Burned Bridges

by A. J. Stewart

  So they didn’t. Flynn pulled Beth up and along the bank of glass doors, across the deck to the other side of the house. He peered around the corner. It was completely dark. He couldn’t see five feet. But there were trees overhead with branches hanging low toward the roof. Most houses had two sides along the property line, two ways to move from front to rear. But in most houses one side was more easily passed than the other. Perhaps one had a path, the other didn’t. One housed the miscellaneous junk that regular people collected. Discarded garden furniture, a wood pile. The other had a gate and a way through. He guessed this side was the path less traveled.

  He tightened his grip on Beth’s hand and dragged her across the space to the trees at the side of the property. Maybe ten feet of clear land, and no need for a privacy fence. He plunged into the darkness of the woods and kept going straight for another ten feet. Then he turned hard left and marched toward the back of the property. He took fifty long paces until he felt they were level with the back edge of the yard. Made sure Hutton was tight behind Beth and then turned right and marched on through the woods.

  It was dark. It was wet. There was nothing to see and nothing to hear. Flynn moved fast but not too fast. Footing was inconsistent. There were depressions in the ground. There were fallen branches. Beth tripped several times but made no complaint. They made no noise other than the sound of crunching leaves, which was barely audible over the rain. Flynn used the compass in his head to keep true. He wasn’t worried about the natural tendency to bank down the hill. That suited his purpose. He just kept marching and counting. Marching and counting.

  He didn’t stop until he had hit a thousand in his head. His stride length over rough ground was approximately a meter. He had tested it, time and time again. In mountains and in jungles and on sand. It was as much a part of him as his nose and his eyes and the lines on the backs of his hands. And a thousand steps meant a thousand meters. And a thousand meters meant a kilometer. Approximately three-fifths of a mile.

  He made sure Hutton was still with him and then he turned hard right and marched on. The house had been at the end of a cul-de-sac and they had made part of their initial approach to the house on blacktop, so returning that same distance in the woods took longer. Then suddenly one step he was in the woods, the next step he was not. He burst from the trees and stopped. Beth bumped into him, and Hutton into her. Flynn felt the ground drop away into a depression. A runoff channel beside a road. He picked Beth up and threw her over his shoulder, and then edged slowly down. It was only about five feet down, but felt like more. The grass was long and deep and although there was no running flow, the channel was waterlogged. His boots felt like they were being pulled from his feet. He hit the other side and used a hand to pull himself and Beth up and out of the channel and onto the road. He set Beth down and turned to help Hutton across, but she was already climbing out of the depression. She stood next to him. They looked left along the road. Saw nothing but road disappearing into the ether. They turned right.

  The Yukon sat twenty feet back, wet and waiting.

  Hutton got in and started the truck, and Flynn helped Beth into the back and followed her in.

  “Go straight,” he said to Hutton in the front.

  “Way ahead of you.”

  She pulled away from the curb and headed up the hill away from the main road, away from the house.

  Away from the guys with guns.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Hutton returned to the same hotel. There were approximately the same number of cars parked underneath, but they were all different vehicles. It was a one-night-per-stay kind of place. Flynn found the same kid in the lobby, wearing the same hoodie. He was watching something on his phone. He glanced up and saw Flynn and gave a look of surprise at seeing the same face two nights in a row.

  “Two rooms,” Flynn said.

  The kid kicked his chair and slid across the floor to where the keys were kept. He unhooked two and slid back.

  “Two rooms. Unlucky or lucky?”

  “Lucky not to have to work the graveyard shift in a motel.”

  “But not lucky enough to not have to stay here.”

  Flynn shrugged and put down a hundred and a fifty. The kid eyed the money and looked like he was considering asking for an even two hundred, but thought the better of it and slipped the money away and dropped the two keys onto the desk. Flynn picked them up, nodded and walked out.

  He had keys for the same room at the end, plus the one next to it. Rooms 23 and 24. Flynn opened the door to room 23 and let Beth in, and then motioned Hutton to join her.

  “You guys need a minute?” she asked.

  Flynn shook his head. “We need to figure this thing out.”

  Hutton stepped into the room, and Flynn handed her the key for room 24.

  Room 23 was a mirror image of room 24. The same layout, the same bedding, the same traffic path worn in the carpet. Everything was just in the reverse position. Beth stood in the middle of the room. The rain was soaked so deep into her clothes it had stopped running off her. Hutton helped her to the bathroom to dry off. The motel wasn’t a robe-and-slippers kind of place, so Hutton gave Beth a T-shirt and track pants of her own.

  Dried except for her damp hair, Beth crawled up on the bed and put her back against the wall and hugged a pillow. Flynn figured that shock was starting to set in, now that things had quietened down. Hutton took the chair from under the desk. Flynn stayed standing. He touched Beth on the shoulder. She looked up at him as if he had just appeared out of thin air, or she had. She studied his face and then dropped her gaze to the bed and stared into middle distance.

