Sky's Shadow

by Ted Galdi

  “The FBI is after us and we just killed a guy,” Bo says. “Need a place to hang for a little.”

  Hawks takes a drag of his cigar, blows out the smoke, and motions them inside with his head. He leads them into the den, a mounted buck head on the wall. He sits in an armchair, Bo and Glen on a couch. They tell him about their transplants initiative and today’s debacles.

  “You boys are patriots,” Hawks says.

  “Thank you brother,” Bo replies.

  “I’ve got a guy in Nevada. Ran a couple paramilitary ops with him after Afghanistan. Good with data, systems, documents. Shit like that. He can find you whatever you need to get off the grid, out of the country. Phony passports. Identities. I’ll get him on the horn.”

  Glen says, “Not yet.”

  “Feds work fast. You need to disappear. What’s stopping you?”

  “One more job tonight. One more round of surgeries tomorrow. Then we’re done. We leave America for good.” He glances at Bo and lifts his eyebrows, as if to ask if this arrangement works for him.

  Bo nods yes.

  “Risky,” Hawks says. “But I suppose anything worthwhile in this country can only be accomplished by someone with a taste for risk.”

  Glen pulls Thomas Dapino’s driver’s license from his pocket, shows it to Hawks, and says, “I’d appreciate if your friend in Nevada could get started on this. He’s who found me. I want to know everything about him.”

  Hawks snaps a photo of the ID with his phone. “Anything else you boys need?”

  “Supplies,” Glen says. “With our faces all over police computers, we obviously can’t walk into a Walmart. If you could pick some stuff up we’d need for tonight, it’d be pivotal. I’ll give you a list. Let me know the bill when you get back. I’ll compensate you every cent with bitcoin, plus a service fee…say twenty percent on top.”

  “I appreciate your cause. But I’m also aiding and abetting two federal fugitives. Let’s make it thirty.”

  Glen extends his hand. Hawks shakes it. While Glen composes a supplies list, Bo turns on the television. He flips through channels, stops on a news one. On the screen a photograph of Glen smiling among coworkers at a VA-sponsored charity event, next to it one of Bo from his army days, across the bottom “MURDEROUS MANHUNT.” A newswoman provides a voiceover summary of last week’s shooting in the woods.

  The network cuts to a clip of the female FBI agent from the warehouse, reporters with microphones following her in a parking lot asking for a comment. She says, “They killed my partner. They’re armed, extremely dangerous. If anyone sees either of these men, do not approach. Go to a safe location and immediately call nine-one-one. Excuse me.” She gets into a car.

  “That’s who’s after you?” Hawks asks.

  “We should’ve killed her too,” Bo says.

  “Oh no. A glorious specimen like that? No, no.”

  “What?”

  “In war, when you come across a beautiful enemy woman, you don’t kill her.” He licks his lips. “Not at first at least.”

  “You’ve got gear to pick up. Let’s—”

  “Did you get up close to her in the warehouse?”

  “Sort of. Why?”

  “What did she smell like?”

  “Come on dude.”

  “You wouldn’t have intercourse with her?”

  A pause. “Of course I’d bang her. But that’s—”

  “I rest my case. I’ll see you boys soon.” Hawks grabs his wallet and keys, steps outside.

  Glen and Bo keep watching the news coverage. The channel cuts to live footage of a correspondent on a porch with a boyish-faced, mid-thirties man Glen recognizes.

  The correspondent says, “I’m in Duluth, Minnesota with military veteran Clint Erickson. Who just contacted the network with a shocking claim. In May, he says he flew to San Diego for an organ transplant at the hands of Glen Brent. According to him, Brent and his accomplice, Beaufort ‘Bo’ Archer, may be killing homeless people for their organs. And then implanting them inside sick veterans. Mister Erickson, what can you tell us about your experience?”

