Hidden Threat

by Anthony Tata

  “Hey, Mom.” She saw her mother wait for her to park. She was growing anxious and wished to avoid a conversation with her mother. At the same time, she didn’t want to alarm her either.

  “How was school? Getting wrapped up?”

  “Good. You know, just cleaning things out. I wanted to talk to Mr. Dagus today, but he wasn’t in.” They walked onto the porch together.

  “About what?”

  “You know, stuff. Sometimes it just helps me to talk to him.”

  “Well, just give him a call, why don’t you? Or maybe talk to Gus, if you’re looking for a man’s opinion.”

  Amanda looked at her mother. Why was she suddenly being reasonable? “Okay. I might do that.”

  “They’re both pretty level-headed about things.”

  She was right about that.

  “By the way, have you seen him today?” her mother asked.

  “Gus? Not my day to keep up with him. Why?”

  “We were supposed to have lunch. I called his office at the magazine, and they said he wasn’t in. Strange.”

  “Ain’t seen him.”

  As the day wore on, Amanda became more anxious. A feeling of intense loneliness encapsulated her. She was emotionally isolated. While she was deciding what to do, she ate a quick dinner of frozen pizza and diet Coke and then spent an hour in her room. She made a couple of phone calls to Dagus, but to no avail. She thought about calling Jake, but decided to respect his parents’ request. She liked them and didn’t want to lose their trust.

  Finally, growing impatient, she jumped into her car and drove toward the town of Alpharetta. She had been to Dagus’s house twice before for journalism class parties, which he held annually. Her nerves were overwhelming her. They were moving into a million-dollar house. Her life as she knew it was a charade. Finally, loneliness gave way to fear.

  She called his home phone twice more, but both times got the answering machine. Undeterred, she pressed on, taking all the shortcuts she knew. She whipped through residential neighborhoods, rolled through stop signs and generally broke every driving law in the code.

  She found a parking spot about four houses down from Dagus’s townhouse, which was an end unit. She walked through the mild night air toward the home with a brick veneer Victorian elevation. It was a bit too Norman Bates-ish for her; nonetheless, she remembered from the journalism parties that it was a spacious home. She pressed the dimly lit button and listened to the chime.

  She rang it again.

  She crossed her arms as if to hug herself, wondering if Norman was peering down on her from the third-floor dormer. But then she found herself ignoring that notion and nearly praying that she would hear the telltale sound of footsteps moving in the house.

  One more ring.

  Nothing.

  Please, please, I need to talk to you.

  Chewing on her fingernail, she remembered that his backyard was easily accessible from the street. He had a screened porch where she might be able to wait.

  She opened the back gate by reaching over the picket fence and lifting the latch. As if she lived there, she continued with purpose toward the porch. This time, luck was on her side. It was unlocked. She went inside and walked deliberately past the hunter-green patio furniture and a few sprawling palms toward the back door to the house. She knocked several times, each time calling out, “Mr. Dagus?”

  She checked the doorknob out of curiosity. Fortune failed her this time, as the door was locked, but a moment later she was back outside kneeling in the garden where the fake rock with the key was located. She had seen Dagus open the house using this key when, during the backyard party, someone using the restroom had accidentally locked them out. He had vowed in front of her to find a new hiding spot, but old habits were apparently hard to break.

  “I must be crazy,” she whispered to herself. She extracted the key, unlocked the door, replaced the key in the rock, returned the rock to its garden spot, and then entered the house. She moved in fluid motions so that her courage could not wane with inaction.

  She stood in the dark kitchen for a few moments gaining acuity.

  “Mr. Dagus?”

  Her voice echoed eerily.

  “Mr. Dagus!” This time louder. She didn’t know why she was suddenly frightened.

  She remembered her father had always taught her to remain motionless for a short while when she was entering an animal’s domain. Listen, watch, get your senses on a par with the animal. In the forest, you are in their living room. They probably know when you’re there, so get your instincts in tune with them.

