Sky's Shadow

by Ted Galdi

  Glen thinks for a while. “Logic.”

  “What?”

  “The ability to follow logic. If you can’t, you’re insane. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Like math? I suck at math. So does almost everyone I know. So we’re all crazy? But you, the guy who shoots kids in the face, is playing with a full deck?”

  “Not necessarily math. Cause and effect. A leads to B. And B to C. The basic events of nature. If you can’t follow how one yields the next, you’re nuts.”

  “And you follow them just perfectly I’m guessing?”

  “Yes. Would you like a demonstration?”

  “I’ve got nothing else on my schedule. Entertain me.”

  Glen hands him the Prince Troy book. “Hold this please.” Then removes the sheet from his mattress. “A sheet.”

  “Wow. Captivating.”

  “A leads to B, remember? If I roll up the sheet, I expect to achieve a rope-like object.” Glen rolls up the sheet. “There you have it. I was correct.”

  “I’m blown away. Really.”

  “B to C. If I attach the rope-like object to the bed frame with a quality military knot, it’ll be secure.” Glen loops the end of the sheet around a metal bar on the top bunk. Ties it. “Yank on that.”

  The biker does.

  “Sturdy?” Glen asks.

  “Once they transfer you to the federal pen, hopefully they have like prisoner talent shows. You’ll dominate with this little number.”

  “C to D. If I attach the other end of the rope-like object to myself, I’ll be tethered to the bed frame.” Glen stands on the bottom bunk, wraps the loose end of the sheet around his throat.

  The smile leaves the biker’s face. “Hold up. What’re you doing?”

  “Continuing the demonstration.” Glen tightens the sheet around himself. “D to E. Because of the tether, if I step off the mattress with my legs tucked, my feet won’t reach the floor. Well…technically the plural, feet, isn’t correct. One foot and one prosthetic.”

  “Brent, what the hell man?”

  Glen steps off the mattress. Presses his knees to his chest, circles his arms around them. The sheet digs into his neck, cutting off his air.

  “Oh shit,” the biker says. “Shit.” Arms out, he approaches the bed as if to untie him.

  Glen kicks at him, then rolls his legs back up. He feels his eyes bulge. The blood vessels in his face pop. Lightheadedness sets in.

  The biker dashes toward the front of the cell, screams, “Guard. Help. Help.”

  Glen’s arms tremble. But he holds on. He numbs. The sound of the biker’s voice quiets. The world darkens. Glen’s brain starts shutting down. Before it goes, he imagines the sand in Iraq. Infinite sand. He wishes for a heaven. Hopes to see his mother there. Hopes if he does he’ll be a child again, not an adult. Black.

  Seventy-Four

  Jordana stands at the head of an FBI conference room, at the table in front of her Paul Nash, the Director of the bureau, and his assistant. “Headquarters back in DC is buzzing with your arrest of Brent.”

  “I couldn’t do it alone, sir. This was a team effort.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course. But make no mistake…this is your case, Agent Quick. That’s how Washington is seeing it at least. It’ll be your face on the newspapers. The sort of face we want representing the future of the FBI. Young, bright, determined. Pure.”

  “That’s kind. Thank you.”

  “Don’t quote me on this, I still of course have to run it by some people in DC, but I see an FBI Medal of Valor heading your way after all this.” He stands.

  “That would be an honor, sir.”

  He shakes her hand. So does his assistant.

  Nash checks his watch. “I’ve got to get back up to LA. My people will be in touch.”

  “Enjoy the rest of your trip, sir.”

  Nash and his assistant exit the conference room. Now alone, Jordana closes her eyes, smiles. She walks out.

  “Quick,” Agent Keppler says.

  “Hey.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “Seems like a good man.”

  “Don’t be modest. What’d he say? You getting a medal?”

  “He thanked the whole team for a job well done.”

  “Did he mention my name?”

  “I think so.”

  “He didn’t mention my name.”

  Jordana grins. “He knows you were on the team.”

