I can’t go to Hardwick, either.
I have to find Royce.
This has to be some sick joke.
I have to find Royce.
For the first time, I wish I had never taken this case.
Reaching the elevator, hands tremble as I request the lift to carry me the three floors to my shiny new office. All I ever wanted was a cubicle, and now I don’t know what the fuck to do with so much space. The elevator is crowded as I step in, returning the poker-faced smile of the people who will share these tense moments with me.
I can’t tell any of them.
The lift takes its sweet time, stopping on every floor, as I attempt to calm my thrashing circadian rhythms, but the nausea roils me.
I’m glad you said yes to dinner.
Intercut with the two nights I slept with him- one before Maya’s passing, and the third after- I don’t know why I ever did.
Ask Ryan Royce.
The flash of Patrick Barker’s bloody face where I pistol whipped him sends the sickness up my throat as I exit the elevator. Thankful as I am to no longer occupy the tiny space with twenty other people, vomiting in the hallway trash looks no better.
Hardwick sees me, bent over the garbage pail I came across, and picks up his pace toward me as all the others cast glares of feigned concern. He hasn’t slept, either, if the reddened circles around his eyes are any indication.
“Jesus, Knox. What happened?”
Spitting what remains in my mouth to the plastic liner’s bottom, I brush a lock of hair behind my ear and try not to heave any further.
“Nothing,” I croak, looking up at everyone watching me. “I’m fine.”
He takes me by the arm, gently guiding me into the nearest vacant office. We sit at the conference table, facing each other.
I try not to meet his eye.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
I need to tell him, but can’t. Not without evidence. Fingering Royce could ruin his career if Barker is lying. Admitting what I did to Barker will erode his trust, and rightly so.
I have to protect him.
“Nothing. Just been a stressful week. Aunt dying, all that.”
Then, again, it could be all which saves Emily Rickard’s life.
My partner studies me, and suddenly, a certain conversation comes back to the front of my mind; from when I began this case and met Hardwick, screaming into a phone at Hazel.
In my heart of hearts, I’ll never know for sure. I think someone was pulling Jim’s strings. He allowed a key suspect to escape the building and shot another agent by mistake.
Hardwick’s old partner.
Could Royce have killed James Partridge because he was almost found out? Was the FBI agent getting too close?
Are we sure it was a mistake? I asked, repeating what the man who calls himself Death asked so the Director could hear it.
“Knox?”
I think someone was pulling Jim’s strings.
“Yeah,” I reply, but have no followup.
“Snap out of it!” he barks, pulling my wandering thoughts to him. “Now what’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen a fucking ghost. Oh Jesus,” he continues after a moment, “Royce didn’t get you pregnant, did he?”
Fuck you, Hardwick.
“Doesn’t really work that quick, Stephen. No,” I muse, “I think a few things are catching up with me, is all.”
“You sure?”
I nod.
“I’m sure.”
“Okay,” Hardwick says, “I need you, Knox. You’ve been able to figure out things nobody else has. Stuff that...slipped right by all of us. Right by me. So believe me when I tell you, we need you at full strength.”
It’s nice to know I’m more than eye candy to someone, but I can’t dwell on happy thoughts. I belong to darkness, destruction and Death, and Hardwick’s rare words of encouragement will not sustain me long. So I thank him and exit the conference room, returning to the hallway where glares await.
I have to find Ryan Royce.
Reaching my office, I open the door. It is empty and unwelcoming, like me. Maya was the last shred of my humanity, taken by a being who claims to care. Without her, I am safe in the dim room’s vacancy.
I take a seat at the desk, picking up the phone and dialing Royce’s number. It rings once, then again; once more before going to voicemail.
“Hi, this is Detective Royce with the D.C. Police Department. I am either out of the office, or working on something important, so leave a message.”
“Ryan,” I say after the beep; it is joyless and dead inside, just like I am. “We need to talk. About last night. Please, call me. It’s Ramona, by the way. I mean, Knox. Call me.”
God, I’m so awkward.
After a moment, he doesn’t call back. I dial his number again. Same number, same message. I press down the receiver, call a third time.
“Hi, this is Detective Royce with the D.C. Police-”
Dammit. I replace the phone, and bury my head in my hands, trying to rectify panic with logic. Trying to find any reason for Barker to lie under duress. The threat of pain alone would render most people blubbering messes.
I want to give Agent Partridge the benefit of the doubt here. Man served his country, and died for it. His family is shattered. Wife and four kids, left without a father.
I need to see the Los Angeles photos. Reaching into the top drawer, I pull out the accordion file in which I’ve compiled all the pieces at my disposal. Witness statements, victim profiles-
His body washed up on the shores of the Potomac two days later.
Despite meticulous organization, it takes a moment to recover the photos from a church basement in L.A.. Laying thirteen faces out across the desk, I shove all other papers aside and study them. I recognize Jordan West, with short black hair and a scowl on his lips. Patrick Barker, who I beat and broke under the handle of my gun.
And in the middle of them, with brown spiky hair and a smirk none of the other boys possess, the face stands out immediately. Same blue eyes. Same foolish demeanour.