  Flynn got a glass of water from the bathroom and placed it on the bedside table by Beth. Then he moved away and leaned against the door and turned his attention to Hutton. He wanted to sit with Beth and talk it through, but he knew that he was too close. Hutton would know how to ask the questions that needed asking.

  “Beth, my name is Laura, remember? I was formerly with the FBI. I handled this kind of thing. Can I ask you some questions?”

  “FBI?”

  Hutton nodded.

  “FBI? Okay.”

  “I need to ask you about the hotel.”

  Beth glanced up and around the small room, and then she frowned.

  “What about it?”

  “Not this hotel. The Watergate. About what happened at the Watergate.”

  She dropped the frown and looked at Flynn.

  “We need to call the firm.”

  “The firm?” he asked.

  “My firm. It’s protocol. Workplace safety.”

  “Okay, we’ll get to that.”

  Beth shook her head as if something had just that second occurred to her.

  “And the police, John. We should call the police.” Beth looked at Hutton. “But you’re FBI?”

  Hutton ignored the question. “Tell me what happened at the Watergate. You mentioned a woman. You said you were taken by a woman. Was that correct?”

  “Yes. A woman.”

  “Not a man?”

  Beth shook her head. “No. No, the prospective client turned out to be a woman.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  The frown stayed, but her focus seemed to return now that she was thinking things through. “She was strange. No, not strange. Out of place. She was dressed up like a businesswoman.” Beth bit at a fingernail and pressed her hand against her lips to stop it from shaking.

  “Why was that strange?”

  “Because she was dressed up.”

  “Weren’t you dressed in business attire?”

  “No, you don’t understand. She wasn’t dressed like a businesswoman dresses. She was dressed up like a businesswoman. Like a costume. Like she was going to a Halloween party as a businessperson. She had the right clothes, but they were wrong.”

  “How were they wrong?”

  “Nothing fit. Not quite right. People who meet at the Watergate don’t have ill-fitting clothes. And they didn’t matc
h. The trousers with the jacket. All wrong. And the shoes. As soon as we got into the van, she peeled off her shoes. Like they hurt. Like she didn’t normally wear heels.”

  “Okay, that’s good. Tell me about the meeting. Where did you meet?”

  “In the hotel. Like we were supposed to. We went up to the rooftop bar, but it was too cold. So we tried another bar. One near the lobby. It was very busy. She said she knew a place, nearby, that wouldn’t be so busy. She said she had a car.”

  “So you headed out?”

  “Yes. She sort of took my arm—you know the way an old lady wraps her arm through yours to keep her balance when she walks? Like that. It felt too familiar, but I let it pass. Some people are like that.”

  “How did you leave?”

  “There was a car waiting for us.”

  “What sort of car?”

  “The wrong sort, I suppose. I didn’t think. I should have thought.” Beth looked at Flynn. “You always say keep your eyes open.”

  “No reason for you to suspect anything,” he said. “Tell us about the car.”

  “It was a van, really. Like a family wagon. A soccer mom’s car.”

  “A minivan?” asked Hutton.

  “Yes, a minivan. Dark. Blue or black. I wish I could remember. That’s important, isn’t it?”

  “Not really. They’ll have dumped that vehicle.”

  “But there might be prints. The police could find them.”

  Hutton pressed on. “Tell me about them.”

  “There were two men. One in the back row, another driving. I got in the van and the woman was right behind, a bit pushy I suppose. The door slid closed before I really saw the man in the back.” She looked at the bed again as if replaying events through her mind.

  “He had a gun. He told me to sit tight. Then the woman told me we were going for a little drive. Nothing to worry about, if . . .”

  “If what?”

  Beth turned her gaze on Flynn.

  “If you did what you were told.”

  Flynn nodded.

  “Why would you do what you were told? What does my client have to do with you?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” said Flynn.

  Hutton said, “The meeting at the Watergate was clearly a setup. It links back somehow to your original client. Can you tell me about them?”

  “Some of that is privileged.”

  “I understand. I don’t want to know anything that isn’t public record. Okay?”

  Beth nodded. “I guess that’s okay.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Just an investment company. Clients hand over their portfolio and these guys invest it and take it abroad and distribute funds where the IRS can’t touch them.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “Of course. I don’t write the tax laws, Laura. I just follow them.”

  “Okay. So how did they bring up the meeting at the Watergate?”

  Beth pushed herself back up against the bedhead, straightening her posture. She noticed the water on the bedside table and took a sip.

  “They didn’t organize it. Not exactly. I met with the client the first time in our offices in San Fran. Then we arranged to have a follow-up meeting to sign papers in DC. In their office downtown.” Beth’s face dropped. “That was supposed to be this morning. I missed the meeting.”

  “Beth, I think that’s okay. Let’s focus on who abducted you.”

  “You’re right. Of course, you’re right.”

  “So how did the Watergate meeting happen?”

  “They called me. Not the same people I had met in our office. She said she had heard from the client that I was going to be in DC., and asked if we could meet.”

  “Who suggested the Watergate?”

  “I think I did. We were staying there. John and I.” Beth glanced up at Flynn. He was leaning against the door again.

