Indigo Man

by M. J. Carlson

  She rolled her eyes at him.

  “Can I ask where the Mitsu went?”

  “Hank owns a junkyard. More specifically, he owns a junkyard and a flatbed tow truck. If it comes to it, he owns a junkyard with a car crusher.”

  “Almost seems a shame,” he said as he folded the cover over and Miranda held it above her head so he could grab it and fold it again. The activity brought some mild twinges of pain, but he refused to say anything to his hostess.

  “Better it in the crusher than you or Sara in a cage. He can disconnect the GPS, scrub the hard drive, and keep it indoors and out of the hands of the Feds ’til this is settled.”

  He nodded. “Can I ask you a question off the subject?”

  “Sure,” Miranda said.

  “What made you want to be a stay-at-home mom?” Zach asked as he stopped to catch his breath. “I mean, I respect the decision, but it’s rare.”

  She stopped folding. “What makes you think I didn’t work when Sara was little?”

  “I… I don’t know. You just seem to be so in-charge around the house. It’s like you’ve always been right there. It’s nice.”

  “Your mother worked?”

  He nodded. “Librarian, when she took her meds. What did you do?”

  “I taught hand-to-hand combat at the Police Academy.” She dropped the car cover to the concrete, slid a foot back, shifted to the balls of her feet, and lifted her fists into a ready posture. “You want to go a couple of rounds?”

  His laugh pulled him to the side in pain. He held his hands up, palms out. “No, thanks. One bruised rib a day is my limit. I can see where Sara gets it from.” He rubbed his chest where she’d knocked him to the ground the previous night.

  Miranda relaxed and retrieved the cover from the floor. “Sara doesn’t suffer foolishness well.”

  She placed the folded car cover in the storage space and closed the door.

  He hesitated, shifting his stance until she noticed. He looked toward the laundry room door. “Why the knife? I mean I thought the police were all into guns.”

  “You’ve never heard of Dennis Tueller.”

  “No,” Zach said, perplexed. “Is he a friend of yours?”

  She laughed. “Dennis Tueller did a study in 1983 that became the standard for police departments. He proved a person with a knife can stab an adversary before he can draw and shoot a gun at twenty feet or less. I taught hand-to-hand combat including Tueller Drills for twenty years at the Police Academy.”

  A knot tightened in Zach’s stomach. “Could I ask a favor?”

  She cocked her head at Zach. “Sure. What?”

  “Could you teach me something I can use if I’m cornered?”

  Miranda eyed him. “I don’t know. You can’t learn hand-to-hand combat in a few minutes.”

  “Listen,” Zach said. “I’m in trouble, and I know I need a new skill set. Something. Anything.”

  She considered for a moment. “Okay. Just one.” She stepped to about two feet away and raised her palm to him. “Hit my hand.”

  Forming a fist, he raised his hand and aimed it at her outstretched palm.

  ***

  Murphy lounged on the couch in his efficiency apartment, waiting for the Percocet to kick in. His cat lay purring in the corner, curled around her catnip toy. He eyed the keys to his Caddy, where they lay on the coffee table next to the folded-over white envelope. “She’s up to something,” he said into his link.

  “Come on,” Stiles said past a chuckle. “Gopher Girl?”

  Murphy stifled a growl. “Hell, yes, Gopher Girl. She makes my neck itch, and I don’t like it when my neck itches.”

  “Get real,” Stiles said. “She’s just—”

  “A girl?” Murphy asked.

  “Well, yes,” Stiles said. “But I was going to say she’s just a kid. She’s what, twenty-five?”

  Brown, the third member of the conference call, broke in. “Don’t underestimate her, Martin. Both her parents were with the police.”

  “It’s in her DNA,” Murphy agreed. “You think her disappearing’s a coincidence?”

  Stiles snorted. “Her mother’s sick.”

  “Then send her a get-well gift,” Murphy said.

  “I already thought of that,” Brown said. “Asked the secretary to send her a card, but it seems their current address is unknown.”

  “Johnson can find it,” Murphy said.

