Ms. Larkin,
My name is Carolyn Rawlings, and if you’re reading this, I’m dead. I was the woman who bumped into you on the street and put the disc in your bag. I don’t know if you’re investigating the story, but I haven’t seen your byline lately.
I have more information on this disc. It will help you tie together the pieces of the last disc. I didn’t give this to you the first time, because my husband would have known someone close to the family gave it to you. I had to protect my son and his family.
Be safe.
CR
Kristine felt a lump in her throat and swallowed hard. She spent the next seven hours reading over the files on the disc and writing her story. Robert Rawlings was a business man with a lot of secrets. He used his companies as fronts to run drugs and sell arms. What Kristine couldn’t understand is the “I had to protect my son and his family” line in Carolyn Rawlings’ letter. As far as Kristine could tell, the information on the disc implicated her son Ralston as being her husband’s protégé, and Ralston Rawlings didn’t have a wife and kids.
She filed her story, emailed a copy to Will for insurance and put all her documentation in her bag. She had to put it someplace safe, because she would need it if someone ever questioned her reporting or the facts of the story. She realized she had forgotten to call Will and wondered why he hadn’t called her. Her heart sank. What if something had happened to him? She found the paper’s cell phone. She had turned it off after calling the hospital and police station. It was late, but she decided to call him anyway. The phone rang once.
“Kristine?” The voice sounded frantic.
“Yeah, Will. It’s me,” she said and heard him breathe a sigh of relief.
“Thank God. I’ve been so worried about you. Did you hear about Carolyn Rawlings’ lawyer?”
“Yeah, I did. It’s unbelievable,” she said. She debated telling him she had been there, but she wasn’t sure who else may be listening. “I put it to bed,” she said knowing he would know the newspaper jargon.
“Already?” he replied.
“Yes. It was time,” she said.
“Where are you? No, wait. Don’t tell me,” he said. “Can you come home?" She wondered for a minute what he meant by “home.” She didn’t want to go into that on the phone and wondered if she had been on the line too long.
“I’ll call you this afternoon,” she said and flipped the phone closed. She knew the story wouldn’t run in the morning paper for two reasons - she submitted it too late, and the lawyers would have to review it. Still, she felt a sense of relief to have it into the metro editor’s desk.
She woke to a cell phone ringing. She looked at the clock. It was 7:30 in the morning.
“Hello?” she said in her morning voice.
“Ms. Larkin, I’d liked to speak to you privately,” a man’s voice said. She jolted awake and thought for a moment.
“I’d like to win the lottery. It’s nice to have a dream.”
“This is a serious matter,” he said.
“And you are?” she asked suspiciously.
“I’ll tell you everything when we meet,” he said. She sat up in the bed.
“You know, I’m pretty booked, but if you have your people call my people, maybe we can work out something oh say…in the next six months or so,” she said sarcastically.
“This is no joking matter. You are in a lot of danger,” he said.
“No kidding? Wow. Well, then I’ll definitely go meet you, a strange man who won’t identify himself. How about we meet in a dark alley where no one will see us?” she replied, growing in sarcasm.
“Okay, I see you aren’t going to make this easy,” he said. “I’m a federal agent. I’d like to meet you in 20 minutes at your favorite coffee shop.” She thought about it for a minute.
“No. If I decide to meet you, it will be on my terms,” she said.
“Ms. Larkin, you are seriously jeopardizing my life as well as your own,” he said.
“You must think I’m crazier than you are if you think I’m going to trust you no questions asked,” she said.
“You’re still alive because of me.”
“And what about Bronston Marshall and Carolyn Rawlings? Do they have you to thank for keeping them alive, too? Oh wait, they’re dead.”
“I’m sorry about them, but you have been my primary responsibility,” he replied.
“You’re going to have to give me more than that if you want me to meet you,” she said conscious of the time she was spending on the call. She’d be leaving the hotel soon. He paused.
“My name is Justin McMichaels. I’m undercover working in the RJR Corporation. Call the FBI offices - they’ll verify it. I’ll give them a public meeting place and time for them to give you,” he said. “I’m taking a huge risk with you,” he said and disconnected.
She called the FBI offices and asked to speak to Justin McMichaels. She was connected to a woman.
“Eileen Masters,” she said.
“I’m looking for a Justin McMichaels,” Kristine replied.
“Ah, yes. Justin just informed me you would be calling Ms. Larkin,” Eileen Masters said. “I must say, he’s taking a great risk identifying himself to you.”
“Well, that’s awfully nice of him. You see, I have a little bit of a problem meeting some strange man whenever and wherever he tells me. I guess you could say he had to identify himself, or he’d be very lonely at our meeting,” she said.
“That’s good. You shouldn’t trust anyone,” she said. “Still, my first priority is to my agents.”
“My first priority is me - hope you understand,” Kristine said.
“Of course,” Eileen said. “McMichaels has been working this case for years.”
“If you ask me, he isn’t very good. He should have come to me. I’ve gotten quite a bit on Rawlings in just a few months,” she said bragging a little.
