“We haven’t proven anything,” Hong interrupts, “Not yet anyway.” Silence engulfs the trailer as the two men stare at each other—each knowing what the other is thinking but neither willing to voice it.
Finally Hong breaks the impasse asking, “Does Felicia know about this yet?”
“No,” Amir shakes his head, “Not yet. It’s just you and I right now.”
“We’ll bring Felicia in, but no one else knows about this.” Running his fingers back through his hair he continues, “Until we know for certain what we have here, we have to be careful with it. Look what happened to Wolfe-Simon over her discovery and this is orders of magnitude greater than that.”
Fixing Amir with an intense gaze Hong concludes, “Our careers are on the line here.”
With a low whistle Amir comments, “When a paradigm shifts careers are always on the line.”
“Retest everything about this sample,” Hong instructs, “We need to be beyond sure about this.”
“I’m on it.”
As Hong reaches for the door he’s stopped by Amir asking, “Hey if this works out you think it’ll be enough to make the old man proud of you?”
At the mention of his father, for the first time since learning of their discovery, Hong allows himself a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
But it is behind those inscrutably dark eyes that an idea has begun to take shape. Will this have value for you father?
Part Two:
Breadcrumbs
Chapter 12
August 13, the Present
New York City, New York
Soft indistinct music fills his ears as Anson White rides the elevator to the newsroom floor.
Holding a coffee in his left hand with yesterday’s Times folded under his elbow, he uses his free hand to knead the stiff muscles of his neck. It’s four in the morning and he’s feeling his age. He’s been awake since two, unable to sleep, and so finally just decided to come into work and get something productive done.
Suppressing a yawn he raises the home brewed coffee to his lips and grimaces at the taste of vanilla and almonds. His wife loves flavored coffees but he’s never been able to acquire a taste for them. Smacking his lips he’s left wondering just what ever happened to regular coffee.
With a chime the golden doors slide open to reveal the empty and sparsely lit newsroom. He’s always loved it here at this time of the morning, before all the reporters and photographers—and increasingly these days, bloggers—arrive.
It may be quiet but he can still feel the room humming with anticipation. The next big story could break at any moment and like so many before it will be reported on from right here.
With ink stained fingers, he straightens his bowtie and sets about getting down to work.
Crossing the newsroom floor toward his office he notices that the floor is not empty. Off to his left a desk lamp shines weakly casting hesitant shadows around the desk’s occupant. Curious as to whom else would be working this early; he shuffles over to have a look.
Halfway there and he need go no further as he recognizes Cole Hewitt crouched over his desk adopting the same pose and stillness as the various stone gargoyles that are found perched atop buildings across the city.
With a sympathetic sigh he wanders the rest of the way over and rests his plump behind on the edge of a neighboring desk. “Cole,” he says in greeting.
Silence.
Trying again he comments, “You’re here awfully early.”
This time Cole tilts his head to look over at him and mutter, “I never went home.”
“That right,” Anson hooks his thumbs inside his suspenders running them up and down while pronouncing, “I gotta say I didn’t really expect to see you until much later.” He pauses until Cole again looks his way. “Given what today is.”
Again Cole offers nothing in the way of a reply prompting Anson to just come out with it. “So…what have you got for me?” He tries his best to keep the gloating ‘I told you so’ tone out of his voice but by the set of Cole’s jaw he can tell that his best wasn’t good enough.
A simple shake of the head confirms that Cole has no evidence to report. It doesn’t come as a surprise to Anson but seeing the grim determination on Cole’s face he does feel a twinge of regret.
Without another word he rises from the desk and turns to leave when he hears Cole say something in a hushed timbre. “What was that?” he asks turning back to him.
“I said,” Cole repeats sternly, “I’m not giving it up.”
Setting his mug of coffee down Anson reminds him, “We had a deal Cole.”
“Well now we have a new one.”
The two men stare at each other—not quite enemy combatants yet but it’s clear to both of them that their hackles are raised.
“Hear me out Chief,” Cole softens his voice slightly, prompted by the look he receives. “There’s a story here Anson—Nick didn’t just quit. Look at this,” he passes the paper he found in Nick’s apartment over to his boss, “I think he followed that guy to Hope.”
Anson keeps his eyes trained on Cole for a beat before giving in to curiosity and lowering his gaze to the paper in his hands. “General Alexander Cummings—what does he have to do with anything?”
“That’s what I need time to find out. Nick obviously thought this guy Cummings knew something about Hope. He may have even been his source. Let me track him down; if I can get him to talk the paper will have a major scoop.”
“And if you can’t,” Anson points out the obvious, “You’ll have wasted the paper’s time and resources.”
Cole is quiet for a moment, as if contemplating his next move. Finally he bites his lower lip as he reaches inside his jacket and removes a sheet of paper. “Look at this,” he offers it to Anson.
Taking it from him, Anson comments, “A rubbing? ‘Not an accident.’ What does it mean?”
“Let me find out.”
Passing the sheet back Anson says, “This proves nothing.”
Cole looks away a moment before speaking. “How many times have you called me the paper’s best reporter Chief?”
