Shadow Files

by R. J. Jagger

  “Someone did, why?”

  “When?”

  Silence, she was thinking.

  “I don’t know, two weeks ago, maybe. Something like that.”

  “Two weeks ago?”

  “Yes, give or take. Why? What’s going on?”

  “Did he say who he was?”

  “He said his name was Mr. Smith.”

  Mr. Smith.

  Mr. Smith.

  Mr. Smith.

  “Did he say why he wanted to rent it?”

  “No, he just asked if it was for rent,” she said. “I told him the same thing I told you, namely that it had been for rent but we changed our minds. We’re going to fix it up this fall and make it into a weekend place.”

  “I didn’t know you were going to fix it up this fall.”

  “Well, we are.”

  “Did he ever call back?”

  “No.”

  “When was the last time you were out there?”

  “God, I can’t even remember,” she said. “It’s not furnished or anything. You can’t live in it. I keep asking what’s going on and you keep not answering.”

  He hesitated.

  “I’m a private investigator,” he said. “My name’s Jack Wilde. I’m trying to find a guy who might be interested in renting a place out in the country.” He gave her his number. “Can you tell me anything else about Mr. Smith?”

  No.

  She couldn’t.

  “We only talked for a few seconds,” she said.

  Okay.

  Good enough.

  “Oh wait,” the woman said. “I do remember one more thing. Just before he hung up, someone in the background—a woman—said something like, You got a cigarette I can borrow? Something like that. Something about a cigarette.”

  61

  O n three.

  One.

  Two.

  Three!

  Fallon released her grip on the cliff and pushed off slightly with her feet so she wouldn’t rip her flesh on the jags. The freefall immediately shot her stomach into her mouth, a warning that something was dreadfully wrong, something that could kill her. She focused as specifically as she could on the car below.

  It was coming too fast.

  She couldn’t pick a spot.

  She couldn’t adjust her body.

  She couldn’t do anything.

  Wham!

  Her body crunched and contorted with the impact. The first hit was onto the front end of the car and the second hit was onto the ground, flat on her back The air shot out of her lungs.

  She was hurt.

  How bad?

  She immediately tried to get to her feet, desperate to know if the parts of her body worked. There wasn’t enough air in her lungs to support the motion.

  Lie here. Just lie here. Calm down for a second.

  She stared up at the cliff.

  She wasn’t dead.

  That was the main thing.

  She was off the cliff and still alive.

  Something tickled her upper thigh.

  It was blood, lots of blood, flowing steadily out of a wide gash.

  Her whole leg was covered.

  Something on the car must have snagged her.

  She got to her feet.

  Her head spun but she forced herself to not fall.

  She pulled her T-shirt over her head, ripped it and wrapped the pieces around the gash, then applied pressure with her hand.

  Her thoughts were getting more and more unfocused.

  She sat on the ground and leaned back against the car.

  Just rest.

  Just stay still until the bleeding stops.

  Suddenly she had a terrible image.

  Jundee was in the car.

  He was right behind her.

  Dead or unconscious.

  “Jundee!”

  Silence.

  She got to her feet and braced herself to witness whatever carnage was waiting for her.

  She looked in the window.

  What she saw she could hardly believe.

  62

  S hade parked at the same place as before, by the bridge, to avoid getting blocked in. The guy was probably gone forever but there was no sense in taking a chance, even with Mojag at her side. They hoofed it through the prairie under a bright blue Colorado sky.

  “I have someone after me,” Shade said.

  Mojag wasn’t impressed but turned his head in her direction for a moment.

  “Who?”

  “Someone from the CIA.”

  “The CIA?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m with them,” she said. “I’m an agent.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “No reason you would,” she said. “Anyway, someone’s framing me. They’re planting evidence to make it look like I’m a double spy.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “It makes no sense. Here’s the important thing as far as you’re concerned. If I disappear, that’s why. They got me. What I need from you is a promise that you’ll keep looking for Visible Moon.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not going to let anything happen to you. We’ll stick together from now on.”

  She stopped and grabbed his arm.

  “Listen,” she said, “nothing you’re doing has anything to do with me. I’m only telling you what I am so you’ll understand what happened. If I disappear, just let it go. Concentrate on Visible Moon.”

  He grunted.

  “Promise me,” she said.

  “I’ll concentrate on Visible Moon, but first,” he said. “If someone hurts you, they’re not going to keep walking this planet as if nothing happened. We’ll stick together.”

  “That’s not wise.”

  “Why not?”

  “We’ll make more distance if I keep running down my end and you spend your time keeping your eyes peeled for the white man.”

  The structure appeared up ahead in the distance.

  “That’s it,” Shade said.

  Mojag picked up the pace.

  No car was around and no signs of life came from inside the house. They entered through the back window, which was just as broken as before.