There’s no point in tainting a good agent’s name, right?
I don’t know how I missed it.
Sinking deeper into the knowledge Ryan Royce works for Jordan West, likely killed James Partridge- and worst of all, I slept with him- I consider puking again when the phone above my shaking hands rings.
Without hesitation, I lift the receiver to my ear.
“Royce?”
The voice on the other end is deep and unrecognizable. I immediately recognize it as a masking filter, disguising the caller’s true voice.
“Hello, Agent Knox.”
“Who is this?”
The voice continues; its low tone and garbled treble reach into my deepest recesses, for it is even more soulless than I am.
“My name is the Spider, and I want to play a game.”
Jordan West.
I’m getting too close. First, I apprehended his underling, and now I know Royce is involved. West would not be calling otherwise.
He must have more than one set of eyes inside.
“What do you want?” I ask, not really wanting to know; not wanting to play his twisted game, and live to see its outcome. At cracks in the white blinds ahead of me, my gaze turns upward, scanning for any kind of camera. My fingers run along the desk’s underside, searching for any kind of listening device.
I find neither.
“I told you,” the voice says, “I want to play a game, Ramona.”
“What kind of game?”
“The kind where two brilliant minds compete for the soul of an innocent child, of course. If you win, I will give you Emily Rickard. If you lose, it will be more than a game.”
“And if I refuse?” I ask.
All my life, I have revelled in the darkness.
“Then, I will kill the girl, and every other like her. Children will keep disappearing, right out from under their guardians’ watchful eye. Because let’s face
it, Agent Knox. Nobody is perfect.”
I could deal with appearances from strange ghosts, handle my mother’s murder and might even be able to let go of Maya’s final moments, at some point in time.
But this may be too twisted, even for me.
“You know we’ll find you, West. We know about the church. The priest. ‘Yahweh is our weapon’? Did I get that right?”
The barren presence chuckles on the other end.
“Do you not think everything I have put before you was meant to happen, Agent Knox? That shrine was meant to be found. Patrick was supposed to be caught and tell you the man you’re fucking is one of ours.”
“Bullshit,” I counter, “You would never leave a trail that stupid, or easy.”
“All of these,” the man who calls himself the Spider says, “are steps which had to be taken in order to make this conversation tangible, Ramona. Do you really believe I could walk up to you in the street, and have a civil conversation, without your colleagues shooting me on sight?”
I say nothing.
“Can you honestly tell me that would not be a realistic outcome?”
I can’t, but have no desire to give Jordan West any satisfaction of being right. He is the worst kind of human being, trying to force the right to his civil conversation.
“There is no justification for what you’re doing here, West. None at all.”
The voice laughs.
“Spare me morals, Agent Knox. You know what it’s like to have everything taken from you, for no reason at all. Of all people, you should understand what we are accomplishing here.”
“The only thing you’re accomplishing, West,” I say, “is destroying families in this city, all to avenge some personal injustice, and I’m not going to help you accomplish that.”
There is a pause on the other end.
“Shame. Agent Partridge said the same thing. Fortunately, I was able to motivate him fairly quickly. I have a feeling the same will apply here. Somebody would like to speak to you, Agent Knox.”
There is shuffling on the other end, before a higher pitched voice comes over the line.
“Hello?” the young girl says, “This is Emily. Please, don’t let the bad men kill me! I don’t want to die!”
No older than ten, her screams make my heart sink in my chest as she is pulled away shrieking. Within seconds, the masked presence returns.
“You have proof that Emily Rickard is alive and unharmed. If you want her to remain that way, I suggest you follow my instructions.”
I could tell him the United States government doesn’t negotiate with terrorists, and he might slit the kid’s throat.
Maya, the only person in the world who grounded me, is gone. My lover’s been exposed as complicit, and I won’t take Hardwick down with me.
Worst, my guardian angel has abandoned me.
“Tell me what I have to do.”
I can’t see the Spider gloating, but hear it. I am a fly trapped in his web, at the mercy of what senses aren't tangled in it.
“Very good,” West says, “First, you must disable the building’s security. Then, incapacitate Stephen Hardwick and John Hazel. Lastly, free Patrick Barker and bring him to me.” He lists off the address and tells me it’s an old warehouse in Georgetown.
Unbelievable.
“Even if I could accomplish the first objective, the second won’t be easy, and the third is impossible.”
The voice on the other end chuckles.
“You have two hours, Agent Knox. After that, Emily here will lose a certain body part, but someone on the black market will profit for your ineptitude.”
“Wait, I need more than-”
It is too late.
There is a click, and West is gone. I am left holding the handset, its plastic trembling in my unstable grip; torn between my comfortable darkness and saving a child who did nothing to deserve a role in this sick, twisted game.
Used to have an agent under my command, Director Hazel says in my memory. Most loyal, self-righteous, smug son of a bitch there ever was.
The Spider made Partridge play his game, and my predecessor died for it.
Agent Partridge said the same thing. Fortunately, I was able to motivate him fairly quickly. I have a feeling the same will apply here.
I will never be able to explain the sudden change all of us saw in Jim during his last days alive. He was short-tempered, prone to unnecessary risks.