Catching the disapproving glare, he continues, “Anson if you believe in me then believe in me. Give me the chance to prove that I’m right because I’m going to do it with or without you.”
Narrowing his eyes to slits Anson whispers, “Excuse me?”
“You either let me follow this story through to the end or I take my vacation time now and follow it on my own.”
Anson glares at him until Cole’s shoulders slump and he turns away. Stabbing a stubby finger at him he declares, “You don’t need the threats Cole.” Heaving a heavy sigh he continues, “While it’s against my better judgment, I can see you’re not gonna drop this until it’s over so…the story’s yours. Find out what happened to Talbot and whether it has anything to do with Hope.”
Cole beams a ten thousand watt grin as he looks up saying, “Thanks Chief—”
“But,” Anson interrupts him, “You’re not doing it alone.”
“I work best alone Chief.”
“Yeah,” Anson goads, “I don’t give a crap. If you’re right about all this—a big if—then Nick has already disappeared chasing this story. I’m not going to lose you too. You’re taking Creed with you. You’re gonna need a photographer anyway—and it’s not up for debate.
“For now, go home and get some sleep, you’re no good like this. I’ll send Jeremy by your place later this afternoon and you guys can get down to work then.”
Rising from his seat Cole offers a quick thank you before grabbing his coat off the rack by his desk and making for the door.
Watching him go Anson unexpectedly feels a shiver glide across his skin, unsettling as a ghostly image in a mirror. With a shudder he shakes it off and heads to his office to begin his long day.
Atlanta, Georgia
It looks so normal.
No matter how many times Caleb sees the place this is always his first impression of t
he house on Johnson Road—the house the Toymaker called a home.
How can anything that harbored such horrors look so peaceful? How could so tranquil a setting hide such evil within?
It’s a single story colonial with a slanting roof, fading yellow siding, and an attached carport. It’s surrounded by thick woods on three sides and fronted by a sizable lawn leading toward the quiet road.
He had privacy here. The closest neighbor is the water treatment plant a mile away. Isolated—just like the profile said.
Sliding his car off onto the shoulder of the road he pulls up behind a squad car that is parked in front of the property. Two other vehicles are parked on the gravel driveway—an FBI forensics van and the unmarked Town Car with darkly tinted windows that he recognizes as Hal’s ride.
Stepping out of his car he feels a chill that has nothing to do with the temperature outside. Reaching back he grabs his blue suit jacket and thrusts his arms into it as he crosses the lawn. Sunlight peeking through the overcast sky filters through the overhang of branches to dapple the green grass in darker shades.
As he draws closer to the house the pleasing scent of roses envelops him from the vibrant bushes that grow all along the front. Knowing the suffering that took place here, it’s just one more element that doesn’t correlate with the reality of what happened.
One more feint to hide the truth.
“Agent Fine,” the man posted by the front door nods at him, his voice instantly betraying the hesitancy he feels.
Caleb recognizes him. He’s young—only a year out of Quantico—and has spent most of that time on the task force that Caleb headed until yesterday. He still has a boyish face despite what he’s seen, complete this morning with downcast blue eyes, a narrow mouth, and thick brown hair blowing gently in the breeze.
“Tommy,” Caleb responds as he reaches the doorstep, “They got you on door duty huh?”
“I can’t let you in sir.”
The catch in his voice tells Caleb that he actually regrets saying it—the delivery tells him he’s worried what will happen if Caleb disagrees.
Giving him a crooked grin Caleb comments, “Door duty or just trying to keep me out?”
“I got orders sir.”
Caleb stares at him for a moment before looking away. In the silence the sounds of the morning creep in between them. He can hear crickets chirping close by and a Starling singing off in the trees.
With another smile Caleb reaches out and pats Tommy’s shoulder saying, “I know you do and you’re a good agent. I just need to see SSA Jerome for a moment and then I’ll get out of your hair.”
Caleb can see that he’s clearly torn over what to do. He wants to let me in. Hell, until yesterday he took orders from me. He’s still too young to understand what’s really going on here and why he’s been told to keep me away from this case.
“Son,” Caleb gives him a gentle nudge, “He’s going to want to see me.”
Tommy glances back over his shoulder a moment as if searching for the answer—or someone else to make the decision.
“I’ll make it quick son,” Caleb promises, “The DD will never know.”
With a timid smile, Tommy nods his head and steps aside. “As long as you make it quick sir.”
“Trust me kid,” Caleb pats his shoulder on the way by, “He’ll never know I was here.”
Crossing the threshold he feels the chill seeping deeper into his bones.
Locations can neither be good or evil, they merely serve as the background for the deeds that people do. The rational part of his brain tells him this and yet…standing in the foyer of this house always causes the hairs on his arms to stand erect.
Despite all rationalizing something about this place is evil. He can close his eyes and see the screaming visages of the Toymaker’s victims—he can still hear their cries. The evil that was loosed here remains even with Heath gone from this place.
It bleeds from the very walls.
Muted sunlight pours through the front window casting yellow light about the living room. It is spartan in decoration but surprisingly in good taste. A beige area rug with flowery edges covers three quarters of the hardwood floor giving the space a light feeling.
