Freed sent his report to Secretary Stuart by late morning briefly detailing Mitchelli’s ordeal. Within moments of sending the report, his phone rang.
“Molly Richards, I’ve quickly reviewed your report concerning operative Peter Mitchelli and will be briefing the Secretary within twenty minutes. Your report was vague concerning one particular fact.”
Freed was paranoid, as ordered by MacJames he had purposely omitted the details regarding the decapitated heads. Had Molly Richards been told about the severed heads via the New York State Police? “It’s a preliminary report, Molly. More detail will follow; the assassins are being investigated as we speak.”
“Well, I’m confused. Your report made it appear that Peter Mitchelli was alone.”
Freed did not understand the confusion, “I thought it was quite clear, yes he was alone.”
There was a pause. “When we spoke this morning and I read you the Secretary’s directive so there would be no mistake on the importance of protecting Peter Mitchelli and his family. I followed up through proper channels with the directive. Why would you let Peter Mitchelli operate alone?”
Freed was taken aback. Exhausted from the previous nights operation, night terrors, and the rapid deployment of securities teams to Mitchelli’s house, he had never considered assigning agents to shadow Peter Mitchelli. Freed knew Mitchelli wouldn’t stand for it. “Molly, our operative prefers to work alone, he’s quite persistent in this regard.”
“I can tell you this is not going to be acceptable to the Secretary Stuart. He has been quite concerned over Mitchelli’s safety, as you are well aware.”
Freed responded, “I will be happy to discuss this with the Secretary and Peter Mitchelli via conference call.”
“Peter Mitchelli has not been available by phone. Did you replace his phone as we discussed yesterday?”
Freed could not hide the frustration in his voice, “Molly, the phone was burned up, destroyed when Mitchelli’s truck erupted in fire! Our Buffalo Agent Coarseni is allocating him a new phone; he should have it within the hour. Peter Mitchelli is with Deputy Director MacJames. I will contact her and ask her to have Peter Mitchelli contact you from her phone.”
“I’m sure that would please the Secretary. He will be in touch with you shortly regarding Peter Mitchelli’s lack of FBI protection.”
CHAPTER 23
Mitchelli’s body trembled as he lay in MacJames’s bed. His eyes twitched and opened occasionally, alerted by strange noises one hears when in unfamiliar surroundings: a creak in the floor, the slam of a cupboard door. His nerves shredded from his thoughts of doom. His Mind Kill grinded at his soul, overwhelming him with fear. Attempting to distract his mind, his eyes barely focusing, he studied MacJames’s craftsman style furniture: her stained glass lamp shades, the simple wooden dresser. His effort was in vain; the details of her furniture could not save his soul or his children.
MacJames walked into the room. “How are you feeling?” She could not ask him why he removed the heads from the thugs he killed, she would have to wait.
He ignored her question. “Why was Suzanne massaging my face?”
“Man, she sedated you! She wasn’t massaging you; she removed fifteen bullet fragments from you face and neck.”
“That explains the clanging.”
“Your admirer was pissed at me, she purposely threw the fragments in the surgical pan. I’m surprised you didn’t hear it, even though she told me you were under heavy sedation. I believed her because she didn’t bother shoving her boobs in your face.” MacJames thought it best to ignore his trembling.
“I could hear the two of you arguing.”
“She insisted you get x-rayed. I should have taken you to the hospital, but I’ve lived through that episode with you before. I knew you wouldn’t stay once you came to. You may have some fragments left in your face.” MacJames sat on the bed next to Mitchelli and touched his face. “I promised the Polish princess when things settle down we’ll get you to the hospital. She threatened to call some Congressman she knows.” She took his hand in hers. “Your face looks a mess. You’re lucky Peter, the bullets lost a significant amount of mass and velocity as they impacted your truck’s heavy door frame.”
Mitchelli looked away from her, “They were punks, weren’t they?”
“Handly hired them quickly to capture a supposedly soft target Peter Mitchelli.”
“Handly won’t make that mistake again. Professionals are on their way.”
