by Deek Rhew
The doctors removed the bullet that had slipped past Armon’s armor and lodged itself in his lower back. He would be in recovery for weeks but would otherwise be all right. Sam had more extensive injuries.
The slug split when it hit his femur, leaving fragments of lead behind, and the doctors had to search for them among the splinters of bone. The bullet had created a hole about the size of a nickel when it entered the back of his leg. But when it exited, it left a saucer-sized crater in its wake. Because of the extensive damage, the doctors didn’t know if they would be able to save his leg.
In the end, they patched him up and put him on strong antibiotics. Both he and Armon went home to recover. After three months, Armon headed back to the front lines. Sam underwent another surgery, and weeks after the final operation, he started physical therapy.
His doctor admonished him to go easy, but he pushed hard, not accepting the verdict and sentencing of his injury. Weight training, walking, yoga; he became a machine with a single purpose: to get back into the field. His physical therapist lectured him if he didn’t go easier he would set himself back. The first time he tried to run, something in his knee snapped, and he lay on the edge of the dirty street writhing in pain.
Sam got to keep his leg, but he couldn’t fight for his country any more. The angry, mocking scar tissue and scattered memories remained the only remnants of his life as a soldier. Walking without a crutch took over a year, and several months after that, he could do so without a limp. He eventually recovered enough to run again, but he’d lost the speed and nimbleness that had once made him a star athlete. The Marines labeled him a hero but also unfit for duty, so he finished the duration of his military career behind a desk shuffling papers.
Sam slipped out of his military life unnoticed, much like he had slipped in. Half a dozen of his buddies greeted him as he packed out his duffel one last time. Tracy had not been with them.
* * *
Two hundred miles outside of Walberg, Sam stood in a little copy store, using their shredding services to dispose of the Peter Morrell identity as he had done with a thousand others. But as he pulled out of the parking lot toward the highway that led to L.A., something kept nagging him. Events of the case felt askew, or perhaps something within The Agency itself had changed.
He tried to put it out of his mind. But as he shifted gears on the big bike, working it up to cruising speed, he wondered if maybe he needed to do a little more research on an otherwise closed case.
Then again, maybe I’m just going crazy. He gunned the throttle heading towards home.
30
Monica glanced out the window every couple of minutes, waiting. Tires crunched on gravel, and Angel pulled into the Stardust Motel then parked her dilapidated Beetle next to Monica’s beat-to-shit piece of crap on wheels.
As Angel raised her hand to knock, Monica cracked open the door. “Get in here.” She slinked her arm out, grabbed her friend, and pulled her through. She had Angel in an embrace before the door had finished slamming shut.
She held her childhood friend, taking comfort in her smell and familiar embrace. “Thank you for coming,” Monica said in her ear.
“Oh honey, anything for you.”
“Everything’s such a mess.”
“Knowing you, this doesn’t surprise me.” Angel stepped back and looked her up and down. “Nice clothes.”
Monica gave her a half smile. “I only shop at the finest boutique thrift stores.”
“Okay, so what happened?”
“I’m not sure where to even start,” Monica said as they sat on the bed.
“Yes, actually, you do. There’s no one else here, no FBI, no police, so start at the beginning. This time, don’t hold anything back.”
“If you know what I know, you’ll be in danger too. You need to be aware of the risks.”
Angel lifted an eyebrow. “Seriously? First, if someone started interrogating me, or whatever they call it, do you think they’d believe me if I said I didn’t know anything?”
Monica shook her head. “Suppose not.”
“Second, I should never have let you leave without me, and I’m not making that mistake again.” She took Monica’s hands in hers. “Like it or not, you’re stuck with me. Got it?”
“I love you,” Monica said.
Angel cocked her head. “Aww. I love you too. Now quit stalling and start at the beginning.”
Monica took a deep breath. “Well, after we left the diner, shit really started going downhill…”
She talked for over an hour before she got to the part about the man on the motorcycle. “So, this guy, Peter, asked me to look over some documents for him. But really, now that I’ve thought about it, I think he just used that as an excuse to finagle a date out of me.”
“You went out with him?” Angel’s surprised expression matched Monica’s own feelings.
“Yes.” She told Angel about the evening and subsequent night they’d spent together.
“You told him your real name?”
Monica stood to pace. “I was so pissed at the FBI. I really wanted to screw with Crew Cut. The bastard had been eavesdropping on everything I’ve said for the last six months. I wanted to give him something to listen to. You know, verbally give him the finger.”
“Well, you did that.”
“Yeah.”
Angel stood and faced her. “I’ve tried to tell you before, Mon. You fight the system like a demon and that’s admirable, but at the same time, it causes all kinds of hell in your life.”
“I was really tired of taking shit from those guys.”
“You don’t take shit from anyone, and it’s one of the things I love about you. But perhaps just this once it would have been better to go with the flow.” Angel sighed.
Monica had been on the receiving end of this argument a thousand times before. Her friend might have a point. It was possible that things worked better when you went with the flow. Maybe.