A matching sofa sits beneath the window facing a single rocking chair that is just past a granite topped hearth. The shelf atop the fireplace is empty save for a single replica Faberge Egg.
No matter how many times Caleb stands in this room he can never escape the feeling that he is being watched. It’s just a prickling sensation on the back of his neck that he can’t shake.
‘It is too late to be on our guard when we are in the midst of evils.’ The old adage from the Roman Seneca the Younger rolls unbidden through his mind.
“I thought I smelled your aftershave.”
Pulled from his brooding thoughts, Caleb glances over at the hallway leading to the back kitchen and sees Hal Jerome standing there grinning cheerily.
“You’re late Cal,” he pronounces.
“Late?”
“I expected you to have been at the door first thing this morning waiting for us to get here. You know,” he adds with a flourish, “Just to prove that no one is going to keep you from this case.”
Clearing his throat Caleb says, “You were right.”
“You were here first thing this morning?”
“Not about that.”
“Well about what then?”
“I solved it.” Caleb confidently begins, “The words from the church, I know what they mean and you were right—they have nothing to do with religion.”
“Do tell,” Hal says stepping closer, his curiosity clearly aroused.
“First thing,” Caleb adopts a solemn inflection as he says, “I’m going to need your help proving I’m right. Before I tell you this I need to know that you’re not going to cut me out—that you’re going to help me.”
A knowing grin spreads across Hal’s face as he whispers, “So you’ve finally realized that you can’t do this all alone. I’m glad.” He pats him on the elbow, an affable gesture between friends. “I told you yesterday—I’ll find a way to bring you back. Now tell me what you’ve got and I promise I’ll help you.”
“It came to me last night,” Caleb starts off in a rush, “I’ve spent all this time reading the Bible trying to uncover the source of the words. I mistakenly thought that because it mentioned God and we found it in a church that it had to have something to do with the Bible.
“But last night I thought what if I was wrong about this first assumption? If I was wrong at the start then I had no chance of ever being right. What if it wasn’t a Bible quote?”
Hal remains silent. His lips are pursed slightly in thought as he listens to his friend’s account.
“If it’s not in the Bible then where’s it from?” Tommy asks from over Caleb’s shoulder.
With barely a glance in his direction Caleb continues, “It really sounds biblical doesn’t it? ‘God helps those who help themselves’. I swear I thought for sure it would be in the Bible somewhere; but it isn’t.
“Benjamin Franklin said it. Once I knew that it got me to thinking—what was Heath trying to say to us? What does it have to do with Benjamin Franklin and a key?”
“Electricity,” Tommy blurts out, “Didn’t Franklin discover electricity with a key tied to a kite?”
Caleb stares knowingly at Hal waiting for him to say something. After a beat Hal obliges, “I admit it’s persuasive. A Franklin quote and an old key of the type he himself would’ve used certainly ties them together but…” he spreads his hands apart stating the obvious, “We already knew the message and the key were related.”
“Ah,” Caleb responds, “But now we know how they’re related.”
“We do?” Hal questions, “And how does that help us exactly?”
“Are you saying the Toymaker is holed up at the Hydro plant?” Tommy asks fatuously.
Shaking his head Caleb delivers the coup-de-grace. “A simple internet sear
ch on Benjamin Franklin in the Atlanta area returned a college preparatory high school only 15 minutes from the church—what are the odds that key unlocks something at Benjamin Franklin Academy, huh?”
A smile slowly spreads across Hal’s face as he comments, “That’s good, and certainly worth checking out.”
“I’m coming with you.” Caleb asserts.
“Yes you are,” Hal raps him on the shoulder in agreement.
“Sir,” Tommy cautiously speaks up, “The DD was clear on Agent Fine’s further involvement in this case. I-I can’t—”
Wearing a mischievous grin Hal turns toward him saying, “The DD never said anything about me getting an opinion from an outside consultant, did he?”
Turning to Caleb he asks, “Did you hear him say anything about that? I didn’t.”
“Agent Fine isn’t an outside consultant sir.”
“He’s been suspended right?”
“Yes sir.”
“Then I guess he’s an outside consultant.” With a roguish lilt Hal asks, “You don’t mind being unofficial on this do you Cal?”
“No,” Caleb sniffs in reply, “Not in the least.”
“Good, then we’re off.”
Chapter 13
‘I woke up this morning with you in my arms and for a moment it felt like old times. It felt like home. I didn’t want to open my eyes to the harsh light of day. I wanted to just lay there with you cradled in my arms forever. But I couldn’t manage it—I opened my eyes and the pain of reality came rushing back to me.’
The scratch of the ballpoint pen against the pad of paper ceases as Roger runs his hand over his scalp. Early morning light slants through the kitchen windows bathing him in a warm glow but he doesn’t feel it.
These days the simple pleasures in life seem beyond him. His brown eyes carry a weight to them when seen by others—a perpetual sadness that cannot be lifted. Everything in his actions from the slump to his shoulders, to the desperation in his voice, to the deepening lines on his face, seems to either scream frustration or loss.
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