  “I was really ill last winter. And didn’t have a donor. Then a miracle came. A guy I deployed with told me about this man who does transplants for US vets for just a few thousand bucks. It seemed too good to be true. So I did some research online. And it checked out. Real veterans were applying for this program, flying to California, and coming home with a new chance at life. I was so overwhelmed it was, that it was…you know…that it was going to happen for me…that I didn’t ask questions I should’ve.”

  “About where the organs came from?”

  “I just assumed the donors consented. That it was a sort of charity. So I applied. And a few weeks later received a message telling me to get to San Diego in the next twenty-four hours for an operation. I did. Where I met a man who never gave me a name. But like he promised, gave me the surgery I needed. I thought he was a hero. Until I saw his face again on the news. Now I know where the organs really came from.”

  “If Doctor Brent happens to be watching this, do you have anything you’d like to say to him?”

  Client looks into the camera. “You have no right. No right to do what you did. You aren’t performing a good for us soldiers. You’re cursing us. Now I have to live the rest of my life knowing part of a murdered person is inside me. I would’ve rather let my disease run its course. I would’ve rather died an honorable soldier’s death. Now every breath I take is in disgrace. Because of you. You took my honor from me. And you took the honor from all the other vets you thought you were helping.”

  “Wow, a powerful statement…”

  The interview continues, but Glen no longer listens. He feels as if a hammer is smashing spikes beneath the toenails of his missing right foot. He screams.

  “What?” Bo asks.

  “Phantom pain.”

  “Uh…what should I do?”

  “Nothing.” Glen writhes. “Let me feel it. I need to feel it.” He bites the couch cushion. A growl.

  In about a minute the pain subsides. He pants.

  “Better?” Bo asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t let this crap get to you. You’re above it.” Bo turns off the TV. “You’re the bravest guy I know. When Erickson is celebrating his sixtieth birthday someday with his wife and kids, he’s going to thank you. Thank you for giving him his life back. Giving him decades he never would’ve had. He may not say it publicly. But he will to himself. We’re giving these people the best gift in the world. Others will be appreciative, vets like Hawks who see things the way we do.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “One last trip into the jungle. Let’s make it count.”

  “There won’t be a trip unless we get all the supplies we need. Hawks can buy the basics. But not the specialized medical equipment I’d need to perform transplants. All ours is back at the warehouse. Now a crime scene.”

  Bo strokes his beard. “What the hell do we do about that?”

  “I have an idea. But it’s borderline insane.”

  “At this point, we may need a dash of insane on our side.”

  Forty-Eight

  Tommy wanders inside the first restaurant he sees that looks like it’d have a bar. Some chain with a dumb name, its decor an Applebee’s rip-off. A group of three sits at the bar, two men and a woman around Tommy’s age in business attire, probably on lunch break from one of the corporate low-rises he walked past from the hospital. Ten or so patrons scattered about the dining room, four of them noisy kids with a fortyish lady.

  Eyeballs sway toward Tommy, still in his torn shirt, most of his abdomen exposed. He sinks onto a stool. The bartender, a mid-twenties woman with pudgy cheeks, steps to him.

  “Shot of Jack,” he says. “Double.”

  “Sir…we have a dress code.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’d be happy to serve you if you changed, came back.”

  “You’ve never seen rippe
d jeans before? It’s a ripped shirt. Fashion statement. Same shit.”

  “Your whole…chest and stomach are out.”

  A few of his buttons are missing. He attaches the remaining ones. “All right?”

  Gaps of flesh show between the fabric. “I suppose. Yeah. What did you want again, Jim Beam?”

  “No. Jack. Double.” He sets his elbow on the bar, his head in his hand. He overhears one of the males in the corporate trio telling a story. A brag about some big ski jump he did on vacation last winter in Utah.

  The bartender places a wide-rimmed shot glass full of brown booze in front of Tommy. He dumps it down his throat. “One more.”

  “One as in a single? Or another double?”

  “Double.”

  She refills the glass. He slugs it back.

  “Oh…jeez,” she says.

  “What?”

  “You. You’re bleeding.”

