by Dwayne Gill
Bowman laughed. “Foster told you to tell me that? You think I believe that for a second?” He leaned forward and looked Hart in the eyes. “Wait, do you believe him, Hart?”
Hart held his gaze but wasn’t feeling real confident. “Cane is the only one capable of finding those men. You know it, Foster knows it. Didn’t Cane get close to one?”
“Close?” asked Bowman. “Who knows how close he was. I wasn’t directly involved then, remember? I heard he had solid leads. Unfortunately, he never got to pursue them.”
“Foster thinks things are coming to a boiling point,” said Hart. “That something bigger is brewing.”
Bowman smiled and shook his head. “You’ve always been a great agent. Honest and loyal, maybe too loyal. You accept what you’re told and don’t question it, even if it smells funny. Reminds me of what you think of Cane.”
Hart shot him a look. “I have no reason to question any of my orders. They’re given by the right man, doing the right thing.”
“Hmm,” said Bowman. “That’s interesting. Tell me why he’s suddenly interested in the marked men again. Isn’t it curious timing? Cane turns up for the first time in years, and now Foster wants his help.”
“New intel,” said Hart.
“Intel you’ve never seen. It’s just him saying it,” said Bowman. “Tell me this. The marked men that have turned up dead over the years, have you ever seen one of their bodies?”
Hart thought for a second. “No. They’re sent to a lab somewhere.”
“And why?” asked Bowman.
“To be tested,” said Hart. It wasn’t privileged information; Bowman, along with anyone of any authority, knew of the government’s interest in the markings.
“Testing them for what?” asked Bowman. “You don’t think the government bought into the conspiracy theories, do you? Were they testing them to see if they were genetically enhanced or aliens?”
“I always assumed it was for their marking origin, which they said they found,” said Hart.
“Yet they continued confiscating the bodies for testing,” said Bowman. “Did any of these men get a proper burial?”
“I don’t know,” said Hart. He felt cornered, but Bowman was making legitimate points.
“The answer’s no, they didn’t,” said Bowman. “Their families weren’t even notified they were dead.”
“I had nothing to do with that,” said Hart.
“Oh, I know,” said Bowman. “But you seem to want the high ground when talking about Red Delta. You protest American citizens being killed because they deserve a fair trial, but at least they got a proper burial. You’ve served under a government that denies men the dignity of dying and strips their families of their right to mourn.”
Hart had never thought of it in that light. Bowman was right.
“Let me ask you another question,” said Bowman. “The twenty trainees I helped you bring in. What happened to them?”
“I’ve heard they’re kept at a detention center,” said Hart.
Bowman laughed out loud. “That’s funny. You should ask Foster where they are. Better yet, request an interview with one.”
“What are you saying?” asked Hart.
“Do you have any idea how much they invested in these men? In that program?” asked Bowman. “A shiny new facility, staffed with trained specialists, some of the best in the world in their respective skills. They even hired women to come in and raise the boys the first few years of their lives. They spent a fortune. Do you really think they took those men to a remote prison and stashed them away? Those boys were an investment. Come on, Hart. You know better.”
Hart forgot just how convincing Bowman could be. He’d trusted his superiors throughout his career and never had reason to doubt, but then again, maybe it was because he never allowed himself to consider the things Bowman was saying.
“You’ve told me they were testing the men for their marking origin,” said Bowman. “Can I show you something?”
Hart nodded, and Bowman pulled out a photograph and slid it across the coffee table.
“Does that look familiar?” asked Bowman.
Hart looked at the photo in front of him of a tattoo, or birthmark of three crescent moons in a triangle formation. “Yes. That’s Cane’s birthmark. I’ve known about this for years. You know that.”
“Yes, I know,” said Bowman. “And that’s right; that’s Cane’s birthmark. The only problem is, it’s not Cane’s arm.”
Hart looked closer at the photo and realized something right away; Cane’s arm wouldn’t be in a photograph. Still, he couldn’t believe it. “Whose arm is it then?” he asked.
