Sky's Shadow

by Ted Galdi

  The curtains stay closed. Tommy makes his way to the house’s side hoping for a peek in. He finds three windows, two covered with blinds, the third cardboard and duct tape. Again, weird.

  He opens the latch on a gate leading to a manicured yard with a pool, a raft gliding across the water. The rear windows are like the rest, shrouded by curtain, blind, or cardboard. The whoosh of a sliding-glass door. In the doorway is the man Tommy caught for a split-second out front.

  A red robe hangs over his broad-shouldered frame, defined pectorals showing in the gap. He’s a bit taller than Tommy, with at least fifteen pounds of muscle on him. He’s shoeless, one foot a prosthetic.

  “What’re you doing on my property?” he asks.

  That’s the voice from Ayala’s phone.

  Glen Brent is the leader.

  Tommy’s central nervous system lights up. That’s him. Just twenty feet away. Tommy wants to bull-rush him. But holds back. He broke one promise to Jordana today and won’t a second.

  “Missed you at the front door,” Tommy says. “So checked back here. Probably shouldn’t have intruded. I’ll go.”

  Brent descends the three deck stairs, at the edge of each a garden gnome about a foot high, one’s hands over its ears, the next its mouth, the third its eyes, hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil.

  Brent walks across the grass to him, asks, “And who might you be?”

  “Just introducing myself to people in the neighborhood. I’m with a new-age diet organization in town. We prepare meal plans strictly involving the consumption of live fish. But now that I’m getting a look at you, doesn’t seem a fella in the shape you’re in needs any sort of a weight-loss regimen. I’ll get out of your hair.”

  Tommy paces toward the gate.

  Brent cuts him off.

  Forty-One

  Glen is convinced he knows who this punk is. Late twenties, early thirties. Sneaking around his property. Clearly with a sham story. Los Hombres del Vacio must’ve sent him. He likely abducted Cora. And now is back for him.

  “So you’re signing up new members for your organization?” Glen asks.

  “Yes sir. But we specialize in the morbidly obese. Obviously that’s not you. So—”

  “No, no. I want to hear more. I have a friend who’s morbidly obese. Maybe your system can help him.”

  “Just tell him to look us up online. We’re called Fishy Business.”

  “Cute. I commend you for starting this program. I—”

  “Well, I didn’t start it. Just work for it. But I’ll be happy to pass the feedback to the founder when I get back to headquarters.” He checks the time on his phone. “Where I am due in ten minutes. Shucks. I should really—”

  “If you are only supposed to speak to overweight individuals, some mistake must’ve been made with your leads list. You should look into the error. Could help you avoid oversights like this in the future. Only two people live here, myself and my wife. Neither of us has a body mass index on the spectrum of obesity. Where do you source weight data on your prospects?”

  “No, we do nothing like that. We don’t have a file of people’s weights. I’m just going door to door, speaking to everyone in your neighborhood. You weren’t specifically targeted. Neither was your wife.”

  “Then how come you know my name?”

  Silence for a few seconds.

  The punk says, “Not sure what you mean, sir.”

  “In front a couple minutes ago, you called out my name. Doctor Brent. Why do you know my name if you’re just canvassing the neighborhood?”

  The punk’s lip flinches. “Well, back at headquarters we have directories of who lives where. Public info. Outreach reps like me read it before going into the field.”

  “And you can memorize who resides in each home? Neat.”

  “My boss sometimes asks me if I ever wear a little hat and do tricks at the circus. You know, a memory like an—”

  “Elephant. Of course. If you’re that good, I’d love to see you show off.” Glen points at the house next door. “What’s the name of the family who lives there?”

  “The…they’re…huh. I didn’t have enough coffee this morning. I’m drawing a blank. This is pretty embarrassing. I’ll take it as my cue to leave. Have a good rest of the day, sir.” He steps toward the gate.

  Glen steps in front of him. “Why did you remember my name, then? What’s so special about me?”

