Realm of Shadows

by Eldon Farrell

  “Don’t do that,” catching his tone Hal retorts, “Don’t lump me in with everyone else. We’re friends Cal and for what it’s worth I told the DD I was against removing you from the task force.”

  “What’s it worth?”

  “Not much,” Hal admits, “He didn’t tell me until he had already done it and despite my protests he wasn’t in the mood to change his mind. But we do need you; I’ll find a way to get you back on duty.”

  “And how are you going to do that?”

  “You kidding?” Hal quips, “I’m a rock star at Quantico; I’ve got connections you know.”

  “Yeah well,” Caleb despairs, “Don’t bother on my account.”

  “You can’t do this alone Cal.”

  “Why not? Like the team approach has been working so well?”

  “We’re making progress—these things take time. Serial cases are marathons not sprints.”

  “And while we run laps he has Lynne out there doing God knows what to her.” Lowering his eyes back to the gospel he announces, “No thanks. I’ll find her quicker on my own.”

  Silence lingers between them a little too long before Caleb snorts, “You say you’re not like them Hal, but like everyone else I can feel you aching to tell me that I should let her go—that she’s dead already.”

  “No Cal,” he shakes his head thoughtfully, “I would never tell you that.”

  “But…?”

  “But I think you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that you aren’t going to find her in time. It’s been weeks now and the Toymaker has never kept a victim alive this long.”

  Steadfast Caleb declares, “I’m going to find her.”

  “And if you do,” Hal observes, “Do you really believe she’ll be the same as you remember her? After all this time with him…”

  “I’m going to find her,” Caleb repeats with a calm Hal has found only men in denial possess.

  “Not like this you’re not.” Hal tries to dissuade him, “Without the resources of the Bureau I don’t know how you can even pretend to have a chance of finding her.”

  Glaring at him a moment longer Caleb replies as he drops his gaze once more, “If that’s all, I’ve got work to do.”

  Standing up Hal tarries in front of him before reaching his hand out and touching his shoulder. “I’m on your side Cal.” Slowly he makes for the door, lingering by it a moment, then shutting it tightly after him.

  Alone, Caleb whispers to the walls, “I know…I know,” before immersing himself in the words of Our Lord in pursuit of a devil.

  The Toymaker Task Force on the third floor of the FBI building is bustling with activity. Phone lines are lit up and computer databases are being scoured by Agents searching for any and all information on the deceased sister of Ryan Heath.

  Amidst the controlled chaos, Amy Dawes spies Li Ling Tran seated at her desk. Unlike the agents around her who are keeping a frenetic pace, she is sitting still. Deep in thought, her expression lends to her a melancholy air that seems at odds with the tension of the room.

  “Hey Ling,” she ambles toward her asking, “Want to grab some lunch?”

  She receives no reply as Ling continues to stare straight ahead—her thoughts a million miles away.

  “Hey,” Amy snaps her fingers in front of Ling’s face asking, “Hello, anyone home?”

  Snapping out of her reverie Ling shudders before focusing on her. She’s short and round with brown hair tied into a French twist, sporting thick glasses with metallic blue accented frames that reach around her ears where shiny hoops dangle from her lobes.

  She has gold and silver rings adorning each of her fingers that clash loudly with the flowery blouse and tan slacks that she’s wearing. If nothing else, Amy has the garish fashion sense to match her eccentric personality. But she’s also one of the best computer techs in the FBI and a close confidant to both Ling and Caleb.

  “Hi Amy,” Ling replies, “Sorry I was just caught up in my own thoughts. What’s up?”

  Forgetting about her rumbling stomach for the moment, Amy sits down across from Ling asking, “Everything OK? You seem a little ill-at-ease.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “You sure?” she presses, “It might help to talk about it.”

  Nodding Ling haltingly admits, “I was just thinking about Caleb.”

  Amy pats the desk between them saying, “I heard about what happened. I know how much this task force meant to him but it might be better for him to be away from it all for a while. I can only imagine how you feel about all this.”

