Total Mayhem

by John Gilstrap

  While they waited, Jonathan asked Venice, “Need I ask where this video feed came from?”

  “Only if you’re in denial,” she said. “I reiterate that we should hire him.”

  “I know that’s what you want,” Jonathan said. “But you know, if he worked here, he wouldn’t have access to this same stuff.”

  She offered a dismissive snort of a laugh. “Have you talked to him about that?”

  “Yes, I have. At the airport.”

  “No, you talked at him, not with him. You made a speech and essentially shut him down.”

  “The way it is, is working.”

  “The way it is, is unfair,” she countered. “You know he risks arrest every day he helps us out.”

  “We all risk arrest every day,” Jonathan said.

  “It’s not the same, and you know it.”

  She had him. He did know it. The NSA teemed with armed guards who could swoop in and yank Derek out of his chair and send him to jail in a place that his coworkers likely didn’t even know existed.

  “He doesn’t have to help us,” Jonathan said. “It’s his choice to do so.”

  Venice’s head whipped around, and now she was angry. “You know he’s trying to impress you. He hates his job.”

  Jonathan inhaled deeply and didn’t reply.

  Venice’s expression changed. “What?” she said.

  “What, what?”

  “You’re not telling me something,” she pressed.

  “Oh, come on, Ven. You’re not the mind reader you think you are.”

  “I’ve known you for as long as I’ve known my own mother,” she said, stating fact. “Jonathan Gravenow wasn’t as shut down as Jonathan Grave is. You still have the same mannerisms now that you had then. So, let me have it.”

  Jonathan deeply did not want to chase the rabbit down this hole. “We’ll talk about it after this meeting,” he said. “I promise.”

  As if summoned as cavalry, Gail arrived at the door to the War Room. “What’ve we got?”

  Boxers arrived a minute later. When they were all caught up, Big Guy said, “Culpeper. I’ve been to that town. There’s nothing worth attacking. Hell, even the hardware store closed down.”

  “Maybe we should watch what he’s doing there,” Venice said. “TickTock was able to put a number of sources and images together in a timeline.”

  “If that guy is going to be around here, we need to get him a different name,” Boxers said. “TickTock is a name for an elf, not an operator.”

  “He’s not an operator,” Jonathan said.

  “The screen, people,” Venice snapped. “Watch the screen.”

  Kellner seemed to be looking around the town, not engaged with anything or anybody.

  “He likes that parking lot,” Gail said. “Seems to be something there that intrigues him.”

  And then he was walking again.

  “Wait a second, Ven,” Jonathan said. “Go back to the lot Gail was talking about.”

  The pictures changed.

  “How long was he there, watching?”

  She clicked through the various time-stamped photos, clearly stitched together from different angles. “Looks like about two minutes,” she announced.

  “That’s a long time compared to everything else he’s doing,” Gail observed.

  “Okay, go on,” Jonathan said. Three images later, he was gone, and then he was back again. Watching stop action like this gave the impression that he disappeared and then reappeared, a la Harry Potter. “That was weird,” he said.

  “Again, look at the time stamp,” Venice said. “Twenty minutes passed. He must have gone into that diner.”

  “And they don’t have a camera?” Boxers asked.

  “I can only presume not,” Venice said, “or I’m confident that we’d have footage.”

  They watched as Kellner walked back toward the parking lot. He didn’t seem to be concerned, and he no longer seemed to be scouting the place out. He was walking with purpose.

  The angle changed again, and now there was a second person in the frame.

  “Hel-lo,” Boxers said, with a God-awful attempt at a British accent. “Who have we here?”

  “She looks young,” Gail said.

  “Goes with the pattern, doesn’t it?” Jonathan said. “Even down to the diner.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Gail said. “The Provost kid was the one eating in the diner.”

  The way the images were timed, they couldn’t see the actual moment when Kellner and the girl passed.

  “I say she’s just another pedestrian,” Boxers said. “Other people are allowed to be out on the sidewalk.”