  “You think he’ll give us classified information?” Brown asked. “There has to be another way.”

  “I’ll approach Johnson, personally,” Stiles said. “Tell him I understand the address is classified. Ask him if he could have the Bobbsey Twins take her mother a small gift from me. We don’t even want to know where they live.”

  “Who?” Murphy asked. He couldn’t keep the nicknames straight anymore.

  “Hayes and Boone,” Brown said. “He’ll just say something about them not being a delivery service.”

  “They’re part of the team,” Stiles said. “Our team, and Agent What’s-her-name is a part of that team. I just want her to know her poor mother is in our thoughts.”

  Murphy rolled his eyes at the line of bullshit.

  “You think you can sell it to Special Agent Johnson?” Brown asked.

  Stiles chuckled. “Don, I can sell condoms to Catholics. You leave that part to me.”

  The connection was silent for a beat, then Brown spoke, “It might just work. What if she really is just visiting her sick mother?”

  “Then she’s got nothing to worry about,” Murphy said. “I’d like to send her a get-well card, too.” He held a paper square slightly larger than a postage stamp between his thumb and index fingertips. Attached to the paper was the round RFID GPS chip.

  “Good idea,” Stiles said. “We can make this happen.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Miranda shook her head. “Too slow. Try again, but move your right foot toward me and flick your right hand towards mine.” He tried again. “Better,” she said. “Now relax, don’t think about it, just do it.” They repeated the exercise for a few minutes with Miranda giving pointers.

  “Better,” she said, and held up a hand. She opened one of the bifold doors on the back wall of the carport and pulled out a pair of padded sparring gloves, then smiled at his confusion. “I wear these when Jack and I spar in the back yard.” She pulled the gloves on.

  “Now,” she said, “Again, but faster. Relax, and make a fist as your hand comes up.” After another twenty minutes, Zach stood, panting, chest aching. Miranda nodded. “Better. Now, remember, the way to think of these things is not ‘if this happens, I’ll do that.’ Instead, think in terms of ‘when this happens, then I’ll do that.’ Not if, when.”

  He nodded. “When.”

  “When—then,” she said. “When you see my nose…” she held her gloved hand up. “Then.”

  He flicked his fist up. “Hit it.”

  Her smile made it to her eyes. “Again. Moving target.” She raised her hand again, in a different place. “When.”

  “Then.” Zach’s hand contacted hers.

  “Always the nose. It hurts like hell and makes the eyes water. It’s involuntary. Again, but don’t shift your weight. It telegraphs your intention. Just snap your fist out. When.”

  “Then,” he responded, with a sharp movement.

  “Good. Again. When.”

  “Then,” he said and flicked his fist toward her gloved hand.

  ***

  Zach stood bent at the waist, hands on his upper legs for support, grunting past his aching side to catch his breath.

  Miranda started to pull her sparring glove off. “That’s enough for one day.”

  “More.”

  She sighed. “You can’t learn it all in one day.”

  “More. Please,” he said.

  “You’ll hurt yourself, Zach.”

  He stared up at her and wiped the sweat from his eyes, the weight of his future finally settling on him. “I’m already dead, an
d we both know it.”

  Miranda went still as she stared at him for a long moment before nodding once. She shoved her hand into her glove. “When.” She snapped her hand up.

  “Then,” he said as he hit it with the back of his fist.

  “Faster.” She repeated the movement. “When.”

  They went on for another forty grueling minutes, until Zach leaned against the rear wall of the carport and clutched his chest as Miranda put her equipment away. His sweat-matted hair and clothes stuck to him and dark spots danced across his vision, but Miranda had barely broken a sweat.

  “Would you please toss the dirty water into the yard and bring the bucket?” She crossed to the side of the carport, opened the door into the house, and stepped in. She stood waiting for him in the laundry room.

  He did as she asked and joined her, still trying to steady himself against the pain and shortness of breath from his workout.

  “Go ahead and jump into the shower before Sara and Jack get home,” Miranda said as he opened the inner door. “I’ll put the bucket away.”