  A couple crimson drops on the bar top. He leans over it, glimpses himself in a Miller Lite mirror. A line of blood runs from his hairline down the side of his face. Val hitting him at the hospital must’ve opened up the cut on his head from Brent’s garden gnome.

  He chuckles. “Guess I am.”

  “You need to clean yourself up.” She peels a bunch of napkins from a stack, sticks them in front of him with a plastic cup of water.

  He dips a napkin in the cup, wipes his face. Then checks out his reflection. Wipes some more. He notices the corporate guy with the ski-jump story is looking at him with a smirk.

  Tommy crushes the napkin into a ball, drops it on the floor. “See something funny?”

  “No, not at all.” The smirk remains.

  Tommy marches to him. “Say one more thing to me. And I will end you. You understand? I will end you.”

  Tommy clenches his teeth, waits. The smirk disappears.

  “Sir, you need to go,” the bartender says. She points at the door.

  “I’ll go back to my stool.”

  “No. You’ll go back outside. Or I’m calling the cops.”

  “One more drink.”

  “No. You’re paying for the two you had. Thirty-six fifty. Then you’re leaving.”

  He takes a deep breath. Slides his hand into his pocket. Remembers his wallet is back at the warehouse. “I…uh…don’t have any money on me.”

  “Typical.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You know what? Forget about the bill. Just get the hell out of here.”

  Everyone in the restaurant, even the four kids, gape at him. “So I’m the bad guy?” he says to them all. “Is that it? I’m the bad guy?”

  “Go. Now.”

  “I could buy this whole place if I wanted to. First thing I’d do is fire you.” He storms out.

  Forty-Nine

  Tommy roams the streets of San Diego’s Mira Mesa neighborhood. The sun is hot. And he hasn’t had a glass of water all day.

  He calls Jordana. She doesn’t pick up. Her recorded voice says, “This is Special Agent Jordana Quick. Please leave a message after the tone.”

  “I’m going back to New York. But first I need to tell you what Brent told me in the warehouse. Before you got there. It could help with your case. Call me back.” He hangs up.

  He walks around in the mid-nineties heat for fifteen minutes waiting for her to return his call. She doesn’t. He hails a taxi. “Carmel Valley,” he says, stepping in. “Eight seventy-three Laredo Drive.”

  The cabbie drives him to Brent’s house. Yellow tape around the property. FBI evidence technicians buzzing about. “Wait here,” Tommy says. “I’ll pay you in a sec.” He opens the door.

  “That’s not how this works. You need—”

  “It’s this or nothing.” He steps out.

  “This portion of the street is restricted, sir,” a cop on guard says.

  Tommy points at his parked rental. “Just grabbing my car and going.”

  “Make it fast.”

  Tommy gets in, rolls up to the cabbie, extends him Danielle’s necklace. “It’s worth way more than that ride. It’s all I have.”

  The cabbie snatches it. Spits on the pavement. Drives off.

  Tommy heads to the FBI office. He parks in the visitor lot, paces into the building. Faces in the lobby stare at him. Maybe because of his shirt. Maybe because of the scene he made in here yesterday. Maybe a combination.

  He steps to reception. Asks the woman behind the desk, “Can you tell Agent Quick Tommy Dapino is here to see her?”

  “One moment.” She makes a call. Relays the message. Then tells him, “Agent Quick said she’s busy.”

  “Please let her know I don’t want to embarrass her. Don’t have to talk inside, in front of everyone. She can meet me around back.”

  The receptionist passes the message. Then says to Tommy, “She’ll give you one minute, she says. No longer.”

  “Thank you.” He veers toward the back of the structure.

  A door opens. Jordana in the doorway, arms crossed. “What is it?”

  “I have intel. That can help you find Brent.”

  “Myself and my team of agents inside are fine on our own. How am I supposed to trust any information from you after you lied at my apartment?”