  “Why do you say that?” Ling asks a little too defensively.

  Startled by the outburst Amy says, “Just because he’s your partner, is all.”

  Exhaling deeply Ling apologizes, “I’m sorry Amy; I shouldn’t have bitten your head off like that. It’s just…”

  “What is it?”

  Seeing the concern etched across her friend’s face Ling decides to unburden herself. It could be cathartic to get it all out in the open.

  “I’m worried. I’ve left him three messages without reply.” She runs her fingers through her hair saying, “The last time we spoke we got into it and didn’t leave things on the best of terms. And now…I think he knows that I sided with the DD over this suspension.

  “But what choice did I have?” She stresses, “He wouldn’t listen to reason. I pleaded with him to take some time away from this case but he wouldn’t hear of it. He’s become obsessed by it and ever since Bosworth vanished he’s only gotten worse. It’s all too personal for him.”

  Exhaling loudly she continues, “The last time Lynne blew into his life she left him a wreck and now she’s done it again.”

  “It’s hardly her fault this time,” Amy offers.

  “The resultant damage is the same though isn’t it? I’m afraid for him Amy, the way he’s been acting…”

  She stares into her eyes saying, “I’ve actually begun to be afraid of him. He’s dangerous.”

  Reaching her hand across the desk Amy attempts to comfort her. “You did the right thing.”

  With a tormented sigh Ling asks, “Then why does it feel so wrong?”

  Opening his eyes a sliver Roger stirs as he begins to rise from the black. Cringing from the pounding inside his skull, he gingerly sits up running his fingers over the lump forming on the back of his head.

  “Feeling better?”

  Glancing at Lionel, Roger moans “Uh…not really.”

  “Good,” Lionel derides while dragging a molded plastic chair in front of him to sit down. Crossing his legs he asks, “What the hell were you thinking? Do you remember anything I said to you before you went in there? Anything at all!?!”

  “Uh…lay off all right?” Roger groans.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Lionel throws his hands up saying, “What the hell was I thinking? I knew I never should’ve put you in the same room as her. Jesus Christ Roger.”

  “I fucked up OK?” Roger continues working the knot in the back of his head. “Is that what you want to hear?”

  “You think I want an apology?” Lionel shakes his head in dismay. “Do you have any idea how much shit you’re in? You’re goddamn lucky you’re not sitting in a jail cell right now and it’s going to take everything I got to keep you out of one.

  “You assaulted a prisoner—just what the fuck were you thinking!?” Holding his hands up Lionel continues his tirade unabated. “On second thought, don’t answer that, I’m not sure I want to know what you were thinking. If you were thinking!

  “Ackerman’s irate and demanding that you be charged with assaulting his client. And just wait until the state office hears about this. You think they’re going to look kindly upon you attacking a defenseless prisoner under their care? What a fucking mess.”

  Hanging his head Roger mumbles, “It’s my fault.”

  Unsettled Lionel leaps to his feet screaming, “You’re goddamn right it’s your fault! Christ Roger! The last thing I said to y
ou was not to let her get to you and yet somehow you end up with your hands around her throat.”

  Looking down at him Lionel realizes that he wasn’t talking about the current situation. His anger spent, he really looks at his friend. His slumping shoulders, weary eyes, and slightly shaking hands strip bare a broken man.

  Not for the first time since all of this business with Tait began, Lionel realizes just how tortured his old friend is and it makes him instantly feel guilty for losing his temper with him.

  Retaking his seat he reaches out to him, “What’s your fault Roger?”

  “All of it,” he chokes the words out, “Miriam’s going to…die…and…it’s because of me.”

  “Bullshit,” Lionel shakes his head, “I don’t believe that and neither should you. You didn’t chop her finger off and you didn’t stick that knife in her. You’re not responsible for this happening to her.”