  They stare into each other’s eyes for a few seconds. The punk throws a punch. Glen ducks it, then unleashes one of his favorite moves from military training, stabbing him in the throat with the ends of his fingers.

  The punk gasps, clutches his neck. Glen whips a right hook at him. But the punk blocks it and elbows him in the forehead. Glen grunts, kicks him in the stomach. The punk hunches forward. Glen knees him in the chin, drops him on all fours.

  “I’ll kill you,” the punk screams.

  Glen darts to the deck steps, grasps the gnome with its hands over its eyes. The punk staggers to his feet, sprints at him. Glen whacks him atop the head with the gnome. The punk falls to a knee. Glen hits him on the head harder, the force knocking his sunglasses off. He plummets face first to the grass.

  His eyes are closed. Glen grabs him under the armpits, tows his body into the pool shed. He rummages through a crate of supplies for bungee cords. Then wraps the punk’s wrists and ankles in sturdy military knots.

  Glen hoists the body over his shoulder and carries it through the sliding-glass doorway into the house. The punk mumbles something, blood from a cut on his head trickling down his face.

  “Shut up,” Glen says.

  “It’s you. I’m not you. I’m nothing like you.”

  “Shut up I said.”

  Glen heaves him into a wall. His head slams the hardwood floor, a thump echoing through the house. His eyes are closed again. Glen trots upstairs to his bedroom, changes into khakis and a polo shirt, and fishes through the black doctor’s bag in the closet. He loads a vial of sedative into a syringe, goes back downstairs.

  The punk has risen to his feet. Ankles clasped together, he hops along the floor. “You’re dead,” he yells. And delivers a sloppy head-butt. Misses.

  Glen laughs. Pushes him over, then sticks him in the arm with the needle. He holds his body to the hardwood, waits while the drug saps its vigor. When the punk loses consciousness, Glen collects his burner phone, a gun, and a few other items.

  He carries the punk into the garage, situates him in the passenger’s seat of his Aston Martin DB11. He climbs into the driver’s, stashes his gun in the glove box, and backs out.

  He calls Bo with his burner.

  “What’s good, brother?” Bo asks.

  “The gang got Cora.”

  “Shit. I thought you took off work to stay there and watch her?”

  “I did. They…I’ll explain later.”

  “She’s dead?”

  He takes a deep breath. “It’s possible. Or just kidnapped.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “Meet me at the warehouse. I got the guy who did it.”

  “Dead or alive?”

  “Alive. If Cora is alive too, he’s going to tell us where she is.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m going to make him. They same way you get information in a war. You inflict more and more pain until your enemy talks.”

  Forty-Two

  Jordana paces in the FBI case room dedicated to the investigation. A middle-aged male agent with pockmarked cheeks says, “I tracked down archived listings from the three biggest private-transaction auto-sale websites. Filtered them to ones about white box trucks in the greater San Diego area.”

  “If he didn’t register the vehicle under his real name, what would make you think he used his real name on some website?”

  Jordana glimpses her phone. Over a half-hour passed since Tommy went to that doctor’s house to verify his voice. And he still hasn’t contacted her with the result.

  The male agent
says, “No way he used his real name. But the seller of the truck likely did. Had no reason not to. I can call them all, ask if they remember anything about the person they sold their trucks to. Maybe they chitchatted about work. Something about being a doctor came out. And the seller gives us a defining facial feature on the buyer.”

  “It’s a stretch. And will be a slog. People rarely answer calls anymore from numbers they don’t recognize. But…we’re out of other ideas. So yeah, go for it.”

  “Great. As for a phone script, I could—”

  “Excuse me.” She pretends to receive a text, read it on her screen. “Dammit.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “No actually. They’re doing work at my apartment building. A pipe just burst.”

  “Oh no.”

  “I have to…check on my unit. I’ll be back in the office soon. Fully available on my phone until then. Email me the script you have in mind.”

