Burned Bridges

by A. J. Stewart

“You think she worked for a real estate agent?”

  “There’s one way to find out, and not too many places to ask.”

  “Okay. That’s a plan. First thing. I’ll start with the place I got the list from this morning and work from there. You can stay with Beth here.”

  “No. We’ll all come. We need to go out for breakfast anyway.”

  Hutton closed her laptop with a shrug. She slipped it into her courier bag and put the bag on the desk. She looked at Flynn.

  “We should get some sleep.”

  Flynn nodded but didn’t move.

  “You should go and look after Beth,” she said.

  He looked at Hutton looking at him. For a second, and then two.

  Then he walked out.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  They ate breakfast at the same place as the previous morning. The same waitress served them. She remembered them. Waitresses remember big tips. She offered them the same early-morning smile. Flynn ordered the same thing, poached eggs with bacon and sourdough. Hutton repeated the Denver omelet. Beth went with coffee and oatmeal.

  Flynn arched his back to stretch out. He had slept in the chair in room 23, watching Beth sleep. He had spent time trying to reconcile his two worlds colliding. Iraq was gone. Not forgotten, but brushed under the carpet. Now the carpet had been removed and the stains spilled all over his new life.

  He had given Beth an overview of their thinking and their plan. She hadn’t commented on it. She hadn’t mentioned the police or the woman. She pushed her food around her plate. Flynn wanted to tell her to eat, that she needed to get food in while she could. That you never knew when your next meal might come. But that wasn’t her world. Her next meal would come when she was hungry. That was how her world worked. Flynn ate his breakfast and wiped the runny yolk from his plate with the last of his sourdough toast.

  They drove into Katonah and waited for the town to open. The real estate agent who had given Hutton the list of REO properties was their first stop. The rain had stopped and the sky was a patchwork of gray clouds and pale blue sky. Flynn sat in the front of the Yukon and watched Hutton walk away, and then he turned to Beth in the rear. Her clothes were still damp, so she was wearing Hutton’s T-shirt and track pants. Her hair was a mess. She didn’t seem concerned by it.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  She didn’t look at him. She stared out the window at the dark wood of damp trees. “Who is she?”

  “Who? The woman who took you?”

  “No. Laura.”

  “Hutton? She is what she told you last night. Former FBI.”

  “I wasn’t at my most attentive last night. How do you know her?”

  “We met during service.”

  “She was in the army, too?”

  “No, she was FBI then. The US government sent law enforcement to train local police in places like Iraq and Afghanistan.”

  Beth nodded. “What does she want?”

  “Hutton?”

  Beth shook her head. “The woman who took me.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I remembered something. Did we talk about it last night? The meeting I had with the client in San Francisco?”

  “A little. What do you remember?”

  “The bogeyman. That was your phrase. You said it the night we met. Remember?”

  “I do.”

  “And I said it. In the meeting with the client. I remember when they asked if we had the ability to track down people, as well as money. I said we did, and I was thinking of you. They said this person might be very hard to find. And I said, Même le croque-mitaine ne peut pas cacher éternellement. In French, just like you do. And they asked me what it meant, and I told them. Even the bogeyman can’t hide forever. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. But there were two men, the clients. They just smiled like it was cute, like it meant nothing.”

  “Maybe it meant nothing to them.”

  “But then the woman called, after the meeting. And she knew the phrase. How did she know?”

  “I used the phrase. To the guy who we investigated in Iraq.”

  “When you met Laura.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me what you were doing. Back then.”

  “There’s a lot I can’t tell you.”

  “Tell me what you can.”

  Flynn looked across the street, where storefronts were opening and starting the trading day. He turned back to Beth in the rear of the Yukon. He told her about his military service. About how it had been with the French Foreign Legion, not the United States Army. She listened without interrupting him. Flynn felt the weight lift from him as he spoke. He had never meant for it to be a secret between them, but he found it a relief to speak of it regardless. He told her about his parents and his brother, about fleeing Abu Dhabi and ending up alone in France.

  When he was done, Beth spoke.

  “I wouldn’t have guessed,” she said. “I always figured you for a patriot.”

  “I think I am a patriot. I fought for everything that our country stands for.”

  Beth sat back in her seat. “What did you do for them?”

  “I did more or less what I told you. I found people. In the beginning it was deserters. I had a talent for it. Then in 2007, terrorists exploded two car bombs in Algiers. A group calling themselves Al Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb took responsibility. They claimed the attacks were aimed at ‘the Crusaders and their agents, the slaves of America and the sons of France.’ As a result of the attack, the officer who recruited me was tasked with creating a special team. A team designed to hunt terrorists.”

  “You hunted terrorists?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like bin Laden.”

  “Yes.”

  “Only we found him, didn’t we? Navy SEALs.”

  Flynn let out a breath. “Yes.”

  “So which terrorists did you find?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “It won’t help you to know. It might hurt you.”

  “You mean someone might kidnap me?”

