Into Darkness

by T. J. Brearton

  Shannon offered a warm smile. “In a minute.”

  She left the room and walked through the busy ER, catching glimpses of people in rooms like hers, a few doors open or ajar. A twentysomething guy with a big beard holding a bloodied arm. An elderly woman with ginger-colored hair frayed out like the puffy panicle bloom of a smoke tree. A man sitting on the side of the bed, coughing and gagging into a trash can.

  Josie’s room was last on the left. A uniformed NYPD cop stood outside her door. He saw Shannon shuffling along and tensed until she brought out her ID again. “How’s she doing?”

  “She’s had like eight medical people in to see her, all asking the same questions,” the cop said, sounding frustrated. “What is it with hospitals? The people who work here don’t talk to each other?”

  “I’d like to see her.”

  The cop gave her another wary look. “Yeah. Okay.”

  He opened the door, but Shannon stayed put a moment, sizing him up. Mid-twenties. A brush cut that seemed to continue from the back of his head down his neck and beneath his collar. The way his jaw clenched, she sensed it, like she’d been sensing from all the local cops – they hated that this was one of their own. They dreaded the media spin, the public outcry, and any damage to their credibility. Being a cop wasn’t easy. It was dangerous. But the people held law enforcement to account. Their reactions weren’t always right, weren’t always wrong.

  “Keep your eyes open,” Shannon said to the cop before going in. As she crossed the room, she willed herself calm. She sought the place within herself that had always been natural to her, a place of easy confidence where her faith in herself and God buffered against life’s meanness and uncertainty. It was challenging to get there.

  Josie Tenor slept, a state that turned the clock back on her a few years, like she was twelve. Or younger. Ten.

  Shannon felt her heart break a little. The way this girl had suffered. The guilt she’d been carrying. And then the horrible trauma Henry Beecher had inflicted on her. She’d never be the same. She’d carry the scars the rest of her life. And for what? Beecher’s action wasn’t righteous. He’d taken an overreaction in the media and doubled down on it. Or worse, really. There wasn’t any multiple that could quantify the pain and anguish he’d caused in his efforts to get even.

  The calm she was seeking turned to an anger instead.

  Shannon reached out carefully and knuckled away a lock of dark hair across Josie’s forehead. The girl didn’t stir.

  Shannon watched Josie sleep a moment, then walked to the window, filled with the night sky above, a vast parking lot below. Flooding her thoughts, suddenly, a recap of the horrors: Eva Diaz dumped over the fence into a construction company backlot. Monica Forbes stuffed beneath a bus. Eyes open. Jordan Baldacci, obliterated by an IED. Todd Spencer, his neck cut raggedly, so that he lay there bleeding out as his colleagues ran past and trampled him. And then Josie Tenor, tied to the chair, head lolling, moaning, then crying as Beecher berated her like an angry parent for what he had hoped would be a live audience.

  Shannon took slow, steadying breaths through her nose. She tried to find a place to put these feelings and these images from the past week. She got the sense that this type of compartmentalizing was going to be as much a part of the job as anything else. If she still had a job after this.

  Maybe Beecher would get scared off and not come. Maybe he’d realize he’d been discovered and go into hiding. They’d smoke him out eventually.

  But she didn’t think so. Like she’d told Tyler, Beecher needed to humiliate Josie in order to validate everything else he’d done. In his eyes, she was the start of all the trouble. If she’d gone with Charlotte to the show, this might’ve never happened. If she hadn’t posted the video, if she’d defended her friend when the outrage market started cranking up …

  Shannon’s phone buzzed against her hip. It was Bufort, whom she’d called from the ambulance.

  His voice came in breathy bursts, like he was walking fast. “Ames – he’s here.”

  She felt her heart rate quicken, but stayed focused, ready.

  Bufort explained, “The local cop watching the east entrance has been knocked unconscious. He’s going to make it, but, Ames – it’s got to be Beecher. He got in and he’s coming to you.”