“A man named Daniel Verriday. Ring a bell?” asked Bowman.
Hart knew who he was. “He killed several of the marked men,” he said.
“What’s strange is that your boss, Harvey Foster, is moving him Wednesday. Daniel’s locked up in Macon State Prison in Georgia. He wants to have him tested.”
Hart refused to believe this. “It can’t be. How do you know this?” he asked.
Bowman smiled. “I wonder if Daniel will get a proper burial afterward. I doubt it.”
“There must be a good reason,” said Hart.
“Oh, I’m sure Foster thinks so. Cane surfaces, he suddenly wants you to find him, and now they’re testing the other man who has a marking like Cane. I’m sure it’s all a coincidence.”
While Hart was struggling with the implications, he knew one thing for sure; he was pissed at Harvey. There was no reason, no excuse, for him to withhold that kind of information from him. In fact, it seemed suspicious of him to do so.
“You need to look at the big picture,” said Bowman. “I think you’ve trusted the wrong people far too long. I do agree with Foster in one aspect. I think there’s something bigger coming. But you’re focused on the wrong things. It’s called misdirection; someone wants you to look at one thing so you won’t notice another. You’re so laser-focused on Cane, you’re missing what’s right in front of you.”
I thought I was here to interrogate him, thought Hart. “You’re still making excuses for the man who murdered children,” he said.
Bowman smiled again. “Do you know how many people knew Red Delta existed?” he asked. “Let me answer that. Few. The president didn’t even know about it. One of those select people was Harvey Foster.”
Hart knew his boss’s involvement but didn’t see the significance. “Ask yourself this question,” said Bowman. “Who benefitted from the shutdown of Red Delta?” Hart looked at him blankly. “Keep in mind what I said earlier. Red Delta was Cane’s program. It was there for him.”
Hart still said nothing. Bowman reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone. “Listen to this, Hart.”
Bowman fidgeted with the phone, and Hart listened to a recording of a man speaking. He had a deep, commanding voice.
Bowman. I stiffed a mission. The man had two kids there. I told these assholes I wasn’t doing jobs like this.
Hart didn’t recognize the speaker, but the voice that followed was unmistakably Bowman’s. It was a phone conversation concerning the mission that brought Red Delta down.
Well, well, I always knew you’d get soft on me.
Another voice chimed in.
What are they gonna do?
Hart didn’t recognize this voice either.
Nothing. They don’t have more of you lying around somewhere. They can replace anyone else in that program, except the two of you. I’ll call them in the morning and get it straightened out. I’ll tell them what I think about the missions they’re sending you on too. It’s their own fault.
It was Bowman again. After another brief exchange, Bowman made his concluding statement.
Cane, Lynks. I’m proud of both of you. You both know why I left, so I couldn’t judge you if I wanted to. You’re doing the right thing. I’m on your side. Just stay low and let me see what I can do.
There it was. Hart sat stunned as the one motivating force that fue
led him these years crashed in front of him. Cane had refused the order. He shifted in his seat and sighed multiple times. Neither spoke for a few minutes.
“Why didn’t you share this information a long time ago?” asked Hart.
Bowman laughed. “I did. I let Foster know immediately. He listened to the same audio you just did.”
Given everything else Hart had learned, this didn’t surprise him, if it was true.
“If it wasn’t Cane that killed them, who was it?” asked Hart.
“Now you’re asking the right questions,” said Bowman. “But I’ll ask mine one more time: Who benefitted from the shutdown of Red Delta?”
Hart thought for a moment. “The marked guys,” he said. Things were making too much sense.
“The ones pulling their strings,” said Bowman. “You said it yourself. Who was the one most qualified to unravel the mystery? Who was the one threat?”
Hart didn’t have to answer. It was Cane.
His phone was vibrating in his pocket. He ignored the first three rounds of buzzes, but on the fourth, he finally looked to see who was calling. It was Barkley.