  “Lunch.”

  “What about it?”

  “You closed your first case as lead. A few of us want to take you out. Celebrate.”

  A half-hour later Jordana sits with Keppler and three other agents in their thirties and forties at an upscale cafe. The other female at the table leans to her, asks, “So who’s this fireman I keep hearing about?”

  Jordana feels herself blush. Tommy’s slept over the last couple nights. And not on the couch. The shoulder brace and cast haven’t held him back. She lost count of how many times they’ve had sex.

  “He’s a concerned civilian, I guess is how I’d put it,” Jordana says.

  “I read the official report. His name isn’t even in it. What…really happened?”

  Jordana smiles. “It’s all in the report.”

  The agent smiles too. “Oh. Okay. I see.”

  “Can I get anyone a beverage?” a waiter asks.

  Keppler looks around the table. “We are celebrating. A real drink or two is in order. I won’t tell Wichita on you if you won’t on me.”

  A couple of chuckles.

  “I’ll have a Michelob,” a male agent says.

  The waiter takes drink orders around the table, reaching Jordana last. “Ma’am?”

  “I’ll do a glass of Cabernet. The Velatti.”

  “Excellent choice. Be right back with those.” He walks off.

  For the next few minutes the agents ask Jordana questions about the case. The other woman slips in another one about the fireman. Jordana brushes it off.

  The waiter returns, placing drinks in front of everyone. “A toast,” Keppler says, raising his glass. “To Agent Quick.”

  “No,” Jordana says. “To Agent Gabor.”

  “Yes. To Agent Gabor.”

  They all clink glasses. Jordana sips her wine.

  “How’s that Cab?” one of the men asks.

  “It’s good. I’m sort of biased though. Velatti is my real last name. My family makes the wine.”

  He laughs. “Sweet. My real last name is Budweiser.”

  She doesn’t laugh.

  “Wait,” he says. “You’re serious?”

  “Yeah.”

  That felt good. She hasn’t said who she was out loud to any agents since getting this job. If anyone judges her because of it, assumes she’s spoiled or entitled or whatever else, screw them.

  “Oh,” he says. “Cool.”

  “Damn,” the other woman says. She’s peering at her phone.

  “What?” Jordana asks.

  “The news. Glen Brent. He was just pronounced dead. Killed himself in jail.”

  Jordana smiles through the rest of the lunch, but the thought of the suicide lingers. Brent lost everything. She supposes what he did isn’t surprising. Then considers why he lost it. All in the name of sick soldiers. All to protect the sanctity of their life. Discarding his own after just a couple nights behind bars doesn’t make much sense. Then again, a lot about him doesn’t make much sense. Accepting that is difficult. But she does it.

  The agents head back to the office. Jordana thanks them for the meal and splits off toward her desk.

  “Where the hell is Dapino?” Wichita asks.

  Jordana stops, turns to her. Wichita’s expression is distant, the same one she’s worn since the arrest. She is of course glad they captured Brent, but must still be angry she was proven wrong about the farm.

  “I…I’m not sure,” Jordana says.

  “Is he still in town?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s he staying?”


  “That’s…sort of a personal question, ma’am.”

  “It’s only a personal question if he were staying at your place. Thanks for confirming.”

  “I don’t really see how a private decision I made about someone’s accommodations in San Diego has—”

  “I don’t give a shit where he’s been sleeping. Or whom he’s been sleeping with. I need to talk to him.”

  “About what?”

  “Is he at your apartment now?”

  “He said he was going to check out the beach.”

  “Call him. Tell him to cut his beach trip short. And meet me here.”

  Seventy-Five

  Tommy gazes out at the Pacific Ocean on a bench, his crutch beside him. His right hand rests in a sling, his left holding his phone to his face. He says into it, “This is the nutritionist?”

  “The one you were supposed to meet the other night,” Josh says. “Until you got kicked out of the bar.”

  “She showed up after I got the boot?”

