The Recruiter

by Dan Ames

  She goes back to the database, types in Larry Nevens and asks the computer to search for all personnel past and present. The bar appears again, this time, moving much more slowly.

  Julie gets up from her desk, goes out to the front part of the office, and crosses the area to the kitchen. She dumps the last of her soda down the drain and tosses the paper cup in the wastebasket. She’s reaching for a glass from the upper cabinet when suddenly someone grabs her from behind.

  She takes a deep, sharp breath.

  The arms apply pressure.

  She’s ready to scream when she feels soft lips on her neck. She turns, and Samuel’s face is there before her.

  “Stop it,” she says, leaning to the right where she can see the office. No sign of Paul Rodgers.

  “Paul left,” Samuel says. “He said he’d be out all afternoon. Which means that it’s just me and you.”

  His mouth is on hers, and she feels her legs weaken. It feels so good. She feels herself become excited.

  “Lock the door,” she says, her voice thick and breathy. Samuel breaks away from her, walks to the door, and locks it. Julie’s eyes devour his body. His uniform, his narrow, tapered waist and broad shoulders. He’s so goddamned good-looking.

  He returns to her, his hands on her body, his mouth kissing her, and steers her toward the small kitchen table out of sight from the front windows and the rest of the office. They make love quickly and passionately. Julie is surprised at how much she enjoys it.

  What was she thinking? She suddenly feels like the stupidest woman on the face of the earth. So what if he isn’t in love with her. If he wants to use her, then she’ll use him.

  “Help me up,” she says.

  Samuel lifts her off the table, and then they both dress themselves.

  “Why don’t you come by tonight for dinner?” Julie asks. “Around seven.”

  Samuel nods, and Julie feels a slight thrill. She’s back in control again. And loving it.

  “Do you want me to bring anything?” Samuel asks.

  She reaches down.

  “Just this.”

  Chapter 70

  The water is ice cold, and Julie drains half the glass in one gulp. My god, she thinks, that was fantastic. So incredibly exciting. She’s fooled around in the office before, but never anything like that. Samuel Ackerman knows just how to drive her absolutely wild.

  Despite herself, she’s already entertaining images of tonight—of what she and Samuel will do together. Things will be a little bit different tonight. She’s got a few things in mind for what Samuel can do. A few duties he can perform. Since that’s all it means to him.

  Julie sets the glass down on her desk and plops into her chair.

  She swivels toward her computer, her fingers preparing to close the open window, but the sight of red capital letters on her screen stops her. Julie focuses, her brain refusing to acknowledge what she’s seeing.

  She rocks back in her chair.

  Her mind goes back to the screen.

  And lingers there, confused and silent with shock.

  Larry Nevens.

  DECEASED. UNSOLVED HOMICIDE.

  Chapter 71

  Julie Giacalone is listening to a dial tone.

  The words are still echoing in her mind: UNSOLVED HOMICIDE.

  Was Samuel involved?

  She laughed at herself.

  It was nuts. Samuel, involved in a murder? Impossible.

  Still, what was she doing poking around his records if she didn’t suspect…something?

  But what?

  He was bright, handsome, and a skilled lover. Why would he kill a BUD/S instructor?

  She shook her head.

  She had the phone number in front of her of a man named Purgitt in Pensacola, Florida. Samuel’s superior during his brief stint in ordnance.

  What could she gain by calling him? What if this…Purgitt…was a friend of Samuel’s? Would he call Samuel and ask why his new boss was calling him, looking for…for what? Information?

  The answer came just as quickly as the question. She would simply pretend to be calling to ascertain the dates of Samuel’s arrival and departure, just for her files, a routine paperwork task that had to be done. She would play for sympathy—all Navy officers hated the loads of paperwork required by the bureaucracy.

  She punched in the numbers.

  And received the second shock of the day.

  Chapter 72

  That evening, at her place, Julie is very much enjoying making love with Samuel.