“Excuse me a second,” he said. He got up and walked to the edge of the room, although it granted no additional privacy. “What you got, Barkley?”
“I need you here in Florida. Now,” said Barkley. Hart had never heard her sound so urgent or distraught, but he could hardly believe anything was more pressing than the conversation he was having.
“Ellen, I’m kind of in the middle of something,” said Hart.
“I have a major lead on Cane,” said Barkley.
Hart felt overwhelmed. Thirty minutes ago, Cane was a cold-blooded killer and impossible to find. Now he didn’t seem to be either of those.
◆◆◆
Sunday, 9/10/2028, 7:00 p.m.
Miami, Florida
Hart met Barkley outside a club in Miami, eager to see what she’d found. He’d had to scramble to hop on an airplane out of Tennessee after his meeting with Bowman, although his status always ensured a seat was available for him. The most challenging part of travel was having a rental car waiting for him, but given his status at the Bureau, there was always a young agent or two in the area ready to accommodate him. And sure enough, a car was there when he arrived in Miami.
Hart hated to cut his and Bowman’s interview short, but he’d gleaned plenty of information, just not the kind he had showed up for. He had a lot to process.
Barkley was waiting for him in the parking lot as he pulled in, and when he stopped, she climbed into his passenger seat wearing a huge smile. She handed him a sketch of someone that looked a lot like Cane, but it wasn’t one they circulated.
“I never saw the sketch from the hotel in Boston. I could’ve saved us a lot of time.” She relayed her conversation with Mary Swelling and explained why they were here. “The club owner who was helping her, Quinton Mason, is here, inside the club. It took a lot of the afternoon to track him down.”
“You think he’s in contact with Cane?” asked Hart.
“He was,” said Barkley. “I think Cane was hiring Mason to find him work. But he wasn’t making money from Swelling. It seems counter-intuitive.”
It made sense to Hart. “I’ll bet Cane was fighting boredom,” he said. “The thought of hiding out, sitting on a beach, it wasn’t for him.”
“Cane must be sitting on a nice nest egg, then, if he can afford to pay Mason to find work for him without compensation,” said Barkley.
“He does have money,” said Hart. “He stole millions of dollars from an American years ago and has been living off it ever since.”
“Lance, I know Cane,” said Barkley. “I didn’t realize until I saw the sketch, but I know who he is.”
Hart’s eyes widened. “How?”
“The Blue Rose Killer case. I was the first on the scene,” said Barkley. “There were sketches of him then, but this was before anyone knew Cane existed.”
Hart remembered the infamous serial killer and what happened at the remote barn, just hours away from where they were parked. “Are you sure?” he asked.
“I’m positive,” said Barkley. “It’s so clear now it was him, considering what happened that day. A stranger on the road helps Kristy but seems disinterested. He drugs her and brings her back to the cabin, then kills the guy and leaves before Kristy wakes up. Does that not sound like a Cane thing to do?”
Hart nodded. “It does.” He realized he would’ve had a harder time believing it before his conversation with Bowman, but now it seemed very plausible. “Sounds like he was in the right place at the right time.”
“Or the wrong place at the wrong time,” said Barkley. “It looked like he didn’t really want to be there but had a conscience, at least for a day.”
Hart realized how conflicted Barkley must feel about Cane, and it was mostly due to what he’d told her the day before, a story that ended up being a fabrication. “Barkley, we need to talk.” Hart had debated telling Barkley anything until he knew more about what was going on, not wanting to drag her into some conspiracy before he knew there was one. But seeing her now, he thought she deserved to know. He also wanted someone’s feedback, and he trusted her. So, he told her about his visit with Bowman, restating the concerns brought up about their own boss and government. He also told her about the audio of Cane, Lynks, and Bowman years ago. She looked relieved.
“So Cane may not be who we thought he was?” asked Barkley.
“He’s still a killer,” said Hart, “But no, he didn’t kill any children.”
He told her about Daniel and Cane’s matching marks, which added to his concerns about Foster.
