The Clearing - DSA Season One, Book One

by Lou Paduano

  They all had.

  Satisfied with the message, Morgan closed the book. She lifted the marker meant to hold her spot from the table and shook her head, constantly forgetting about the damn thing until it was too late. She sifted through the pages until surrendering and placed the thin divider in the front of the novel. There would be time later for reading.

  After grabbing her coffee, Morgan stopped at the shadow passing overhead. It blocked the blazing sun, the rare treat of the October sky before the snows started.

  “This seat taken?”

  Rounding the table, a man reached for an open chair at her right. He stood just shy of six feet tall with a head of perfectly placed black locks, which he shifted away from wide eyes. His smile greeted her. His coffee and pastry was already in place on the table.

  “Go for it,” Morgan replied with a glance. She snatched up her belongings and stood. Her height eclipsed the young man, which surprised him for a moment. “I was just—”

  “Oh.” Disappointment spread. “I was hoping you’d stay.”

  Hazy brown eyes beamed at her, eyebrows cocked at the invitation.

  “Can’t,” she shrugged. His hand caught her arm as she passed, halting her departure. She waited. Her sharp look caused his fingers to recede. Leaning against the chair, the young man whipped his hair to the side.

  “You’re here most days,” he said, hand to his hip. “I’ve seen you. Noticed you. Thought you’d noticed me the way you were staring, so I came to say hello.”

  “Didn’t notice. Can’t stay.”

  The confidence melted. His invitation dismissed casually.

  “Duty calls,” she continued, pushing for the exit.

  “Bad timing, I guess,” the man muttered. “How about—?”

  She didn’t peer back as she rounded the open fence along the sidewalk. She didn’t want the company, didn’t care for it. All it did was remind her of the past, opened the door to reflection on her mistakes. She refused to repeat them, refused to entertain the thought of a connection. All she required was work.

  “Another time, then,” the young man called as he shrank into the background.

  She slipped between staggered traffic. Her sedan waited at the corner. Neatly trimmed nails grazed the handle and paused. She peered back to the table and the young man’s invitation. He sat, any sadness immediately forgotten at the approach of another woman. She joined him, accepting his smile and welcoming the conversation ahead.

  “Another time,” she whispered in the autumn breeze. “Another life.”

  The days of pick-up lines and cheap dates were over for Morgan. They belonged to other people. Work was all she had left.

  Exactly how she preferred it.

  Chapter Ten

  It was all waiting for her when she returned. Metcalf stood in the doorway to her office, hoping for a change. Hoping against every likelihood that the last month had been a fiction, and that reality had reset for her. That Grissom was still alive somehow.

  Seeing the paperwork piled atop her desk and the webs of neglect in the corners of the room made the situation clear. She had tried to flee from her problems, tried to abandon the fact for a fiction that would never come to be.

  Now she was back.

  The field team was notified. That had been her first priority. Then she went about putting everything back in its place. Department heads compiled updates for her review, though Stephanie had kept her abreast of many of the trials of the past few weeks. Hollis’ interviews of the staff took the top spot, much as the news pained Metcalf to hear. The man was a spider crawling along the skin of every government agency—waiting for an opportunity to seize any discord.

  It was to be expected.

  Everything fell to routine. Metcalf took up her chair behind her desk and settled to the paperwork left in organized chaos upon the metal tabletop. Routine requirements such as supply requests or paid time off had once filled her with a sense of accomplishment—a need for control. Everything filtered through her hands, every aspect of the department. From the mundane need for more toilet paper in the women’s room to maintenance contracts on the MRI machine in the subbasement lab. All were hers to know and oversee.

  Minutes into her long-awaited return a figure marred the frame of her door. The slight rap against the metal failed to attract her attention, lost to intel reports from the research team on a longstanding investigation which had been closed during her absence. Before she realized it, he was in her office, heavy-soled shoes pounding against the tile.

  “You’re back,” he announced, this stranger in her midst. He wore a thick green sweater-vest and tan khakis. A snow-white beard bristled along his cheeks and chin to match his tightly trimmed hair. Deep, recessed eyes echoed the man’s age—somewhere in his mid-to-late fifties. Greg Sullivan had no place at the DSA, no qualification to enter the premises, yet somehow had managed to sneak through Metcalf’s carefully crafted defenses. Much had lately and it needed to stop.

  “When Stephanie said you were in here I almost didn’t believe her,” he continued, inching closer to the desk. He carried a stack of fresh reports for the pile. Placing them on the metal chair opposite her own, he stood upright and extended a hand. “Greg Sullivan. Your new Deputy Director.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Metcalf said. She stood and accepted the hand with a firm shake. Stephanie had brought the assignment to her attention soon after her departure. Her dedicated secretary filled in many of the blanks that came with Sullivan’s appointment.

  He was a career politician, though career was the wrong word in his case. During Sullivan’s first term as a congressman he had run afoul of a scandal, one starting with a small financial exchange and ending with his resignation in a fairly public setting. Since that time he’d somehow managed to work his way back into the graces of the political system. He had consulted for various firms over the years until being tapped as Deputy Director of the DSA.