  However, her mind is on Pensacola, Florida.

  She is remembering the shock of seeing the words UNSOLVED HOMICIDE next to the name of Larry Nevens, followed so closely by Purgitt’s description of the freak accident that occurred just before his decision to send Samuel back to Michigan.

  Apparently, a support chain holding a dummy warhead had dropped on a man named Wilkins, killing him instantly. Investigators had scoured the scene but could find no evidence of foul play, other than some severely worn links in the chain. One investigator had insisted the links had been ruined purposely, but the allegations went nowhere. It had all been written off.

  They finish and Samuel collapses next to her.

  Julie is thinking about her other secret pleasure. It also takes place in her bedroom, late at night, between her silk sheets.

  It’s called reading.

  Potboilers, mostly. Especially the old ones. Hammett. Chandler. She loves them. And now, is her love of books coloring her thoughts on Samuel? Is it not enough to have these illicit trysts? Does she now have to concoct some kind of wild-ass theory that he is a slick killer?

  She may have come to some conclusion. May have weighed the facts and decided that she wasn’t imagining things. That something in Samuel has triggered her suspicions and now the information she has gathered recently has confirmed these suspicions.

  Could she be in bed with a killer?

  The thought oddly excites her and she turns over and climbs back on top of him.

  Chapter 73

  By three o’clock in the afternoon, the small gathering of family and closest friends is assembled in the living room of the Forbes home. Peter’s mother and father dominate the space. They are tall, good-looking people who possess the calm assuredness of the successful and strong-willed.

  Alternately, they make lists and phone calls of anyone who might know of Peter’s whereabouts.

  Beth sits on a kitchen chair that’s been pulled into the living room, watching the scene before her in disbelief. It’s been six hours since she received the phone call from Mrs. Forbes, asking if she knew where Peter was. Three hours later, Beth had called back to see if he’d shown up.

  Mr. Forbes had given her the bad news. Peter was not answering his cell phone, and it appeared as if he’d simply vanished.

  Ordinarily, it may not have been such a big deal. But Peter had been scheduled to meet with a Marquette alumni. His parents insisted that Peter would not have missed the meeting unless something had happened.

  Now, Beth waits in the living room, feeling more than a little awkward. She isn’t sure how many of the people there knew about the problems she and Peter had.

  Beth figures Peter hadn’t told anyone. He was never the kind of guy to confide in his buddies. Even though he likes them and enjoyed their company, she knew that in some ways he didn’t respect them, didn’t truly consider them equals. Suddenly, with an audible gasp, she realizes she’s thinking of him in the past tense.

  Beth immediately gets to her feet. She has to do something, anything to help. She can’t just sit and wait.

  The Forbes’ home is big, especially compared to Beth’s. Mr. Forbes is a well-known attorney, and Mrs. Forbes is an interior decorator. The house reflects his professional stature and her impeccable, contemporary taste.

  Beth walks through the living room and down a short hallway to the kitchen. Mrs. Forbes is sitting at the kitchen table with a cell phone in her hand. As Beth enters the ro
om, she hears Peter’s mother offering her thanks, in spite of what sounds like no news.

  The older woman thumbs the disconnect button and looks at Beth.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Beth,” she says.

  “I just know he’s going to walk through that front door any minute with a dopey grin on his face,” Beth says, smiling, forcing an easy tone in her voice that she hopes sounds natural.

  Mrs. Forbes nods, but Beth can see there’s no confidence in the gesture.

  “Can I get you anything to drink?” she asks Beth.

  “No, thanks. Don’t worry about me. You’ve got enough on your mind.”

  “Sit down, Beth, I’d like to talk to you.”

  Beth pulls out the chair across from Peter’s mom. She knows where this is going.

  “How were things between you and Peter?”