  “I was in a…you know, weird headspace, after you laid that guy out. I hung around for just a drink with her and her friend that night. Then everything with Danielle. And you, Jesus, you. Going out there. Everything. I’ve been a nervous wreck.”

  “But you did see her again?”

  “Last night. We went on a real date. Dinner. Once I knew you were safe, I felt better. Picked up with my social life.”

  “So how’d it go?”

  “Oh. Great.”

  “Where’d you take her?”

  “Lorenzo’s.”

  “Nice.”

  “T, I looked fresh. Had the pocket square going. The red one. The patent leathers. And she looked…I mean, she’s a knockout. She’d look good in a tarp.”

  “Who wears a tarp?”

  “I’m just making a point.”

  “So…she’s into you? You clicked?”

  “Big. Yeah. I dropped the old Yanks story. It went over well.”

  “You still tell people that load of horseshit?”

  “It happened.”

  “No it didn’t. We watched the tape of that entire game twice after you first told everyone. You can see every foul ball. No kid in the stands catches one with his bare hand.”

  “I was eleven. I looked different.”

  “We watched the video when we were eleven. In Steve O’Malley’s basement. I remember the whole thing. We all knew what you looked like. Nobody in Yankee Stadium that night, not an eleven-year-old, not a thirty-year-old, not a seventy-year-old, barehands a foul ball.”

  “Whatever. She loved the story.”

  “I’ll put that aside. Nightcap after Lorenzo’s?”

  “That was my plan. But…a little something happened. At the end of dinner. So we parted ways from there. We’re going to hang again though. We—”

  “Back it up. A little something happened? What do you mean?”

  “No. It was nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  A pause. “So I pay the bill. Pick up the whole thing like a gentleman.”

  “All right.”

  “Waiter gives me back the Visa. Thanks me. Hits me with a big handshake. I hit him with a joke. It slayed. Smiles all around.”

  “’Kay.”

  “Well…the asshole at the table next to mine must’ve spilt a little of his gin and tonic on the floor.”

  “Oh no.”

  “I must’ve laid a heel in this asshole’s puddle.”

  “How bad was it?”

  “T, it was fine.”

  “How bad was it?”

  A pause. “Three stitches. But—”

  “Where?”

  “Little ones. The doctor was a real pro. Cousin of—”

  “Where?”

  “Forehead. The middle of my forehead, all right? But it was a success. Date was a win, man. A big win.”

  “You split your head open.”

  “A little bit, yeah. But she’s a nutritionist. She’s into…health, remedies. She isn’t fazed by something like that.”

  Tommy chuckles. “I miss you, man.”

  “You too. When am I seeing you back in NYC?”

  “Didn’t buy a return ticket yet. Guessing I should get on that. I spoke to the head of maintenance in my building yesterday. He’s struggling without me.”

  “You don’t want to lose your job. No offense, but with your…some of the things from the past…you know.”

  “It’s hard for felons to find jobs and I shouldn’t blow one I was lucky to get.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Yeah. Well, you are right. I do need dough. Got to come up with cash for the fire-alarm fine. Plus I got to pay for a new window for the Halls’ house.”

  “Thought they were rich. They’re making a guy like you shell out for it?”

  “I’m lucky that’s the only headache. The daughter, Cora, apparently talked her dad out of pressing criminal charges against me. If he did, my ass would be back in prison.”

  “True. True.”

  Tommy hears a beep on the other line. Scopes the screen. Jordana calling. He says to Josh, “Getting another call. I’ll let you know what’s up with my flight when I book it.”

  “Cool. Later.”

  Tommy switches to Jordana, says, “Hey.”

  She passes him a vague, ominous-sounding message from Wichita about coming to the office. He enjoys the view of the Pacific for a few more seconds, then takes a deep breath and tells her he’ll head over.

  In about twenty minutes he arrives at the FBI office in a taxi, gets out on his crutch. He texts Jordana. She texts him back saying Wichita wants him to wait outside.

