A Cross to Kill

by Andrew Huff

Cross stood straighter. “Are you on duty?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry. It’s just a routine security detail. I’m alone in a car.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I just thought I saw something.”

  “Describe it,” Cross said in a stern, commanding voice. All other thoughts disappeared from the front of his mind to make room for the incoming information.

  Paulson responded as he would to any superior. “White male approaching secure area. He is wearing a large jacket but does not appear to be armed.”

  “What kind of jacket, Officer Paulson?”

  “Ankle-length pea coat, sir. I just radioed it in, and we’re standing down. Nothing to be alarmed about.”

  Nothing to be alarmed about? Who was running this operation? “Are you wearing a jacket?”

  Another pause, then a confused “Yes?”

  “What kind?”

  “My suit jacket, sir.”

  “But you don’t really need it. It’s seventy-one degrees outside.”

  The line went silent again. “Sir,” Paulson said at last. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to call you back.”

  “Please.”

  “Oh, and one last thing, John. I thought you might like to know Ms. Lewis is going to be interviewed on NABC’s broadcast news tonight.”

  Cross felt his face soften into an involuntary smile. He shook his head to erase the accidental display of emotion and refocus on the conversation. “Thank you, Eric. And be careful.”

  “Copy that.” He hung up.

  Cross didn’t move. He pictured Paulson in his mind, pictured the suspicious individual, and prayed the situation would be resolved without harm to either party. Once he finished, he snatched the bowl off the counter and marched to the living room. The NABC broadcast would already be in progress.

  The unimpressive old TV had been furnished with the house, and Cross approached it with apprehension, certain it would refuse to cooperate. He grabbed the remote and pressed the Power button. Thankfully, it turned on.

  He cycled through the local network affiliates and found NABC. The beautiful face of Christine Lewis appeared in crystal-clear quality, her interview live and in progress. The anchor, a man named Bill Lawrence, filled the left side of the split screen.

  “… knife to your throat?” Lawrence finished saying.

  “It was certainly a traumatic experience, Bill,” Christine responded. “All I could think about was how I would never get a chance to see my family again.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “Right when the man was about to use the knife to decapitate me, a United States Army Ranger unit stormed the building and took out the men.”

  Cross’s mouth stopped mid-chew, and bran squished between his teeth. So she’d accepted the official military story. Good. Unfortunate about the lie, but it had to be. The military PR machine disavowed his existence and role in the operation. Everything by the book.

  “They shot and killed the men holding you hostage?”

  “No, Bill. Fortunately, they used very sophisticated electroshock equipment to subdue the terrorists. No bloodshed.”

  “I’d like you to tell us more …”

  “Except I did manage to get hit in the nose during the skirmish and left some of my own blood on the floor. I also had quite the headache.” Christine scrunched her nose and rubbed a nostril with her index finger.

  Cross exhaled a loud breath through his own nose. Not quite the thing he wanted her to remember him by.

  Lawrence chuckled. “And we here at NABC are certainly glad that was the only injury you sustained that day.”

  Her healthy, jovial appearance warmed Cross’s heart. He didn’t have to call her after all.

  A lie. He wouldn’t sleep tonight unless he did.

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHRISTINE TOOK MEASURED sips of the steaming cup of frothed milk and espresso cradled between her palms. The extra two shots did little to ease the throbbing in her head after a late flight from New York to Washington and less than four hours of whatever it was she got in the hotel room. Certainly not sleep. More like mandatory unconsciousness.

  Another glance at her smartwatch reminded Christine it was early. Earlier than the agreed upon time she and Kevin would meet. Kevin Hays, the owner of the phone number Jacobs supplied, suggested a rendezvous at Corner Cup Café on the corner of Ninth and M Streets, eight thirty in the morning. He assured her it would give them time to chat before the beginning of his hectic news producer schedule. Not an early bird, unlike her.