  She steps out of the room. Goes down to her bureau-issued Chevy Blazer in the garage. And drives toward 873 Laredo Drive.

  “Shit,” she screams, slapping the wheel. If the doctor who lives there is the voice’s owner, she sent Tommy to the home of one of the most dangerous men in America without backup.

  She is angry he lied to her, but still wants to help him. He is different than all those other guys, the ones she meets on dating apps, the ones her friends’ boyfriends set her up with. The lawyers, the finance bros, the tech executives. They all bore her. Tommy doesn’t. She tells herself she isn’t falling for him. Then realizes she’s lying.

  Overwhelmed, she craves a release. And feels an urge she hasn’t since high school. When striving to get into Stanford, she told her dad not to donate any money to the school so she could do it on her own, and would cut herself when the coursework grew too demanding. She takes a deep breath and repels the impulse.

  She coasts to a stop in front of a house with an American flag in the lawn. She steps out of her car, peeks into Tommy’s. Not there. She rings the doorbell. No answer. She glances around the corner of the home. The latch on the backyard gate is open.

  The side windows are veiled like the ones in front, one with cardboard. She pushes the gate, steps into the backyard, and sweeps her gaze over the acre or so of land. No Tommy, no anyone.

  But something is in the grass. She walks to it. A gnome, its hands over its eyes. A smear of blood on it. A smaller object glints nearby. She crouches. And stares at Tommy’s sunglasses.

  Her heartbeat picks up. She unsheathes her gun, holds it in front of her. The sliding-glass door at the rear of the house is open. She approaches with cautious steps. And peers inside. Shivers of glass on the kitchen floor, the guts of a blender on top of them, a demolished microwave jutting out of a cabinet.

  She holds her ear to the doorway listening for indications of people. Voices, a TV, anything. A half-minute passes. Nothing.

  She sticks her head in the house. “Tommy.”

  No reply.

  She paces on the deck, calls him. He doesn’t pick up. She tries again, same result.

  “Goddammit,” she says.

  Then rubs her forehead and dials the only other person who might be able to help her.

  Clyde says, “What’s up, Quick?”

  “I’ve got good news and bad.”

  “Oh man. All right.”

  “The good, I think we might finally have a name for the leader. The bad, I think he has Tommy.”

  “How’d you find out who he was?”

  “We didn’t.”

  “I thought you just said—”

  “The FBI didn’t. Tommy…maybe did.”

  “How?”

  “I’m not entirely sure. It doesn’t matter. He’s in trouble. He needs our help.”

  “I’m not involved in this anymore.”

  “You’re the only person I could call. Nobody at the bureau would understand.”

  “I’m the last person who’d understand. You think I want to help Dapino, after what he did to me?”

  “He can be a jerk. I know. He lied to you. And today he lied to me. Does he deserve to die because of it?”

  A pause. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where’s the suspect?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’re you even proposing we do then?”

  “I…don’t know.”

  “Quick.”

  “What?”

  “Take a deep breath.”

  She does. “Just…meet me. Let’s figure this out.”

  “I’m off the case. If I intervene, I could get fired. I can’t just—”

  “This isn’t about the case.”

  “What?”

  “It is…but…right now…it’s about…look, what Tommy did to you was wrong. But I think he’s had a hard life. He has issues.”

  “No shit. Tried to convince me he had a room at some seaside resort. On the way back from Mexico, I saw a toothbrush and toothpaste in his car. Pretty sure he’s staying in it.”

  “He’s told me similar things. He’s…I don’t know…sort of lost. But he’s not a bad person.”

  Clyde laughs. “So it’s mutual.”

  “What is?”

  “You like him.”

  “I don’t think he’s a bad person. He—”

  “No, no. More than that. Something’s going on between you two.”

  “No it isn’t.”

  “So you’re not into him then?”

  A moment. “No.”

  “I’ve seen this, Quick. Especially with young agents. You have a lot of promise. Don’t let some handsome face cloud your professional judgment. In the FBI, one slip could ruin your career.”