  She pulled a few more deep breaths through her nose, and she closed her eyes.

  This is it.

  John flashed in her imagination. Her older brother’s pale face beneath the clear, tannic water.

  His beautiful, serene face.

  And then it faded as he sank into darkness.

  She opened her eyes and went to the door. She explained to the officer there that Beecher was in the hospital and that he was on his way, but if they used the radio, Beecher would hear them. He’d run and might hurt more people.

  The cop looked terrified. “So what I want you to do,” Shannon said, “is step away.”

  He started to argue, but she shut him down. “There’s no time. Beecher is armed. He’ll shoot at you; there are innocent people here.” Her voice was an urgent whisper.

  The cop refused to do as she instructed. “He’s not going to do anything to me. He’s never hurt another cop.”

  “He might’ve just taken out one of your fellow officers downstairs.”

  She saw it register in the young man’s face as she held out her hand. “I need your weapon and I need you to get yourself somewhere safe. Right now.”

  At last, he gave over. She took his service weapon and retreated into the room, closing the door as she went. She pulled the chair at the side of Josie’s bed over into the corner, then slid the enclosure curtain halfway around the bed, leaving the door side exposed. She found the light switch on the wall and killed the lights.

  In the darkness, the heart monitor beeped, and Josie breathed deeply. Shannon sat in the corner chair and checked the weapon, her heart thumping.

  Help me.

  Guide me.

  She watched the space beneath the door. When she saw the shadow of feet, she quickly left the chair and hid behind the curtain.

  The door opened. Someone entered the room and the door swung shut.

  Her skin tingling, pulse singing in her ears, Shannon breathed as shallowly as possible while the person approached. A light shone against the curtain between Shannon and the bed. Probably the light of his phone. He’d want to record this, of course.

  Beecher spoke.

  “Josie … wake up …”

  Shannon threw open the curtain and aimed the gun at Beecher’s chest. His eyes flared wide, then narrowed a split second later. Phone in one hand, belt in the other. He was in a moderate disguise, a ball cap pulled low, a white short-sleeve button-down and plain slacks.

  She waited for him to go for the gun he was surely carrying. Waited for him to twitch.

  Her phone buzzed. Bufort again, probably. There was commotion outside the room. Loud voices and footfalls fast approaching. Beecher made a slight turn of his head, as if to get a glimpse behind him. He knew what was happening. His upper lip peeled back as his mouth formed a snarling type of smile. Between them, Josie Tenor lay unconscious, just breathing.

  “They killed my daughter,” Beecher said.

  “I know.”

  Beecher only breathed. Looked at Shannon.

  She said, “But it’s over. You’ve done it all. You’ve shown everyone. You’ve held them to account. And now it’s done. There are police all over this hospital, right outside that door.”

  The same way Beecher’s had, the feet of cops outside darkened the gap beneath the door.

  Her phone continued to buzz.

  Beecher’s eyes were empty.

  Shannon said, “Let it go.”

  He slowly set his phone down on Josie’s bed, and the nylon belt beside it. Then he gazed down at the girl, hate filling his face.

  “Let it go,” Shannon repeated.

  Beecher made a move for his gun and she pulled the trigger.

  Th
e blast was deafening. Josie Tenor’s eyes flew open just as Henry Beecher crumpled to the ground.

  A moment later, the door burst open, flooding the room with people. Flooding the room with light.

  36

  Thursday morning

  And after all that, she wasn’t free of the blessed hospital.

  “You’re not going anywhere until a doctor says so,” Tyler instructed.

  And anyway, it was a good place for her to be while she weathered a fresh bout of officer-involved-shooting questions from the FBI’s internal agency. She also spent a great deal of time on the phone, fending off reporters who’d managed to get her number, and texting with Caldoza, who’d come through his gunshot wound endowed with even more romantic confidence.

  What are you wearing?

  Cute, Caldoza.