  He looks around. Whistles. A few passing employees glance at him with intrigue in their faces. Soon Wichita’s broad body exits the main doorway. Jordana follows her out with an uneasy expression.

  Wichita stops in front of him. Eyeballs his cast and sling, asks, “You in pain?”

  “I’m good.”

  A pause. “You could never be a federal investigator. You must know that, right?”

  “You dragged me all the way over here just to tell me that?”

  “Many federal investigators only last so long. Like you, they’re not an ideal fit.”

  “Great. Can I go back to the beach? Maybe enjoy myself a snow cone?”

  “I came up in Quantico with a man like that. Lasted in the bureau three years. Went into private practice after. Lewis Canven. Today he runs Canven Investigative Solutions. One of the most reputable private-investigation operations in California.”

  “He sounds like a swell guy. Have a good one.” Tommy turns around, steps toward the street.

  “The reason, Dapino, I asked if you were in pain, is because you have an interview with him today. And I want to be sure you’re up for it.”

  He stops moving. Turns back around. “Interview about what?”

  “They only hire candidates with sparkling-clean records. Not ex-cons. You can’t blame them for that policy. They have a reputation to maintain. And can’t take a risk on some bad apple getting in there and ruining it.”

  “But I have an interview?”

  “It wasn’t easy for me to get it for you. I suppose policies like theirs make running any organization easier. I’m guilty of it myself when I hire here. And I’d say a lot of us are guilty of it, in some form, on some level. Dismissing felons as…well, just dismissing them.”

  “What exactly does this company do?”

  “Investigate stuff the government can’t go near for various reasons. A lot of it high profile. A lot of it sensitive. And they do it well.”

  “And they want me?”

  “I told Lewis the real story about the farm. Not the one in the newspaper. Told him what you did to succeed.”

  “What was that?”

  “Anything.” A moment. “I suppose that’s the very reason you could never last here. Because a guy like you would do anything to get the job done.”

  He smiles.
“I…well…thank you, Miss Wichita. I guess I’m lucky to have a friend in a high place.”

  “Let’s get something straight. I’m not your friend. I came here to give you the facts. You have an interview at four PM. Their office is about forty-five minutes from here.”

  “I can swing that.”

  “Also, if you get the position, which I have a feeling you will after my endorsement, no more New York. You’ll need to move out here. That going to work for you?”

  He glimpses Jordana. A smile streaks across her face.

  “So,” he says to Wichita, “it’s sort of like being a fire investigator, but not just fire crimes, all kinds of crimes?”

  “Not just any crimes. Big ones.”

  “Yeah. I can make that work.”

  “Excellent. I’ll text you the details.”

  “Thanks again.”

  Wichita paces toward the building. Stops, looks over her shoulder. “One last thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It goes without saying, but I’ll just say it. I vouched for you, so if you embarrass me in there, I’ll break your other shinbone. Got it?” He chuckles. Wichita nods at him, then at Jordana, and marches inside.

  Jordana no longer tries to conceal her grin. “I wasn’t expecting that. Wow.”

  “Same. Where should I live?”

  “This weekend. I’ll take you around the city. Show you all the different areas. See what you like best.”

  “Josh is going to be upset about this.”

  “Who’s Josh?”

  “Well, he’ll like visiting, that’s for sure. You’ll meet him soon.”

  He looks out at the palm trees in the distance. Silence.

  She says, “You seem…pensive. Having regrets?”

  “You kidding? This is like a dream job. Ten times better than the maintenance gig I have now. This…this fits.”

  “You’ll be great.”

  “I’m just thinking about…my sister.”

  “Yeah?”

  “When I was a little kid, she used to tell me stories before bed. She was really good at it. I wish she were around for me to tell her this one.”

  “You’re talking like the story is already over. But it sounds like it’s just beginning.”

  “How do you think it’ll end?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t know either.” A pause. “But I guess that’s why we do things. To give them our own ends.”