by A. S. French
She stretched her legs as she moved, finding her feet sliding through the mud as she kept her gaze on the house. If there was a sniper there, then she was walking straight into a trap, and it would all be over in seconds; but she doubted that. The intruder she’d stabbed didn’t have a rifle during their fight, and even if the two shadows she’d seen in the kitchen were people, they wouldn’t have gone inside if they had rifles.
She was considering all the options when the ground crunched in front of her. Astrid lifted her makeshift weapon as the gun clicked five feet away from her.
13 Don’t Cry Wolf
Astrid dropped the branch into the mud. ‘You know how to throw a party in this town.’
Campbell lowered her weapon and ran forward through the dirt and leaves. She clung to the gun as she threw her arms around Astrid, squeezing the breath from the soaking wet woman. They stood like that for a minute before she let go, and the colour returned to Astrid’s cheeks. A red and blue siren wailed its way to the house as she flexed her hand, watching the blood drip into the mud at her feet.
Campbell holstered her weapon. ‘What happened?’
Astrid stared at the damp cuts on her fingers and wiped rainwater from her lips. ‘Perhaps someone doesn’t want me staying with you.’ Her joints felt like they had broken glass in them. ‘Is your husband a jealous man?’
Somebody attacked me at Moore’s apartment, and then this. What next?
Campbell frowned at her. ‘Did you see who it was?’
Astrid shook her head as she peered at the figure getting out of the police car and entering the house.
‘No, it all happened in a rush. They threw a gas canister through the kitchen window and then forced their way into the building.’ The smell of the gas continued to linger in her nose. ‘They wore masks and body armour. There were at least two of them, but I think there were more.’
Campbell grimaced at those words. ‘That sounds like the military.’
‘Or perhaps the Secret Service.’
Eleanor laughed out loud. ‘You’re serious about this being Robbie’s doing?’
‘No, I’m not. I’m messing about to distract me from the pain, but let’s see what’s happening in your place.’
Astrid moved past her towards the back of the building. There was no body in the swimming pool, but the water was ruby red. As she entered the house, Moore was standing in the centre of the room, surveying the damage. His face resembled a fresh cadaver, with his cheeks sucked in and his eyelids drooping.
‘Someone doesn’t like you, Agent Snow.’
The way he used her name, calling her that, made her wonder if her former life was responsible for the attack.
Is this an old foe getting back at me? Somebody seeking revenge for my Agency work, starting right from the set-up with Caitlin Cruz?
She scrutinised the damage in the kitchen. Broken furniture lay everywhere, with glass and bits of plastic covering the tiles, apart from where the half of apple was resting against the wall. But the most important things were missing from the carnage.
‘Where are the bodies?’
Blood spatters stained the floor and table, but there was no dead intruder, just a couple of overworked forensic guys dressed as if ready to go to the moon.
‘We found no bodies, only lots of damage and blood. Are you going to tell us what happened?’ Moore stared at her as if she was his number-one suspect again.
She went over almost everything that had transpired after Campbell left her alone, leaving out what she’d done using the computer. Moore made no notes, only staring at her as she repeated the events of the night.
‘An unknown assailant attacked you here, in the kitchen, and you fought him off. Then others entered the house, and you ran into the back, where you were assaulted again and ended up in the swimming pool.’ As he spoke, Campbell’s face turned grimmer and grimmer. ‘And you think you killed him in the water?’
Astrid nodded. ‘I can’t see how he’d survive, considering I gouged his eyes out. I injured the one in the kitchen as well.’ She scanned the room. ‘There must have been more of them, and they removed the bodies before you got here.’ Those were the shadows she’d seen, moving around inside.
She peered at Moore. ‘How did you know about the attack?’
‘My neighbours heard gunshots.’ Campbell’s voice was as shaky as Astrid’s legs.
She left the Forensic Officers to their work and went into the living room, slumping into the sofa before she fell over. Moore and Campbell followed her.
Ten minutes’ rest and I’ll be fine. And I need some dry clothes.
‘Did the FBI get back to you about the trafficking website?’
Moore shook his head. ‘They’re still too preoccupied with national security to worry about the abduction of innocent people sold into slavery, and God knows what else.’ The whites of his eyes turned black. ‘And now the fool has got everyone worried about some announcement he’s going to make tomorrow.’
Astrid settled into the sofa and stared at the bunch of CDs she’d missed earlier. She noticed the collection of jazz discs on the shelf and assumed they were Robbie Campbell’s.
‘Who are we talking about now?’
Campbell handed her a glass of water, and she wished it was something stronger.
‘The Prez is going to address the people tomorrow to calm everyone’s nerves.’
‘Okay,’ Astrid said. Back in Britain, most of the population would go to the pub and get pissed during a national emergency; or people would evoke memories of a bygone age when the nation came together to fight adversity. As a kid, she’d watched her parents and their neighbours evoking the “blitz spirit” anytime a national crisis occurred, even though none of them was old enough to have lived during that war.