  She groaned after swallowing another sip of the coffee. The regret of offering Hays an exclusive second interview didn’t sit well with the hot liquid in her stomach. He worked for a Republic Broadcasting System affiliate serving a minor market in the area. Not the type of platform NABC would like her to maintain.

  Eight thirty-one. Ranting about his tardiness in her mind proved a distraction from the pressure she felt from her own network. From the network, or from herself? She didn’t want to weight the arguments either way. Christine dared a giant gulp of the latte to stall the mental anguish building in her brain.

  The ring of a bell signaled her attention to Hays walking through the door. He ducked slightly to fit under the average doorframe, a few strands of longer brown hair falling across his eyes.

  Tall and handsome. She’d forgive him for being late.

  He nodded her direction, then ordered a cup of coffee from the counter. He took the seat across the table from her and offered his hand in greeting. “Nice to meet you in person, Christine. And I guess congratulations on being alive.”

  She shook the hand and replied, “Thank you. It’s nice to meet you too. I’m glad we’re going to be able to help each other.”

  “Yeah.” Hays glanced over his shoulder at the entrance to the café. “About that. What exactly are you looking for?”

  “Our mutual friend told me you could get me some information from inside the CIA.”

  Hays stopped studying the entrance and eyed Christine with a peaked eyebrow. “He said that?”

  “I believe the phrase he used was ‘intelligence community.’ I figured we would start with the CIA and work our way out from there.”

  Hays chuckled as he took a drink from his coffee cup. “Yeah, sure. I can just ring up the CIA and get you whatever you want.” The beverage did nothing to soften the bite of sarcasm in his tone.

  Christine rolled her eyes. For once could a man not use her gender as an excuse to not treat her like a professional equal. “I know it’s not that easy, but this isn’t a hard question to answer.”

  “All answers are hard to come by with the CIA.”

  “I just want a name.”

  Hays narrowed his eyes. “I thought you said this would be easy.”

  “I’ve got something to help.” Christine slid a note card across the table.

  Hays studied the word written on the card. “Shepherd?”

  “It’s a code name. All I want is the real name it goes with.”

  Hays propped an elbow on the table and held the note card between two fingers in front of his face. He looked to the café entrance again and then out the window. “All right,” he said finally. “I think I can help.”

  Christine smiled and downed a swig of her latte. “Good, because I brought my best interview outfit and was hoping to use it tonight.”

  Hays slid the note card back across the table. “There’s a dry cleaner just down Ninth in this same block. Walk inside and ask to see Peter. He can help you.”

  Christine stared at Hays. “Excuse me?”

  “You wanted my help, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, but I thought you’d make a phone call and send me an email.”

  Hays finished off his coffee and flashed a sarcastic grin. “Looks like you’re in for more excitement than you expected.”

  Christine narrowed her eyes. “I’m not really in the market for excitement.”

  “Trust me.” Hays lea
ned forward, both elbows on the table. “Just do what I say and you’ll get your answer.” He winked, then stood up and cursed. “You might even get more than you thought you needed.” He buttoned his suit jacket and stuck his hand in her face.

  She shook it as he said, “I’ll see you tonight, four o’clock. You know where the bureau is, right? Just a mile down the road on Desales.”

  Christine nodded and dug a hand into her shoulder bag for hand sanitizer as she watched Hays leave the café. She sat there trying to make sense of what just occurred. How had Hays been prepared to have her meet his contact so soon? At least she knew why he picked the café. Proximity to his source, not the coffee.

  She slung her bag over her shoulder and walked out into the bitter morning air. Rays of sunshine promised a spring warmth later in the day. It took Christine less than a full minute to find the dry cleaner a mere three hundred feet from the corner café. She stared at the unassuming red facade trimmed in green with CLEANERS stenciled in white paint underneath a large three-pane window. A hint of steam snaked out the corner of the open entryway.