  She was about to be, literally, in Dagus’s living room. She jumped as she felt her cell phone vibrate in her pocket. Lifting it, she saw that it was Dagus’s cell phone number.

  “Amanda, it’s Len Dagus. I see you called a few times. What’s up?”

  She felt a huge sigh of relief and physically sagged, leaning against the kitchen counter. “I’m at your house, actually. Outside,” she lied. “I just needed to talk.”

  His pause made her feel as though she had been too collegial with him. He was, after all, still a teacher.

  “Okay, I can’t be there for an hour, but if you can hang around, I’m happy to listen. I’m sort of pursuing something here.”

  “Okay, I can hang.”

  “Listen. If you remember where the key is in the back, just use it and let yourself in. Turn on the tube and make yourself at home.”

  Well, actually . . .

  “I think I can find it. Out back by the screen porch, right?”

  “That’s it. Make yourself at home. Just relax.”

  “You’re awesome, Mr. Dagus.”

  “Don’t mention it. As Shakespeare had Claudio say, ‘Friendship is constant in all things. . . .’”

  CHAPTER 59

  Spartanburg, SOUTH CAROLINA

  Wednesday Evening (Eastern Time)

  She hung up the phone and swallowed hard. “. . . save in the office and affairs of love,” she murmured, recalling the quote from Much Ado About Nothing.

  She stood still in the kitchen. Why did she hesitate? Her instincts were telling her to leave. Yet, she stood fast. She trusted this man as much as any other, save Jake.

  She took a tentative step. Another step, she was passing the kitchen island now, and moving into the dining room to her right. The dining room had a dark wood table with a matching hutch and buffet. She peeked around the corner into the living room, which connected on the far side, and saw a sofa, plasma television, and two chairs. A coffee-table and end tables were situated between the sofa and the fireplace. She backed out of there and retraced her route through the dining room, into the kitchen, and then into the foyer hallway that led to the front door. Still, no lights were on anywhere on the bottom floor, and she thought to compliment Dagus on his energy-conservation measures.

  From the foyer, she noticed a light blue light flickering at the top of the stairs. She heard voices from the second floor.

  “Mr. Dagus?”

  She placed her hand lightly on the oak banister that guarded the stairway, and began ascending toward the upper floor. She stopped when she heard a scratching sound that sounded like it might be coming from a window to her rear, perhaps the front door. Frozen, she checked over her shoulder to determine whether she was high enough that someone could not look in the small windows on either side of the door. To be sure, she moved two steps higher, silently. Again, she waited, her instincts sharpening and pulling in the specific sounds of this lion’s den. A scratch here, a creak there; what did they mean? House noises, she comforted herself, and continued up.

  The voices grew louder as she crested the last step. To her immediate right on the landing was a closed door. To her left front was an open door to the bathroom. To the left were two doors, both open. Okay, she thought, master bedroom on the right, guest bedroom and computer room to the far left. She looked into the computer room, where the blue light was shining.

  She could see the large plasma
computer screen emanating its blue background. She noticed a media player was playing a continuous loop of Lenard Dagus appearing on CNN discussing the need for verifiable sources.

  “. . . but don’t you think that would unnecessarily restrict journalists in pursuing the truth?” A blonde-haired reporter was seated on a barstool in a CNN studio asking him questions. He was sitting across from her on a matching stool and wearing a button-down polo shirt open at the neck with his sleeves rolled up just beneath his elbow. It was a classic reporter’s pose she guessed he was attempting to emulate. She could see the dark hair on his arms and even some on his chest protruding at the V in the neck.

  “No. What has been proven is that verified sources provide the most accurate and compelling stories. It is when you don’t hold journalists accountable that we get into trouble. Just look at—”

  She reached up with her hand and paused the media player, which served to mute the voices and freeze Dagus’ image on the screen. She had heard it all before.

