by Colin Conway
Unsurprisingly, the older man sitting across from him didn’t even flinch.
They were seated in a windowless room in Quantico, Virginia. Technically, it was home to the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s training academy, and this small room was explicitly used to train FBI agents on how to survive being tortured if ever taken hostage.
However, today it was an impromptu meeting place for one man to begin his new life in the United States Federal Witness Protection Program. Holding the meeting at the training base was due to an interagency favor.
Stifling a yawn, U.S. Marshal Theodore ‘Ted’ Onderdonk said, “You’re going to be fine.”
“How can you possibly think that?” the big man asked.
Onderdonk leaned back in his chair, his eyes slowly blinking as if he were about to fall asleep. “Because I know it, Beau. This is what I do.”
Beauregard ‘Beau’ Smith stroked his chest-length beard and studied the marshal. They’d only met a week ago, but his life was now in the hands of this cop. Onderdonk was in his late forties but appeared almost a decade older due to the lines on his tanned face. The salt and pepper mustache also aged the man. He wore a plaid short-sleeved shirt and khaki pants. His round badge was clipped to his belt, and a gun was on his hip.
“Are there even any valleys in Maine?”
“Of course, there are valleys in Maine, Beau. There are valleys everywhere. Don’t be obtuse.”
Beau’s hand dropped from his beard and hit the metal table with a thud. He didn’t like it when Onderdonk insulted him, and he especially didn’t like it when he used words that he barely understood. He glared at the man, but as usual, the marshal didn’t care. Or he was good at faking that he didn’t care. Either way, Beau respected Onderdonk for that. Most lawmen couldn’t hide their emotions around him.
The marshal sucked something imaginary through his teeth before speaking again. “The town is on the edge of the ocean with its own bay. Right across from New Hampshire. You’re going to love it.” Onderdonk didn’t sound convincing.
“I’m going to hate it,” Beau said, reaching for the black cloth hoodie that lay on the metal table. He’d been required to wear it as a team of marshals escorted him onto the training facility and then into the room. Onderdonk didn’t want anyone to see him arriving, even if they were a bunch of FBI recruits.
“You haven’t given Maine a chance,” the marshal said. “Don’t be such a wimp.”
Until very recently, no one would have dared call him anything close to that since he held the exalted position of bookkeeper for the Satan’s Dawgs Motorcycle Club (MC). As with everything in the Dawgs, members in positions of power were given coded titles to make their activities sound legitimate in case their phones were tapped, or conversations were somehow overheard.
Beau Smith was its bookkeeper, which meant he was responsible for ‘keeping book’ on those who had crossed the club and for eventually settling those debts. He was very good at ‘clearing the books,’ and there was a long line of dead men to prove it. Because of his skills, he had been given all the rewards that came with it. Smith had his choice of the most beautiful women, the coolest bikes, the deadliest guns—the best of everything.
“No,” Beau said. “This can’t be happening. I filled out your forms. I talked with your headshrinkers. You’re not supposed to put me in a small town. I’ll get bored. I’ll go crazy.”
Onderdonk shrugged. “That’s what the computer spits out. It runs complicated algorithms to figure out what’s best for you. It’s never wrong.”
Beau slammed his fist against the table. “I. Don’t. Care. Run it again.”
Onderdonk held the back of his hand against his mouth as he yawned a second time. “It doesn’t work like that, Beau. The computer reviews the data it’s given, chews it up, and spits it out. Pleasant Valley, Maine is what it says you need for a safe, relaxing life.”
“Relaxing? I don’t want relaxing!” The big man jumped out of his seat, sending the metal chair spiraling behind him until it banged into the wall.
Beau walked back and forth, running his fingers through his long, dirty blonde hair while he thought. Finally, he turned and angrily pointed at the lawman. “It was Ekleberry, wasn’t it?”
Special Agent Maxwell Ekleberry was the man who got Beau Smith, feared bookkeeper, to turn against his own club. The FBI agent had discovered the only thing Beau loved and used it against him.