“Oh, no. I talked to Foster already today,” said Barkley.
“What’d you tell him?” asked Hart.
“I told him about Swelling and the Kristy connection. I’m so sorry,” she said.
Hart shook his head. “How were you supposed to know? You were doing the right thing, Ellen, so don’t apologize. It’s okay, anyway. I don’t want to hide things from Foster, not until I have better answers.”
“What do we do?” asked Barkley.
“I don’t know yet,” said Hart. “It’s something we must approach delicately.” He hoped somehow Foster would be clean in all this. He might not like his boss, but him behaving unethically, or worse, was another thing.
“You should talk to him,” said Barkley. “Don’t accuse him of wrongdoing, but you have a right to ask questions.”
She was right. Instead of stewing about it, he should talk to Foster; maybe he could clear it up with an explanation.
“Let’s go talk to Mr. Mason, and then we can figure out what to do next,” said Hart.
They walked to the side door of the nightclub and showed their ID to a bouncer, who let them right in. The club was massive, one of the biggest in Miami, but it looked empty at the moment. In three hours, it’d be so full you’d have trouble finding a place to stand.
The bouncer led them around the building until they reached an elevator, which took them to the third floor. Mason’s office was down a long, darkened hallway with glass exterior walls that looked down on the club floor. Mason was waiting for them at the end, standing right outside his large office.
“Officers, pleased to meet you. I’m Quinton Mason.” He stuck out his hand for a shake, but neither Hart nor Barkley accepted. Instead, Hart motioned for them to go inside, which they did. The bouncer entered behind them and shut the door, which muffled the club music to a dull roar in the background. Hart appreciated the quiet after the long walk through the loud club. He was thankful to be doing the interview now and not during peak hours, as the place would be substantially louder.
“Sit, please,” Mason offered as he pointed to two executive chairs around a large glass table. Hart guessed Mason had made a lot of deals at that table and wondered how many of them were illegal. He was known for straddling the fence legally.
Hart and Barkley sat, and Mason followed. Quinton was
tall and dark-complexioned, maybe Middle Eastern in background, but had no detectable accent, suggesting he was born and raised here. He looked like a serious businessman, which he was. He had plenty of run-ins with the law in the past, including the FBI, but nothing ever stuck, likely because he played the part of a cooperative informant many times and was filthy rich.
“What can I do for the two of you?” asked Mason.
“How do you know Cane?” asked Hart. He wanted to shake him up right from the start, and it worked. Quinton’s smile disappeared and was replaced for a split second with panic. He quickly gained his composure, but it was still a reveal he couldn’t take back.
He looked at Hart with raised eyebrows and said, “I don’t know a Cane.”
“Quinton, let’s skip the nonsense,” said Barkley. “Let me tell you what I know, okay?” I had a long chat with Mary Swelling. I know you were helping her with missing children cases, and you were being paid by Cane to find him work. I also know Mary asked to meet Cane, and you made it happen.”
Quinton looked down. It was obvious he knew there was no way out of this corner.
“Let me assure you, we don’t care about your involvement,” said Hart. “We only want Cane.”
Quinton took a minute, but he finally looked at them. “Cane came to me. He and his other friend,” he said.
“Lynks?” asked Hart.
“I didn’t know his name,” said Quinton. “But yeah, they asked me for work. I thought he wanted real employment, but no, he wanted these odd jobs, like the kids thing. I thought the dude was crazy, but he paid me. Paid me well, too. So yeah, I found him work. Swelling, that was Cane’s idea, not mine, so I went to her and offered to help. I didn’t tell Cane to kill anyone. That was all him.”
Hart looked over at Barkley. Her tactic not only worked, but it got Quinton to make an admission she didn’t ask for. Quinton looked shaken by it, maybe still thinking they were after him because of the murder of the family who abducted Tina Rogers.
“We don’t care about that, Quinton,” said Hart. “We want to know how to find Cane.”
“You mean now?” asked Mason.