“We believe they’ll come from Chicago, possibly more from New York. Robert’s investigators are attempting to connect Leo Handly to the punks you killed last night.”
“It won’t happen in time, the FBI mole will lead them right to me.”
Two agents kept watch on her house from their parked car in the street. Their orders were to shadow Mitchelli by order of Secretary Stuart. Secretary Stuart had contacted Freed directly, chastising him over Mitchelli’s lack of protection. MacJames interjected on behalf of her friend Freed. She explained to the Secretary that Mitchelli resisted protection for himself, and that Freed did as Mitchelli requested by assigning a security squad to Mitchelli’s children and home. Reluctantly MacJames stressed that Handly, their prime suspect, had linked the captured heroin to Mitchelli. Handly had not contacted the police regarding his brother-in-law’s body planted on his patio, an abnormal reaction for an innocent man.
Handly’s effort to kidnap Mitchelli for the return of his heroin was drawing the thugs out of hiding, thus providing more evidence. The dead assassins were evidence. The investigation had to tie the deadmen to Leo Handly before they got to Peter Mitchelli. In essence, MacJames had shamefully rationalized using Peter Mitchelli, someone she confessed to love, as bait for the criminals. When MacJames finished her explanation to Secretary Stuart, her heart sank. She thought of Buckala’s comment. She was soulless, selfishly clinging to Mitchelli for personal, as well as professional reasons. The office gossip ran through her mind, Baltimore Whore, Widow-maker.
The rolling gun battle had put terminal stress on Mitchelli’s mind. Mitchelli clung to anything positive, although barely. He was struggling, losing his battle to his anxiety and depression. The glass looked half-empty; the sun does not rise in the morning for a dead man. His energy level was dropping, along with his ambition. Depressed, he did not want to get out of bed. His appetite was gone. He had once lived for food, and then ate to live, now it was void from his thought process. He prayed his entire childhood, asking God for bravery, now he thought himself a coward. I can’t get out of bed, I can’t walk, I’m a failure; I’ve let Ann and the children down. His depression fueled by his new obsession, the FBI mole, and the expendability of his family to solve the case. Kill the mole, save your family!
MacJames placed his new phone on the nightstand. It rang periodically, but he could not bring himself to answer it. The frequency of the phone calls increased and his body shook when heard the soft ring tone. MacJames would enter the bedroom to check on Mitchelli. He flinched each time he saw her, scaring MacJames. He lied on his back, staring at the ceiling, his legs straight and his arms bent over his chest, his knuckles touching. He appeared to be protecting himself; a boxer’s stance for survival protecting his body from a superior opponent he could not beat.
MacJames sat on the bed besides him. “I bought you soup,” she said as she placed her hand on Mitchelli’s. “You need to eat, big guy. You’ve started to waste away. I had the soup delivered from the deli on the corner. Come on, get out of bed.” She knew it was unhealthy for Mitchelli to be alone stewing over his dilemma. She remembered her mother coaxing her father off the couch when he was depressed.
When Mitchelli did respond she said, “Peter, maybe you should go to see Dr. Ruben? You’ve been through lot the last several weeks. If you won’t talk to me, maybe you should talk to a professional.” MacJames held his hand. “I can admit you to the hospital ward.”
Mitchelli’s eyes widened; he knew her intent was the mental war
d. “That’s low, Angela. I hate hospitals, you know that.” He shook his head in disbelief; he had let down his guard and fallen for MacJames’s ploy. He abruptly let go of her hand and slowly rolled to the other side of the bed. He stood; his body moved like it had taken a beating, which it had.
“I got you out of bed, now have some soup--it’s in the kitchen.” She walked to the door. “Let’s go, Peter. I’m not feeding you in bed, if I have to do that you’re going to the hospital.” Mitchelli did not smile. His lips barely moved but MacJames could read his face--his eyes were smiling, her method was working. Mitchelli walked to the door and stopped. He glanced at his phone laying on the nightstand. His body jerked towards the door and then reversed course and he picked up the phone.