  He nodded and stepped through the door into the kitchen. Behind him, headlights pulling into the driveway shone in through the frosted windows of the outside door.

  “Zach,” Miranda said, grabbing the razor-honed fighting knife from where it lay on the washing machine. “Go inside.”

  She pulled the door closed, leaving Zach standing alone in the kitchen. He ran through the possibilities of lights she didn’t recognize in the driveway and came up with—Murphy. Murphy had found them. Panic set his heart racing. Scanning the room, he located the knife block. He grabbed the first one his hand touched. A paring knife slid out. “Damn,” he said and tried another.

  Satisfied with his choice of an upscale, gleaming nine-inch chef’s knife, he swung around toward the laundry room door and raised the knife to shoulder height. “Screw it,” he whispered. If it was Murphy, it was time to take the fight to him for a change.

  The seconds stretched to eternity as he crept to the eerily silent door. His breathing shallow and muscles cable-taut, he strained to hear any telltale sounds. His hand trembled from adrenaline. It occurred to him in every vid he’d seen, the police always held their guns at chest height. He crouched, hoping to push the knife up and under any outstretched arm holding a gun that came through the door, and hopefully into the heart of that bastard, Murphy.

  Zach’s hand shook increasingly with the images his imagination painted of Murphy, big as a locomotive, just on the other side of the door. He wiped sweat off his forehead. His heart raced as his fingers inched toward the knob, poised to strike.

  He shifted his position to relax his aching side. Panting from the tension, he listened, almost afraid to breathe. His fingers, slick with sweat, closed around the doorknob. He turned it and whipped the door open, ready to spring.

  “Zach?” It was Sara. She spun to face him, surprise on her face.

  He jumped, unable to speak through his gritted teeth.

  She stood in the laundry room, her parents behind her. They stopped their muted conversation and gawked at him. Sara focused on the knife in his hand and coiled into the same fighting stance her mother had displayed in the carport. Her eyes glinted in the kitchen’s fluorescent light. “Put the knife down.”

  “God.” He dropped the knife to his side, his hand shaking uncontrollably. He had to blink against the sweat burning in his eyes. Sara’s hands were on his shoulders even as he dropped to one knee on the white tile floor. He started to rock back and forth, trying to catch his breath.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Goode’s voice came from the laundry room. “Looks like he’s still hungry. Chicken’s in the fridge.”

  “Jack!” The women’s voices sounded in unison.

  Miranda moved to Zach’s side. “It’s my fault. I didn’t recognize the headlights and sent him inside. I didn’t think…”

  “Dr. Marshall.”

  Zach’s eyes opened to Goode’s hand in front of him. Zach grasped his hand. With a wheeze in the back of his throat and Goode’s help, he stood. When Goode released him, Zach wiped his eyes and his nose with the back of his hand. “Thank you. I’m sorry. I was…”

  “You were going to back Ran up with a kitchen knife?” Goode threw a hard chuckle into the room. “I’m impressed.”

  “It was all I could find. I may not be your caliber, but I owe Murphy some payback,” he said, feeling a little foolish on reflection.

  Goode’s nose twitched, and a smile crept onto his lips. “Can’t argue with the logic. How about we sit down?”

  Zach nodded. “Good idea.” He and Goode sat at the table.

  Miranda gently took the knife from Zach and carried it to the counter. Sara stood, arms crossed, and shook her head at Zach.

  Goode leaned back in his chair and regarded Zach. “A kitchen knife,” he said, again. His tone barely contained his amusement.

  He met Goode’s look with one of his own. “It’s all I could come up with. Besides, all she had was a knife.”

  Goode shrugged. “Well, yeah, but Ran could kill half the neighborhood with that thing and not break a sweat.”

  Miranda’s, “Jack,” floated to them from the kitchen area. A moment later she took her seat at the table. “They picked up a rental.”

  Zach scanned their faces, confused.

  Sara answered his unspoken question, “The headlights my mom didn’t recognize. We stopped and I rented a car. My dad followed me home in his. He parked behind me in the driveway.”