  “It doesn’t look like he’s been back,” Shade said.

  Inside, Shade pulled the mattress to the side.

  The scratches in the floor came into view.

  “That’s them,” she said.

  Mojag kneeled down and studied them.

  He shook his head.

  “This isn’t good,” he said.

  63

  W ilde walked to Senn-Rae’s place, knocked on the door and entered without waiting for an answer. She looked up from her desk, startled. “You call your client Mr. Smith,” Wilde said. “Is that a name he told you or one you came up with?”

  “He used the name. Why?”

  “Because another Mr. Smith has entered the picture,” he said. Then he told her about the man who inquired about renting the house. “Two Mr. Smiths are one too many. They’re one and the same. Your client is the pinup killer, no question.”

  Senn-Rae saw the logic.

  She wasn’t impressed.

  “He doesn’t strike me that way.”

  “Based on what?”

  “Based on the way he talks,” Senn-Rae said.

  Wilde sat on the edge of her desk and leaned over.

  “You went out last night a little before nine,” he said. “What was that about? Did you have a meeting with Mr. Smith?”

  The woman leaned back.

  “You were spying on me?”

  “No, I was protecting you.”

  She gave him a cold look.

  “Someone was in my office yesterday,” she said. “Was that you?”

  Wilde’s first instinct was to lie.

  He went with it and said, “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”
/>
  “You weren’t in my office? That’s what you’re telling me?”

  He shuffled his feet.

  The lie didn’t fit.

  He didn’t like telling it.

  “Okay, I was,” he said.

  “So you were in my office.”

  “Right.”

  “And right now, when you said you weren’t, you were lying.”

  “Technically that’s correct,” he said, “but only for a few seconds.”

  She stood up, walked to the door and held it open.

  “Get out,” she said.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  No, she wasn’t.

  “I brought you a simple case,” she said, “a simple case to find out who’s blackmailing my client. Instead of figuring that out, you spend all your time trying to figure out who my client is. Now you’re spying on me, lying to me and doing whatever else you’re doing that I don’t even know about. Enough’s enough, you’re done.”

  “What are you saying, that you’re taking me off the case?”

  “You took yourself off the case,” she said. “You had your chance, your chance is over. In hindsight I made a mistake.”

  “Look, I’m sorry if—”

  She rattled the door.

  “Keep the retainer.”

  “I don’t want the retainer.”

  “Then send it back, I don’t care,” she said. “Use a messenger. I don’t want to see you again.”

  64

  J undee wasn’t in the front of the car, the back, hanging through a window, on the ground or anywhere else. He wasn’t anywhere. There was dried blood on the front post indicating he’d been in the car when it went over the cliff.

  “Jundee!”

  No response.

  Everything inside the car was bunched up at the lowest point—the rear window. Fallon climbed inside and sifted through until she found what she was looking for, a can of Coke and bag of chips. She consumed them outside, leaning against the car.

  The T-shirt wrapped around her leg was thick with blood.

  She put a hand on the wound and pressed.

  It was too big to close on its own, at least not for a long, long time—hours.

  She didn’t have hours.

  The Coke did a little to take the sandpaper off her tongue but not much. What it did do was punctuate how seriously she had dehydrated.

  Her skin was dry.

  Her eyes were turning to dust.

  She was on her way to dying.

  She needed to get up to the road where someone would find her. She needed to do it now, this minute, before she lost even more of the little strength she had.

  This was it.

  It was now or never.

  She muscled to her feet, got her balance and took one step after another, keeping pressure on the wound.

  She could walk, that should have given her comfort, but it didn’t. The effort was too great. It made her realize she couldn’t climb.

  Up ahead, a far distance, she saw something lying motionless on the ground.

  As she approached, it took shape.

  It was Jundee.

  65

  M ojag punched the wall. The plaster cracked. He punched it again. This time his fist went through. He pulled it out and paced.

  “What’s it say?” Shade asked.

  Mojag shook his head with disgust.

  “I will die tonight. I am ready. Do not cry for me.”

  Shade repeated it in her mind, then leaned against the wall and slumped to the floor. She buried her head in her hands and rocked. “Tonight” was last night, at the latest. It might have even been written days ago.

  Do not cry for me.

  It was so like Visible Moon to say something like that.

  Mojag pulled a book of matches out of his jeans pocket, struck one and held the flame under the broken wall plaster until it caught.

  Shade didn’t understand.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Sending the guy a message,” Mojag said.

  The flames grew longer and spread up the wall.

  Smoke collected at the ceiling.

  Mojag took one last look at the writing on the floor, grabbed Shade’s arm and pulled her to her feet.

  “Time to go,” he said.

  66

  W ilde left Senn-Rae’s, fired from a case for the first time in his life. He headed down the stairs as the door slammed behind him. In the alley he leaned against the building and lit a cigarette.