  The angle shifted again, and now they saw Kellner continuing on his way.

  “Wait!” Jonathan said. He’d nearly shouted it. “Go back one.”

  The image changed.

  “What?” Gail said.

  “He’s just walking,” Boxers agreed.

  “You’re looking at the wrong person,” Venice said.

  Jonathan smiled. They really did often think alike. “It’s the girl,” he said. “Look at the top of your screen. She’s turned around and looking back at Kellner.”

  “Think he said something crass?” Boxers guessed.

  “We don’t know,” Jonathan said.

  “Maybe it was a brush pass,” Gail said. “Or, maybe he smelled bad. We can guess at this all day.”

  “But it was something,” Jonathan said. “And in the absence of pretty much everything, I’m happy to take a something. Ven, how can we find out who that girl is?”

  Venice stared back at him. “I have no idea,” she said after a few seconds. “I suppose we could run her face through the local high school yearbook and try to get a match.”

  “I don’t think she’s that young, do you?” Jonathan asked.

  “Probably not, but chances are that she’s too young to be in any other database. Her drivers’ license, maybe. Let me check.”

  Venice spun her chair back to her keyboard and started typing.

  “You’re not suggesting that we go to Culpeper, are you?” Boxers asked.

  “I don’t know what I’m suggesting,” Jonathan said. “At this point—”

  “Oh, no,” Venice moaned, genuine sadness in her tone. “I think I have a name for our girl. Cindy McVeigh, age twenty.”

  “Holy crap, that was fast,” Jonathan said. “Why do you think it’s her?”

  “Because twenty-year-old Cindy McVeigh was killed yesterday afternoon while she was alone in the shop where she works.”

  Jonathan felt his stomach flip. It had to be connected to Kellner. How could it not be?

  “The news is just hitting the internet,” Venice explained. “And the police have posted a picture of their unnamed person of interest.” She clicked, and the screen filled with yet another fuzzy security camera image, this one of an overweight man with a bald head.

  “Not our guy,” Boxers said.

  “I’m not so sure,” Jonathan said. “Can you get that image to TickTock and see if he can work some magic?”

  “I don’t understand what you’re doing, Dig,” Gail said.

  Jonathan looked back at the screen. “I hope I’m wrong, but right now, the smart money says that Kellner spent the day getting a new identity.”

  * * *

  Evers piloted his stolen Kia Serrano to the end of Church Street, where it teed with Water Street, and was surprised to find a firehouse there. According to his research, this was the location for Security Solutions. Could he have gone to the wrong spot?

  He parked and checked the mirror to make sure that his nose and chin prostheses looked natural. The fake teeth made his real teeth ache, but he hoped that the subtle squint of pain would add character to his now-blue eyes. Satisfied, he climbed out of the vehicle and rolled a quarter into the meter, granting him two hours in the space. “How could anyone possibly spend two hours here?”

  He supposed the place was charming enough in that old Virginia sm
all-town way, and being on the water was always nice, but Jesus, living here would drive him nuts.

  Just up the hill, a majestic stone church rose from a massive churchyard. The brown sign with gold letters along the street identified the structure as St. Katherine’s Catholic Church. In smaller letters were the words FR. DOMINIC D’ANGELO, OSFS, PASTOR.

  “Huh,” Evers said. His research into Resurrection House had highlighted Father D’Angelo as a prominent player in Resurrection House’s administration. And the school itself was affiliated with St. Katherine’s. Not only was this a small town, but it was the center of a small world.

  As he walked up the hill, past the church, he considered going inside to find out more from this D’Angelo guy, but decided to put that off. Instead, he kept going. He wanted to check out the ginormous mansion that he’d passed on the way in. Honest to God, the place was a palace, occupying what had to be six or seven acres of land. The architect had clearly been inspired by Tara of Gone with the Wind fame, but this was Tara on steroids.

  He was surprised that the house itself sat so close to the road, less than a hundred yards, but then, judging from the age of the place, he imagined it had something to do with the run of underground utilities.