While Mitchelli slowly ate his soup, MacJames updated him on the investigation. She sat by him, her body close enough so as at least one part of her body was always touching him: a leg, hand, or even her foot. She did as Buckala suggested, she used their feelings for one another to open him up and make him feel comfortable. She gambled a bit, betting on the fact that Mitchelli’s feelings for her were strong. He eventually started to respond to her by looking at her when she spoke, then concentrating on her face, and eventually looking into her eyes. Mitchelli listened intently, memorizing everything MacJames said. She paused for a moment after she told Mitchelli about the bartender from Runners who had cased his neighborhood. She had to tell him the truth. MacJames had to convince herself she had a soul, but possibly more important she had not destroyed Mitchelli’s.
He looked away from MacJames and stared solemnly into his empty soup bowl. She closed her eyes and took a breath--she needed to pull herself together. She needed to be his confident leader with her uncontrollable civilian team member. She stood to get Mitchelli more soup and as she did so, she intentionally exaggerated leaning over to pick up his bowl so her hair would brush against his cheek. She stopped for a moment, lingering there, then walked away. She was using tactics from her competitor, Suzanne Stazi, though instead of her chest, she was using her hair.
Mitchelli’s phone rang and his entire body flinched. Seeing his reaction, MacJames asked him, “Do you want me to answer it?” Mitchelli did not respond. Instead, he began to walk towards his phone on the coffee table. “God damn it, Peter. Answer me!” Her voice cracked with emotion. Mitchelli realized his mental anguish was wearing on MacJames as it had his wife. She stood in front of him. “If you can’t talk to me…you need professional help, it’s understandable.”
MacJames began a very logical calm, rambling how she was concerned over his mental health. She strained to hold her emotions back but her professional guard fell under the weight of her love and guilty conscience for manipulating Mitchelli’s life for the good of the investigation. I’m not soulless. I’m not using Peter; I love him. Buckala’s wrong; I have a soul. Dear God, why did he remove the dead men’s heads? What was he thinking? Mitchelli drew closer to MacJames, staring at her face as she babbled incessantly on. He touched her cheek with his hand and their bodies intertwined. Her hands passionately moved over his body. “I have Dr. Rubin’s number…” She kissed Mitchelli, but he did not respond. When his phone rang again, their lips separated.
Mitchelli said, “I should answer that.”
“Don’t even think about it.” MacJames pushed her lips against Mitchelli’s but he did not kiss her back.
“Maybe I should go to the mental ward,” he muttered while MacJames kissed his face.
“Shut up, just stop talking, and kiss me, just a little longer. Then we’ll talk.” When she opened her eyes, she noticed he was staring at his phone as though possessed by it. She tried to initiate the kiss again.
“NO, damn it, Angela!” he yelled. She pulled herself away from Mitchelli and led him to the couch where they both sat down.
“That was selfish of me,” she said. “Answer your damn phone. You can’t keep jumping every time it rings, honey. It’s going…Just answer the phone.” Mitchelli looked at the phone as she continued, “Peter, we can go to a movie, watch TV, read a book, talk to Dr. Rubin. We can do whatever you want.” MacJames had wanted to make love, convincing herself it would ease her shame, but she knew Mitchelli could not. “We can just sit and hold each other.”
MacJames stopped and thought for a moment what must be going through Mitchelli’s head. Six men had been ordered to capture, torture and kill him. He was a wanted man. He had fought off six attackers, killing them in a rolling gun battle and survived. Mitchelli’s other team members seldom drew the weapons in the line of duty, let alone discharge their firearms to stop a threat. Mitchelli had killed eleven men in less than two weeks. “Peter, tell me what you’re feeling. Honey, I want to help you, but I’m not sure what to do.” She looked into his eyes. “We have counselors who specialize in helping agents who’ve experienced a tremendous amount of stress.”