  “Rented? Why? Didn’t you say you have a car?”

  She nodded. “If Murphy suspects I’m involved, the first thing he’ll do is get one of his spook buddies to track my vehicle on the sly.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Walmart parking lot,” Sara said. “We went by and retrieved it from Murphy’s street. That’s why we were gone so long.”

  “Walmart?” Zach asked.

  “Yeah,” Goode said. “Anybody asks, she needed to pick up some things for her sick mother.”

  “And open all night.” Miranda said. “Good idea. We can move it tomorrow.”

  “A diversion for Murphy,” Zach said, finally understanding, “that can’t lead him here.”

  “I’m ready when you are,” Sara said.

  Zach shook his head at her. “I can’t pull you any further into this. No.”

  Sara returned it with narrowed eyes. “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t be stubborn.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re still a federal agent, for God’s sake. You can’t throw that away over this. Not really. Not when it comes down to it.”

  Sara held up her hand, the rental car’s key ring dangling from her index finger. “How were you planning to get out of town, walk? ’Cause I’m not handing you the keys to a car rented in my name. You’ve already stolen one.”

  He felt the blood rush into his face. “You stole that car.”

  She shrugged a shoulder. “Prove it,” she said, swinging the keys in a small arc. “Now, am I driving my rented car that I got with my government employee discount or would you like to arm wrestle for it? Best two out of three?”

  He turned from her smug smile to her parents. Miranda blinked innocently at him, but offered no comment. When his attention fell on Goode, he shook his head slowly. “Don’t look at me. I haven’t won an argument in thirty years—with either of ’em.”

  “That’s settled,” Sara said. “What do we need?”

  Resigned, Zach thought for a moment. “A web cam, a blank crystal disc, a computer, a marking pen, and someplace to put it together.” He turned to Sara’s father. “It’s time the public heard from the opposing team, for a change.”

  Goode nodded to Miranda. “I’ll go and find DeWitt’s number, if you’ll get the flash drive.”

  ***

  “How’s it coming?” Sara asked. She set a glass of water on the desk beside Zach’s arm and peered over hi
s shoulder at the screen. Her hair brushed against his shoulder when she leaned forward, hands resting on her thighs. She wore a lightweight knit top that was long enough to be a short dress over a pair of black stretch pants that ended just past her knees.

  He leaned back in the chair and rolled the tension out of his neck. “Almost finished.” He checked his watch. Between writing the script, rehearsing, taping, and editing, he’d been at it for almost two hours without a break and he was beat. He stopped and regarded her. Her glasses were on again. He liked how they fit her face. “It’s been a while since I edited vids.”

  “It’ll be fine,” she answered. “How much longer do you think?” She stood and touched his shoulder with her fingertips.

  “Not long. I didn’t want to change it or try to polish it up too much. I want it to appear as if I’m in hiding, but not somewhere in the Middle East.” He leaned back and closed his eyes, enjoying her touch. Her subtle vanilla scent wafted to him and a smile crept into the corners of his mouth.

  “Sorry we don’t have anything faster. It works well enough for my parents to send and receive vid-mail.”

  “And it’ll be fine for this. I’m surprised it had the software I needed. I really appreciate everything they’ve done.”

  “Once they’ve made up their minds about something…” she trailed off. “They seem to like you for some reason I can’t figure out.”

  “They’re good people.” He exhaled and with a few keystrokes, added the video file to the folder with the other information on Stiles. “Was your dad able to contact that news feed guy he knows in Tampa?”

  “Not yet. But he says DeWitt has a worse schedule than most of the detectives he’s forever chasing around town. He also thinks DeWitt is the best one to break the story, but he has a backup contact just in case. Here,” She handed Zach a crystal drive. “This one contains the information about who’s DNA you tested, with times and dates. All my notes are digitally signed and dated.”

  “Say goodbye to your career,” he said, and plugged the second drive into an empty port. Sara grunted once. He copied and moved folders and files between the two until both contained all the information in question. “Computer, unmount drive—Goode.”