Onderdonk shook his head. “Max doesn’t have the juice to mess with the system. No one does. That’s why it’s the system.”
Beau’s eyes flattened. “Ted, someone always has the juice to mess with the system. You figure out the weak point and apply the appropriate pressure. Do I have to remind you why I’m here?”
“I get it, Beau. You’re not happy with the assignment, but this is what we’ve got. Unless you want to sit in this box for the rest of your life.”
The big man threw up his hands. “Fine. I’ll stay here. It’s gotta be better than Maine.”
Onderdonk leaned back in his chair again. “For such a tough guy, you sure throw a temper tantrum when you don’t get your way.”
Beau scowled at the marshal, who smiled in return.
“Ever been to Maine?” Onderdonk asked.
He crossed his arms and leaned into a corner.
“That’s what I thought.”
Beau looked away and stared at the bare, beige wall.
“How will you know you won’t like it?”
“I won’t.”
“You sound like a child.”
Beau pushed off the wall and stepped toward the table. “You calling me immature?”
“I’m calling you bratty.”
That stopped the former bookkeeper. “Bratty?”
“As a twelve-year-old girl.”
Beau shook his head. Only Onderdonk could get away with talking to him like that. A lot of it had to do with how the lawman playfully smirked as he verbally jabbed at him. It was a disarming trait that Beau weirdly admired. It’s what kept Onderdonk’s nose in place and his mouth full of teeth.
“What I’m saying is give it a chance, Beau. What do you have to lose?”
“My life.”
“You’re not going to lose your life, especially in Pleasant Valley, Maine. Besides, I’m good at what I do. As long as I’m assigned to be your witness inspector, you’re in the best hands the agency has. I’ve never lost anybody as long as they’ve followed the agency protocols.”
“The heck does that mean?”
“It means do what I say, and you’ll stay alive.”
“The whole MC is after me because of what I did for Ekleberry. Now, I’ve got to trust you to stay alive?” He shook his head in disgust. “The system is rigged.”
“Of course, it is,” Onderdonk agreed. “So is Las Vegas, but I bet you’ve put your money on the tables in hopes of beating them the same way you tried to beat the U.S. Government.”
Beau thought about Vegas. He had gone there on yearly runs with the club from their home base in Phoenix, Arizona. While there, Beau would bet on all sorts of things. He knew those games were rigged and wasn’t afraid to play. He also knew that life was a rigged game. None of us were getting out alive. What mattered was how we showed up.
He picked up his chair and sat at the table. “What am I supposed to do in this town? Pleasant Valley, right? Do I have some sort of cover? Do I have a job?”
Onderdonk slid a file to him. “We have two days to get you ready.”
“Two days? That’s all?”
“It’s enough. You’re going to get a crash course on being a citizen.”
“What am I going to do?”
“One of the businesses that we own had a change in ownership. We’ll install you as the new proprietor. Just tell people you bought it on the Internet.”
“The Internet?”
“People sell businesses that way now. Easy peasy.”
“Wait. The U.S. Marshals own businesses?”
/> “Of course, we do—hundreds of them. We use them for cover. And you’re going to run one of them for us. Congratulations, Beau, you’re now a top-secret employee of the U.S. government.”
“Ugh,” he said, opening the file. “So, what’s my job?”
“You’re going to run a bookstore.”
“A what?”
“A bookstore. A mystery bookstore to be exact.”
Beau blinked several times before asking, “Why would the computer think I would want to run a bookstore? I hate reading.”
“You hate reading?”
“I haven’t read a book since high school.”
Onderdonk pulled the folder back to him while his eyes remained locked on Beau’s. Slowly, he lowered his attention to the file and flipped to the original information sheet. “Huh,” the lawman eventually said, his finger resting somewhere in the middle of the page.
“What?” Beau asked, pulling the file back to himself. In the former employment box, Beau had written bookkeeper. “Bookstore,” he said. “Very funny.”