  Beth hesitates. A part of her feels like it’s nobody’s business but hers and Peter’s. But she sees the concern in Mrs. Forbes’ eyes. Now’s not the time to keep secrets, even though she’s more than sure wherever Peter is, it has nothing to do with her.

  “We were going our separate ways,” she says at last.

  “Was it a mutual decision?”

  How to answer that one? Beth wants to tell the truth, but doesn’t want to besmirch Peter, especially when his mother is vulnerable.

  “Well, not at first. But Peter…started seeing another girl, and that kind of put an end to things.”

  “What girl?”

  “Vanessa Robinson.”

  “I see.”

  “We were going to try to keep the relationship going even after Peter went to Marquette, but my injury and…”

  Mrs. Forbes looks at her, silently urging her to go on.

  “…Peter’s anxiousness to get on with his life kind of took over.”

  Peter’s mother sits back in her chair. She jots down Vanessa Robinson’s name and the word “call” in front of it. Then she looks back up at Beth.

  “He cares a great deal about you, Beth,” she says.

  “I feel the same way about him.” Beth pats the older woman’s hand as she begins to cry.

  “I’m sure he’s fine, Mrs. Forbes.”

  But even to Beth, the ring of confidence in her voice sounds a little hollow.

  Chapter 74

  This is what it feels like, Anna thinks.

  She was too drunk to notice before.

  But this is what it must have been like for Beth, she thinks. Sitting by the phone. Waiting for the mail carrier with suppressed high hope building in your gut, only to wade through a bill or two, a hardware store flyer addressed to “occupant.” Left with nothing but bitter embarrassment over having gotten your hopes up in the first place. And the phone. Waiting for it to ring.

  What Beth must have gone through, Anna thinks. And to top it off, Beth had a drunk mother who barely noticed any of it.

  Anna goes into the bathroom and wipes her eyes with Kleenex. She looks at herself in the mirror. She had been pretty once. A long time ago. But now she looks like an old dishrag. She feels even older. But the features are there, she thinks. A delicate nose, good cheekbones…all in all, not bad. She admits she looks a lot better since she stopped drinking. The puffiness is gone. If she could lose a few pounds, get some sun…hell, she might not look half bad.

  The thought seems to bolster her energy.

  She takes a moment to get her bearings. She has stopped drinking. She is looking better. There are things she can do.

  Goddamn right, she thinks.

  The fight isn’t over yet.

  Anna walks back through the kitchen, her stride firm and quick. She goes to the small roll-top hutch and slides back the flimsy wooden cover. From beneath a pile of old papers, she retrieves the notepad filled with the names and addresses of local college basketball coaches.

  There are eight of them.

  Each one received a copy of Beth’s highlights.

  And she has heard from none of them, nor has she gotten any email responses.

  Anna takes the notepad to the kitchen table and grabs her cell phone. She punches in the first number. A Robert Mundt, head women’s basketball coach at Lawrence College, a small private school two hours away. Anna gets the front office and is transferred to Coach Mundt’s line.

  While the phone rings, Anna makes doodles by the other names on the list. Her heart is beating faster in her chest, and her mouth is dry. She knows she isn’t following decorum. These coaches probably get inundated with anxious parents who think their children are wonderful athletes. Anna fully expects to be met with bored, cynical indifference.

  On the fifth ring, a man answers.

  “Coach Mundt,” the voice says, a deep raspy baritone. Anna thinks it’s appropriate, probably from screaming on the sidelines.

  “Mr. Mundt. My name is Anna Fischer, I sent you a highlight reel of my daughter Beth—she was a point guard on Silver Lake High School.” Anna pauses. She hears a rustle of papers.

  “What was the name again?”

  “Fischer. Beth.”

  Another rustle of papers. Anna is sure the next words are going to be along the lines of sorry, no space left. She was good, but not good enough. Instead, the three words that follow surprise her.

  “Never got it.”

  “Are you sure? You should have gotten it by now.”