But she’d also learnt that the “blitz spirit” was an invention of the time, a government feat of propaganda to pacify a panicked and fearful nation, created with the best of intentions, but still a measure of how a nation’s leaders manipulated those it governed. She remembered as a child flicking through a history book and finding a photograph of a milkman picking his way through the ruins to deliver the milk, projecting how ordinary Londoners carried on during the worst of the bombing. It was only years later she discovered the photo was a fake; the milkman was, in fact, the photographer’s assistant, wearing a white coat.
Never trust what’s right in front of your eyes.
She stood while Moore spoke to one Officer. She took Campbell’s arm and led her out of the room and into the corridor. ‘Can you get me some clothes and a car?’
‘You’ve had enough of this town? I don’t blame you.’
Astrid shook her head. ‘I have to do some errands, but I’ll be back.’ She felt the heat from the policewoman’s body and smelt the jasmine lingering on her neck. She wanted to take her upstairs, but getting out of her clothes would only be so she could change into something drier. Eleanor looked about the same size as her.
‘I need to borrow some of your wardrobe if that’s okay?’
Campbell appeared momentarily confused. ‘Oh, you mean something to wear.’ She put a hand on her heart and laughed. ‘Of course, go upstairs and take what you want.’
So Astrid did.
The main bedroom was the first she entered, admiring the large bed and the walk-in wardrobe. There were no photos of the husband and no evidence he spent time there. She searched through the drawers and closets, but found none of his clothes.
Perhaps they’re in another room.
She didn’t take long searching, settling on a pair of jeans plus a white shirt and blue top. A leather jacket lay over a chair, and she grabbed it as she returned downstairs. She’d transferred her phone, money and credit card into her new clothing and carried her damp clothes into the living room. Astrid left those on the table as Campbell joined her from the kitchen.
‘Detective Moore is having a field day checking my swimming pool. I invited him to come back once it’s
cleaned out and Robbie has a barbecue.’ She looked Astrid over from head to toe. ‘You’re welcome to come as well.’
Astrid smiled at her. ‘Will your husband be confused when he sees me wearing your clothes?’
Campbell strode to her and ran her fingers over Astrid’s arm. ‘I’m sure he’ll be able to tell the difference between us.’
‘I’m sure.’
Campbell took hold of her damaged hand. ‘You’ve lost the bandage, and the stitches have come out.’ She touched the scar on the middle finger, and Astrid’s vision went a little foggy. ‘You must return to the hospital to have this fixed again.’
Astrid removed her fingers from Campbell’s. ‘It’ll be okay, Eleanor.’ She liked the sound of Campbell’s name on her tongue. ‘I can wrap a bandage around it later. There’s something important I need to do first.’ She glanced over the room. ‘And you’ve got your hands full cleaning this mess.’
Campbell screwed up her top lip and appeared to consider her words. Then she examined the damage in her house and handed Astrid a set of keys. ‘Here, take my car. I’ll get a ride to the station with Moore. Are you going to tell me what you’re up to?’
Astrid resisted the urge to kiss her, placing her good hand on Campbell’s shoulder instead.
‘You’ll know when I do, I promise.’
She smiled as she left, glancing at the damage as she stepped outside and into the car. There’d been two attempts on her life, not counting the useless cowboys on the street, and someone had tried to frame her for a triple homicide.
Who hates me this much?
Her phone buzzed as she was about to start the engine. She hesitated as it vibrated against her leg, her fingers reaching for the car keys as the thump of her heart increased. Outside of Campbell and Moore, there were only two other contacts in her new mobile, and she didn’t expect either of them to message her. The phone was for Astrid to contact them and not the other way round.
It must be from George.
George Cross, her only friend in the world and former mentor and boss at the Agency, was a man with strict instructions not to get in touch with her. But at the police station, she’d given Moore his number, and it was true she owed her freedom from jail to him. The Agency’s influence would have been the only thing that could have got the murder charges against her dropped. They were the only people able to convince the American government to lean on Chief Colt to let her go.
The Agency: she’d left them, but still their fingers clawed at every part of her. They’d want something from her now, a favour for a favour. She sighed and removed the phone from her pocket, flicking her finger across the screen and entering the four-digit code. Then her face froze as she saw who it was from: not George.
Her sister.
Courtney.
She stared out of the window as Moore spoke to Campbell. For a split second, she contemplated returning to the house and pouring herself a strong drink before reading the message, but decided against it. Then she opened the text; it was brief and confusing.
Olivia is getting strange messages on her computer.
The first thing to cross Astrid’s mind was why her niece even had a computer. The kid wouldn’t be seven for another few months, so she didn’t understand why she’d need one. Perhaps Courtney bought it for her birthday.
I’ll never be able to compete with that. What, when I take her away from my sister like I told the phantom Courtney?
She was laughing at the stupidity of such a thought until she realised she was only deflecting from her fears for her niece.
Astrid replied.
What type of strange messages?
As she waited for her sister’s reply, she watched Moore put a consoling hand on Campbell’s shoulder, and she wondered if there was anything between them that was more than professional.
The relationship between Eleanor and Robbie was unusual, that was for sure, and she hadn’t hesitated in rushing into bed with Astrid. So who knew what went through Eleanor Campbell’s mind? She pictured the photograph of Moore and his ex-wife enjoying the sights of the Grand Canyon and remembered the bitterness in his voice when he spoke about her.