“It’s not supposed to be funny,” Onderdonk said, once again pulling the file back to him. The marshal’s voice became grave, and his eyes hardened. “This is supposed to be serious.”
“What’s wrong, Ted?”
The lawman leaned over the file, reading intently. “Something is wrong. Very wrong.”
“How do you mean?”
“You shouldn’t have been assigned to anything with a similar title to your previous... uh, occupation. We’re supposed to ensure you sever ties with your old life, not give clues for people to locate you. We want to make it impossible for anyone to find you.”
Beau stroked his beard as he listened to the marshal. He couldn’t tell if the lawman was being serious or shining him on. Something in Onderdonk’s tone had changed, and Beau couldn’t put his finger on it.
“Even your new name is all wrong,” the marshal muttered.
“What’s my new name?”
The lawman pressed his finger onto the page. “Brody Steele, with an e at the end.”
Beau leaned back, grinning. “Brody Steele. Not bad. It makes me sounds like an action movie star.”
Onderdonk slapped the table, causing Beau to jump.
“That’s a problem, don’t you see? Your name is supposed to be boring. Something that people won’t think twice about nor remember. Like Beau Smith.”
“You’re saying my name is boring?”
“Frankly, yeah.”
“My name is not boring.”
“Is Beau Bridges the cool brother?”
He smirked.
“And we’re not supposed to use the same initials. BS.”
“That sounds like BS.”
Onderdonk’s eyes slanted for a moment then eased. He returned to studying the file. “It’s all wrong.”
“So maybe Ekleberry did do it.”
The marshal’s lips twisted into a smirk. “No, Ekleberry did not do it. The man doesn’t have that much pull to mess with the system. Besides, he’s a ding-dong.”
“But you think something happened.”
The marshal nodded. “Yeah. I do.”
“And you’ll look into it?”
“You know I will.”
Beau brightened. “So, I don’t have to go to Pleasant Valley then?”
Onderdonk looked up from the file with a confused look. “What? No. You most definitely have to go.”
“Why?”
“We have to figure out what’s going on.”
“Are you kidding? Maybe I’m being set up.”
Onderdonk closed the file and pushed it to the side. “How will we know if you don’t go? If we pull back now and announce that someone screwed with this system, we’re going to send a signal to whoever might be behind it all. We’ll never find the truth. We’re not going to be any better off than we are now.”
“But I’ll be safer.”
The lawman dismissed him with a wave. “You’re safe, Beau. Besides, nothing ever happens in Pleasant Valley. I’ve already told you that. You’ll be fine. Just pay attention and keep your eyes open. I’ll be in touch every few days.”
The way Onderdonk quickly ended the conversation bothered Beau. Something wasn’t right with the marshal. He seemed antsy and anxious. He might be a federal jerk, but he was his federal jerk. This man’s job was to protect him, and he was trying to learn to trust him, but it seemed like Onderdonk was now rushing Beau into Pleasant Valley. Until that moment, he thought the lawman was on his side. Now, he wasn’t sure.
Weirdly, though, that did it for Beau. He would go to Pleasant Valley. Not because Onderdonk said so, but because he didn’t like people messing with his life. Besides, he wanted to know what was going on.
“Pleasant Valley, it is.” The big man leaned back in his seat, tugging at his beard. “What else do I need to know before we get started?”
Onderdonk appraised Beau. “You need some new clothes.”
“What’s wrong with my clothes?”
“Pleasant Valley is a nice place with respectable people. You can’t look like a thug. You need to look like a citizen.”
“Okay, then. I’ll buy a new shirt.”
“No. You need a whole new wardrobe. The type of stuff you’ve never worn before.”
The way the marshal said it left no room for negotiation. “Who’s picking my clothes?”
“I am.”
“Ugh,” Beau grunted. If there was such a thing, Onderdonk looked like a fashion model for Dockers Over 50TM. He pulled on his beard and frowned.
The lawman smiled. “And we need to cut off that scraggly mess you call a beard.”