  “No, that’s not right. John wasn’t staying there. You weren’t coming then.”

  Flynn said, “You asked me to come. You said there might be some business in it.”

  “Yes. That’s right. The woman said she couldn’t go into great detail on the phone, but she had some money that needed to be traced. And a person. She said she needed to find a person.”

  “What did you take that to mean?” Hutton asked.

  “We don’t just move money, we find money. Kind of forensic accounting. If a company is embezzled, for example, we might track down the money for them.”

  “Doesn’t the Bureau do that?” asked Hutton.

  “Of course, if there are grounds. If there’s an investigation. Sometimes there’s not. Sometimes there isn’t enough proof.” Beth shrugged. “Sometimes the client doesn’t want law enforcement involved. For PR reasons.”

  “Okay. Is that what you thought this woman wanted?”

  “Yes.”

  “And finding the person?”

  “I took that to mean they had sustained some kind of loss, and they wanted to find both the money and the person who took it.”

  “And how does that relate to John?”

  Beth frowned and then dropped it. “It’s what he does. He finds people. Right?” She looked up at Flynn. He nodded.

  “So I thought he might get some work from it. We would trace the money, and he could trace the person.”

  Hutton nodded. “All right. Let’s go back to the Watergate. How did you know the woman was the right person? You hadn’t met.”

  “She approached me in the rooftop bar. I assumed she had looked me up on our website.”

  “And what did she say?”

  Beth stopped. Stopped talking, stopped breathing. She froze in place, the words trapped in her throat, unable to escape. Then she turned her head, toward the door. Toward Flynn. Then her mouth moved and the words came softly.

  “She said, even the bogeyman can’t hide forever.”

  Flynn glanced at Hutton and then back at Beth. Beth was frowning at him.

  “That’s your phrase, John. Isn’t it? You say that.”

  “I do. I did. Did you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you ever use it? Other than with me, I mean.”

  Beth stared into middle distance as she tried to recall. After the night’s events, Flynn was surprised that her memory was functioning at all.

  “I’m not sure. I may have said it in the initial client meeting. In San Fran. I think I did. I think I said it like you do.”

  “Like I do?”

  “In French. Yes, I seem to recall the client asked how traceable their money would be, I assume from the IRS. I said your phrase more to myself than anyone. I recall the client asked what it meant. I translated it.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing. I think he smiled, like it was a little joke. Just like it was with us.”

  Hutton said, “But that client never spoke of it again. It was the woman who said it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. So you were taken down to the minivan and drove to New York?”

  Beth nodded. “Yes. How did you find me?” Her eyes darted between Hutton and Flynn.

  “I tracked your cell phone using the lost phone app on your tablet.”

  “Huh. I wouldn’t have thought of that.”

  “Did you go straight to New York City?” asked Hutton. “Stop anywhere?”

  “No.”

  “For gas, anything?”

  “No. We drove straight to Manhattan.” Beth paused for a moment, and then continued. “Then we stopped.”

  “What happened then?”

  Beth took a moment to answer. “They tied me up. I was pulled out of the minivan and dumped in something else. A van. Not a minivan—like a delivery van. There were no seats.”

  “And then?”

  “We drove for a while. Much shorter.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “I don’t know. The woman I guess. We stopped and she pulled me out. We were at the house. She dragged me into
the basement and locked me up there.” Beth looked at the pulled drapes and back at Hutton. “Where are we?”

  “The house was in Katonah, just outside of New York City. Now we’re near Yonkers.”

  “But the house? Those men were shooting at us.”

  “Yes, they were.”

  “We need to call the police. You said you are FBI or were FBI?”

  “Was.”

  “We need to call the police,” she said again, this time at Flynn.

  “We will,” said Flynn. “Just help Laura understand what happened first.”

  Hutton said, “What happened after the woman left you in the basement? Did she stay, did she leave?”

  “She left.”

  “Did she come back?”

  “No.”

  Hutton looked at Flynn. “So there were two meetings arranged,” she said. “The client meeting arranged in San Francisco, and then later a meeting arranged at the Watergate.”

  “But the second meeting was scheduled to happen first.”

  “Yes.”

  “And two teams,” said Flynn. “The kidnappers—the woman and the two guys in New York were the first. And I think we can agree that whoever that was back there at the house, it wasn’t the kidnappers.”

  “Agreed,” said Hutton.

  “Everything up until then had been amateur. Done on the fly. The initial abduction, allowing me to track them. The guys following us. None of it was top-shelf. But the team at the house . . .”

  “They were very tooled up.”

  “And despite us getting away, they were well drilled.”

  “You think? They made mistakes.”

  “They made plenty,” said Flynn. “But lucky for us they were all the result of one big error.”

  “Which was?”

  “Nonlethal force. They shot me with an electronic round.”

  “A Taser?”

  “More or less.”

  Hutton’s face dropped. “So I shot an unarmed man?”

  “No, you shot a man before he had a chance to use his sidearm on you.”

  “I noticed the rounds fired at me seemed lethal enough.”