She stared at the digital clock on the dashboard. Why didn’t Courtney ring her? The next text came as she considered her question.
Olivia has a game on the computer where she plays against friends online. She’s been getting messages there telling her how pretty she is, talking about her hair and eyes. And she doesn’t have a photo attached to her account.
Astrid sank into the seat and slowed her breathing. It sounded like some pervert was trying to groom or stalk Olivia through this game. It made her heart sink while creating bile in her guts, but it was a manageable solution, even from where she was on the other side of the world.
She had to steady her fingers before she typed.
Keep her off the computer and go to the police. Tell them everything you told me, and they’ll deal with it. Does she have any other access to the internet, through a mobile phone or at school?
The birds sang outside the window as she waited for the reply. The wait was an eternity on her heart and in her head.
What if he’s doing this?
She couldn’t bring herself to say his name, but his grin lingered large inside her mind. And she remembered the other shadow during the vision she’d had at the Delaney house.
Our father. Lawrence.
As that terrible thought possessed her brain, Courtney’s newest message arrived.
Olivia doesn’t have access to a mobile phone, and she can’t get into my computer because it’s password protected. I don’t know about the school, but I’ll ask them tomorrow. Do you think she’ll be okay?
How could she answer that?
Do what I said and keep a close eye on her at all times. Contact me again once you’ve spoken to the police.
She didn’t say to call her, only to contact; she’d leave that decision to her sister. Astrid waited for Courtney to text her thanks, but she didn’t.
She sat in the car for twenty minutes as a thousand different scenarios ran through her mind. All of them continued to linger there as she started the engine and checked the map on the passenger seat for directions. Now she was off to talk to a gorgon.
14 Fan Club
The tyres hissed over the tarmac as the Doors sang in her head. She felt the gentle rise and fall of the road beneath the wheels, crossing a bridge, and passing the sign for leaving Bakerstown. She was glancing out of the window and into a long stretch of countryside, until she hit a narrow space and the two cars blocking her route. The vehicle came to a screeching halt as she braked.
She was considering turning around when someone stepped out of the closest car. It was a bare leg stretching from the silver bracelet on the ankle to the edge of the skirt on the thigh. Even the sense of danger couldn’t stop Astrid’s libido from springing into action. It softened when she saw who it was.
Rosie Sawyer.
Sawyer swung out of the vehicle and sauntered over to the unmarked police car. She wore a tight velvet top which left little to the imagination. A glittering necklace caressed her throat as she walked. Sawyer smiled at her, and the night chill vanished in an instant.
‘My father wants to meet you.’
Astrid pushed a fingernail into her thigh. ‘Perhaps later. I’ve got to be somewhere else now.’
Rosie Sawyer removed a Polaroid camera from the silk purse on her shoulder and pointed it at the car. She squeezed the button on the front and took a photo of Astrid, who expected Sawyer to wave the image in the air, but she dropped it into her pocket instead. Then she moved a step closer to Astrid, aimed the camera into her face, and snapped another photo which joined the first one.
‘It wasn’t a request, Ms Snow.’
Sawyer nodded at the cars behind her, one of which spewed out her brother while the other contained two thugs, built like elephants with necks to go with it.
‘I didn’t realise I was this popul
ar.’
Sawyer returned the camera to her purse. ‘I’ll return you when it’s over; I promise.’
Astrid stared at Sawyer’s legs before slipping out of the car. Rosie Sawyer gave her the sweetest smile before heading to speak to her brother.
‘Stop messing around, Rosie,’ Jimmy Sawyer growled.
‘You go with them. I’ll take her on my own.’
He glared at his sister. ‘Father wouldn’t like that.’
She laughed in his face. ‘When has Father liked anything I do?’ She was still laughing when Astrid got into the car and they drove off. ‘Family; such a waste of space, don’t you think?’ Astrid didn’t reply, gazing into the night instead. ‘You’re Astrid Snow, right? I’m Rosie, and that dumb lump of wood is my brother, Jimmy.’
Astrid found her voice. ‘I know who you are.’
Sawyer’s laugh was raucous. ‘My God, I love your accent. I’m a massive fan of everything British. Here, look at this.’ She reached across for the glove compartment just as the car bounced over a rock or a dead animal. Her hand flicked into the air, and then down onto Astrid’s knee. She left it there long enough for a volcano to burst inside Astrid’s veins. Then Sawyer flipped the catch to show the contents: dozens of photos lay next to a collection of David Bowie CDs.
‘You’ve got great taste in music, Sawyer.’
‘My stupid brother laughs at me because I won’t stream any of this, but I like to hold something in my hand, don’t you?’ She took her eyes off the road and gazed at Astrid. ‘To have something real between your fingers and feel the pleasure of it, to lift it to your face and smell and taste it. Is that what you like?’
Astrid coughed as the car lurched forward. ‘My father used to have thousands of records which he’d spend hours with.’
‘Oh, that sounds wonderful; so much better than digital files on a computer or phone. I’ve always known I was born at the wrong time. Does he still have his collection?’