“What?” Beau said, smacking the table. “No! The beard stays.”
“It makes you look like a pirate.”
“What if we cut it short?”
“Then you’ll look like a hipster. No.”
Beau tugged on his beard. “It gives me power. Like that guy in the bible.”
“Speaking of that rat nest, your hair is coming off as well.”
“You gotta be kidding me,” Beau said, running his fingers through his long mane. “I’m never letting you cut my hair.”
“Time to grow up,” Onderdonk said. “You won’t even know it’s gone.”
Chapter 4
Brody stared at himself in the restroom mirror, not recognizing the man reflected at him.
He looked like a salesman.
No, he decided, he looked like a government hack.
Worse, he sighed. He looked like a mystery bookstore owner.
His shoulders slumped. Brody ran his fingers through his businessman’s haircut, then his tattooed hand touched his clean-shaven face. Next, he leaned in and examined his blue eyes. At least those were the same, he thought.
Well, they looked the same. Brody was starting to doubt himself.
He clicked off the light, stepped out of the bathroom, and moved to the front of the store. For a brief second, he thought he smelled the aroma of the ocean and felt a rise in humidity. He suddenly stopped when he saw the man leaning casually on the front counter.
Brody balled up his fists. “Ekleberry,” he muttered.
Special Agent Maxwell Ekleberry looked more like a Texas Ranger than an FBI man. He stood almost six feet tall, but his dirty cowboy hat and scuffed leather boots made him seem much taller. He wore a faded western shirt and dusty blue jeans. His gun and badge were noticeably absent from his hip, but there were wear marks at their usual positions. Brody imagined Ekleberry’s pick-up was parked someone not far from the store. The agent’s vehicle was much newer than the rust bucket the marshal service had provided Brody.
Ekleberry removed an unlit match from his mouth. “Nice place. You must be a real hit with the geriatric crowd.”
Brody looked to the front door. “How’d you get in here without ringing the bell?”
The FBI man shrugged. “Tricks of the trade.”
“The same tricks you pulled to get me into
this town?”
Ekleberry put the match back into his mouth, tucking it to the side. “Ted said you were prickly about being sent here.”
“You talked with him?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Because I worry about you, Beau.”
“It’s Brody now.”
The G-Man snorted, barely containing a laugh. “I love the way you say that. It sounds like you’re a kid from 90210.”
“Don’t mess with this cover and get me killed, Ekleberry.”
“I’m not going to mess with it, Brody.” He chuckled after saying the new name. “I also didn’t send you here. Onderdonk said you accused me of doing so. It’s not nice to accuse people of things unless you have proof.”
The orange cat made an appearance then but stopped at the edge of the Cozy aisle to stare at the federal agent. He didn’t come any further into the shop. Instead, he gave the man in the cowboy hat a wide berth. Ekleberry noticed the tom and smirked.
“Didn’t figure you to be a cat person.”
“I’m not.”
“What’s its name?”
“Travis.”
The special agent sniffed dismissively. “That’s stupid.”
While Ted Onderdonk had a way about him that Brody weirdly respected, he did not feel that way toward the G-Man. The man had never been cruel, unfair, or dirty toward him, but Brody disliked him intensely. Mostly, it was because Ekleberry had jammed him up, and the big man would never forget it. There was always an underlying tension in his conversations with the agent. “Why are you here, Ekleberry?”
“To check on you.”
“But you’re not supposed to be here. Your part is done. You already ruined my life.”
“Maybe I wanted to visit this town and see how you were getting along.”
“Bull,” Brody said.
The agent shook his head. “You’re the only felon I’ve ever met who doesn’t swear.”
“My grandmother raised me to be a good man.”
“Who kills people.”
“I only killed those who deserved it.”
“You deemed them worthy of killing because they crossed the club.”
Brody shrugged. “I had standards for my work, which is more than most people can say. And you and the judge didn’t put much of a value on those men I put in the ground because you traded their lives for information to go after my crew.”