  She played along and also brought him up to speed, conveying the amount of evidentiary material found at Beecher’s base of operations. The guy was meticulous, she texted. He even kept receipts.

  She explained how Beecher had expected them to consider Frank Percy as the next target and pile all of their resources on that bet. Which was exactly what had transpired, save for her insubordination. And after a moment’s hesitation, she shared her concern that the FBI might send her packing. Confronting Beecher with no coordinated backup had worked, but it had also courted unprofessionalism. It had been dangerous.

  You crazy, Caldoza said.

  Maybe.

  Maybe Beecher would’ve been brought down eventually. But Tyler had already read her the riot act and admonished her severely for her actions. She didn’t need to do it to herself.

  There’d been enough of that in her life already.

  Done texting with Caldoza, she wondered if this hospital had any of the nuclear-green Jell-O. It remained to be seen. But her mouth was dry, cottony. She searched beside her for some water, ice chips, anything. Finding none, she got up out of the bed. An IV slowed her up. Some things never changed. She grabbed the apparatus and wheeled it along beside her as she limped to the bathroom. She turned on the light and filled a plastic cup from the tap.

  When she looked in the mirror, the woman looking back seemed different, somehow. Older, maybe. Like she had a secret.

  An hour later, she was finally able to get out of the hospital gown and put on her own clothes, courtesy of Mark Tyler, who showed up with a bag of her personal items, including a toothbrush, which was heaven sent.

  They went downstairs in silence, riding the elevator, both of them watching the numbers. Tyler had a driver, so they could sit in the back and talk.

  “Where we going?” Shannon asked, when it was clear they were headed west, away from Rego Park and Kew Gardens.

  “To see Moray.”

  Twenty minutes later, she was seated across from him. His corner office viewed the East River, New Jersey beyond. The Statue of Liberty was in the scene, and it brought her back to being in Todd Spencer’s apartment.

  She focused on the here and now: Two chairs, a short couch and a mahogany table formed an informal seating area away from his desk. Moray crossed his long, knobby legs. “Get you anything, Special Agent Ames?”

  “No, sir. Thank you.”

  He leaned forward and picked up a file. Her file – she saw S. Ames written on the tab. He thumbed through it. Then he said, “How do you feel about things? About how everything ended up?”

  She glanced at Tyler seated in the second chair. She was in the middle of the couch. It was the moment of truth. Tyler hadn’t fired her, but Moray just might.

  The best way forward was complete honesty.

  “I feel sad.”

  Moray instantly lowered the file and looked at her. “Why?”

  “The loss of life. The victims. Agent Stratford. And the man I shot in Amityville.”

  After a moment, Moray said, “Winston Hitchcock.”

  “Yes, sir.” She was sure she’d be seeing Hitchcock’s face in her dreams for the rest of her life. She kept this idea to herself. Honesty didn’t necessarily mean hyperbole.

  Moray nodded, like he understood what she was feeling. Or what she was thinking, anyway. He cocked an eyebrow as he tossed her file onto the table with a slap. “Would it help if I told you we’ve just seized ten kilograms of crystal methamphetamine in Tanzer’s home? Along with two thousand in cash, rifles, a handgun, a crossbow, thirteen mobile phones, and various drug paraphernalia?”

  She thought about it. She’d strongly suspected that Tanzer and the others were not operating as, or on behalf of, the anti-media group Blackout, but that they’d reacted forcibly to the presence of law enforcement for what must’ve been, for them, a very good reason. She said to Moray, “I understand these were not innocent men, but they were innocent of the crime we were investigating, sir, and I consider them casualties.”

  Moray sat back. His expression seemed to suggest he was surprised by her, but not upset. Tyler looked slightly uncomfortable, though. It was his usual state, she decided.

  Moray said, “Tanzer is going to make a full recovery.”

  “Good.”

