. Tom stands firm. Cuts off the oxygen to Ronald’s brain. Ronald goes limp. His body sinks to the floor. Tom lowers him, makes sure he’s out; then he scoops him up, puts him over his shoulder, and carries him back down the stairs.
44
Carly goes to a warehouse in downtown Dallas. Ostensibly, the warehouse is abandoned. It went out of business years ago; it should be empty. She knows it’s not.
As she approaches, she spots the faint outline of a man on the roof against the night sky, watching her approach. If she didn’t know he was there, if she hadn’t been looking for him, she’s not sure she would have seen him. Her throat feels dry. Her heart is pounding. She grits her teeth, takes a deep breath. She’s a professional. She won’t be intimidated by them. They work for the same person she does, and, more than that, they’re just a bunch of mercenaries. She’s an FBI agent. They’re nothing.
She pulls the car to a stop, kills the lights and the engine, but she remains inside. She pulls out her phone, dials a number. A gruff voice answers. It’s Chuck Benton. “You here?” he says.
“I’m outside. One of your boys on the roof has seen me.” She feels satisfied letting him know she picked out one of his guards.
Chuck grunts, then hangs up. Ahead, she sees a door open at the side of the building. He stands there, lit from behind by weak light, sliding his phone back into his pocket. Carly gets out of the car, goes to him.