  Christine took a deep breath, then walked inside. The scent of fresh laundry permeated the air. A comforting smell. A counter with a cheap laminate top dissected the sparse front room. Behind the counter, another open doorway. Just beyond, Christine spotted shirts, pants, and dresses hung on wire hangers, along with the occasional blurry movement of employees operating machinery.

  On the countertop, next to a register, sat a small bell with a smaller sign taped to its front, reading SERVICE. Christine tapped the bell a few times and waited.

  An older Asian man appeared in the doorway, nodded at her, and walked up to the register. “May I help you?” he asked, his accent thick.

  “I’m here to see Peter.”

  “He’s not here today.”

  Christine furrowed her brow. “Five minutes ago I was told to come here and ask for Peter. If he’s not here today, where can I find him?”

  The Asian man started to respond, then caught his words before they could escape. He looked past her to the open entrance, glanced back at Christine, then smiled and said, “I think he might be here. Let me check.”

  He disappeared into the back, leaving Christine alone in the front room. “Great,” she mumbled. “This has got to be some kind of joke. I bet Steven’s in on it.”

  A younger Asian man stepped through the back doorway and asked, “Can I help you?”

  She took a quick breath. “Are you Peter?”

  The man nodded.

  “A mutual friend told me to come see you. His name is Kevin Hays. Do you know him?”

  Peter nodded again, his eyes piercing her own as he studied her.

  Christine swallowed. “He said you could help me.”

  “Help you with what?”

  Christine opened her shoulder bag, pulled out the note card, and handed it to him. “I’m trying to find someone.”

  Peter read the card, handed it back, and shook his head. “That’s not a name.”

  Christine took a deep breath to quell her rising temper. “I know that. It’s a code name. For an operative. I’m guessing Central Intelligence. That’s you, right? This place. It’s a front.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Is that so? Then if I were you, I’d be concerned about all the surveillance equipment hidden in your business.” Christine pointed to all the tiny cameras she’d identified when she first walked into the dry cleaner. One in a corner of the ceiling, one over the back doorway, one in the register. She threw a thumb behind her at the window and front entrance, lined with wire. “It looks like you could tell when a cold draft crosses that threshold.”

  Peter’s eyes brightened, and one corner of his mouth inched upward in a hint of a smile. “Lots of burglaries on this street. Can’t be too careful.”

  Christine crossed her arms and wrinkled her nose. “Are we going to play this game all morning? Kevin said you would help me. If you’re not willing, I guess I could just start interviewing your neighbors about how it feels to have the government spying on them from next door.”

  Peter sighed, glanced over his shoulder at the doorway behind him, and turned back with his palm open. “Let me see the card.”

  Christine handed him the note card again, and he pulled a pen from his pocket and wrote on it. He slipped the pen back into his pocket and slid the note card across the counter. Christine picked it up and read what he had added—625 Douglas Road, Mechanicsville, Virginia.

  “What’s this?” Christine asked. “I thought you had a name.”

  Peter snorted. “You’ll find what you’re looking for there. But make sure you go on Sunday. Oh, and one more thing.” His face tensed and his voice deepened. “Don’t bother coming back here. There won’t be anything left after today.”

  Peter, probably not his real name, stepped through the doorway into the back room. Christine pocketed the note card, breathed in the fresh scent of dry pressed clothing, then exited the building.

  She didn’t bother calling a cab. The sun offered her the right amount of heat for a walk back to her hotel. And according to Peter, she had time to kill.

  Five days, to be precise.

  CHAPTER TEN

  CROSS MUST HAVE been ten or eleven the last time he went to church with his parents. They observed Easter and Christmas, but never at the same church. The whole experience bewildered him. Singing, reading, sometimes watching a bearded man get whipped, then hung by hooks on a wooden cross. They’d strike a real nail with a real hammer, but he could always tell it was a pair of hooks hidden around the actor’s wrists.