  Then she stopped as a detail that had been nagging at her suddenly re-surfaced. She quickly maximized the screen again, focusing on the hair. She thought back to running into him as she had fled the classroom, embarrassed over Jake’s confinement. His chest had been bare, and his arms. Not a single hair, for the first time since she had known him. What she had assumed was bad sunburn, though she had never seen him with it before . . .

  She could barely believe that she was thinking it—but were these signs of a badly managed arson job?

  Has Dagus been following me? Dad’s house? Riley? She placed her hand to her mouth, holding back a scream. Her first instinct was to run.

  She minimized the YouTube display again, irrationally believing that if she hid the image the reality would also vanish.

  As she minimized the window, his Comcast homepage began blinking at her with scrolling images of the day’s latest news, each accompanied by a photo of some sort: Julia Roberts Gets More Collagen . . . Brangelina have another child . . . Stock market bubble again? . . . Colonel in Afghanistan leaves dubious legacy . . . President vows to remove troops from Iraq . . .

  Grabbing the mouse, she scrolled back to the Afghanistan story, fear already boiling in her stomach. She looked over her shoulder as she clicked on the link to the article.

  The Web site appeared along with a full facial photo of her father looking very handsome. His hair was cropped closely to the sides of his scalp while a thick tuft was present on top. He looked simultaneously mean and compassionate, with deep-set green eyes, high cheekbones, and an unsmiling face. But the eyes, she thought, they were hers. Or hers were his. It didn’t matter. And with those eyes staring at her, she heard his voice. It was a whisper creasing the stagnant air of the house. It’s okay, baby girl. Just follow your instincts. I’m so proud of you.

  That’s all she had ever wanted, she thought to herself, her father’s pride. “I love you, Daddy,” she whispered aloud, then refocused on her new mission.

  Her mind was moving quickly now. She forged ahead. If Dagus was the one responsible for the horrible events of the last week, then surely there would be evidence on his computer. An hour. He had said he would be there in an hour. Looking at her watch, she figured ten minutes had already passed.

  She rapidly went to work opening his My Documents folder and began scanning the subfolders. There were several marked Journalism 101—2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, and so on. She opened the 2010 folder and scanned the documents, recognizing all of the homework assignments. Ruling out the remainder, she continued scrolling through the subfolders: Assignments, Bill’s Wedding, Bank Information, DD, MediaHunt, PTA, Dagus Family, Videos. There were the usual program files mixed in, but she locked onto MediaHunt. Knowing about Dagus’ extracurricular watchdog group, Amanda wondered, what might be in there?

  As she opened the subfolder, she saw several other subfolders, including one labeled CO. Charlotte Observer? The same paper that had originally printed the story about her father. She clicked on the subfolder, which showed several JPEG images listed. Clicking on one, she saw an article written and published in the Charlotte Observer two years ago about the musical Les Miserables, the headline claiming it to be passé. The byline, though, was more interesting to her. Del Dangurs. She clicked on another icon, again a musical review, this time Miss Saigon, again by Del Dangurs. She continued clicking, hoping that maybe he had collected all of these articles from Del Dangurs. Maybe he was a personal fan of the writer or perhaps he liked the shows or the reviews.

  She skipped ahead to the DD subfolder. Here she found more portable document files of articles written by Del Dangurs. As she scrolled through the documents, she lighted upon one marked Garrett, with a date of three days ago.

  “Unbelievable,” she muttered. She clicked on the icon and up popped the text, almost verbatim, of the article she had recently read in the Constitution.

  She pushed back in the chair and ran her hands through her hair. “Del Dangurs,” she muttered aloud. Grabbing a pencil from the desk drawer and yanking a piece of paper from the printer, she began playing with the name. It took her three tries to contrive “Lenard Dagus” from the letters of “Del Dangurs.”

  “Dangurs is Dagus? Dagus is Dangurs?”

  Again the scratching noise appeared in the front. She stood and walked to the window, her heart pounding like a war drum. Pulling apart the curtain slightly, she peered below into the front yard of the townhome. Nothing.

  “Why would he write that article about my father?”