  “No, I would have remembered. We don’t get a lot of interest from potential recruits. I definitely would have remembered. Beth Fischer. Nope. Never got it. If you have an extra, don’t bother sending it. I signed the last girl yesterday. No more spots open on the roster. Sorry.”

  She grits her teeth and punches in the phone number of the next name on the list. The phone is pressed tightly against her ear when the coach on the other end of the line tells her that she didn’t receive any package regarding Beth Fischer. And, oh, by the way, the roster is full. No more scholarships. Sorry.

  After getting the same answer from the third coach, she determinedly dials the next five numbers, and by the end of the last call, she is in tears again.

  Not one single package had arrived.

  And there is not a single spot on any roster available.

  Every scholarship has been awarded.

  She has failed Beth once again.

  Anna gently sets the phone down and puts the notepad back in the desk. She gets her car keys, locks up the house, and walks to her car. She can already see it in her mind: the wall of booze at the liquor store. Rows upon rows of whiskey in every shape, size, and variation of amber she can dream of.

  It isn’t until she’s halfway there, that the realization hits her.

  She had asked Samuel Ackerman, the recruiter, to send out the packages.

  He never did.

  It hits her with stunning force. She considers other possibilities, but discards them all. There can be no way it’s a coincidence. Every package failing to arrive?

  Ackerman never sent them out. He wants Beth for the Navy.

  Suddenly, she doesn’t want whiskey. Instead, she wants to confront Ackerman.

  Perhaps she will tell him that he got her to do the most despicable, most degrading act of her life. After years of wallowing in booze, of ignoring her daughter, of mourning a dead husband for far too long, she committed an act that she instinctively knows will haunt her until she dies.

  She trusted him.

  Chapter 75

  Samuel puts down the electric carving knife.

  Sweat pours from his forehead. He grabs a washcloth from the towel bar and wipes his face. His stomach doesn’t feel right. He’s already puked in the toilet once, and the occasional pop and fizz in his belly nearly sends him there again. But he swallows and urges his mind to stay in control.

  He has finally finished cutting up the kid’s body and now, he rinses his hands and goes into the bedroom and finds a pair of thin, black leather gloves. He slips them on his hands and heads into the kitchen for trash bags. He brings them into the bathroom and place
s the head in one bag and the hands into another one along with the destroyed remains of the kid’s cell phone, then gathers the ends of the bags and spins them shut, tying each closed with a double square knot.

  Next, the rest of the body.

  Samuel guesses that Peter is over six feet tall. He doubts that he’ll be able to get him into a trash bag. And the idea of trying to cut off the kid’s legs seems insurmountable.

  Instead, he gets the keys from the kid’s pockets and pulls the Explorer around to the back of the apartment. He thanks God that it’s still dark out. Hopefully, no one will remember seeing a Ford Explorer backed up to the rear of Samuel’s apartment.

  The narrow walkway where he keeps his grill is almost completely blocked from view. He backs the big SUV up to the walkway, which will make the trip from the back door to the trunk a little over ten feet, but it’s completely blocked from view, especially with the Explorer now in place.

  Samuel goes back into the apartment and retrieves the separate garbage bags containing the head and hands. He goes out the back door, scanning the area around the walkway, but there’s nothing to see. And no one to see him.

  He sets the bags in the trunk then pauses for a moment as he hears the sound of a car, but it’s far away, and the sound dissipates in a matter of moments. The stars are still out, and a cool wind dries the sweat on his forehead. Suddenly, he feels very alive. The throbbing in his head is gone, and he claps his hands together. Goddamnit, he’s going to do this.

  He goes back into the apartment, any feelings of nausea completely gone, and picks up the area rug from the living room. It’s worn and threadbare, a faded pattern made of some flimsy manmade material. He carries it into the bathroom and sets it on the floor. It’s bigger than the entire floor space of the bathroom, but the sides simply lay up against the walls of the small room. Which is perfect for Samuel’s needs.