  She offered him an expression that he had never seen before. Not anger, not even distrust. It was a face of disappointment.

  “I’m sorry, Beth. I made a mistake. I thought I could leave it behind. I didn’t think it would come after me. I thought it was done. I would never put you in this position if I thought for a second they would come after you.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I don’t know. Not exactly. My last mission was in Iraq. That’s where I met Hutton. I was working with her and with some people from the United States Army. There was an arms shipment. The US was pulling out, coming home. The bad guys were gearing up. Preparing to fill the void. I found a shipment and I made it disappear. So they couldn’t use it after we were all gone.”

  “And they want you to find it.”

  “Yes.”

  “And they used me as collateral.”

  “Yes.”

  “So where is it?”

  “I don’t know. Like I said. It’s lost.”

  “But they’re not buying that.”

  “I’m not sure they know that.”

  She turned back to the window and looked away for a time. Took a deep breath.

  “What did you do with these terrorists that you found? Did they stand trial? Did they end up in Guantanamo?”

  “No, they didn’t end up in Guantanamo.”

  “So what happened to them?”

  “Mostly they were disposed of.”

  She took another breath and turned back to look at him.

  “You killed them.”

  He looked over her face. It was stressed and taut. A face unfamiliar yet at the same time completely known to him. He had run his fingers across every inch of it, kissed every curve and every line. He had watched her sleep and seen the way it looked when it was at complete repose, like a contented baby. It was a face he loved. It was a face he thought he could grow ol
d beside. But that face was gone. Like visiting a college town thirty years after graduation. Familiar but foreign.

  “Yes,” he said. “I killed them.”

  The door opened and Hutton dropped in from the cold.

  “No dice,” she said. She looked at Flynn and then glanced back at Beth and then back at Flynn.

  “We okay?”

  Flynn nodded.

  Hutton started the Yukon. “My new friend said she would never hire such a person. That was her phrase. Such a person. But she thought there was someone who might. Another agent. Her place is on the next street back. Apparently this agent’s husband owns an auto store that works with parolees. Worth a shot.”

  “Yes. Worth a shot,” said Flynn.

  Hutton was happy to try the next office. The dynamic in the truck had gotten weird. She figured it was reasonable that it would, but it wasn’t a place she wanted to spend too much time. The second agent’s office was on the second street back, which was far less busy than the main street. There was a library and a park and a church. Not as much walk-by traffic.

  The agent’s office was in what looked like a Victorian-era house. Hutton opened the door and a little bell rang. There was a table in the entranceway that appeared to be the reception desk, but there was no one behind it. Hutton was about to call out, when a small-framed woman appeared from a hallway. She was jiggling a tea bag in a mug.

  “Sorry, just making some tea. Can I help you?”

  “Yes, my name is Laura Hutton. I have my own firm, and I was given your name.”

  “Great. How can I help?”

  “It’s a delicate matter.”

  “Come into my office.”

  They walked down the hallway, past a kitchen and into a room that might have been a bedroom or a study, once upon a time. It was now the woman’s office. There was a desk and a computer and a printer. There were neat shelves with thick folders detailing real estate codes of conduct. There was a photo on the wall of a leafy fall scene, all orange and gold and red. The woman sat behind her desk and pointed Hutton to a visitor’s chair. She was wearing a heavy sweater with a turtleneck. Her hair was blond, but that came at considerable expense and via the expertise of a hairdresser, probably on the main street. She was well maintained but easily sixty years old.

  “I’m Cheryl Barclay. How can help?” she asked for the third time.

  “Well, you see, I have a business. I’m part of my community.”

  “Are you a broker?”

  “No, nothing like that. But I’m thinking about hiring some help. I was at a function, and I was told about some women. These were women who may have taken the wrong path, you might say. And they may need a helping hand. To get back on their feet. Back into society, you might say.”

  “I see.”

  “I was told that you might know about such a program. Perhaps have some experience with something like that.”

  Cheryl dropped the string on her tea bag and sat back in her chair. She didn’t slouch. Her entire body slid back until her back was against the rear of the chair.

  “You’re referring to a community re-entry program. For former inmates?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I am familiar with it, but it’s really my husband who has the involvement.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “He has helped a number of men and women. He owns a chain of automotive supply stores, you see. He occasionally hires people who are in the program. Mainly to drive his pickups. They make deliveries to workshops, that sort of thing.”

  “I see.”

  “I can give you his number, if you like.”

  “That would be most helpful, I’m sure. But I wondered. From your point of view. I’m sure you understand, as a woman. I’m a little nervous about the whole thing. Have you had someone working for you recently? In your office?”

  “I understand your concern. These people are looking for a second chance. I did have a girl doing a little for me. But it was really through my husband. She was driving for him. So she did a little extra work for me. Driving around to properties, taking photographs, installing signage.”

  “So not here in the office?”