Ask Ryan Royce.
And finally, in my symphony of limited emotions under assault, I am confronted with the imagery of my guardian angel, sitting at my kitchen table, pouring over the evidence of my new assignment.
Why did they pick me, Tim?
Replacing the handset in its cradle, I wish he was here.
Chapter Fourteen
Leaving my office, I return to the hallway, where fewer stares await. The clock is ticking, and I already wasted too much time on self-pity.
I don’t know how this will end for me; Ramona Knox, no business chasing down kidnappers manipulating people who shouldn’t be federal agents, but became them anyway. I don’t know how history will frame the first female FBI agent assigned to lead a national case; who turned around and negotiated with its mastermind.
Hardwick is at a cubicle on the phone. We lock eyes, exchanging nods from afar. Knowing he may soon have to chase me sends chills up my spine.
Maybe there’s another way.
An analyst named Randy stops me, asking for my signature on a report. I oblige, looking toward Hazel’s office at the hall’s end. I can’t see through its blinds from this angle, and don’t look forward to going against him.
Randy gets what he came for, and disappears. Tallying my options, I don’t count many. There is no way to know if West has other eyes and ears in the Bureau, feeding my choices and actions back to him. Glancing at the maze of cubicles and offices, I scan my environment for signs of anyone watching me, but find none.
How long would it take West to know if I betrayed him? Would he even know?
I can’t take the risk- not as long as Emily Rickard’s life hangs in the balance. To spare her, I will have to play West’s game. But I can’t start here. I return to the elevator, pacing panicked breaths as I descend to the building’s lobby.
On the sixth floor, the double doors slide open, and a man with dark hair steps inside. His blazer is cream-coloured, flesh around his mouth without a beard or any sign of facial growth. A thin pair of horn-rimmed glasses sits on his nose.
I keep eyes pointed at the ground, no wish to speak to this stranger. But as we stand alone in the elevator, he turns to speak with me.
“You’re Agent Knox,” he says, “Aren’t you?”
I have never met this person in my life.
“Yes,” I reply, “and who are you?”
There is no time for casual conversations, but I have to act natural.
“Louis Rickard. I believe you’re working my daughter’s case.”
“Of course.” (Shit. Shit. Shit.) “I’m so sorry we haven’t met before now,” I say, shaking his hand. As the lift stops on the third level, people climb on, pushing Emily’s father and I closer together in the elevator’s limited center.
“If you have the time,” Rickard says out the side of his mouth, “I’d love to go over the case with you. Help however I can.”
Much personal insight as he might provide about his beloved daughter, sentiment will not help me. I am the Spider’s tool, and must play his game.
There are tools I could use to fulfill the Spider’s instructions, but they all require a badge, a requisition form, someone behind a glass window who can give a statement. The elevator stops at the ground floor and I need to lose Rickard.
Emily’s father is more tenacious than I care for him to be, and tails me out of the lift.
“Agent Knox? Please? If there’s anything you can tell me-”
Realizing I will not outrun him, I grab his arm, pulling him down a hallway in the direction of the
FBI vehicle lot.
“What the hell?” Louis says, grunting louder the farther I shepherd him. I don’t want to attract too much attention, and release him as our conversation is taken outside the earshot of curious federal agents.
“I’m sorry to startle you,” I tell him, but the Secretary’s advisor is visibly upset.
“I demand to know what right you have to lay a hand on me, Agent Knox-”
“Look!” I interrupt him, “I’m working a lead related to Emily’s disappearance. But it’s sensitive, and I have to operate...covertly, for now.”
“What kind of lead?”
A couple agents pass us on the way to the lot, and my heart aches for this family; but their daughter’s well-being depends on my compliance with Jordan West’s demands.
When the agents have passed, I shake my head at Emily’s father.
“That’s all I can tell you right now, Louis. But if I were you, I would not be in this building in about a half hour’s time.”
“Why? Is something going to happen?”
You’re giving too much away.
“Like I said, Louis. That’s all I can tell you. Go home. Comfort your wife. Or don’t, and go to work. I will personally call you the moment I get Emily back.”
This interaction is all the proof I need to avoid involving anyone else. With that mindset, I leave Louis Rickard staring at the floor, exiting onto Pennsylvania.
I won’t be able to secure drugs, but chloroform from the nearby pharmacy is an option. Entering through the chiming door, I purchase a bottle, along with gauze and vinyl gloves. The pharmacist eyeballs the purchases of a woman in a pantsuit with wild hair, and must assume I’m getting ready to murder my cheating lover.
At least that would be forgivable.
Returning outside, I assemble the rest of my master plan. Leaning against a fast food joint across the street, a fellow dressed in baggy clothes and questionable motives whispers to equally questionable individuals as they pass.
Handshakes and words over the shoulder; I suspect a drug dealer.
Cutting across the street, waving at drivers who allow me to cross in front of them, I join the shady individual on the sidewalk.
“Ramona Knox,” I tell him, “FBI.”
The dealer raises an eyebrow, staring me up and down. His eyes linger too long on my chest.
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