“So anyway.” Angel got into the bed and lounged against the headboard. “After you kicked him out, he just left town, and that was that?” She waved Monica to continue.
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean?”
She told her about Lisa wanting to stay the night and throwing the keys, then the subsequent explosion.
“Christ! Lisa saved your life by being a self-centered bitch.”
Monica forced a laugh at the dark irony. “Suppose she did. Anyway, I had the keys, so I ‘borrowed’ her car, and, well, here I am.” She held up her hands.
“So you think it was Peter who tried to kill you?”
“I’m positive. The only thing is he went through a lot of effort to make it look like an accident. We spent the night together. He had ample opportunity to quietly take care of things, if that was his goal, and just slip away. But he didn’t.” Monica shook her head. “Yet…”
Angel sat up straight, her face pale.
“What?” Monica sat down next to her. “What’s wrong?”
“I have something to tell you.”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What is it?”
“Maybe I have.” Angel took her hand again. “Mon, honey, you know I love you, right?”
She nodded. “Yes, but right now you’re scaring me.”
“You should be scared. It’s my fault.” Angel dropped her eyes.
“What? What’s your fault?”
“The man on the motorcycle, and maybe even the explosion. What did you say his name was?”
“Peter. Peter Morrell. How is any of this your fault?”
“I think… Oh, Mon.”
Monica lifted Angel’s chin so they stared eye-to-eye. “Spill it, girl.”
“I think he called me.”
“What? When?”
“About a week ago. I don’t remember exactly.” Then in a rush, she said, “He told me his name was Tom and he went to school with you and that you lived with him and
that he’d fallen in love with you. But you disappeared, and he never got a chance to tell you. He knew so much about your history, it seemed like the real thing. He seemed so legit that I thought...oh...I thought... Shit, I led him right to you.”
“Tom? Yeah, he let me use his apartment. He called you? How did he get your number?”
“Yes, and I don’t know. He said you told him about your childhood and that you two talked all the time. He knew about your past, with the baseball bat and your mom and all that. Did you tell him any of it?”
Monica shook her head. “Tom said that? I never breathed a word. You know me. But you didn’t know where I was. You didn’t even have my phone number. If Peter was posing as Tom and called you, how could you have led him to me?”
Angel looked back down at her hands. “I gave him your email.”
“You mean the one I told you to never, never, never give out?”
Angel nodded.
Monica remained quiet for a minute.
“I’m so sorry, Mon. It’s all my fault. You almost got killed because of me.” Unshed tears shimmered in Ang’s eyes.
“No, Ang, I almost got killed because that’s what these mob bastards do. It was inevitable they’d eventually figure out a way to find me. I don’t know how he did it with an email, but it seems logical.”
“You don’t hate me then? I’m so sorry.” A tear burst through the dam and spilled down her cheek.
“I know. Hon, I could never hate you. You’re my angel, and you came all this way to save me...again. These guys are really smart and will do anything to get rid of me. Just ask Lisa.”
Angel nodded. “Have you made a plan?”
“Yes. My ‘plan’ was to call you.”
Angel laughed. “Good plan. Anything beyond that?”
Monica shook her head. “That’s all I’ve got. I’m so out of my element, I don’t even know where to begin.”
Angel scratched her head. “These guys are really resourceful. We need someone like that on our team.”
“Okay, but who?”
“I know you don’t want to hear this, but we need to find this Jon person.”
Monica stood. “No. No way. I’m done with the FBI.”
Angel held up her hand. “Look. Peter was hired to get rid of you, either for revenge or whatever. We both agree on this, right?”
Monica nodded.
“So he found you by tracking your email somehow. The only question remaining is who, if anyone, is in bed with him? The only one that fits is Crew Cut, but even that doesn’t seem very likely to me. If he’d wanted to kill you, he’s had a lot of chances. All he had to do was let you escape from the safe house and then put a bullet in you as you ran down the road. But he didn’t; he took you back inside and put a tracking device on you. It’s a sucky thing to do, but that behavior seems like the opposite of someone who means to do you harm.”
“I don’t trust that bastard.”
“I know, but the FBI seems like the best option. The only option really. Can you get in touch with any of the agents?”
She shook her head. “Communication was strictly a one-way street.”
“Okay. Well, I don’t think it’s safe to go back to Walberg. Peter may be waiting for you. It’s unlikely, but it isn’t worth the risk.”
Monica asked, “Okay, how do we find them?”
“Simple. Twenty-six Federal Plaza.”
Monica sat back. “Huh?”
Angel shrugged and smiled. “FBI headquarters. Anyone who’s watched TV knows that.”
“Really?”
“Really. Come on, get your stuff together. We’ll drive.”
Monica hesitated. It felt like jumping back into the viper’s nest, but she couldn’t argue with Angel’s reasoning. Finally she nodded. “I hope you’re right.”
“I am.”
“Then let’s go.”
They gathered Monica’s newly purchased wardrobe and headed out to the parking lot. Angel pulled out her keys and said, “It’s gonna take a while in old Betsy, but she should make it.”