  Sitting back in the chair, she looked at her watch. She had been in the house now about thirty-five minutes and figured she had ten minutes to go, if she was lucky.

  Pressing on, she pulled up Dagus’s e-mail and opened a new message. She attached the article and the Adobe file from his subfolders and forwarded them to her personal e-mail account. Then she went into his Sent folder and deleted the e-mail, followed by going into the Deleted folder and permanently deleting the e-mail.

  She backed out of the folders, closing them all, and then began scanning his e-mail. There was the usual assortment of advertisements to make his penis larger and sell him Viagra. She noticed an e-mail from an address: househunter2010@hotmail.com. Opening it, she read the contents:

  “Dan, I just wanted to make sure we still had a deal. I’m sure you will be happy with the new arrangement.”

  That was it. There was nothing more. She closed the e-mail and then clicked on sender so that all of the emails would align by sender. There were two others from househunter.

  “Dan, glad we finally reached an agreement. Just wanted to confirm we are all set.”

  Again, very cryptic and very carefully worded. The third, which was the original that she could find, read: “Dan, we need to talk. I think you will want to reconsider. Call me.”

  She forwarded all three to her e-mail address and then repeated her deleting process. On a whim she pulled up Internet Explorer and typed in Mapquest. The Web page opened quickly, and she found the Address History box. She clicked on the drop-down menu that would reflect any addresses he might have looked up lately.

  McClellan Drive, Sanford, NC 28311.

  She gasped and backed away from the computer as if it might hurt her. She quickly printed that page, unsure what good it might do.

  Looking at her watch she knew she had far outstayed her time, but she had one more folder she wanted to open. Pushing your luck, Garrett.

  She grabbed everything she had printed out, closed anything that she had opened, and then reopened the subfolders, found Videos, and clicked on the icon. Each of the files was listed with a date, so she just picked the most recent one. It was dated two days ago. The computer paused a second, then Windows Media Player popped up on the screen. A few seconds later she was watching a grainy black-and-white video of Dagus having sex with someone in his bedroom.

  “Gross,” she muttered, but she was transfixed. The girl’s face was indistinguishable at first, but after a few minutes of
Dagus slipping around and grunting, she could see Brianna Simpson wiggling beneath his tall frame.

  “Oh my—”

  She was cut off by the low hum of the garage door opening.

  ***

  Dagus nosed his BMW convertible 330i into his driveway. Getting the call from Amanda Garrett had been a pleasant surprise. He thought he had noticed her Mercedes in one of the general parking spots available to guests. He was glad that she had chosen to wait for him. He pulled into the garage and punched the button to send the door back down.

  He switched off the ignition of the car, but let the radio continue to play. The Eagles were belting out “Witchy Woman,” a personal favorite of his. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he contemplated his dilemma.

  He was curious how the desire built in him so quickly knowing Amanda was waiting for him. After receiving her phone call he had thought, given his activities of the day, that he would be able to resist the urge. His simple rule had been to never allow his weakness to affect any of his students. He had reconciled in his mind that if he never touched a student of his, well then, it was all okay. Jimmy Buffett’s “Sixteen Will Get You Twenty” played in his mind. Somehow, that thought had never deterred him.

  On the other hand, he believed in certain principles, was committed to a higher cause. He had been careful for so long, he considered. What was one more dalliance now? It is right there in front of me every day, and I never partake.

  What should he do? Amanda needed his help, but who was she? There were others that needed his help, his love, as well. What was that old commercial about the potato chip? You can’t have just one?

  “I guess not,” he whispered to himself as he pulled his key from the ignition.

  CHAPTER 60

  Kunar Province, Afghanistan

  Thursday Morning (Hours of Darkness)

  Matt Garrett led the team into the compound, moving quickly. He pushed open the door, using the small Magnum flashlight affixed to the barrel of his M4 carbine to sweep the room. Van Dreeves and Hobart moved into the open space behind him, whispering into their wireless communications gear.