  “But I am,” Roger absently insists, “If I had done what was asked of me—”

  “Then what?” Lionel interrupts him, “They wouldn’t have injected her? You don’t know that Roger. You have to stop blaming yourself for all this before it destroys you. Look,” he slaps his knee fondly, “Go home—there’s nothing more to be done here now. Talk to Miriam; tell her how you feel.”

  “I-I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s going to get away with it now isn’t he?” Roger states, “I-I failed her again. I promised her justice.”

  “Do you really believe that she cares about that?”

  “I-I…” he trails off as he buries his face in his hands, his shoulders trembling from the fight to suppress a sob of hurt and frustration.

  “Listen to me Roger. We’ll do what we can and just see what happens OK? But either way, whether Tait goes to jail or not, you’ve got to let this go. The end result isn’t going to change anything.

  “I mean I’ve never been great with marriage, you know that. But what you and Miriam have is special. It’s special because you’ve always been there for each other—you’ve always been able to talk. Don’t lose that now.

  “You said it yourself—she’s dying. She needs you now. Chasing after Tait like you’ve been doing only shortens the amount of time you’ve got left together. Don’t waste that time on this.

  “As your friend I’m telling you to go home. Talk to Miriam; tell her you love her.” Placing a hand on his heaving shoulder, Lionel whispers “Do it now, while you still can.”

  Chapter 10

  New York City, New York

  A small puddle is forming around his shoes as rain water drips from the three-quarter length trench coat he has wrapped tightly around himself. Thin rivulets of water dribble off the ends of his windswept hair, trickling down the back of his neck, sending shivers throughout his body.

  Outside on West 34th Street a midsummer night’s thunderstorm is blowing through the Big Apple turning a four block hike into a miserable journey; though one that couldn’t be avoided in this case.

  Cole Hewitt is standing in the seventh floor hallway of Nicholas Talbot’s apartment building. The place has fourteen floors in all; its façade is made up of red brick and a prominent curved arch over the front door.

  In front of him is the spindly shape of Nick’s landlord. She’d be five feet tall if she were standing on the phone book for all five boroughs. Gnarled fingers rattling a key chain befitting a medieval dungeon master, reed thin arms, and an accusatory scowl are what greet him this rainy night.

  “Hmmm, I don’t know,” she contemplates.

  Needing access to Nick’s apartment Cole smiles reassuringly and pours on the charm. “I really need your help Mrs. Roper. Nick is a good friend of mine and I’m concerned about him. Please let me in, I promise you Nick won’t mind.”

  She looks him up and down as if appraising his sincerity. “What’d you say your name was again?”

  Reaching inside his coat he removes a business card and offers it to her saying, “Cole Hewitt.” Tapping the card he adds, “With the New York Times. Nick and I work together.”

  Seeing the logo in print has the desired effect for Cole as Mrs. Roper gradually stuffs the card into a pocket of her robe and turns to unlock the door. “Be sure to lock it up again on your way out,” she warns.

  Smiling warmly at her he promises that he will though he suspects that as soon as he’s gone she’ll be right up here to make sure he’s done so.

  Closing the door behind him he flicks the lights on and sizes up the space. What am I looking for here? What do I hope to find?

  Strolling through the apartment these questions and a dozen others cascade about his mind. Running his fingertips along the CD jewel cases displayed on a wire stand he silently reads the band names.

  Feeder, Airborne Toxic Event, Jimmy Eat World, La Rocca, Dick Nixons, Keane.

  Shaking his head in wonderment he realizes that there isn’t a name he recognizes. Am I so out of touch?

  Moving on, he sits down at the butcher block counter in the kitchen and boots up Nick’s laptop. It’s a long shot, he thinks, but maybe he kept a file for the story he was working on.

  Quickly the screen displays a password prompt and having no hacking skills Cole pushes it aside and continues his search.

  In a pile of opened mail he finds a paid phone bill and scans through the list of calls. None jump out at him as being odd but the bill gives him another idea. Fishing his phone out of his pocket he dials Nick’s mobile for the umpteenth time since he disappeared.