  As he got closer, he saw that there were other buildings behind the mansion, far more modern in their construction, with a more utilitarian look. The complex bore no signage, but he figured that this place had to be Resurrection House. An iron fence ran the length of the property in the front along the road, but the gate was open, and beyond the gate, about halfway between the street and the house, a stout African American woman appeared to be attending to a bird feeder.

  Evers climbed the few steps to the front walk, passed through the gate, and approached the woman. He walked easily, a smile on his face.

  The woman seemed startled at first, but then she smiled, too.

  “Good morning,” he said. Then he checked his watch. “Oops, I guess it’s afternoon now. My name’s Joe Vitale.” He extended his hand.

  The woman shook with him, but she clearly didn’t like it. “Mama,” she said. “And if you’re sellin’ or tryin’ to get me to vote for one guy over the other, you are in the wrong place.”

  Evers laughed. “None of those things, I promise. This is a beautiful building. Did you say your name was Mama?”

  “I did, and yes, it is.”

  “Just Mama?”

  “That’s all you need. Mention Mama to anyone in town and half the county, and they’ll know who I am. Been here a long time. Now, how can I help you?”

  “Is this Resurrection House?”

  Mama recoiled. She didn’t like the question. “Who are you?”

  Evers took a step back. Literally. “I seem to have offended you. I’m sorry. I’m just here on business, and I’m a fan of Southern architecture. I’ve heard of Resurrection House and the great work you do, and when I saw you I just wanted to say hi.”

  “Well, hi, then,” Mama said. “What’s your business here?” Behind her, a uniformed guard with a short-barreled rifle slung across his chest stepped out from inside the front door onto the mansion’s porch. He didn’t say anything, but his posture communicated for him. State your business and get out.

  “My business isn’t actually here,” Evers said. “I’m looking for a place called Security Solutions. I went to the address, but there’s a firehouse there.”

  Mama’s face bloomed with amusement, and she laughed. “No, you got the right place,” she said. “That’s where they’re located. On the third floor. Use the door on the left.”

  Evers made a point of smiling. “Thank you very much, Mama.” He didn’t bother to shake hands again. Instead, he turned and headed back down the walk.

  He’d taken maybe ten steps when Mama called to him. “You got an appointment? You won’t get very far in there without an appointment. My Jonny’s a stickler on appointments.”

  Evers smiled. “Who’s Jonny?”

  Something passed in Mama’s eyes, as if maybe she she’d said something she shouldn’t have. “He’s the man who runs the place,” she said.

  “Jonathan Grave,” Evers said. “Yeah, he’s the man I need to talk to. “It’s a private investigating company, right?”

  “That’s right,” Mama said. “It’s all in the name. They take the security part of it pretty seriously.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Mama. Have a great day.”

  By the time he got to the bottom of the hill and turned the corner of Water Street, it was clear that the folks in Resurrection House had called ahead. A uniformed security guard, a clone of the other one, right down to the MP7 machine pistol, had positioned himself outside the entrance door.

  “You Mr. Vitale?” the guard asked. He bore no name tag and no visible rank insignia, but he clearly had a military background.

  “I am,” Evers said. “You guys expecting a war?”

  “How can I help you.”

  “I’m here to see Jonathan Grave.”

  “We don’t have you on the visitor’s list.”

  “I don’t have an appointment.”

  “Then I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time.”

  “Can you at least tell him I’m here?” Evers asked.

  “He’s busy.”

  “Please tell him it’s important. A matter of life and death.”

  The guard seemed amused by the cliché. “Whose?” he asked.

  “Mr. Grave’s, for one. And everyone else he cares for.” Evers hardened his features.

  The guard settled his hand on the pistol grip of his MP7. “You need to be careful about making threats, sir. And I mean really careful.”

  Evers took a menacing step forward. “I know it doesn’t show,” he said. “But I’m trembling all over. Could you deliver the message, please? I’ll wait here.”

