Lonely Coast

by Jack Hardin

  “Ellie,” Katie’s voice was strained, like a rubber band about to snap.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You didn’t have to call right away. I’m sure you’re busy over there.”

  “It’s fine. What’s wrong?”

  A long pause, and then, “Ellie. Carl’s back.”

  Ellie blinked as she heard the two words she had known all along were in her auditory future. Carl was Katie’s ex-boyfriend—Chloe’s father—and the Hiroshima of relational mistakes that had, ironically, produced a living testament that the most beautiful things can come from bad soil. As a father, Carl had never achieved a status higher than sperm donor. During that period of her sister’s life, Ellie was early in her career with the CIA and stationed in Brussels. To this day, she had never met Carl but had heard enough from her father and Major at the time to conclude that he was a deadbeat. A year ago, just before she left the Agency, Ellie had used the technology at her disposal to look Carl up—a protective older sister keeping an eye out. At the time, Carl was in Tennessee, working at a construction company under a work release program after spending three years in jail for assault. Ellie never did feed Katie the update, but she knew it was just a matter of time before Carl showed back up in their lives. Cockroaches didn’t stay behind the refrigerator forever.

  “What do you mean, he’s back?” Ellie said.

  “He came by the house yesterday. Just showed up. Thankfully, Chloe is still at camp.”

  Ellie gripped the phone tighter, and her shoulders tensed. “What did he want?”

  “That’s the thing. I don’t really know. He said he wanted to see his daughter. He wouldn’t leave until I threatened to call the cops. But he said he’d be back.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ellie said. “How are you?”

  “He scared me. I haven’t seen him in over six years. He looks terrible. He’s let his hair grow. His beard is unruly. He’s aged a lot.”

  “I think drugs and prison will do that to you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “When does Chloe get back?” Ellie asked.

  “Not for another ten days. Camp is two weeks. And look, I’d rather wait to tell Major about all this. I don’t want to upset him.”

  “Okay. That’s not my call.” She heard Katie sigh through the phone.

  “Ellie, he’s my daughter’s father. I don’t want to deprive her of a relationship with her dad. But he’s never been a father to her and has never given me any indication he wants to be. I’m not putting her on a yo-yo.”

  “You know you don’t have to defend yourself to me. I’m in your corner.”

  “I know,” Katie said. “I think I just needed to hear myself say it out loud.”

  “I should be back in a few days, and we’ll figure this out together. In the meantime, keep your distance, and if he tries to call, just ignore him. Do you want to stay at my place until I get back?”

  “I’ll be okay. I think I just needed you to know.”

  They said goodbye, and Ellie leaned back against the wall for a long time, wishing that this wasn’t happening and that she was there to kick Carl’s ass right back out of their lives.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The lights were off inside the house, with the only luminescence coming from the flickering glow of the television. Katie O’Conner lay tilted back in her father’s old recliner with a spoon in hand, enjoying a quiet home and a bowl of ice cream as she continued her binge of all six seasons of Downton Abbey for the second time this year.

  The doorbell rang, startling her and causing her to bump the remote off the arm of the chair. She sat up, pushed forward on the chair’s lever, and came to her feet. She set her bowl on the coffee table and leaned down, picked up the remote. The living room was at the front of the house, with no wall separating it from the narrow strip of linoleum that led from the front door into the kitchen. After pausing the television program, she stepped around the couch and went to the front door, flicked on the porch light, and peered through the keyhole. She froze. Standing there, his features disproportionately warped in the fisheye lens, was Carl. Katie pinched at the bridge of her nose and shook her head. She mumbled something to Jesus about not wanting this to be happening and then unlocked the door. It was barely halfway open before she snapped at him.

  “Get off my porch, Carl.” She took a step forward and extended her arm, aiming her index finger towards the dark end of the street. “Leave. Now.”