  “And Henry Beecher … how do you feel about him? I know you’ve spent all morning answering to our internal department. But for my own ears …”

  She drew a breath. “Henry Beecher felt he had good cause. He wasn’t … the killers we usually encounter in these cases get some sexual gratification. There’s no evidence Beecher did. There was no mutilation. He cleaned the victims before he killed them because he would be too sickened to wash a dead body, I think. He was doing this for his daughter. For revenge. Which might make him one of the coldest killers we’ve seen yet. I’m convinced there was no other way to stop him. That I had to protect Josie Tenor and protect the public.” She added, “I don’t regret what I did.”

  Moray watched her a moment. Then, “You’re religious, Special Agent Ames?” Before she could answer, he held up a hand. “You don’t have to answer that.” He turned his face away, gazed out the window, and then he stood and walked toward the view.

  Shannon glanced at Tyler, who remained seated, so she remained seated, too.

  Moray turned around. He seemed to be waiting for Tyler to speak. Tyler cleared his throat. His gaze slipped away from her and then gradually returned. “Agent Ames, you were right. About Beecher’s list. About the order. He actually had three other people between the Priests and Josephine Tenor. Thanks to your actions, he rushed to his end, and we stopped him. And we saved those people.”

  Shannon looked back across the space at Mark Tyler. “Thank you, sir.”

  He smiled, just a flicker, but his eyes were soft. “You’re welcome.”

  “Special Agent Ames,” Moray said from the windows, “it’s my opinion, and it’s the opinion of the executive assistant director in Washington, that you’ve done your country a service and you’ve done the FBI proud.” He was silhouetted by the bright sky, his face harder to read.

  She almost couldn’t get the words out. “Thank you. Very much, sir.”

  He slowly paced to his desk and picked up a different file, this one blue, and returned to the sitting area. He placed the blue file in front of her – Confidential stamped on its front – and then retook his chair. He crossed his legs again, tented his fingers, and looked at her.

  She took it as an invitation to open the file. The first page was an overview of a new case.

  “We’d like you to help us with this,” he said.

  She took a stabilizing breath. “Absolutely, sir.”

  “But first,” Moray said, glancing at Tyler, “we want you to take a couple of days – tomorrow and the weekend. This will be here when you get back.”

  “And,” Tyler said, “it’s not a suggestion. It’s an order.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  37

  Friday afternoon

  The address was hard to find because not all of the houses showed their numbers. She could have plugged Hitchcock’s information into the GPS, but sometimes it was nice ju
st to use your eyes and brain. Still, when she couldn’t find it, she used the damn satellites.

  The trailer home was white with black window shutters. Surrounding it were similar trailers. An orange-and-blue, battered-looking Hot Wheels lay in the yard. The grass was on the brown side, scorched – the whole area needed some more rain.

  Shannon sat in the car, parked on the side of the street, and watched the house. She’d already visited Caldoza. She’d been to see Josie Tenor too, once she’d been moved out of the ER to a secure room, but only after talking to the girl’s parents and confirming it was something Josie wanted.

  The girl had a hard road ahead. Already shouldering the guilt for what had happened to her best friend, she now felt responsible for Henry Beecher’s victims. At least, though, Beecher’s video had stayed in his camera.

  “None of this is your fault, Josie,” Shannon had said to her. “None of it.”

  Maybe someday it would sink in, but not today.

  The family planned on moving. “Too many memories for her in this house,” Josie’s mother had confided privately, outside the room. “But it’s going to be tough to sell after what happened here.”

  She’d had a point.

  Shannon had left after a long hug, and after assuring Josie and her mother that she’d be in touch again very soon.

  Now a school bus was coming up the street. It stopped at the street corner and dumped out a dozen kids. Among them, walking toward Shannon, were two teenagers, a boy and a girl, and a smaller girl they had by the hand. Winston Hitchcock’s kids.

  They didn’t notice Shannon as they went into the trailer home.

  But they looked okay. The little girl was smiling. And that was something.

  On the way north, she stopped at a mailbox and dropped in an envelope with the Hitchcock address on it, no return address given. Just a little something to help them along.