  The guard’s eyes never left Evers as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and punched a speed dial button. After a few seconds, he said, “Yes, sir, this is Unit One. We have a visitor at the door who says it’s important to speak with you. His name is Vitale. Joe Vitale. He presented a direct threat to your life. How do you want to handle it?”

  A pause as he listened.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll tell him, sir.” As the guard clicked off and slid his phone back into his pocket, he said, “Mr. Grave will be down in a few minutes.”

  While they waited, two more security guards materialized, one from up the street and another from inside the building. “You’ve got quite a fortress in this town,” Evers said.

  The guards remained silent.

  “I guess billionaires deserve a little extra security,” Evers said.

  “Yes, they do.” These words came from behind Evers, from a stubby, mean-looking cop with a gold badge that read CHIEF. His name tag read KRAMER.

  “Did someone call you?” Evers asked. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Am I arresting you?” Kramer asked. “I’m just here to see what the crowd is about.”

  Five minutes after Unit One made his phone call, the firehouse door opened, and Jonathan Grave emerged into the chilly sunshine. He was accompanied by one of the largest men Evers had ever seen. He had the body of a linebacker, the height of a point guard, and he exuded menace. For the first time, it occurred to Evers that this might not have been a good plan, after all.

  Grave approached to within five feet and positioned himself so that the cocked and locked 1911 pistol was clearly visible in its holster. The monster was armed, too, but Evers couldn’t make out the model.

  “This is a lot of firepower for a chat,” Evers said.

  “This is your meeting, Mr. Vitale,” Grave said.

  Evers made a point of scanning the stern faces. “This is kind of a sensitive matter,” he said. “Can we speak in private?”

  The big man said, “Nope.” He had the kind of voice that made the concrete rumble.

  “Say your piece and move on,” Grave said. “I trust every one of th
ese men with my life.”

  Evers was in too deep to stop now. “All right then. I happen to know that you’re involved in something that you shouldn’t be. I came to warn you to leave it alone.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grave said.

  “I think you do,” Evers said. He had to walk a fine line here, especially with the cop standing there. “I have a job to do, and if you get in the way, I will be very angry.”

  “Isn’t that cute?” the monster said. “The little man needs a hug.”

  “Up yours,” Evers said. “Deny what you want, but I have a job to do, and I happen to know that everything that’s important to you is here in this little town, and all of it is vulnerable. Breakable.”

  Chief Kramer stepped in closer. “Are you making a threat to Mr. Grave?”

  Evers smiled. “No threat. Just an observation.”

  Grave said, “It sounds like he’s talking about some form of retribution.”

  * * *

  Vitale tried his best to keep expressionless, but Jonathan saw the flash in his eyes when he leaned on the word retribution. He’d catch hell from Boxers later for showing their hand, but this Vitale guy—clearly a cover name—somehow already knew that they were involved. The denial game would accomplish nothing.

  “Again,” Vitale said. “I’m merely making an observation.”

  “And a promise, perhaps?” Jonathan asked.

  Vitale’s features twisted into a pained smirk. “Perhaps. Let’s call it an implied promise.”

  Jonathan took a step closer to the man. Vitale didn’t step back until Boxers advanced, too. “Let’s match promise for promise,” Jonathan said. “You stop doing what you’re doing, and we never have to cross paths again.”

  Vitale eyed Jonathan for a long time before he said, “I suppose that’s a fair deal.” Then he turned away.

  “Excuse me, Chief,” he said, and he started to cross the street.

  “Hey,” Jonathan called after him.

  Vitale turned.

  “You’re right that everything important to me is in this town. You cannot imagine the lengths I would go to protect it.”

  Vitale smiled. “I admire that,” he said. “I always admire a man willing to fall on his own sword. Have a nice day.”

  Jonathan and the assembled posse of gunfighters watched in silence as Vitale walked to his Kia, pulled a U-turn out of his parking spot, and headed back up Church Street.