  A harsh, taunting chuckle came from deep inside Carl’s chest. “Leave? But I just got here. And I want to see Chloe. Is she here?”

  “No. I told you, she’s at camp.”

  “Well, shoot. How long are these camps?”

  She bit down hard on her lower lip. “There’s no reason for you to be here. Now leave. Please.”

  Carl reached up and scratched behind an ear. When his eyes met hers again, they were filled with an impish guile that made her stomach twitch. She took a step back, intending to shut the door in his face before recalling the brazen way that he stuck his boot in front of the door the last time he was here. She stood there staring at him, suddenly scared, and not knowing how to interpret his presence on her porch.

  “There is a reason for me to be here,” he said. “I think the two of us should see about getting reacquainted.” He took a step forward, his hulking presence filling the doorway. Katie was wearing cotton shorts and a spaghetti strap tank top—makeshift pajamas. Carl’s hands were large and thick. He placed one her bare shoulder and then traced a finger toward her collar and down toward the hollow space between her breasts.

  A repulsive shiver ran through Katie’s chest, working its way quickly into her arms until, before she knew it, her hand shot out and slapped him hard across the face. She stepped back. “Keep your hands off of me,” she hissed. “I’m not yours anymore.”

  Carl didn’t reach up and touch his face. He didn’t even flinch or blink. What he did do was freeze like someone had paused him. For a few moments, the only change Katie could see by the weak glow of the porch light was a current of crimson riding slowly up Carl's neck and into his face, until it finally reached his hairline and his face twisted up like he had just been topped off with 93 octane fury.

  He moved so fast she never saw his fist. But it landed straight in her solar plexus, evacuating all the air from her lungs. She doubled over. Carl reached for the crown of her head and grabbed a handful of hair. He yanked her upright again and sent his fist plowing into her stomach, and then again, into her ribs.

  Her body shuddered from the blows. She didn’t have the breath to cry out, too disoriented by the sudden flurry of pain and violence to react in any meaningful way. A hot surge of heat radiated from her ribcage. When Carl finally relented, he did not let go of her hair.

  “I know it’s been a while,” he growled, “but no one raises a hand to me. Especially not a woman.” Katie was finally able to suck in a ragged breath. She used it to curse him. Carl laughed. “You always were a feisty one. I’ll give it to your father, he didn’t raise wimpy girls.”

  “Go...go to hell, Carl.”

  “One day, sweetheart. One day. But not today.” Then, in a singular motion, he raised her head back and tilted it, then sent a meaty fist into the side of her face, catching half an eye and half her temple. He released her as her face took the full impact of his rage. She flew backward like a discarded doll, her body landing hard on the floor and straddling the living room carpet and the linoleum. Her world was spinning, and a thick curtain of darkness cascaded across her vision. Carl came close and looked down on her with mocking disdain.

  “You remember Wally Yorks?”

  She didn’t reply, just lay unmoving, unwilling to provoke him any further.

  “I’m sure you do. Well, Wally is still a good friend of mine. As are a few of his friends.” Carl’s knees popped like roasted acorns as he squatted down and gently brushed Katie’s hair from her face. “There now,” he soothed and ran the back of a single finger ac
ross her cheek. “What I’m trying to say, sweetheart, is that should you mention any of this to the police, should you try and tattle, it won’t create a positive turn of events for you. Or for my little girl.” He patted her cheek like a caring father and then stood up, arching his back into a stretch. Looking to the television, where Mrs. Crawley was frozen in a disagreement with Lady Grantham, he reached into his back pocket and retrieved a pack of Marlboro 100s. Shaking one out, he dug a lighter from his front pocket and lit up, the flame casting dark shadows across the broad contours of his face. His chest expanded as he took in a deep lungful of smoke. On the exhale, he looked down at Katie and smirked. “Don’t fall asleep there, now. You’d probably be more comfortable if you went and got in bed.” Then he bellowed out a loud, obnoxious chuckle and left through the open front door.