  “What happened at your apartment was debatable.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t. But everything I told you after that was pure truth. I tried leaving Brent’s backyard. I tried letting you have the arrest. I wanted—”

  “I don’t care about analyzing the layers of your BS. I really don’t. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “It does. Brent’s face was right over mine on that table in the warehouse. In his eyes was…obsession. If he has another attack planned tonight, despite the manhunt, he’ll go through with it. You—”

  “I know. We pulled his records. He was a standout soldier in Desert Storm. Silver Star for valor. Archer has an accomplished military resume too. These aren’t quitters.”

  “So don’t you want as much intel as possible to fight back?”

  “Not from you.”

  “I screwed up today.” He throws his hands in the air. “All right? Holy shit. Let’s not let that ruin the rest of this investigation.”

  “You’re not part of this investigation.”

  He holds up his index finger. “I found out where Carlos Ayala lived. Before the FBI did.” He holds up a second finger. “I pieced together that this was all about organ trafficking. Before the FBI did.” He holds up a third finger. “I found out Glen Brent was at the top of this. And led us to a warehouse filled with physical evidence linking him to the crimes. Before the FBI did. Do I not deserve to be heard at least?”

  “God, fine. What?”

  “Brent’s wife. What do you guys know about her?”

  “Cora Brent. Thirty. Eight months pregnant. She drives a silver Porsche Cayenne Turbo. Vehicle isn’t at the couple’s home. We have an APB out for it, nothing back yet. We assume she’s on the run with her husband.”

  “Doubt it.”

  “Then where is she?”

  “I don’t know. But he said something really weird about her at the warehouse. About her and me actually. Her and me and Los Hombres del Vacio.”

  “What?”

  “I told you, weird. He thought the gang orchestrated some plan to kidnap her. And hired me to carry it out.”

  “Why you?”

  “I can’t make sense of it. But I’m sure it does make sense, to him at least.”

  “Nothing but stellar performance reports in his VA personnel file. Had an article published in a medical journal just seven weeks ago. Brent isn’t psychotic. He must’ve had a—”

  “Good reason. His wife misled him. Did you guys find any proof at the house she knew about the organ stuff?”

  “The evidence techs went through her computer. Didn’t even have a password on it. No, nothing to hide. Seems like she was totally in the dark.”

  “Well, no way she’s in the da
rk now. She’s probably scared. Hiding. You have to find her. She’s closer to him than anyone. She’d know more details about his life than anyone.”

  “One of my agents, Keppler, tried reaching her. Phone was off.”

  “What about her family? He try them?”

  She huffs. Takes out her cell and clicks a few buttons. The phone rings on speaker mode.

  “Hey Quick,” a male voice says.

  “Just a follow-up on Cora Brent. Did you get in touch with any family members?”

  “Tried the parents in Newport Beach. Stewart and Deborah Hall. Got through to Stewart on his landline.”

  “And?”

  “No luck.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Said he didn’t know where she was, hadn’t heard from her all day. Didn’t seem happy I was bothering him. That was it. Then he hung up. The mother’s cellphone is off. No siblings.”

  “All right. Thanks Keppler.” She ends the call.

  “Hmm,” Tommy says.

  “What?”

  “If your son-in-law’s face is all over the news for a killing spree, you haven’t heard from your pregnant daughter, and an FBI agent calls you, don’t you think you’d ask a couple questions? See if the feds might have any insight on where she is. If she’s safe. Would you really just…hang up?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t have a great relationship with her. Are you implying he lied? Why?”

  “You’re an FBI agent. You’re on the inside. You don’t see things from the outside. A big portion of the American public is skeptical of your guys’ methods. If I had to bet, Cora’s dad knows exactly where she is. Just doesn’t want the FBI messing with her.”

  “How would we mess with her?”

  “Interrogate her under pressure on a stressful day like this. Try to get her to trip on her words so you could leverage them against her. The FBI is the best in the world at nasty tricks like that.”

  “The FBI is the best in the world at solving investigations. If you’d excuse me, I have to get back to mine.” She begins closing the door.

  He stops it with his hand. “You’re not going to act on my info?”

  “There’s nothing to act on. We don’t know where she is. And neither do you.”