“So I hear. That’s not necessarily a good thing for you Ms. Larkin,” Eileen said. “Now, McMichaels would like to meet you at 1:00 at Italianos. Do you know where that is?”
“Yes.”
“And bring the information you have,” she said. Right, Kristine thought. Like there was a chance in hell she would hand over that information before her story ran in the paper. They disconnected.
Kristine showered quickly and packed the few things she had out of the bags. She left the hotel down the stairwell. She spent the next several hours traveling through the city switching between buses and subways. She found a post office and picked out some mailing materials so she could mail the discs and other material to the paper. She debated for a minute as to whose name to put on them. Will’s may be too obvious so she picked Joyce’s name. They would still make it to Will. She stood in line and sent off the discs and notes certified mail.
At 12:30, she finally started weaving her way through the city to the restaurant. She realized she wouldn’t recognize Justin McMichaels. She entered the restaurant cautiously. The hostess asked if she could help her. It was very crowded and people were waiting for tables. There was a bar toward the back of the room on the right. The left side went farther back, and the kitchen was behind the mirrored back wall of the bar.
“I’m supposed to be meeting someone,” Kristine said looking around. She was five minutes late.
“Follow me,” the hostess said and turned to walk toward the back of the room. Kristine followed nervously. There was a table across from the bar and the kitchen entrance where a man in a black suit sat. He didn’t look like a man named Justin McMichaels. He looked like a man named Bob or Ed. “Here you go. Can I take your bags for you?”
“No,” she said abruptly. “Thank you.” McMichaels stood and reached out a hand to Kristine. She shook it.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Larkin,” he said. He sat down facing the front door, which left the seat across from him open. Kristine didn’t like sitting with her back to the door so she slid the chair to the right a little. Her back was to the bar now. She put
her bags on the floor next to her. “I’m Agent McMichaels.”
“Hi,” she said nervously looking around.
“You’re safe here. This place is full of federal agents,” he said reaching for the bread basket. He offered her some first. She shook her head no, and he took a piece. She unconsciously hugged her menu to her chest for security and looked around the restaurant. McMichaels was average in almost every way. He was average height. He was average build. The only distinguishing feature was a slightly receding hair line and a bald patch on the top of his head toward the back of his scalp. He wore a blue tie and a white shirt. “Did you bring the information?” he asked buttering his bread.
“The information is safe,” she said. She couldn’t help but look from face to face trying to figure out who was a Fed and who wasn’t.
“I don’t think it’s going to come as a surprise to you that Rawlings knows you’re working on a story,” he said. She shook her head again. She had an uneasy feeling about this meeting. “We think Mr. Rawlings is responsible for the sudden death of his wife.”
“Shocking,” she quietly blurted out. The restaurant was loud enough she was sure no one could overhear their conversation.
“We have reason to believe that Carolyn Rawlings tried to get information to you via her lawyer,” he said.
“Really? What makes you say that?” she asked innocently.
“We have an eyewitness that puts you in the emergency room, and we have video surveillance from the hospital indicating you left with an envelope.”
“I can honestly say I didn’t leave the hospital property with an envelope,” she said.
“Your nurse friend hasn’t been cooperating with us either,” he added. “We’ve had him at headquarters since yesterday.”
“There’s a difference between not cooperating and not knowing anything. Derrick is a great guy who wants to help me, but he doesn’t know a thing about what’s going on with my story. I made sure of that so people like you wouldn’t have anything on him. I’d recommend you let him go, or there will be an added side bar to my piece naming you as a Fed,” she said putting the menu on the table feeling as though she had regained some power. He smiled and nodded his head.
“You’re young, but you’re shrewd,” he said.
“Young doesn’t always mean stupid,” she said reaching across the table and taking a piece of bread from the basket, although she still felt sick to her stomach with nerves.
“You can have your story,” he said.
“Damn straight,” she said.
“But, we want the information you were given,” he said. “It is part of a criminal investigation.”
“You have it,” she said. “Or at least the government has it right now.”
“Care to elaborate?” he asked.
“Not really. Not until I walk out of here alive, and I know Derrick is released.”
“You seem to think you’re running this show,” he said. She could feel him getting frustrated. This meeting obviously wasn’t what he had anticipated.
“I don’t understand something,” she said. “Why would you blow your cover when you could have had some other Fed approach me?” He sat quietly looking at her. “I mean, that’s a big risk if these people are so dangerous and you’ve spent years of your life on this case.” She raised her eyebrows. “Isn’t it?” A smile crept at the corner of his mouth.
“Young and pretty smart,” he replied. Just as he started another sentence his attention was drawn to the front door. “Go!” he yelled to her and jumped up out of his seat, gun drawn. Before she knew what was happening there was gunfire from all directions. People were screaming, glass was breaking, and her chair tipped. She fell onto the floor and scurried toward the bar. She huddled behind the bar. She saw a flash beside her. The bartender, a young man, dressed in black pants, black shoes and a white shirt had pulled a gun from behind the bar and fired over the top of the bar. Bottles shattered on the wall above her raining glass and liquor. She covered her head with her hands. The young man fell on the floor next to her. She wasn’t sure how long the gunfire lasted, but it felt like it was hours, maybe days, maybe months.