  Katie lay still with her face in the carpet, trying to focus past the overwhelming dizziness and pain. Outside, a car started up. She was hardly aware of it growing fainter as it sped away. Time became irrelevant as she lay there, sliding in and out of a pulsing consciousness. When clarity finally started to return, she had no concept of how long she had been on the floor. The television was off now, the timer having turned it off after half an hour of disuse.

  She slowly rose to her hands and knees, grimacing under the pain that gripped her midsection and her face and her head. She was dizzy, very dizzy, but she used the wall for support and came to her feet, then made her way to the front door. She shut it and threw the deadbolt back. Her left eye was nearly swollen shut, and she was almost certain a couple of her ribs were broken. Turning, she moved carefully back to the couch where she grabbed a pillow and drew it close as she lay down with her back to the room.

  Carl’s impish expression imposed itself on her vision, and she began to shake from fright and the aftereffects of the violence. She began to cry, slowly at first, and then in great rolling sobs, her ice cream a growing puddle of soup in the bowl behind her.

  Chapter Twenty

  Ernesto Cárdenas pulled his Mercedes into the reserved parking space in front of the seven-story office building. He flipped his visor down and checked his teeth in the mirror. He worked a finger along his gumline and then, satisfied, shut the visor and grabbed his briefcase off the seat beside him. He stepped out of the car and waited for a car to drive past before going inside. He entered the lobby and gave the receptionist a polite nod as he continued to the bank of elevators set against the back wall. He stuck a finger into the call button and waited. Heels clicked purposefully against the marble floor and stopped beside him. A beautiful lady—dark auburn hair, olive skin, lively eyes—waited next to him, clutching a cup of coffee in one hand and her phone in the other. She gave him a gentle smile before returning her attention to her phone. The elevator arrived, and like a gentleman, he motioned for her to enter first. Then, quite unlike a gentleman, his glance lingered on her backside as she stepped in. Just before she turned around, he followed her in. She had already pressed the button to the third floor. The doors slid shut, and Ernesto checked his watch, fidgeted with his tie, and started to consider which of his clients would take priority for the rest of the day. But just before the elevator came to his floor, the lady reached out and punched the red emergency button on the control panel. The elevator jolted to a hard stop. Ernesto nearly lost his grip on his briefcase and slapped his hand on the steel wall to stabilize himself. The alarm did not sound.

  “What—what is it?” he asked in Spanish, not sure yet if he should be worried or upset. The lady turned to face him. Her eyes held a meaningful defiance that helped him to decide rather quickly that he should be worried.

  “Go,” she said in English.

  “What? Go where?” The elevator jerked again and continued its upward course.

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” she said.

  The digital display showed them moving past the third floor and continuing upward.

  “What is this?” he demanded.

  “We want to have a chat with you.”

  “We?”

  “Yes.”

  As if in answer to what would have been his next question, the elevator stopped and the doors opened. The seventh floor was entirely empty: bare concrete floors and no walls. The lady stepped out. We went over and stood between two others: a woman with blond hair and a muscular man. They were both white, both wearing black cargo pants and tan polos. A corkscrew wire running behind their ears revealed that they were wearing earpieces. The man was holding a laptop at chest level and looking at the screen. “What do you know,” he said. “It worked.” He looked to the blond lady. “And I suck at computer stuff.”

  “What is this?” Ernesto snapped.

  The man shut the laptop and handed it to the woman who had accompanied Ernesto. “You can call me Jimmy,” Cooper said. “Jimmy John. We wanted to have a few words with you. I hope that’s okay.”

  “I—I don’t understand. Why would you want to speak with me? I am an accountant. You can make an appointment.”

  “You are an accountant,” Cooper said. “But not just any accountant. Would you please hand your briefcase to the lady you came up with?”

  Ernesto’s eyes widened, and he clutched the briefcase hard across his chest. “No.”