  He found the liturgy discomforting, if only because the experience was too inconsistent to become familiar. Cross hated standing at the front of the congregation pretending to sing when he neither knew how the hymn went nor had the confidence to sing aloud.

  Not a skill he’d needed before.

  Faced with the self-appointed pressure of his new position, Cross gave the singing portion of each service all the gusto he could. He kept his eyes locked on Osborne as the older man waved his arms about in a strange yet comforting manner. If Cross didn’t make eye contact with anyone, he felt assured they didn’t notice him.

  The congregation sat, and a deacon offered a prayer at the pulpit. On cue with the “Amen,” Osborne pointed to the pianist and stood before the choir, his back to the congregation.

  As parishioners passed a gold-painted saucer from one end of a pew to another, the silvery strokes of the piano filled the humble sanctuary. The lyrics of the special music failed to enter Cross’s ears as he recited his sermon notes in his mind over and over again.

  The applause snapped him back to reality, and he took his place behind the pulpit. He positioned his notebook and Bible as he instructed the congregation to open their own Bibles to the book of Philippians. “We’re continuing our look at the second chapter today.” Cross smiled, confident his opening quip about a mouse and a farmer would be a hit with the agriculture community represented in his church. He lifted his gaze to engage the patient attendees.

  The smile dropped.

  There, in one of the back rows of the sanctuary, sat Christine Lewis, her eyes smiling at him.

  Cross stumbled over his next words, then cleared his throat and gripped the edges of the podium. The skin of his knuckles lost its color, and a bead of sweat formed on his temple. His mind screamed, Run!

  His legs refused to move. He shifted his eyes to each predetermined exit. He could excuse himself, perhaps feign illness. He struggled with the decision. What was happening? He couldn’t will himself off the platform. It didn’t make sense. Not him. He never froze.

  Something held him there.

  Cross averted his gaze back to the notebook. “Excuse me. I guess the choir presentation moved me so much I thought it might be better to just end the morning right now.” A smart misdirect. The awkward aura in the room dissipated as the comment elicited a wave of reli
eved laughter and a shout of “Amen,” tempting Cross to follow through with the threat.

  Knowing better, he read from his notes, but kept his eyes low. He felt Christine’s gaze on him, so he found two or three familiar faces near the front of the room to focus on while he spoke. His hands were locked on the pulpit. He pressed forward into his sermon.

  An agonizing twenty-five minutes. That was how much time had passed. Wasn’t it?

  His notes ended, and he could read no more. He prayed, made eye contact with Christine again, then broke his stare and stepped to the front of the altar.

  Osborne beat him there and put a hand on Cross’s shoulder. “John, you OK?”

  Cross nodded. “I’m fine. Just a little ill, that’s all. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  Osborne smiled and squeezed the shoulder. “OK, well next week don’t go so short. Everyone might like it too much.”

  Cross dipped his head and leaned close. “Wait. How long was I up there?”

  “I’d be surprised if you made it over fifteen minutes.”

  Cross drew a breath. “I’m sorry. I’m sure I’ll be fine next week.” Lying to Osborne did make him ill. In the next twenty-four hours, he’d neither occupy the state of Virginia nor be identified as John Cross, that much was sure.

  He went through the motions of greeting the regulars. He forgot names, showed little interest in their lives, and dismissed small talk. Mrs. Templeton checked his forehead for a fever and promised a delivery of homemade chicken noddle soup.

  Lori followed in Mrs. Templeton’s footsteps. “That was—”

  “Bad?” Cross interrupted.

  “I was going to say short. Not that I’m complaining. Gives me more time for my afternoon activities. You know, knitting, cooking, gardening. All the things us old ladies like to do.”

  His anxiety over Christine subsided, and he smiled for the first time since he’d started his sermon. “You don’t know how to knit, you hate gardening, and as good of a cook as you are, you’d prefer sitting in front of the TV with an oven pizza.”

  “Exactly. I demand a sermon no shorter than thirty minutes. You better bring up that average next week.”