“No, we’ll take my car.” Monica opened the trunk of the beat-to-shit Audi.
“Ummm, what the hell? This was Lisa’s car? She owned her own practice, and this is what she drove? Things in that town were worse than I imagined.”
“Well, yes and no. The car might have had a little…accident.” Monica told her about stopping at the park and working the Audi over.
“Wow. Don’t mess with you.”
“Sometimes a girl needs to blow off a little steam.”
31
The scent of pine cleaner and soap assaulted Sam as he walked through the apartment he hadn’t seen in months. The maid service supplied by The Agency came by once every week or so to dust and clear out the cobwebs made by industrious little arachnids hoping to catch a meal in the vacant flat.
The refrigerator brimmed with fresh fruits and vegetables, cold cuts, bread, even a pint of milk. Sam knew without having to check the expiration dates that everything would be safe to eat. The clean, spotless icebox looked as though it had been filled that morning. A neat stack of mail and the early edition of the L.A. Times sat on the counter.
The Agency wanted him to feel like a regular person—just another Joe kicking back after a difficult week on the job. But to Sam, this life felt staged, and he was a two-bit actor in a way-off-Broadway one-man production nobody cared to see. In his absence, they handled his mail, paid his bills, and even falsified his phone records so it appeared like someone spent time in this empty dwelling. On paper, he looked like a regular, functioning member of society. But in reality, nothing actually existed, only the façade perpetuated by an agency that technically didn’t exist.
He had the appearance of a life without getting to live one.
The apartment matched the address on his driver’s license, but the 1200-square-foot “townhouse with a view,” as it had been marketed so long ago, didn’t feel like his home. No place did. Sam had long ago forgotten who supplied his utilities or who to give the rent to at the end of the month. The grocery store he used to shop at had been torn down and a strip mall erected in its place. He had been gone so long he’d missed the transition. He didn’t know any of the neighbors or the neighborhood. Sam had become an intruder, another stranger in a foreign land.
Maybe he had become a little too reliant on The Agency.
Sighing, he wandered down the hall to his room where he tossed his few belongings onto the bed. His body ached from getting caught in the explosion. His back throbbed, his head still hurt, and every time he moved, he found something new on him that had been injured. The mattress beckoned, but first he wanted to wash off the grime of the road. In the master bath, he started the shower, and soon the little room filled with thick steam. Sam got in and stood in the heavy spray, the scalding water pouring over his head in cascading sheets as he tried not to think. If he let his mind wander on anything other than a case, it went places he’d rather it not. Except now he had no case to ponder.
He stepped out of the shower thirty minutes later, dried himself off, and climbed under the sheets. Exhausted, he thought he’d sleep for a week. Three hours later, his eyes popped open, and he found himself staring at the dark ceiling.
It seemed his mind had been hard at work while his body rested. For the next couple of hours, he tried to temper the mental stream while throwing a random curse at the digital clock on the nightstand—its red eyes mocked him as it doled out minutes he should be sleeping.
The sun had just touched the sky through the bedroom window when Sam gave up. He got out of bed and slipped into an old pair of jeans and a worn UCLA sweatshirt, pleased that they still fit, and padded to the kitchen. He didn’t bother to check the coffee maker, just clicked the “brew” button, knowing The Agency had set that up for him too.
A few minutes later, he carried a steaming mug into the living room. Sam retrieved his laptop from the leather travel
bag he’d dropped next to the door and plopped onto the couch. Pulling a small remote from the drawer, he started the sound system, filling the room with lyrics from Eric Clapton’s melodious and soulful guitar.
He took a sip of the dark coffee, which helped to break down the early morning cobwebs, while he waited for the Mac to boot. When it finished, he double-clicked the icon for the client half of the tracker app installed on Monica’s computer. If anyone logged on, the program would notify him. He minimized the window, opened a web browser, and started searching.
* * *
Monica and Angel left the Stardust Motel and drove all day across the Arizona desert.
Angel seemed to be enjoying the power of Lisa’s little indulgence and didn’t spare the ponies. Cacti and tumbleweeds blurred past in a haze, reminding Monica of the night she’d gone for a ride on the back of Peter’s motorcycle.
They flew over the state border midafternoon, and as the land grew dark, Angel guided the car off the main strip and up an old gravel road. She parked on a high bluff overlooking the Colorado flatlands.
When she got out, Monica wandered over to the precipice, where just enough light remained to see the merciless molars that lay in the maw of the chasm below. She stared for what felt like an eternity then raised her eyes to the vast landscape spread out before her.
In full daylight, the plants of the inhospitable barrens seemed flat and muted, but at night, many of them blushed with a faint, phosphorescent luminance, reflecting the glowing moon. The view was similar to the nights in Alabaster Cove when she walked the beaches alone. The occasional school of florescent jellyfish would lounge on the surface of the sea, dotting the murky blackness like underwater paper lanterns. The vastness of the desert looked similar, but instead of an isolated patch of light, the dots of illumination went on for hundreds of miles, disappearing with the curvature of the Earth.