  “Rarely. Not that I wouldn’t have a girl here, but I’m not a big broker. I specialize. Not every client fits, you see. So I don’t have a lot of need for office help.”

  “How did the woman driving for you and your husband work out?”

  Cheryl shifted in her seat. It was subtle and involuntary but all too obvious to Hutton.

  “It went well. As far as these things do.”

  “Is she still with you?”

  “Well, no. Look, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. Most of these women are a little unsettled, in their home life. Sometimes their families live far away.”

  “So she’s moved on?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Moved on.”

  “Was there a problem? Don’t worry, I understand that these women will not be perfect.”

  “No, perfect they are not. But she was a good worker. They usually are. As good as regular people.” Cheryl shifted again. “I mean, we had an issue with the truck, but that was a misunderstanding.”

  “An issue?”

  “Nothing, I assure you. They don’t have the same understanding of things as you and I. She just made a couple of trips in my husband’s truck. The one she used for deliveries. She took it a couple of times.”

  “Took it where?”

  “Pennsylvania.”

  “Pennsylvania? Really? How do you know?”

  “Oh, my husband has tracking on all his vehicles. Not to track his staff, of course. It’s a fuel management thing. But it was sorted out. It was odd though. She collected used tires from some of the garages she delivered to. Took the tires to Pennsylvania.” She shook her head.

  “So why did she leave?”

  “In this case, one day she was here, the next day she was not. That is all. Nothing major. Nothing sinister. A few weeks ago she just stopped coming into work. Often their parole will end and they will go home, if they live interstate. I’m not sure if that was the case. As I say, she only did a little work for me.”

  “Well, it sounds like a worthwhile program.”

  “It is, it is. And we all must do our part, mustn’t we? For the community.”

  “Yes, absolutely.” Hutton stood. “Thank you for your time.”

  “Of course, anytime. It was Laura, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. Do you have your husband’s number, in case I have some questions?”

  “Yes, let me get you a card. From reception.”

  Cheryl led Hutton back to the entranceway and took a card from a holder on the desk. It was for an auto supplies company, and Francis Barclay was the CEO. Hutton shook Cheryl’s soft hand and stepped to the door. Then she stopped.

  “By the way, what was the name of the woman who worked for you?”

  “Cameron. Her name was Cameron.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Hutton opened the tailgate of the Yukon and ruffled through her bag. She pulled out her file on Ox Dennison. Looked at it and groaned. She paced around the vehicle and dropped into the driver’s seat.

  “I made an error.”

  “Why, what happened?” Flynn asked. “Did she not talk to you?”

  “Not now. Earlier. Much earlier. Maybe years ago.”

  “What error?”

  Hutton handed Flynn the document in her hand. “Family.”

  Flynn scanned it, but he knew what was written there. “Mother, father, both deceased. Two children. Ox and his brother.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Where does it say brother?”

  Flynn looked at the document again. “It doesn’t. It says children.”

  “The real estate broker I just spoke with. She had a woman working for her, part-time. The woman’s name was Cameron.”

  Flynn looked up at Hutton. “Ox’s sibling is a sister.”

  “I sho
uld have seen it.”

  “You’re right, we should have. But it’s not just your error. I didn’t see it either.”

  “But I’m a woman. I shouldn’t make assumptions based on gender like that.”

  “No one should make gender assumptions like that,” said Beth from the rear seat. “But don’t beat yourself up about it. It’s a result of upbringing and education, not gender.”

  “Does she still work there?” Flynn asked.

  “No. She just vanished. A couple of weeks ago. But there’s more. The real estate agent was a privileged old thing. See this street? There’s no business on it. Not like the main street. It’s a poor place to put a realty office. If you want business, that is.”

  “She didn’t want business?”

  “I don’t think that was the point, no. I got the impression that her husband does well and this was a little project to get her out of the house. But her husband is the one who hires the ex-cons. They drive trucks for him, delivering auto parts. Cameron worked for him, and then did a little extra work on the side for the wife. Putting up For Sale signs, that sort of thing.”

  “Checking out all the local properties.”

  “Exactly.”

  “That tells us how she found the house, but that’s old news.”

  “There’s more. There was an issue. She took a couple of trips in the guy’s truck. But he has tracking on all his vehicles.”

  “Trips? Where?”

  “Get this. Pennsylvania.”

  “What’s in Pennsylvania?” Beth asked.

  “The family farm,” said Flynn. “But the jacket says the parents are long dead. Did they leave the farm to her?”

  “Possible. But there’s something else. The trips she made, before they called her out and asked her not to use company vehicles for private use. The broker said Cameron was using the truck to take loads of tires to Pennsylvania. Old tires.”

  “Why would anyone want old tires?” asked Beth. “They can’t be recycled, can they?”

  “Actually, they can,” said Flynn. “Primarily as tires. I’ve seen it before. They’re called retreads. Some old tires can have a new layer of rubber laid on them and they’re more or less new. As long as the structure of the tire wall isn’t compromised.”