“Give it a rest. ‘How do you feel?’ ‘What’s bothering you?’ ‘How does that make you feel?’” Mitchelli shook his head, “Then after fifty minutes they nervously study the clock on the wall, trying to get you out and shuttle the next patient in. The councilors would to shit their pants if I told them what I’m involved with. Then Freed will intimidate them, warning them if they disclose any information regarding me and the investigation they’ll be tried as terrorist.” The phone rang again and this time, Mitchelli grabbed it and threw to the floor. Surprisingly, it did not break.
“Peter, that was my phone.” She handed Mitchelli’s phone to him and picked her phone up from the floor, checking to make sure it was operational. She sat down next to him.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s ok, you seem to have uncontrollable violent tendencies towards cell phones.”
He ignored her factual comment. “Listen to my messages with me,” he said.
MacJames put his phone on speaker and hit the voicemail icon on the touch screen. The computer gave the time and phone number of each message:
“Peter, it’s your brother Phil. FYI I’m checking to see if you’re OK. Hmm aha, aha.” He cleared his throat, a nervous habit, “Give me a call when you have a chance. Who’s paying for the company truck? Hmm aha aha, the company should not have to pay the insurance deductible. Give me a call. I’m worried about you and I have a call into to Dr. Rubin. Hmm if you’re getting serious with that MacJames woman, make sure you have a dating prenuptial. I’m serious. Was she driving the truck, she should pay the deductible? Call me. Dating prenuptial, trust no one.”
“Peter, it’s Beth. Patrick told me what happened, we’re worried about you. Give me a call when you have a chance. If I don’t hear from you soon I’m going to call Angela. Call soon, Phil is driving us crazy over who is going to pay the insurance deductible on your truck. We’re worried, please call. We don’t understand what’s going on and we’re scared. We love you.”
“Peter, it’s Paul, your baby brother and attorney. What did you get yourself involved in? Patrick told us there were bodies, Jesus, dead bodies, and trucks on fire. Holly shit, I’m struggling over here. I hope the hell you didn’t cut their heads off. Christ, please tell me you didn’t hack their heads off, that’s just plain crazy. I have to notify the insurance company within forty-eight hours of a claim, accident or lawsuit. As your lawyer, I don’t want to know if you killed those guys, don’t tell me! Did you shoot them? Ok, this is important did you cut their heads off after you killed them, it’s a very important when a judge is evaluating pain and suffering. Do you think they have relatives that are going to sue us? Call me and for the love of God don’t shoot any more people!” Paul Mitchelli forgot to hang up his phone and he continued to speak. “Son of a bitch, he’s a frickin’ nut with a gun. I get stuck with all the bullshit work straightening out everyone else’s mess. BOOM! BOOM! OOPS! Paul, can you take care of this duh! Oh Jesus, the damn phone, Love yah, Peter.” The message ended.
MacJames studied Mitchelli’s face as the messages played. She snuggled next to him reading his
facial expressions: happiness to hear from his siblings, concern they were worried. He grinned, but his eyes were not smiling. His eyebrows were weighted by stress.
“Daddy, I asked Grandma if I could call you. I got a 93 on my math test. I got the highest grade in my class, except for Robert he’s a brain.” MacJames watched Mitchelli’s eyes. “Thanks for playing dolls with me, Dad. I love you more than you love me…Dad when are you coming home? I want to play dolls again.” Mitchelli’s mother-law-could be heard coaxing Kaitlin to hang up the phone. “Dad, Grandma’s yelling at me. I got to go. I love you.”
MacJames wiped the tears from her eyes. “I can call your sister,” she said.
“Tell her to calm everyone down. I’ll call Kaitlin.”
“Peter, have you seen Ann this morning?” Mitchelli stared at his phone. “You can tell me, I’m sorry to ask. I’m trying to understand what you’re feeling.”
“When it went down last night, I couldn’t find my phone; it was like a bad dream. I kept pushing the wrong buttons or dropping it. This morning Coarseni gets me a new phone, and all I want to do is hide from it. The phone has tracked me around your house, taunting me. I knew who was going to call. My family’s worried about me, they always have. They can’t deal with looking my children in their eyes and telling them I’m dead.”
Mind Kill- Rise of the Marauder Page 45