  “So you’re not going to give up the briefcase?”

  “No.”

  They engaged in a brief staredown before Cooper sighed and stepped toward him. He reached out, grabbed the top of Ernesto’s tie, and started walking toward an opaque sheet of painters plastic that ran like a shower curtain from one side of the floor to the other. Ernesto pitched forward, lost his footing, and spun around, landing hard on his tailbone as he was dragged along the floor. His suit gathered construction dust as the pressure around his neck grew tighter by the second. Cooper dragged him through a slit in the plastic curtain. He flailed his feet out in front of him and tried in vain to somehow regain his footing. Then, as quickly as he was grabbed, his tie was released and his head hit the floor with a nasty thunk. Cooper snatched his briefcase from his hands and handed it to Hailey. She walked over to a stack of sheetrock and, intending to use it as a desk, set both items on top. Cooper hauled Ernesto up and tossed him into a metal folding chair sitting in the center of the floor. Still mildly dazed from the head trauma, he was minimally aware of his hands being zip-tied in front of him and his ankles to the legs of the chair.

  “Okay,” Cooper said. He brushed his hands together and gray dust puffed off them. “She’s got the briefcase now. So we can put that request behind us and move on.”

  Standing beside Cooper, Ellie could see that Ernesto was struggling to breathe properly. His chin was jutting in and out as he tried to loosen the tension in the tie. She stepped up and worked her fingers into the fabric, tugging at it until it slackened. Ernesto took in a deep, heaving breath, and Ellie stepped back.

  Cooper crossed his arms in front of his chest and smiled. “Ernesto,” he said. “Part of my job description is to find people like you. And when I do, I typically get permission to put a tail on you or bug your phone or hack the security cameras at your house. But the reason I’m not listening to your phone conversations and hacking into your emails is because, Ernesto, I just don’t have the liberty of time right now. I need a very specific kind of information. And rápido.”

  “Sir, you have the wrong—”

  “No,” Cooper interrupted “Stop it. Let’s forgo all that. Please? Some people who really dislike me and who I don’t trust gave me your name. Even so, I’m here because the three spent some time doing a little research on you. So...why don’t you tell me about Blue Coastline Enterprises?”

  Ellie watched all the blood drain from Ernesto’s face. Still, he kept up the charade as best he could. “I have never heard of that.”

  “What about Yucatan Holdings?”

  Ernesto looked to the floor. “No.”

  “Man,” Cooper grimaced. “I’m oh for two. Maybe the third time’s the charm. What if I said the Hac
ienda Group, does that ring a bell?”

  “No.”

  “Well, they ring a bell for me. They’re all shell companies for Pavel Petronovich.”

  Ernesto blinked when he heard the name.

  “They’re shell companies that you set up for him.”

  Ernesto shrugged. “I do not know him.”

  “I‘ve tried to be cordial about all this, Ernesto, but if you’re still going to sit there and act like some kind of dumbass, then I’m going to have to bring in the big guns.”

  Cooper looked to Hailey. She had the laptop open. “Anything?” he asked.

  “I need a password. The briefcase has a ledger. Lots of names and dollar figures.”

  The accountant's face flushed with anger. “You do not know what you are doing!”

  “Well, that’s because you aren’t helping me,” Cooper grinned. “What’s your computer password?”

  “No. No password.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

  There was a five-gallon bucket filled with plaster sitting next to Hailey. Ellie dragged it over to Ernesto and took a seat on the lid. She smiled at him and spoke in a cool, soothing voice. “Mr. Cárdenas. I understand that you’re scared. And you should be. I’m here because one of your clients, Pavel Petronovich, allegedly planned a terrorist attack on innocent people in my country. We have no reason to believe that he isn’t planning to do it again. That means we’re in a big hurry to find him, and I’m not going to let your silence be the reason more American citizens are murdered. So trust me when I say that I’m more committed to finding Pavel than you are to protecting yourself.”