  “I want to thank you for handling things in my absence,” Metcalf said, offering the chair. He removed the paperwork, letting it rest at his side as he joined her under the dim glow of the desk lamp. “I’m sure these weren’t the best of circumstances to start under, but I’m hoping we can move forward in a positive manner.”

  “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Susan,” Sullivan said. “I have plenty of experience in this arena and can prove an invaluable resource as I’m sure you’ll discover.”

  “Of course,” she replied.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked, right leg crossing over his left at the knee.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your absence. Did you—?”

  She shook her head. “Just some personal business. Nothing pertinent to the department.”

  “I see,” he said. He held out each word, waiting for more.

  Her hands folded before her. She was patient in her silence. She’d found enough answers in her time away, and more questions thanks to her visit to Buffalo. Sullivan, however, wasn’t Grissom, and any trust between them would have to be earned. “Bring me up to speed, Greg.”

  “Operations have been placed on hold for the moment.”

  “I’ve lifted that hold,” Metcalf answered.

  “Oh,” Sullivan said in surprise. “With the recent inquiry and the Council’s wishes I would have thought—”

  “Council’s wishes?”

  His hand ran the length of his beard. He seemed to enjoy the back and forth. She noticed it in the wry smirk he struggled to hide—the control held thanks to her absence. Knowledge she was not privy to despite her frequent contact with Stephanie during her time away.

  “They believe, and it has always been their belief, that the DSA serves better as a research-based operation. Field work—”

  “Is a necessity to find the answers to certain situations,” Metcalf finished. A decade of the same argument, one she’d fought tooth and nail against with each meeting held.
One Sullivan was more than willing to surrender in his opening salvo. “Our field team handles the more dangerous operations, those that our sister agencies can’t.”

  “I understand. However—”

  “Greg,” she intoned, fingers clasped tight. “There are hundreds of cases filtered through this building on a monthly basis. While most require merely a second glance to offer local departments more insight, there are dozens where we can take an active approach. We need more boots on the ground, not less, and I would appreciate it if you conveyed that message to the Council.”

  “I see.”

  “You’re new, Greg, I get that.”

  “Not so new. I assumed their approach to our meeting was dubious, at best.” He palmed through the paperwork at his side and retrieved one thick leaflet. The file landed atop her piles with a thud.

  “What’s this?”

  “The Council pushed a meeting with me rather than you to further their agenda. That’s not my job here. I’m here to help you.”

  She paged through the contents. Sullivan had compiled a thorough report with field requisitions and operations statistics from the last few years. Every page highlighted the higher success rate achieved at the DSA compared to other agencies with many more resources.

  “Mr. Modine assisted in putting it together. It made your request for more assets in the field quite clear.”

  “I… appreciate that,” she muttered, taken aback. “How was it received?”

  “I believe our friends at the FBI and CIA agree with your assessment. Stallworth at the NSA is on the fence. You can forget about Homeland and the rest.”

  “Bureaucratic nonsense.”

  “That you despise. I’m starting to get a sense of that, at any rate,” Sullivan said. He slipped comfortably deep into his seat. “Now, Stallworth was telling me over lunch last week that—”

  “You had lunch with him?”

  Sullivan paused, the question surprising him. “Yes. I do eat.”

  “A work-related lunch away from the rest of the Council?”

  “Now, Susan—”

  “No,” she snapped. “You’re new and I respect your experience, but that’s never the way we’ve done things in the past. No side meetings. No dealings. Ever.”

  Her absence had been a mistake. She could tell from his grin and the way his hands sat tucked in his pockets. Sullivan came from money, from power and influence. It was a world very much unlike her own. He played the game his way and he needed to learn what worked for her and what didn’t.

  Her glare stuck with him until he acquiesced. “Of course.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Anything else?”

  He retrieved the unread report and pondered the question. “Ah, yes. They had more questions about your recent whereabouts following—”

  “It was personal.”

  “Right,” he drawled. “They were simply curious as to—”

  “It was nothing,” she reiterated. “I had the time and I took it. End of story.”

  “Okay.”

  She waited. “And?”

  “There were more questions about Agent Grissom.”

  She had her own—more than she cared to admit. Unfortunately, no more answers were coming. “Final reports are on the server for the Council’s review. Those include testimonies provided to that nightmare, Hollis, during my absence.”

  “Susan…”

  Before he continued a knock rattled the door. Three short raps, and then the metal slab slipped from the frame and a demure young woman in slacks and a flowery top stepped inside.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Stephanie said. Her blond hair was tucked in a bun at the peak and a clipboard covered her chest.

  The obstacle did little to dissuade the enormity of Sullivan’s excitement at her arrival. “Not a problem, my dear.”

  “What is it, Stephanie?” Metcalf asked.

  “Mr. Riley is here.”

  “Good. Give us a minute.”

  Stephanie nodded. She kept her focus on Metcalf to avoid Sullivan’s grazing stare. Satisfied with the answer, she exited the office and closed the door.

  “Riley?” Sullivan said.

  “Grissom’s replacement.” She reached into her briefcase and passed the file across the desk into his waiting hand. “Benjamin Riley.”