  Immediately he hears the device ringing in the apartment. Guess that explains why you’re not answering my calls. Following the chorus of some song he can’t identify, Cole finds the mobile in the pocket of a jacket hanging on the back of a door.

  Stopping the call, he brings up the list of recent calls made and received on Nick’s mobile. One in particular grabs his attention—an outgoing call placed six days ago. 919 area code—where is that? Could you be the mysterious source I wonder? Dropping the mobile in his pocket, he makes a mental note to run it to ground later.

  Making his way to the bedroom he sits down on the end of the bed to think quietly for a moment. Even seven stories up, he can hear the sounds of New York traffic bleeding through the walls.

  Let’s think this through for a minute. I can assume rather safely that Nick went to Hope and that’s why he hasn’t been into work. What I need to know is why he went there. He told me he had a source who knew what happened so it follows that this source must be in Hope.

  Shaking his head he contradicts himself. Except that everyone in Hope vanished and the place is under lockdown. There’s no way someone would be able to contact Nick from inside Hope. So if the source isn’t in Hope then why would Nick go there? If he’s really gone there?

  This all comes back to his source, it has to. I need to find out his identity. Nick told me that he didn’t know it and I believe him but he wasn’t stupid either. He would’ve had the source give him something that could be verified before traipsing off after him. If I can find that, maybe I can glean more from it then Nick could.

  Turning his head he spies a yellow notepad resting on the night table. Examining it he realizes that the top sheet has been torn off in a ragged—perhaps excited—motion. Sliding the drawer open he rifles through the contents until he finds a sheet of paper and a pencil.

  Remembering this old trick from his youth he sets the pad down on the table, places the paper over top of it, and slowly begins rubbing the pencil against the paper. Gradually it picks up the impression left in the pad forming words on the paper.

  Smiling at his ingenuity Cole’s mood quickly turns sour as he reads what he’s uncovered. Three words, underlined twice, and followed by an excited exclamation point are all that Nick scratched on the pad.

  Confounded by what they could mean Cole softly reads them aloud, “Not an accident.”

  What wasn’t an accident? Does this have anything to do with where you are Nick?

 
Pocketing the rubbing he opens and closes the closet door before leaving the bedroom. In the den he finds a stack of newspapers that lifts his hopes of finding something. Midway through the pile he finds a Times article about the missing people in Hope.

  One name mentioned in it has been circled twice and underlined thickly with a felt marker. An arrow extends from the circle to a picture included in the piece showing an assembly of government officials at a press conference that was held.

  A lone face is circled and returns the smile to Cole’s lips. Did you believe this was your source Nick? It would make sense to you wouldn’t it? If anyone knew what happened in Hope, you’d be quick to suspect someone in government. Did you follow him to Hope? Is that why you went there?

  Staring at the photo a moment longer he’s convinced that this is the lead he’s been looking for—this is what compelled Nick to leave. If nothing else, it’s the best lead he’s got.

  “I wonder,” he reads the name quietly, “Just what do you know about Hope, General Alexander Cummings?”

  Washington D.C.

  I should be packing.

  The sultry tones of Martina Sorbara play from the corner speakers behind Tyler as he watches the long-legged beauty dance a sexy striptease in front of him.

  And I definitely shouldn’t have gone to the bar tonight.

  Smiling coyly at him she unbuttons her tight jeans and provocatively slides them down her legs—bending so far over him in the process that her breasts fill his entire field of vision. He’s starting to feel the buzz from the night’s drinking along with the arousal in his groin.

  She’s absolutely gorgeous with her wavy blond hair hanging down her lithe back and her curvaceous hips pointing in his direction. Even through his alcohol induced haze he can recognize the come-hither stare she’s giving him with her vibrant green eyes.

  Swaying suggestively she removes her chocolate chiffon blouse and wraps it playfully around his neck, pulling him toward her. He can smell her as he buries his face in her flat stomach—an enticing hint of lavender.