  Damn it.

  Damn it to hell.

  He headed back to his office.

  Senn-Rae was a bitch.

  Screw her.

  He was almost at the corner of Larimer Street when he suddenly turned and went back. He threw the butt on the ground, ran up the stairs two at a time and pounded on the door.

  Senn-Rae answered.

  The look on her face hadn’t changed.

  It was as hard and cold as before.

  Wilde picked her up, threw her over his shoulder and kicked the door closed with his foot. He carried her to the bedroom and threw her on the bed.

  Her head bounced.

  Blood came from her lower lip.

  It must have cut on a tooth.

  She wiped the back of her hand across it.

  Wilde ripped his shirt off and threw it across the room.

  “If you want me to stop, say so now.”

  She stared at him with defiance but said nothing.

  Wilde straddled her and pinned her arms above her head. Then he licked the blood off her mouth.

  “I hate you,” she said.

  “Join the club.”

  He ripped her clothes off and took her.

  He took her hard.

  He took her rough.

  He took her with every ounce of power he had.

  It’s always strange when you end up in public immediately after having sex. You can picture yourself with strangers doing the same thing you just did no more than a few minutes ago. That’s how the walk back to his office was after Wilde left Senn-Rae’s place.

  They didn’t say anything after the fact.

  Wilde simply got up and left.

  He didn’t mumble a word.

  Neither did Senn-Rae.

  Wilde didn’t want to dilute what just happened, that’s why he said nothing. Maybe it was the same for Senn-Rae, or maybe it was because she hated him, or maybe it was because she loved him.

  He didn’t know.

  When he got back to the office, Alabama was hanging up the phone. She studied his face and said, “What happened to you?”

  He tossed his hat at the rack.

  He did it so quick he forgot to aim to the right.

  The hat flew past the rack on the left, hit the wall and fell to the floor.

  Alabama picked it up and tossed it back.

  He tried again aiming to the right this time. It flew through the air on the exact path as before and ended up on the floor.

  “I’m never going to get it.”

  “No you’re not,” Alabama said. “So answer my question. What happened to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “No, nothing,” he said. “I just stopped over at Senn-Rae’s to say hello.”

  Alabama rolled her eyes.

  “What part of your body did you do the talking with?”

  He wrinkled his forehead, then put a serious expression on his face and said, “Senn-Rae’s client Mr. Smith is the pinup killer.”

  “How do you know?”

  He lit a book of matches on fire and looked at her through the flames as he told her about the Mr. Smith, the second Mr. Smith, the one who inquired about the rental property.

  Alabama was impressed.

  “So our work’s done,” she said.

  “Not quite,” Wilde said. “She doesn’t know who he is, remember?”

  “She doesn’t need to,” Alabama said. “All she needs to know is that she has a pro
blem. Just tell her to make up a story about why she has to drop out of the case.”

  “That won’t get her off the guy’s radar screen.”

  67

  F allon shook Jundee’s limp body and got no response. The left side of his head was matted with blood but it was dry. The bleeding had stopped. His face was still warm and breath came from his lips. A faint pulse thumped in his neck.

  He wasn’t dead.

  He might be in a coma but he wasn’t dead.

  She gauged the climb up and decided she couldn’t do it; maybe later but not now. The struggle of staying awake all night on the ledge was assaulting her strength. She laid down next to Jundee with her face pointed towards the sky. The dirt was gritty on her back. The valley was still thick with shadows and would be for a long time. She put pressure on her leg.

  Sleep.

  She needed sleep.

  There might be rattlesnakes.

  Too much blood might seep out of her leg.

  She didn’t care.

  The only thing she cared about was closing her eyes.

  She needed everything to turn black.

  Nothing else mattered.

  If she died, she died.

  Her life had been good, relatively speaking.

  She had no regrets.

  She closed her eyes.

  The darkness felt like cool, clean water.

  Then everything went black.

  The next few hours were surreal. Jundee regained consciousness. They made it out of the valley and hitched a ride into Santa Fe with a cancer-nosed farmer who had a pronounced spit-gap between his front teeth. Fallon got her leg stitched up, Jundee got diagnosed with a mild concussion, then they hopped on the first Greyhound pointed towards Denver and claimed the back seat. The New Mexico desert rolled along at 65 outside their window.

  “All that for no briefcase,” Jundee said.

  Fallon patted his knee

  “Well, at least we had fun.”

  A smile crept onto his face.

  Then he got serious.

  “That was the worst feeling of my life, when I got out of the car after the crash and couldn’t find you anywhere,” he said. “Blood was dripping into my eyes, my head was spinning and I thought for sure you were squashed under the back of the car. That was the worst moment of my life, realizing that I’d killed you.”