Just as she was thinking about making a run out through the kitchen, the gunfire started to subside. She was afraid to look over or around the bar. Soon, there was quiet. She heard a voice and fought the urge to yell for help. “Make sure we got them all and find the bag,” the voice said. She realized she was in more trouble. She heard a single gunshot. She didn’t know what was happening, but she imagined they were finishing off anyone with a little life left in them. She crawled quickly over broken glass to the body lying on the floor next to her. The noises she made were covered by moans, gunshots and other crunching coming from the restaurant.
She put her finger in the pool of blood and drew a line of blood from the corner of her mouth to her chin. She quickly positioned herself so she was sharing the pool of blood with the bartender. Not typically a religious woman, she said a quick prayer and apologized to God for being a stranger. There must have been three more shots before one of the men made it back to the bar area. She held her breath and kept her eyes open and still. He nudged her with his foot, but she didn’t move. There were sounds of sirens in the background.
“Let’s get out of here,” the man’s voice called. He looked right at her and smiled - proud of himself that she was dead, she thought. His face was burned into her memory - she recognized him as Ralston Rawlings. She thought she counted three men leave through the kitchen, and one was carrying her bags. She started to panic and shake. She turned her head and looked into eyes of the bartender, which didn’t show signs of life. A mixture of blood and booze soaked her hair, clothes, skin. The smell overtook the garlic of the Italian food. She scurried away from the body next to her, leaned up against the back of the bar, pulled her knees to her chest and began to cry. That’s the last thing she remembered clearly. Despite her best efforts, Kristine Larkin died that day.
Chapter Six
What happened next was a blur. She remembered bits and pieces. She remembered the bright lights at the hospital, and someone picking glass out of her legs, arms and hands. She remembered blurry faces asking her question after question. She asked for her mom. She asked for her dad. She asked for Will. She asked for Derrick. She thought she may have even asked for Burt Newman. No one came. She thought she spent a couple of days in the hospital, but she wasn’t sure.
Somehow she was transported from the hospital to a house. The shades were always drawn, and there were always at least two people with guns in the room with her or right outside the door. The doctors said she was in shock, or at least she thought she heard them say that. She was at the house for about a week and a half before she could even have an intelligent conversation with anyone.
She was at the kitchen table one morning when she realized she hadn’t seen a newspaper since the morning of the shooting. She looked up at the woman sitting next to her. Megan Rice spoke in a complete sentence for the first time. “I’d like a newspaper,” she said, her voice cracking.
“I’ll have to see if that’s allowed,” the woman said very dryly. She looked at the woman noticing her features. Everything seemed to be new.
“Who are you?” she asked. “Where am I? What’s happening?”
“You know who I am, Megan,” the woman said impatiently. “I’ve been with you since the hospital.” Megan looked confused.
“My name isn’t Megan. It’s Kristine,” she said.
“Not anymore.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. Her mind was fuzzy. She looked at her bandaged hands.
“That’s the shock and pain killers wearing off,” the woman said.
“Who are you?” Megan asked again.
“I’m Eileen Masters,” she said. Megan remembered having a conversation with someone named Eileen Masters the day of the shooting.
“Why am I here?”
“You’re testifying that Ralston Rawlings shot a b
unch of federal agents,” she said. “I figured you owed us that much. You’ll be here long enough for us to get your testimony submitted, and then you’ll be given a new place to live and a new job.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “I want to talk to Will Montgomery.”
“I’m sure you do. I want to talk to Justin McMichaels. I’m sure his family would like that, too.” Megan thought about that statement for a moment.
“Did he die?”
“Yes, he did. So did five other agents in the restaurant along with 12 civilians.” Megan choked on the words she heard.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“Your little game got out of hand, didn’t it?” Eileen Masters didn’t like Kristine or Megan or whatever her name was now. “There are some of us who put our lives on the line every day trying to make this a better world to live in for people who aren’t worth it.” Megan knew this meant her by the tone of the woman’s voice. “A lot of them died that day trying to protect you. And you… You had no regard for anyone other than yourself, you stupid girl.”
“Eileen,” a male’s voice said as he walked into the kitchen. “That’s enough.” Megan recognized the guy. He had been in the house with them.
“Is Will Montgomery okay?” she asked the man.
“Yes. He’s fine. He didn’t take the news of your death very well, though.” Megan felt herself start crying and breathing hard.
“Will thinks I’m dead?” she replied.
“Everyone does. The story of your untimely demise ran right next to your story about Rawlings,” Eileen said.
“My mom and dad think I’m dead, too?” she asked not fully comprehending what she heard.
“Everyone and most importantly the bad guys,” the man said.
“How can I testify if I’m dead?” she wondered out loud hoping to get some sort of opening to reclaim her name and her life.
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