  “I…thanks for the advice. But…can we not talk about this now? An innocent guy’s life is on the line, if it’s not already gone. I’m just asking you to help me find him. Can you help me?”

  Forty-Three

  Tommy wakes up. A pain in his head. It throbs against the stainless-steel table he’s lying on. He tries to roll off. A clang. He’s stopped. His arms are chained to the table. His legs too.

  Twenty feet or so above him lights and an industrial fan hang among rafters. He supposes he’s in a warehouse. Two vehicles are parked by the garage door, a fancy sports car and a pickup truck.

  To his right is a multi-knobbed contraption of pumps and valves he pegs as an anesthesia machine, recalling something similar years ago in Queens during his tonsil removal. To his left is a block of shelving. On the bottom level are four boxes with “UW Cold Storage Solution” printed on their sides. On the top two are red-and-white coolers. Straining his eyes, he reads pen-scrawled writing on strips of masking tape stuck to them. “Kidney – O Positive.” “Liver – O Negative.” “Pancreas – A Positive.”

  These must be what Danielle saw in the box truck. He screams, “Help. Someone, help.”

  Footsteps behind him. Brent paces into view. “Nobody can hear you.”

  Tommy concludes he’s right, no windows on the big cinderblock walls. He glares at Brent. “You’re no doctor. You’re a disease.”

  “So, saving a girl’s face from a razor makes me a disease. But doing the maiming is what…healthy behavior?”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Where is my wife?”

  “What? I have no idea.”

  “Make this easy on yourself.”

  More footsteps. Standing at Brent’s side is a stocky man with a coarse, reddish-blond beard. Tommy assumes the second White suspect.

  “Is she even alive?” Brent asks.

  “I never met the woman. I wouldn’t—”

  “What did you do to her?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What did your associates do to her?”

  “What associates?”

  “Do you really think I bought that act about you working for a diet program?”

  “That was bullshit. Fine. But I know nothing about your wife. That’s the truth.�
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  “If you lied to me about one thing, you very well could lie to me about another.”

  “You know what’s a bigger lie? That nice house of yours. The nice job. Nice clothes. Just a disguise to hide who you really are.”

  “You work for a gang that participated right alongside me.”

  “You think I work for Los Hombres del Vacio?”

  “So you’re admitting you know who they are?”

  “I…no…it…let me out of here you crazy son of a bitch.”

  Brent disappears behind him, returns with a scalpel. “A good doctor knows how to use this to cause the least amount of damage to a patient. In order to avoid damage, you must of course be aware of what causes it. Thus, a good doctor knows how to use this to cause the most possible damage as well. The most agony. If of course motivated.” A pause. “I ask again. Where is my wife?”

  “If I was in a gang, I’d have a tattoo, right? You ever hear of a gangster without one? Look under my shirt.”

  With the scalpel, Brent shreds the sleeves of Tommy’s dress shirt. Then rips open the buttons. He and his partner peer at arms and a torso lacking tattoos.

  “See,” Tommy says.

  “Maybe you have an allergy to ink. This proves nothing.”

  “I’m not even Mexican. I’m an Italian guy from Queens. Look in my wallet. Front-right pocket.”

  Brent pulls out the wallet, headphones tangled around it. He slides out the New York driver’s license. Studies it for a couple seconds. “Dapino,” he says, looking at his partner.

  “That sounds kind of familiar, brother. Right?”

  “I’m sure you’ve been watching news coverage of your murder,” Tommy says. “One of your victims was a Dapino. They mentioned her name. Did you realize that, the people you butchered, they have names? They have names. And they have families. Danielle Dapino. She was my sister. You killed her. And I’m going to make you pay.”

  The partner says, “How? You going to squeal really loud when Glen starts on you? Hurt our ears?”

  He chuckles. Brent doesn’t join him. He slips the driver’s license in his pocket, tosses the wallet and headphones over his shoulder, and asks Tommy, “How’d you find me?”