  “Riley?” the newcomer repeated.

  “Former beat cop. Familiar with him?”

  “Not at all,” he grumbled, eyes to the file. “Looks to be a good fit for the team?”

  “Looks to be.”

  Sullivan snapped the report shut. “Wonderful. I’ll be sure to inform the Council of your decision. You know how they like to be kept abreast of any changes.”

  “I do.” He headed for the door, but Metcalf stopped him. “Make them aware that we need more agents, Greg. That’s your job here: to promote our operation. We can do more. Make them see that.”

  Sullivan nodded, a slight bow in his acceptance. The lie came in his silence. His footsteps carried into the hallway, leaving her to her work. Metcalf sat at her desk and sighed. Ten years she’d put into building the DSA. With each breath she felt it pulled from her. Sullivan was but a prelude.

  Quickly and efficiently, she tossed aside the backlog from her absence. She turned on her sleeping terminal and clicked on the directories locked at a command level. Files, once shared between her and Grissom, were no longer safe in the hands of the stranger now occupying her old friend’s office. Sullivan’s name was noted multiple times since his arrival, his fingerprints all over her files. He’d asked for trust, and she had none to give—not now, and possibly not ever. She made a list of the directories and slipped them into her pocket, wondering what the man’s game was and how much time she had to figure it out before it became too late.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ben tapped impatiently along the worn tile with his feet. His toes scrunched tight in the black loafers, his one and only pair now. His wardrobe had been lost to limbo in the blitz to depart Buffalo.

  At least he still had his father’s tie.

  He cradled the precious object, running his fingers along the bloodstain in the center. Nothing felt right, nothing felt safe—despite Metcalf’s assurances. Two days locked away in a hotel room under heavy guard did little to dissuade that sensation, though the Back to the Future marathon and hour-long steaming hot showers made the situation as amenable as possible.

  He dropped the tie as the door to Metcalf’s office opened. A gentleman with a thin, white beard and dated green sweater vest glanced his way before edging for the receptionist’s desk.

  Stephanie, a woman with bright beaming eyes and an altruistic smile, noted the presence with a less-than-gracious look. The two bantered quietly. Ben did his best to ignore the uncomfortable stance of the pleasant aide who had offered more conversation to him than any other since his departure from his hometown in a shroud of mystery. Government goons made for terrible company, something Ben didn’t realize until offered a seat and a smile by the young blond.

  He kept his eyes locked on the ajar office door. Inside, Metcalf clacked away at the keyboard. There was a power in her presence, something hidden in the way she sat behind her desk. More waited beneath the surface to be discovered, much like the DSA itself.

  Heels clicked beside his wayward stare and he realized Stephanie was next to him. “She’s ready for you now.”

  “That makes one of us,” Ben replied. He jumped to his feet, his toes regretting the act, then trudged his way inside the office. The door closed soundly behind him, though it did little to stir Metcalf, who continued to work.

  After a long moment she paused, removed her reading glasses, and ushered him to the chair across from the metal desk cutting the room in half. “I’m glad you made it.”

  “Not much choice,” he said as he settled into the chair. “Or maybe my armed escort just forgot to list my options. Makes a guy wonder if he made the right call.”


  “Just being cautious.”

  “And?”

  Metcalf raised a glass of water to toast his arrival. “To new beginnings and all that, I suppose. Would you like some?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  She took a sip before returning the glass to the tabletop. “Now, you are aware that you are to have no contact with your former associates, friends, family, mail carrier, and so on, correct?”

  “I figured as much.” Though he’d held a slight hope for a different edict. Emily Wright thought he was in prison. Everyone he’d known in his former life believed the same, but when it came down to it only Emily mattered. She didn’t deserve to worry about him, not when he was still free—not with the smallest glimmer of a chance for them to be together again.

  Metcalf read his disappointment. “It’s not only to protect you, Ben, but them as well. Until we know who set you up, the risks are too great.”

  “I get it.”

  “Good,” she said, pushing away from the desk. She started for the door. “Walk with me.”

  The pair exited the office and made a hard left. Behind him stood the lobby and entrance, complete with security checkpoint. Three guards paced the area, two of whom he recognized as part of the escort from the courthouse. Moving on, Metcalf passed a cubicle farm spread across a spacious room. Syncopated typing filled the air, and the sound of fingers keying with extreme precision echoed all around them. Dozens of analysts stared at monitors. Each viewed reports, exploring news items and clippings while taking notes of relevant information before moving to the next.

  “I still don’t know what this is,” Ben said to fill the silence offered by Metcalf.

  “That only means we’re doing our jobs well.”

  “Okay,” Ben said, holding out the word. “How about a simple one to start. Where am I?”

  The trip had been maintained under the cover of secrecy, to make sure his background check or whatever thoroughness Metcalf hinted at was reached to some degree of satisfaction. Again, his friendly neighborhood government goons—not that he called them that to their faces—appeared less inclined when it came to details. Or pleasantries. Or any type of welcoming attitude in any regard. Not even a fruit smoothie for his trouble.